Читать книгу The Scales of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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George congratulated himself on the fact that he had not removed any of his clothing. He had even donned his boots and slipped on his big coat before he left the room. The South African training had taught him to do that almost without thinking. But in all the many strange situations he had been in during the last two years he could recall nothing like the present one.

The thing did not look like an act of impertinence on any-body's part, nor did George see how anybody could have slipped by him in the gloom of the corridor.

On the other hand, he was quite certain that nobody had been hiding in his room. There were no cupboards or anything of that kind, and under his bed he had pushed the larger of his pair of kit bags, so that he would have noticed if anyone had been hiding there.

The situation was as vexatious as it was absurd. Then a simple solution of the case offered itself to George. He had left the window slightly open, as most healthy people do nowadays; the wind was strong outside, and perhaps the door had slammed to and the lock caught. Very carefully, so as to disturb nobody, George tried the door, but it was as fast as if it had been bolted top and bottom. He examined the old-fashioned lock as carefully as he could in the feeble light. Beyond doubt, the bolt had slipped.

There was only one thing to be done. George had given trouble enough as it was, and he did not desire to disturb the household. Beside, he was a little at a loss to account for what he was doing in the corridor at that time of night.

Again instinct warned him that he must not let Dr. Beard know that he had been watched.

Ridiculous as it seemed, there was only one thing for it. George stood there, trying to puzzle out the geography of the house. Years ago it will be remembered, the Moat had been the family dower-house, and Sir Devereux's mother had lived there. George had played hide-and-seek in the passages as a boy before the Camerons came there, and all the strange village gossip had followed them. It had all come back to George at Flora's reminder.

There was the second staircase, leading into a back hall under the turret, whence Charles II. was supposed to have escaped once upon a time—the way, in fact, that George had just gone to the garden. George could get out by this side entrance again, and make his way to the lawn, and creep down and fasten up the back door once more. He began to feel a little easier in his mind as this practical solution occurred to him. He strode along with his coat closely buttoned about him; the house seemed quiet as a grave. Then a door opened somewhere with a popping sound, and the midnight wanderer had barely time to slip behind an armoured figure before a girl was upon him. But George would not have been noticed in the least. The stranger had no eyes or ears for marauders, she walked swiftly along as if her errand was important. She was by no means ill-favoured, and the beauty of her face was enhanced by the splendid hair that flowed over her shoulders. But for this she was fully dressed. Her hands were clenched, and her eyes were flashing with overpowering anger.

She had not far to go, for she turned into a room at the head of the second staircase. The door was open, and a flood of light streamed out. Almost instantly George was conscious of the sound of voices, the musical tones of the strange girl, and the sharper ones of Bernard Beard. Something like a quarrel seemed to be in progress.

Impelled by ungovernable curiosity, George pressed forward. What diabolical mischief afloat here? Something out of the common must be taking place in that household, for George had not forgotten the obvious reluctance with which Flora Cameron had brought him here. Only because his life was in danger had she done so. But Flora was pure and innocent enough, George knew. Could he help her by trying to solve a mystery that might not be known to her? It might have been wrong, but, all the same, George decided to follow it.

He crept forward, his feet making no noise on the polished oak floor. He found that he could stand against the leather hangings, muffled between the folds, and look into the room. Unless anyone came out with a light, he was perfectly safe.

The room was fairly plainly furnished, and lined, absolutely lined, with books. On the table stood several vases of flowers, exquisitely arranged with long, drooping sprays of orchids. Whoever occupied that room did not want in good taste.

On the far side was a couch covered entirely with buffalo hide, and on it reclined, as if asleep, the figure of a fair young girl, who seemed to be asleep. The firelight flickered upon the red gold of her hair, upon her still, beautiful face. Curious and rapt as he was, it seemed to George that he had never looked upon a fairer and more perfect picture.

The girl might have been dead for all the stir she made, but that could hardly have been the case, for Bernard Beard knelt by her side, and was gently chafing her hands. He was so closely engaged in his task that he did not heed the entrance of the other girl till she stepped forward and touched him on the shoulder.

"What are you doing to my sister?" she asked. Beard looked up with a scowl on his face. Just for a moment it was the face of a fiend.

"I am doing nothing to your sister," he said. "She has had one of her bad times again. It has been coming on for a day or two. You know the trouble as well as I do."

"Oh, yes, I know the trouble! And I knew the maker of it also. Let me take her to my room."

"Presently. Why do you interfere? Why do I let you stay in the house? Three of the first physicians in London decide that Winifred is safer in my hands than anywhere else; the Lord Chancellor agrees; the trustees of your late father agrees also; why do you interfere?"

The girl stamped her foot impatiently. She had almost lost control of herself.

"Oh. I know, I know!" she said thickly. "You are a clever man. Everybody says so. You can make yourself so agreeable and charming. My father, who was one of the best judges of human nature I ever met, found you charming. And when he was dying he told me to look to you as the best friend we possessed. And yet I know, I know."

The girl paced the room, pushing back the magnificent hair from her face. The other girl lay in her white robes as if in the sleep of death. Beard had risen also. He stood facing the passionate girl, a queer smile on his face.

"And so I am your best friend," he said. "You are frightened, when Winifred is with me. And yet I swear that I would lay down my life to shield her from sorrow. I would do anything for her. Say what you like, but that girl is part of my life."

The speaker's face changed as he spoke. It grew soft and human and strangely tender. It was the face of a man to trust, to turn to in the hour of trouble. The watcher across the corridor rolled his eyes in astonishment. Here was another man altogether; with an expression like that, he must be speaking the truth.

"I know it," the girl cried. "Strange as it may seem, I know it. When you speak in that tone I am bound to believe every word you say. And yet my poor sister never had a worse enemy than you, or one who caused her more suffering."

Beard's loving expression vanished like magic. The fiends were dancing in his eyes again.

"You think you know," he said. "It is not the first time you have hinted these things to me. But I should not think, if I were you; you will find it a dangerous process. Your sister is safe in my hands; I shall cure her of that distressing malady in time. My plan may be original, but it is going to prove successful in the long run. Amongst all the names in the 'Medical Register' mine is going to stand highest as an authority on diseases of the brain."

"Oh, I do not doubt your marvellous abilities!" the girl said wearily, as she cast her hair from her face. "You will only cure what you produced."

Beard's lips clicked ominously. There was menace and something worse in the frown that he bent upon her. Yet his words were quite calm.

"You are thinking of that unfortunately interrupted wedding," he said. "You imagine I had something to do with that—and so I had. I felt from the first that Winifred had given her heart to a scoundrel. But I did not say so; I did not want to stand between that dear child and her life's happiness. I made inquiries. The result of those inquiries you know. And the bridegroom was arrested as he was entering the church."

"You could have stopped that," the girl said. "I am sure of it. And Winifred stood by the altar and laughed. Mercy on me! shall I ever get that laugh out of my head! She did not faint or scream, or cry, she simply laughed. And from that day to this she has been hopelessly insane. If Gilbert had been guilty—"

"If he had been guilty?" Beard cried. "As if anyone could have doubted it for a moment! Do you suppose all those witnesses committed perjury? Do you suppose the judge was party to a conspiracy to send an innocent man to prison? I am deeply sorry; nobody so passionately regrets the lamentable sequel as myself. And yet it is best for Winifred to be as she is than tied up to a handsome scoundrel for her life. Mary, listen to me."

There was a metallic ring about the words that caused the girl to look up.

"I am going to speak plainly," Beard went on. "This is not the first time that you have made this nasty insinuation—that Gilbert was innocent; that I, in some way, was at the bottom of his conviction. Now, you and I are by no means friends; but there is no reason why we should be enemies. Don't make an enemy of me. Don't cross me. Because, if you do, I shall find a way to silence your tongue. Reed in the wind, take care!"

The words were calmly spoken, and yet there was something in the eyes of the speaker that caused the girl to tremble and turn sick to the heart of her. From time to time she had glimpses of the hell that raged in this man's soul, but she never had had a clear view like now.

Afraid of nothing else in the world, she was afraid of him. George felt the blood rising to his face as he listened.

"I will not say any more," the girl whispered. "There is something the matter with my heart, I fancy."

She placed her hand upon her breast as if to stop its wild beating.

Beard's face changed, and the loving smile came back again as he stroked the girl's hair. It was strange to the watcher, but she did not seem to resent his caress.

"Now we are good friends again," Beard said quite blandly. "See your sister is stirring. For the time being the madness is passing off. This is the first time for a month that she has had a fancy to dress herself up in her bridal attire, and go to meet her husband in the dining-room which she imagines to be a church. I expected something of the kind this morning when she asked to have the room decked with orange blossoms. Come, my dear Mary, is not Winifred much better since she has been here?"

"Yes," the other girl said slowly, as if the words had been dragged from her, "I admit that."

The figure on the sofa sat up and opened her eyes. They were deep-blue eyes, set in a petite face, as George noticed. He had never seen so lovely a face before. It was a little weak and white but sweet enough for a poet's dream. Her eyes were just a trifle vacant, but they did not lack in either tenderness or feeling.

"Mary," the girl said. "Mary, I am so tired. Have they got to the church yet? If you will only help me to get to bed Mary—Have I been foolish again?"

The question was asked almost pleadingly, as the speaker removed the veil from her head. As she rose the elder sister led her gently from the room and down the corridor. With a loving good-night, Beard closed the door of his study behind him. A moment later George heard the scratching of a match, and the quick puff of one who lights a pipe. Well, he knew something about the mystery, and it was hard if he did not know more before long. He crept gently down the stairs to the side-door, and drew the latch.

George was in the garden at last, and that without disturbing anybody. He recollected his way quite well now; he had only to follow the path till he came to the side of the house which the window of the room overlooked. Ah, there it was, slightly open, and the grateful flames of the big fire making a glow on the blind. It was piercing cold, and George lost no time in climbing the ivy. He pulled the blind aside, feeling for the spring, and, with his hands on the sill, prepared to enter. But the night of surprises was not quite over yet. At the same time a hand was laid on his shoulder, and somebody inside was trying to force him back-wards. Even then he did not recognise what had happened; he was so surprised that he nearly lost his balance for the moment. His theory had been that the door had blown to, and that the latch had caught; he had altogether dismissed the idea that anybody would be inside the room. And he was fighting for his life now.

Then it dawned upon him that he was not quite so strong as the man inside, and that he was certain to get the worst of the encounter. By a dexterous movement he managed to lock his arm about the neck of the other man, determined that if he fell the assailant should fall also. Their two faces were close together, and George glanced up to his room. Another lunatic patient of Dr. Beard's, no doubt. Then Gilbert gave a little gasp of astonishment.

"Gilbert Doyle," he said, "Gilbert Doyle! Old man, you are murdering me!"

The grip was relaxed, and a second later George staggered into the room. The other man stood transfixed.

"Georgie Drummond," he said, "old Georgie of my school-house, and—"

The convict covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.