"You think she was trying to get into my room?" Roger asked thoughtfully.

"I'm pretty sure of it, sir."

Roger drank his coffee in silence, mentally reviewing this information.

"There is another little thing I've noticed, sir," Chalmers continued. "There are a number of keys gone from doors about the house. I've counted seven missing, and I could take my oath they were in the locks earlier in the evening. There's never any reason for taking them out."

"Then you think Aline has taken them to see if any of them will open my door?"

"That's it, sir. I could have told her there's no two keys alike in this house," he added grimly. "She came to me very friendly like at about ten o'clock, and tried to pump me to find out what I knew. Had the nurse come to, and was she able to talk yet? Was it true she had staggered in so drunk she couldn't see proper, and had fallen in a heap on the floor? Things like that, sir. Not much change she got out of me. I shut her up in no time, sir. I knew what she was after."

Hours passed. Roger sat on alone in the half-lighted room, analysing his impressions and going over in his mind the whole course of his father's illness, from the moment he had entered the house. To save his life he could not think of one suspicious circumstance, nothing that appeared even particularly unusual. Yet, no! What about that cablegram which was never sent? With a start he recalled it, wondering how it could have slipped his memory till now. What if Therese had had another and more vital reason than he had thought of for keeping him away? Was it possible she had been afraid to have him in the house? It was a fact that he alone knew her relations with Holliday, he alone had always to an annoying extent seen through her. He recalled with a feeling akin to nausea her recent attempts to placate him, to turn him from an enemy into an ally. Had she done that in order to blind him the more completely to what was going on? The idea suggested a degree of calculating inhumanity appalling to contemplate. He lived over again the moment when she had clung to him caressingly and pressed her perfumed cheek against his breast.... How could he have been such an utter fool? He set his teeth with a feeling of intolerable disgust....

A smothered scream from the bed caused him to start up.

Esther had suddenly sat up in bed, bolt-upright, her eyes glazed with terror, one thin hand clapped over her open mouth.

"Esther, my dear! What is it?"

She continued to gaze transfixed in the direction of the door, unutterable horror written on her face.

"S'sh," she whispered tensely. "S'sh—listen!"

Roger listened, but could hear nothing. The house was absolutely still. Very gently he took her hand and held it firmly in his. It trembled like a bird imprisoned.

"Darling—there's nothing to be frightened of. What did you think you heard?"

She swallowed twice, then spoke, her voice still strangely hoarse.

"It was the doctor. He was outside there, in the passage. I know he was there."

"Nonsense, there's no one about, or if there is, it's only Chalmers."

"Listen, though!"

Roger obeyed again, and for several seconds they both held their breath, straining their ears. At last from outside there came the very faint creak of a footstep, as though someone who had been standing still was now moving away. Roger made a movement to jump up, but in a panic she pulled him back.

"No, no, don't leave me!"

"Certainly not, if you don't want me to. But you're quite safe now; you have nothing to be afraid of."

She leaned closer to him, trembling.

"No," the hoarse voice whispered, "that's not true. I'm not safe as long as I'm in the same house with him. He is afraid of me. He wants to keep me from talking. He will do anything to keep me quiet, anything. He's only waiting for his chance."

A violent tremor seized her so that her teeth chattered. With his arm about her Roger forced her gently to lie down, noting with growing alarm the fixed glitter of her eyes and the moisture standing in beads upon her forehead, above which her bronze hair ruffled in damp curls. All at once it had become appallingly easy to believe that she was suffering from the delusion of persecution, that her brain, somehow disordered, had fabricated a whole history of terror. Sick at heart he yet recalled the doctor's counsel against allowing her to excite herself.

"Esther, dear," he said soothingly. "You must keep quite quiet and trust to me. Remember your nerves are bound to be upset after all that morphia you have had. You know that."

He stopped, afraid that he had said the wrong thing, but she only frowned thoughtfully as though considering his words.

"Morphia," she repeated to herself. "Yes, I suppose that is what it was. No wonder I feel queer.... And then of course I haven't had anything to eat for two days and a half—that makes it worse."

"Two days and a half!"

He stared at her aghast. This last speech of hers sounded amazingly rational. He burned to question her, yet dared not attempt it.

"The doctor said you were to have something if you waked up," he said quietly, as though there were nothing out of the way. "There's something here ready in a little saucepan. I've only got to heat it up. Shall I give it to you?"

She nodded and lay motionless, watching with languid eyes the blue flame of the spirit-lamp as he made ready a cup of broth, then submitted with the docility of a child while he put another pillow under her head and fed her the hot liquid, a spoonful at a time, slowly, for fear of making her sick. When she had finished she sank back with closed eyes, and he thought a faint tinge of warmer colour crept into her cheeks. For what seemed to him a long period there was complete silence. He gazed at her with searching eyes, tortured by doubts and questionings. When he had begun to think she had again fallen asleep, she quietly spoke.

"That was good," she murmured; "I needed that.... It's a long time to go without food, you get so weak."

He could bear the suspense no longer. So cautiously he said:

"My dear, how was it you didn't have anything to eat for two and a half days? What do you mean?"

She looked at him for a long puzzled moment, then drew her hand across her brow.

"Of course," she answered slowly, "you don't know about that. No. How could you?"

He hoped she was going to continue, but instead she raised herself on her elbow and whispered, "Tell me this. What have you done about him?"

"You mean the doctor? Nothing. He's in his room now, asleep, I suppose. It's about three o'clock, you know."

She drew in her breath sharply, her pupils dilating.

"Do you mean you haven't arrested him—after what I told you? Then he was outside that door! I knew it!"

He caught her hands in a reassuring grasp.

"No, no, my dear, you mustn't be frightened. Don't you understand it's impossible to arrest the man—without a reason?"

She gave him a piercing look.

"But I told you! Didn't you hear what I said? He's a murderer! He murdered your father, and he was going to kill you too, if I hadn't found out and got here in time! Oh, aren't people stupid! I thought I'd made it all clear!"

She tore her hands from his hold and covered her face for an instant, crying, "Oh, oh! Why couldn't you have him arrested at once, both of them for that matter? I can't understand! Why didn't you?"

There was no evading the sharpness of her question. He dropped his eyes in embarrassment, unable to reply.

"Oh!" she burst out as though the truth had suddenly dawned on her, "now I know, I see it all! You thought I didn't know what I was saying. You thought I was raving. The doctor made you believe it. He would; he's always prepared for any emergency, even though he never dreamed I should get away!"

"Get away? What do you mean by that, Esther?"

Instead of replying, she lifted his right hand and examined it with feverish interest.

"Are you absolutely sure he didn't touch this place in any way? You didn't let him put anything on it?"

"No, no—nothing at all."

She sank back, exhausted.

"Thank God! I began to be afraid I didn't save you after all," she breathed, and laughed a little hysterically. "Oh, Roger, I shall dream for years of that terrible time I had trying to reach you! I honestly thought I should die on the way."

"Esther," he said, forcing himself to speak calmly, "where were you during those two days and nights? What do you mean by a terrible time trying to reach me?"

Her face contracted with a spasm of pain, as though the memory were unbearable. He pressed her hand, quick to spare her, and afraid, too, that he might do her an injury.

"It doesn't in the least matter; don't tell me now."

She lay silent another moment, then answered slowly:

"No ... I will tell you. It won't hurt me now. You see, I have been kept a prisoner ... unconscious ... in the doctor's laboratory, you know, at the top of his house ... in the Route de Grasse."

"A prisoner——!"

For the life of him he could not repress the utter incredulity he felt at this astounding statement.

"I don't think you believe me," she said, smiling the ghost of a smile. "I know it sounds impossible, but it's true. He never meant for me to leave there alive. He was going to do away with me so as to leave no trace."

Suddenly he knew that she was speaking the truth.

"Esther—do you know what you're saying?"

Cold horror gripped him. It seemed unthinkable that this tender young creature so close to him had lately passed through the hell she described. In a daze he listened to the dry, hoarse voice as it continued:

"Oh, I know all right. He kept me stupefied. I never knew how I got there; I didn't even know I was there ... it was only through an accident that I came to at all, otherwise... Such a silly accident! All because Captain Holliday didn't give me the injection properly."

"Holliday?"

He wondered if he had heard aright. She did not answer, going off, at first softly, then with increasing vehemence into convulsions of laughter that shook her from head to foot. He clasped her close in his arms and held her to him, smoothing her rough curls and whispering:

"Steady on, Esther dear! It's all over now. You're safe with me; I sha'n't let anything happen to you!"

She subsided at last, the tears spilling over her lashes and down her cheeks unheeded. He wiped them away, realising how spent she was with the effort of relating, even so briefly, her terrible experience.

"Rest now, darling. You must keep absolutely quiet. I don't want to hear any more now, except... Esther, I wonder if I dare ask you one thing. Don't speak if you don't feel like it. But ... you realise we can't make a definite charge of any kind until we know what we're about. You understand that, I know. Tell me, dear, are there any proofs of this horrible story? I mean proofs of the plot you spoke of to murder my father, and also of your being sequestered in the laboratory."

He saw her eyes narrow with thought. She lay very still, as though to focus all her strength to give him a connected answer.

"I understand, of course, there must be more than my word, for he'll do his utmost to discredit me. Listen: If the police or someone will go to the Route de Grasse before the doctor can get there, they'll find a good deal of evidence. Of course he'll get there as soon as he can—I'm surprised he hasn't gone already—and he'll do his best to cover up the signs. He can't mend that skylight in a hurry, though," she added thoughtfully.

"Esther, how does Holliday come into this? Was he in the plot?"

"No, not at all—not actively, that is. He was dragged into it at the last simply to stand guard over me and see I didn't get away. Even he had to see that it was absolutely necessary to dispose of me," she finished coolly. "It would have ruined everything if they hadn't."

"Good God..."

"Now about the proofs. I believe Lady Clifford has been giving you typhoid culture in your mineral water. I heard the doctor say so. I don't know that we can prove that, or that she gave it to your father in his milk, either; that's all done with. But there's one thing we can prove. There's a little chemist named Cailler—I can tell you where the shop is—who has an analysis of a hypodermic needle the doctor used on your father. It was what caused that sudden relapse. The needle had pure toxin of typhoid in it. I know, because I took it to the chemist myself."

"You did?"

"Certainly. It was too late to save your poor father—nothing could have saved him—but I was afraid they were trying to get you as well, and I had to be sure before I dared say anything. I didn't get the report till after the funeral, when I heard it over the telephone. Then I sent you that message by Chalmers."

"I see! Then what happened? I was only three minutes getting downstairs, but you were nowhere to be seen."

"Of course, that was because the doctor was waiting behind the door to grab me. He stuck that awful needle of his in my arm, and after that I can't tell you anything. I didn't know any more until two days later, when I found myself lying on a bed in the laboratory."

A slight fit of trembling overtook her again. He took her two limp hands in his and kissed them, moved by a new and overpowering emotion. With startling vividness he realised the whole stupendous thing, what she had done, what she had risked and suffered. Even that stupid incident of what the servant-girl had told about seeing her with Holliday in his car became clear as day. Of course—and he had suspected her of a flirtation!

"Esther, my own Esther—you splendid, marvellous girl! To think that I never knew, that you might have died, and I should never have known what became of you! Do you know what I was thinking? I spent two days searching for you in every hotel and pension in Cannes..."

"I know," she said softly, her eyes suddenly misty.

"I can't take it in yet, Esther; it's too overwhelming."

He buried his head in the covers beside her. She put her hand upon his hair and caressed it with a clinging touch that sent a thrill through him. Like this they remained for long minutes, and the communion was to him the sweetest he had ever known. Strange that this complete ecstasy should come to him at the very moment when he was shocked to the depths of his being by the disclosure of the vile crime perpetrated in their midst.

After a little while Esther drifted off to sleep once more, leaving him to face again the problem of those two murderers, as he now knew them to be, still at large and still under the roof with him. What was to be done? Would they make any attempt to escape, or would they brazen it out till the last? He had a strong suspicion that they would both adopt this latter course. He foresaw a long and difficult trail, a defence skilfully engineered by Sartorius, whose reputation would stand him in good stead. In his imagination he pictured a French jury swayed by the beauty and emotional appeal of Therese. Why, they might easily win; it was perfectly possible. He had an Englishman's contempt for French jurisdiction. As for the doctor, he felt sure that that man would employ every diabolical means in his power to discredit Esther's statement, to blacken her character; he would impute false motives to her or make a convincing case against her sanity, perhaps both. The very notion made him boil with rage. The cold-blooded infamy of the plot to do away with his father was as nothing compared with the wanton brutality of the attempt on Esther's life. To think of this fresh and lovely body, so near to him now that he could feel the throbbing of her heart, dismembered, defiled in the work of annihilation, filled him with unspeakable horror. He had to take a firm grip on himself to keep from forcing his way into the neighbouring room and wreaking personal vengeance on the author of so bestial an outrage. The man's stolid calm, which had appeared a proof of innocence, now made him seem a monster of insensibility. Sartorius was not human; he was the python of Esther's dream, slow-blooded, impersonal, relentless....

The clock struck four. Some time after this he must have lost consciousness, for gradually his waking thoughts blurred imperceptibly into unreal, his head resting heavily on the bed beside the sleeping girl. He was roused by a touch on his shoulder and a voice saying tensely in his ear:

"Mr. Roger! Mr. Roger, sir!"

Dizzily he raised his head, blinking in the grey daylight that filled the room. Then he struggled to his feet, stiff and cramped.

"Yes, Chalmers, what is it?"

"Her ladyship, sir—she's not in her room. She's not in the house. She's gone, sir!"



CHAPTER XXXVII

"Gone! What do you mean? How could she get away?"

"That's what we don't know, sir. We——"

"Who is we?" demanded Roger sharply.

"I mean Aline, sir; it was she who found it out. I've been about the house the whole night, sir; I've never closed my eyes. No one could have got past me without my knowing it."

Roger glanced at the bed. Esther still slept, the rings around her eyes darker than ever in the cold morning light.

"Come outside," he said in a lower tone. "We mustn't disturb Miss Rowe. Now tell me."

"It's just as I say, sir. It seems she had told Aline to bring her some tea at six o'clock. I couldn't say what she had in mind to be wanting it so early; it seems as if she was planning to go out before anyone was up, but I don't know, sir. Anyhow, when Aline did bring the tea a moment ago, the room was empty; the bed hadn't been touched."

"You've searched the house?"

"Only partly, sir."

"What about the back stairs?"

"I don't think she could have come out of her room at all, sir, without my knowing; and in any case last night I locked the tradesmen's door and put the key in my pocket."

Roger rapidly reconnoitred.

"Stay here till I call my aunt," he ordered. "Whatever you do, don't stir from this spot. I am afraid to leave Miss Rowe alone for a single moment."

In a few minutes he returned with Miss Clifford, whom he had found wide awake, on the point of donning her dressing-gown to come and relieve him. He told her nothing about Therese's disappearance, merely cautioning her strongly against leaving Esther unguarded.

"You must grasp this fact, Dido," he said gravely, looking her straight in the eyes. "Esther is no more out of her mind than you or I. There is something very serious behind this, and that man Sartorius is a terrible menace to her safety. I can't explain now, but you'll know it all soon enough."

He left her bewildered and shaken, and rejoined the butler in the hall. Outside the boudoir door stood Aline, her brows drawn together under her ragged fringe of hair, her thin lips set in a line that betokened anxiety.

"Monsieur, monsieur," she exclaimed accusingly, "dites moi, qu'est-ce que vous avez fait?"

"Je n'ai rien fait, Aline," he replied coldly; "je ne sais rien."

She gazed at him in a puzzled fashion. For all her habitual crafty appearance, he felt sure she had no knowledge of this dreadful business. In her way she had a certain loyalty to her mistress which might readily dispose her to regard him as an enemy.

"Moi non plus, monsieur," she said with hesitation. "Mais vous savez, hier soir Madame a ete tellement fachee contre Monsieur que je croyais..."

"Ca ne fait rien," he interrupted, striding past her impatiently.

With the muddled feeling of sleep still upon him he unlocked his own door and went through to the bathroom, where he hastily washed his face in cold water. Then as he dried it with a bath-towel he took a quick survey of the room. All was exactly as he had left it the night before: the full-length casement window stood half open, as it usually did; the bottle of Evian was on the shelf where he had placed it. That at any rate was still safe, he reflected. Therese had not been able to get at it, thanks to his precautions.

As he quitted the room, relocking the door, Chalmers approached him and spoke in a whisper.

"Do you think it's all right, sir?" he inquired. "She's gone to ask the doctor if he knows anything about her ladyship."

Following the direction of the old man's eyes, Roger saw the black-clad figure of the maid at the first door along the passage. Her voice, high-pitched with excitement, reached his ears, mingled with the doctor's heavy tones.

"Let her alone; it can't do any harm. You are still sure he didn't communicate with her ladyship at all?"

"Positive, sir. I'm sure he's never stirred from his room."

"We'd better make quite sure she's not in the house somewhere," said Roger slowly. "And then if we don't find her——"

"What then, sir?"

"Then I think there is nothing for me to do but communicate with the police."

"I see, sir. Then you've talked to Miss Rowe, sir?"

"Yes, Chalmers. I have heard more than enough."

As he spoke he realised suddenly that they were now plunged into the midst of a revolting sensation. In a few hours the newspapers would blazon it to the world, and all Cannes, all France, perhaps, would be searching for the beautiful Lady Clifford, wanted on the charge of murdering her husband.

"Aline," he said as the woman came towards him, "what was Madame wearing? Have you thought to look?"

"Ah, non, monsieur, mais tenez! Je vous dirai toute de suite."

She hurried into Therese's room and returned almost at once with a face still more perplexed. There was nothing missing from Madame's wearing apparel, as far as she could see, except the black chiffon gown Madame wore last evening. Madame had not undressed at eleven o'clock, when she desired to be left alone.

"Do you mean to say there is no coat gone? No wrap of any kind, nor a hat?"

"Monsieur peut regarder. C'est comme je dis."

The three exchanged puzzled glances.

"She may be in the house," hazarded Roger at last. "We had better find out."

In a few minutes they had made a tour of the entire villa. Roger himself tried the fastenings of all the windows on the ground-floor, and the doors leading onto the terrace from the salon. All was secure. There remained only the doctor's room, and Aline, who had been inside it a moment ago, was prepared to swear her ladyship was not there.

Roger shot a speculative glance at the maid. Was it possible she was lying? Was this all part of some scheme on Therese's part to allow her time to get away? Had Aline connived at her escape? The suspicion took root. They were now at the top of the house, where there were only servants' quarters and box-rooms. Two flights of stairs lay between them and the front door. What if the woman had led them hither in order to leave the lower regions unguarded?

"Listen, sir! Was that a car starting?"

All stood still, attentive to the sound below. Then with a sudden idea Roger strode to the small oval window in the mansard roof, and tried to see down into the garden. Far below an engine whirred, tires grated on the drive. He caught sight of a car just disappearing out of the gateway.

"By God, Chalmers, they've gone! They've made off together."

"Was it the doctor's car, sir? I thought I knew the sound."

There was no good being upset about it, Roger reflected; certainly he could not detain the two unless he had a warrant for their arrest. Yet he experienced a feeling of chagrin at being so easily outwitted. The doctor's room, seen in disorder through the open door when they descended the stairs, told a story of a hasty departure.

"She was probably hiding in his room all the time," Roger remarked grimly as he eyed the untidy bed. "They've gone off somewhere together, though I'm astonished that they'd be so stupid. It's a damaging admission, or might be regarded in that light."

"For the life of me, I can't think how she got out of her room without my seeing her, sir," the old man commented with a rueful shake of the head.

"Well, there it is, and I believe this woman's been fooling us all along."

"Do you think their idea is to try to escape, sir?"

"Oh, I hardly think so! It is far more likely they are on their way to the police with some concocted story against Miss Rowe and against me. They will arrange it together, thinking to have the advantage of denouncing me before I can denounce them."

He became, aware that the sharp, black eyes of Aline were fixed on his face curiously. He wondered how much English she understood.

"It would have been difficult to prevent their leaving the house in any case," he added slowly. "But I believe I can circumvent them in another way. I have a plan of action, Chalmers. I am going first to a chemist Miss Rowe has told me about, and after that I intend to make a statement at police headquarters. You might get me the telephone book and a cup of coffee while I change my clothes."

As he spoke a subdued but pathetic whine reached their ears. It came from Therese's little Aberdeen terrier, who stood in the boudoir door, looking up with eyes of patient inquiry and uttering continuous plaints.

"Il pleurs tout le temps," murmured Aline. "Ah, Tony, Tony, qu'est-ce que tu as? Ah, le pauvre!"

"Come, Tony, old boy," called Roger, stooping to stroke the dog for a moment. "What's the matter? Put him outdoors, Chalmers; perhaps he only wants to go out."

The butler obeyed, and Roger entered his room to change his attire. His mind was heavily oppressed with the ordeal that lay before him, yet he was keyed up with a strange excitement. He felt there must now be no delay in the matter of laying a formal charge against the woman who for six years had been his father's wife and also against a highly respected member of the medical profession. That he would encounter a terrific opposition he did not question for a moment. He was not in the least sure that his case would be plain sailing. He saw himself, his aunt, Chalmers, and, last and hardest to contemplate, Esther in the witness-box—Esther, whose nerves were temporarily shattered by her frightful experience.... Had Therese been a party to the attempt on her life? Whether she had or not, she must have known about it and condoned it.

Outside in the garden the wretched dog continued to howl. What possessed the poor little creature? In the stillness of the early morning the long-drawn, disconsolate sounds rose and tell with a dirge-like hint of desolation. He must be silenced somehow; he would disturb Esther.

Presently the howling ceased, and a second later Chalmers came up bringing rolls and coffee, the dog at his heels, shivering and whining.

"I can't make out what's wrong with him, sir; he's regularly upset. He wanted to come in, yet when I opened the door he stood there looking as if he had something on his mind. Try to eat a bit, sir; you've been a long time without proper food, and you've a hard day ahead of you."

Roger forced himself to drink a cup of coffee. It was true he had given no thought to himself for days. He gazed unseeingly out of the window at the acacias, glistening with the wet of last night's steady rain, gloomy under the still grey sky. Oppression lay heavy upon his spirit.

"Yes, Chalmers, there's a bad time ahead of us. If we don't look sharp those two will find a way out."

"You think there's a chance of them escaping, sir?"

"Not that. I mean they may manage to be acquitted."

He put his hand absently on the rough black head of the Aberdeen, who had cowered close to his leg, still faintly whimpering.

"Will they exhume Sir Charles's body, sir, do you think?"

"What would be the use? There would be nothing gained by that. My father died of a well-known disease; as far as anyone could tell it was a perfectly natural death. So would I have died a so-called natural death if the doctor had succeeded in his plan against me. That was the infernal cleverness of his scheme. Of course in the case of Miss Rowe's detention it is a different matter, but even there we may not be able to prove anything conclusive. We are up against an extraordinarily clever man. Still, I don't yet know the extent of our evidence against him; it may be very strong indeed. That's what I've got to find out."

"And all for the sake of your poor father's money, sir—which she'd have got in a few years' time anyhow!"

Roger was silent, knowing better than Chalmers, perhaps, the reason why Therese was not willing to wait for his father to die. He put on the light overcoat the butler held ready for him, thinking he would take one look at Esther before setting out. It was still very early; the life of the house had not yet begun. He knew that he would not find the chemist's shop open, and it might be several hours before he could accomplish much, but his restless state would not permit him to remain inactive.

As he left his room followed by Chalmers, a loud ringing and knocking at the front door caused them both to start and look at each other, recalling the dramatic entry of the police the night before. What could it be this time, and at this early hour?

"That will be a telegram, sir, I should say, though they don't generally make such a row, especially this time of day. I'll just see."

The clamour continued without ceasing. Roger let the old servant precede him down the stairs and saw him draw back the bolts of the door, muttering, "All right, all right—what's all the fuss about?"

On the threshold stood the excited figure of a telegraphic messenger, holding in his hand a depeche which he did not trouble to deliver. Instead he burst out at once in a harsh, strained voice:

"Monsieur! Monsieur! On n'a pas su—on n'a pas regarde dehors—la-bas——"

"Comment?" demanded Roger, frowning. "Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?"

"Un accident, monsieur. Regardez donc!"

With a tense forefinger he pointed over the low stone balustrade at the right-hand side of the steps. Both men leaned over to look. What at first appeared to be a sodden, black rag, beaten by the rain, lay upon the ground close to the wall of the house. What was it? It was half-hidden by a rose-bush.... Someone pushed rudely past Roger, thrusting him aside. It was Aline.

"Chalmers, what is it? It can't be—— My God it is; it's ..."

An ear-splitting shriek rent the air as Aline made the same discovery. Scream followed scream as the woman beat her hands together, crying:

"Ah, nom d'un nom! C'est Madame, c'est Madame!"

It was indeed Lady Clifford. The body, clad in the black chiffon frock soaked by the rain, lay crumpled up in the angle of the steps. The face was hidden under the bush, but the hands were visible, flecked with mud, their short fingers curved rigidly inward like talons, grasping, clutching at the air. All around lay glittering fragments of broken glass. What did it mean?

"Quiet that woman, someone—Chalmers, see to her," Roger cried, vaulting over the balustrade.

He knelt and pushed aside the sheltering branches of the rose-bush so as to reveal the head and face, the messenger bending close to him, breathing heavily. The grey eyes were stretched wide with a stare of terror, the mouth hung open. On the temple over the right eyebrow gaped a deep wound from which a vast quantity of blood had poured, down the side of the face and neck and shoulder, where it now stuck clotted and dark. There was no doubt whatever that life was extinct. She had probably been dead for several hours. All the clothing was sopping with water and beaten into the soil.

"Do you think it's suicide, sir?" asked Chalmers in a low voice.

Roger shook his head without replying. Certain odd details now became apparent. Tiny red scratches marred the skin in two or three places, giving a scarred appearance. Broken twigs on the rose-bush told their story also, but it was not at these that Roger looked so fixedly.

"Qu'est-ce qu'elle porte autour de son cou?" whispered the messenger in a curious but awed voice.

Carefully Roger lifted a mauve, mudstained wet scarf, the two ends of which were knotted about the throat. Some object was fastened securely to the middle of the strip of silk, tied by a ribbon. He examined it wonderingly. It was the broken, jagged neck of a bottle.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

All the servants of the household, drawn by Aline's screams, now crowded upon the steps and looked on with frightened faces. From them issued a confusion of hazarded explanations, all wide of the truth. Madame had started to go out and had had a stroke of some sort; Madame had shot herself; Madame had been lured outside by a bandit and struck with a club, the object being to secure her pearls. Yet, no—the pearls were not missing, there they were around her neck, stained dark with blood. Ah! ... what a terrible sight! Then it was not robbery after all. What could it be, then?

The neck of the bottle hung around her throat caused complete mystification, likewise the fact that upon the feet were no shoes, only the cobwebby black stockings, laced with delicate clocks, which she had worn the night before. What could have possessed her to venture out at night and into the rain as well, clad in the filmy, perishable gown and in her stocking-feet? It was a mystery wholly baffling; not one of the excited staff could offer a reasonable theory.

When the body was raised from the ground one fact at least was established, and that was that death had not been occasioned by the gash on the temple. At the first movement the head swung back like the head of a sawdust doll. The neck had been broken.

They bore the body upstairs and laid it on the gilt bed. Then at a word from Roger the butler picked up the receiver of the telephone upon the painted table de nuit and rang up Dr. Bousquet. The physician could do no good, but he would attend to certain necessary formalities. The servants crowded around, quiet now but avid with curiosity, until Roger with a wave of the hand cleared the room, at the same time issuing instructions to the chief of them. When he believed himself alone with Chalmers a touch on the arm reminded him that the messenger, who had followed the cortege upstairs, was still lingering on the threshold of the bedroom. With his grubby hand he held out the telegram he had brought, pointing to the name on the back.

"Leddy Cleefford? C'est madame la?" he whispered hoarsely.

Roger nodded and took the telegram, slipping it into his pocket. Then mechanically he handed the messenger fifty francs and watched him depart. At the door of Esther's room he encountered his aunt, her face full of alarm.

"What is it all about, Roger? Something dreadful has happened, I know it! I didn't dare leave the room after what you said."

"Close the door and come outside. Sartorius has gone, so Esther is quite safe from him, but she's in a very nervous state and I don't want her to know this yet.... Brace up, Dido; you must try to take what I'm going to say quite calmly. Therese is dead. She died last night."

He thought she was going to faint, but she clutched the door-knob and steadied herself.

"Dead!" Her dry lips formed the word. "Impossible! Why, last night she ... what was it? Was she ill?"

"No. It seems to have been an accident. There'll have to be an inquest. It's going to be extremely painful, and a terrible shock for you. But remember this—if she'd lived it would have been infinitely worse for us all."

She moistened her lips, regarding him with an ashen face.

"Roger—I don't think I know what you mean."

"Simply this, dear. What Miss Rowe said last night was true, all of it. She wasn't raving."

"You mean that Therese and Dr. Sartorius ... you can't mean that..."

"I do. They are murderers. They killed my father."

"Your father! But he died of typhoid fever—you know that as well as I do; there was nothing wrong about it."

"They gave him typhoid fever, by means of culture in the milk he was taking. When he was getting well, Sartorius brought on a relapse by means of injecting the pure toxin, deadly stuff. The old man hadn't the ghost of a chance. Yet it was all so hidden we should never have known anything was wrong if it had not been for Esther. She saved my life, you know. They were out to get me as well."

She put up her hand to her trembling mouth.

"Do you mean to say they would have murdered you too?" she faltered, on the verge of a collapse.

"There, dear, don't think about it too much. It's all over, thanks to that poor girl in there. Go back to her now; I'll come with you. Or no, hold on a minute—I'm going to get you a drink."

Quickly he fetched her a stiff whisky, which he made her force down. Then when she seemed somewhat recovered, he said:

"Don't say anything to Esther just yet; I'm going to break this to her myself. I want first to get you both out of the house. Chalmers is going to get a suite for us all at an hotel; then I'll leave you in his care for a bit. I depend on your help, Dido, so I may as well tell you right now that I intend to marry Esther almost at once—if she will have me."

This statement had the desired effect. He saw the old eyes light up with a faint spark, while the face was less stricken.

"Do you mean it, Roger?"

"I never meant anything more in my life. I've always wanted her, from the first day I saw her."

"I—I'm glad, I think. She's the only girl I've known whom I'd be willing to give you to."

A glance of affection passed between them; then, as she was about to enter the bedroom, she turned back for a moment, whispering:

"You haven't told me yet what—happened to Therese."

He hesitated, then replied:

"She fell,—from the narrow stone ledge beside the end of the balcony, on the second story. The wistaria is all torn away where she clutched at it to save herself. She broke her neck."

There was no shadow of a doubt that this theory was correct. Dr. Bousquet, who arrived in half an hour, declared that death must have occurred about four or five hours earlier. Therefore Therese must have waited till there seemed the least likelihood of her being seen or heard, then at perhaps two o'clock in the morning had crept out of her window and along the balcony, which ended a dozen feet from Roger's room. From thence on there was merely a decorative stone ledge, barely four inches wide. The closed window of the bedroom came first, its projecting sill offering something to cling to, but on each side of this was a space where the only support was the creeper on the wall. It was a perilous undertaking. In some fashion she had evidently made her way along the ledge. Roger did not yet know whether the accident had occurred on the journey to the bathroom or from it; he would not know for certain until the water in the Evian bottle was submitted to an analysis. All that one could tell was the spot where she had slipped and fallen, which was the first of the two dangerous places, almost immediately over the front steps. The wistaria to which she had clung was broken away in several spots, a whole spray of it fluttered loose from the wall. Here it was that she must have lost her balance. Her head had struck one of the ornamental stone baskets of fruit, after which it seemed that her body had ricochetted, her head doubling under her.

The broken bottle-neck caused the little doctor complete mystification. He scented some painful secret, though without venturing anywhere near the facts of the case. Roger refrained from enlightening him, not yet able to discuss the affair with a stranger, although knowing that in all probability the coroner would drag out a certain amount of the truth at the inquest. Ultimately, of course, it would be impossible to hush the matter up, since he had every intention of prosecuting Sartorius to the full extent of the law, and the man's guilt could not be established without implicating the dead woman.

By noon there was nothing more that could be done for the immediate moment. The police had been notified, the inquest set for the day after to-morrow. A warrant had been sworn out for the arrest of Sartorius, who was not to be found. There was reason to believe he had visited his residence in the Route de Grasse after leaving the Villa Firenze, but so far no one appeared to have any knowledge of his subsequent movements. His car was missing, which provided a likely clue. It seemed wholly improbable that he would long succeed in evading arrest; a foreigner of his unusual appearance presented an easy target. Yet Roger felt some degree of astonishment that he should think of disappearing. It argued a hopeless flaw in his defences.

Early in the afternoon Esther and Miss Clifford left La Californie in charge of Bousquet and descended by car to Cannes itself, where they took up their quarters in a comfortable and quiet hotel. Esther was promptly put to bed again. She was still too weak to sit up, and looked extremely ill. As yet she knew nothing of the catastrophe that had overtaken Lady Clifford, for the doctor thought her unequal to the strain of a fresh excitement. New surroundings and complete rest were now what she required to restore her, but even so it might be weeks before she was entirely herself. Although Bousquet had no idea of the reasons responsible for her present state beyond the fairly obvious effects of the morphia, he rightly surmised that her nervous system had sustained a severe shock. He saw, too, that while in the villa she had been the prey of some obscure but almost paralysing fear. Directly she was removed from the atmosphere of the Cliffords' house she began to be calmer.

At three o'clock Roger accompanied a small deputation of the police to Sartorius's house. In the main bedroom they found considerable disorder—drawers pulled out and their contents strewn about, various signs of hasty leave-taking, though how much of this was due to the doctor's own departure and how much to Holliday's was difficult to determine, as the two men had occupied the same room. However, under the bed was a small steamer trunk and a brown leather dressing-bag, both locked, and both initialled E. R. The trunk bore the label of a White Star liner, a Paris hotel, and the Carlton Hotel, Cannes. These pieces of luggage were the first bits of evidence to confirm the truth of Esther's story. In the laboratory above further confirmation awaited the investigators. Roger caught his breath as he stood in the open doorway and took in the corroborative details.

The hanging lamp was shattered as well as several panes of the skylight. On the table lay an overturned chair, the floor was littered with fragments of a glass jar mixed with a crystalline substance. Knotted to an iron bracket was the end of a ragged rope of crimson material, which disappeared through the open section of the skylight. The whole party gazed for some minutes in silence, making their own deductions. Then the chief retreated a pace or two and peered into the alcove.

"Regardez!" he said, pointing a significant finger at the narrow camp-bed with its tumbled army blanket.

Roger looked. The bed still bore the imprint of Esther's body; he felt that he could almost see her lying there, drugged, helpless. On the little table was a glass of dusty water and a murderous-looking hypodermic needle. How in heaven's name had the girl escaped? It was not yet clear to him, and seemed nothing short of miraculous.

The doors of both cupboards stood open, and sundry rings in the light coating of grime showed where bottles had recently been displaced. Suddenly it became clear to Roger that what had occurred was this: Sartorius, at the first opportunity, as Esther had predicted, had rushed here to find out what had happened. Seeing the hopeless extent of the evidence against him, he had relinquished any idea he might have had of putting up a fight, and had simply decided on the spot to attempt an escape. He had with great care and forethought erected a whole structure, complete to the smallest detail; but one single brick at the base had become loosened, and the entire thing had toppled into ruins, beyond hope of reconstruction.

Two men remained on guard at the house, while the others returned to headquarters to make a report, Roger going with them to add his own statement to theirs. This done, he went to his new quarters in the hotel, worn out, but realising that he could do nothing more, so might as well take a rest. He found Dido anxiously awaiting him in the sitting-room of the suite.

"Esther is asleep at last," she said. "She still doesn't know anything, though I believe it would be better to tell her when she wakes up. She heard Aline scream this morning; it woke her up, and ever since then she has known something happened. She is terribly nervous, jumps at the slightest noise, and no matter what I say she is afraid you are running into some sort of danger."

"Is she?"

His eyes brightened for a moment.

"Yes. Do you know, she is really in mortal terror of Dr. Sartorius. I don't understand exactly why. I haven't allowed her to talk about things—the doctor said she mustn't—and I've tried too to keep her from seeing what a shock I've had. Has anything been heard of the doctor, by the way?"

"Not yet. He has completely vanished, but I don't think we need trouble about that. The morning papers everywhere are publishing a description of him, and all outgoing trains and motors are being watched, as well as the boats in the harbour. There is not much chance of his getting away."

She nodded with a degree of relief. Then with a sort of hesitation she said:

"Tell me, Roger. Do you suppose he knew about Therese's—accident—before he left the villa this morning?"

Roger frowned.

"Knew? Dido, one of the most ghastly things about this whole affair is that he must have known. He couldn't have avoided knowing. It was daylight, and when he came out he had to go around that side of the house to get to the garage. I myself noticed the print of his boot—a larger boot than anyone else wears—in the mould of the flowerbed, three feet away from the body."

"Roger! Then he saw her?"

"Of course. He took one look at her, realised what had happened, and saw in a flash that the manner of her death had, so to speak, given the whole show away. After that he didn't waste a second, but set about saving his own damned skin."

"How horrible!" she exclaimed, shuddering.

"You are right, it was horrible—but logical. He was only being true to his type. There is no sentiment about him; he has always despised the rest of us, even Therese, who was his accomplice."

In his own room Roger realised for the first time a sense of terrible fatigue. Up till now he had taken no account of the fact that he had had scarcely any sleep for several nights, and in addition to this had in actual fact been suffering from mild typhoid. His mind was still keyed up by excitement, but every muscle in his body ached with weariness. Chalmers had laid out his dressing-gown only, as a plain indication that he should dine in his own room and go to bed. Slowly he turned on the hot water in the bath, and began to divest himself of his coat. As he did so he suddenly recalled the telegram handed him that morning, the message addressed to the dead woman. It had passed completely out of his thoughts. He drew the blue envelope out of his pocket and looked at it thoughtfully. The mark showed that it had been handed in at a small town on the road to Marseilles on the previous evening.

After some hesitation he tore open the flap and spread the paper out, then stared at it thoughtfully. The enclosure read:

SO SORRY UNABLE SAY GOOD-BVE SAILING MARSEILLES TO-MORROW AU REVOIR ALL MY LOVE. ARTHUR.



CHAPTER XXXIX

Three days later Esther sat by the window in the hotel sitting-room of the Cliffords' suite, waiting for Roger. She had made rapid progress during the past twenty-four hours, but she still felt rather wan and tremulous, as though she had been through a long illness. Moreover she now knew all there was to know about the affair in which she had played a leading part. She had insisted on being told what had happened to Lady Clifford, and in spite of the inevitable shock to her nerves she had since felt steadier. She had now beside her all the papers containing accounts of the death of the Frenchwoman and the disappearance of Dr. Sartorius, both well-known figures in Cannes, and she had read with the keenest interest all the diverse theories which strove to connect the two events. Up till now not one report had hit upon the true facts of the case; all the stories were wide of the mark, and the general impression given to the public was that in some mysterious way the doctor was responsible for his employer's catastrophic end. There was one garbled account which mentioned her own name—gleaned, most likely, from one of the French servants at the villa—but so far Roger, in his determination to prevent the Press from persecuting her, had kept her well out of it.

It seemed almost unbelievable that after three whole days so little of the actual affair should be known. The sensation caused was a big one, but it remained in the nature of an enigma. Rumour in several quarters had it that Lady Clifford had simply committed suicide because of the desertion of her lover. The result of the inquest was not yet known. and the fact that the death was due to an accident was difficult for most people to grasp.

Esther, however, knew how the awful thing had happened, and amid her complex emotions she was conscious of a sort of admiration for the Frenchwoman's courage in setting out as she must have done, in the darkness and rain, on her perilous mission—a mission she had all but accomplished, too, for it had now been established that the bottle upon the shelf in Roger's bathroom contained pure Evian water, innocent of contamination. Therese had therefore effected the exchange and was on her return journey when she lost her balance.

Looking out upon the Croisette and the harbour beyond, where the myriad lights of yachts began to twinkle in the violet dusk, Esther drew a deep breath and assembled her thoughts more calmly than she had as yet been able to do. The terrible experience through which she had passed had left its imprint upon her; she was still ready to jump at the slightest sound, or even, absurdly, to burst into tears. Yet deep within her was a warm consciousness of security, an earnest of happiness to come. No word of actual love had been spoken between her and Roger, she had not been alone with him since that night at the villa, yet it was enough for her to recall the pressure of his face against her hands and the hungry way in which his eyes had dwelt upon her. In that hour she had learned how much she mattered to him. She closed her eyes now and revelled in the delicious certainty of what was coming to her. Her heart beat almost as it had done during those dreadful moments in the laboratory which she was striving to forget; it thumped against her ribs with great blows, so that instinctively she put her hands upon her breast to quiet it.

"What an idiot I am to take so much for granted," she reflected, chiding herself. "Suppose I'm mistaken about him after all?"

She knew she wasn't mistaken. She also knew that old Miss Clifford scented a romance, was indeed keeping out of the way now to let her be alone with Roger. This was the first time that Esther had had her clothes on; the old lady had helped her to dress, unpacking with her own hands the little steamer-trunk that had been fetched from the Route de Grasse, and given orders to the chambermaid to press all its contents and put them in order.

Esther glanced down at her frock. It was the peach-coloured one she had worn that night when she had danced at the Ambassadeurs. It felt a little loose upon her now, for she had lost a good deal of weight, perhaps six or seven pounds, she reflected. Her hair needed trimming, the curly bronze locks played about her neck and ears in a fashion that stirred her displeasure. Still, that could soon be remedied; she would take herself in hand at once. She was glad to be in mufti for a bit, to indulge with a clear conscience in a riot of feminine distractions. Even to sit here quietly, her hands in her lap, after the storm she had passed through, was in itself a luxury. Her feeling of security and well-being was so acute that the realisation of it brought a little stab of almost pain, while tears, so close to the surface now, rushed into her eyes.

It was at this moment that the door opened and Roger came in, his arms filled with an immense bunch of pale pink roses. She rose hurriedly, brushing the tears away with a feeling of shame, and smiling at him. He came close and looked with a grave face at the drops still clinging to her lashes.

"What are those for?" he inquired in a serious tone.

"Nothing at all. If I tell you, you'll think me such a fool! I—I was only thinking to myself how happy I was to be alive, and—and all that."

He looked down at her for a long moment with so penetrating a gaze that she grew embarrassed.

"There—that's the look of yours I like so much," he said at last, watching her colour rise. "You know you are just a nice child, Esther—an awfully nice child! That's how I first thought of you."

With a gesture half-afraid he put up one finger and touched a tendril of hair that had strayed loose on her neck. She felt shyer than before, and turned her attention to the roses.

"For me?" she asked, burying her face in their cool depths. "How too beautiful! I don't think I've ever seen roses so lovely before. There's—there's something special about them, somehow," she added truthfully.

"There is," he replied gravely, as he deposited his burden on the table.

Suddenly tongue-tied, she made an effort to speak naturally of other matters, avoiding the personal.

"Any news of ... of that man?" she inquired.

Stupid that she still could not speak of him easily!

Roger saw that a faint shadow had darkened her upturned eyes, and it cut him to the heart.

"No, nothing yet—but don't let that distress you. The fellow is bound to be caught; it's only a question of time. You are not to be worried about it. Look at me! You are worrying, this minute."

"I'm not at all," she denied stoutly. "Why should I bother about him—now?"

For answer he drew forward the biggest arm-chair and gently made her sit down. The slight hollow of her delicate cheek, the dark circles under the eyes, caused him acute suffering.

"Seriously, Esther, when I think of what you have been through, when I think that it must have left a terrible impression on you and that nothing I can do can remove that impression, it is almost more than I can bear. I feel it is all our fault."

"How perfectly absurd! It was nobody's fault. And you ought to be thankful it has turned out as it has. I am, I can tell you. As for me, I shall get over this, don't worry! I'm not neurotic or anything queer, whatever that man wanted to make you believe. I am really frightfully normal."

"Yes, thank God! I feel an ass to think I could ever have doubted it."

"I don't know. When I think what I must have looked like bursting in on you that night—a sort of Curfew-Shall-Not-Ring-To-night, I suppose—I don't wonder at anyone's thinking me a lunatic. How I ever got there at all is a mystery to me. I believe I was unconscious part of the time. I scarcely remember it; the whole thing seems like a sort of feverish nightmare. When the taxi came to a standstill I simply gave everything up for lost. I only set out to walk that last mile in a sort of dogged desperation; I never thought I should get there, or that if I did it would be in time. It was all uphill, too. I remember the perspiration running in trickles with the rain down my face, all in my eyes, so that I could scarcely see. Every little while I just toppled over altogether and lay on the sidewalk. It was the purest good luck that I wasn't run in for a drunken person. That would have finished it!"

"My dear!"

"Oh, well, let's not talk about it any more. I want to forget all that part of it—if I can."

He sat down close to her on the window-seat, silent for a moment. Then he said:

"Esther, tell me one thing. What first put the suspicion into your head that there was something not quite straight about my father's illness?"

She knit her brow and thought hard for a bit.

"I hardly know," she replied at last. "It's awfully difficult to say. There were certain tiny, unimportant things that I noticed, even before I took on the case, but taken separately not one would have meant anything much. I don't believe I can say exactly when I first began to feel uncomfortable about the situation. Perhaps I shouldn't have done so at all if it hadn't been for the pure accident of overhearing a conversation between your stepmother and Captain Holliday that afternoon I told you about."

"I know you saw them together, but you never told me you heard what they were talking about."

"Well, I did hear quite a lot. I listened hard, pretending not to, of course. I got tremendously interested. He was saying he had almost made up his mind to go to South America with his Spanish friend, and she showed very plainly that she was afraid to let him go, that she believed he wouldn't come back to her. Then she made it pretty clear that it was the attitude of a person she called 'Charles' which had caused all the trouble. Of course I didn't know who Charles was! But after that she said something which interested me enormously. She described a visit to a crystal-gazer, or a medium of some kind, and she said the woman saw 'Charles' lying ill in bed, with a nurse beside him and a doctor. And who do you think she said the doctor was? Sartorius!"

"You don't mean it!"

"You see, I had just come from Sartorius's house. I had gone there that afternoon to try to get a job. You may imagine how interested I was to find this woman was a patient of the man I expected to work for. And then ... I got the idea that both Lady Clifford and the young man seemed disappointed because the medium didn't see anything further, and Captain Holliday was very bitter about it and said that Charles would recover and live to be ninety, which upset the lady very much."

"Do you think at that time..."

"No, I don't. What I believe is that Lady Clifford had no definite determination to do anything until she heard Holliday say he would probably be sailing on the 8th. I think it was the certainty of losing him so soon that drove her to take a positive step. No doubt she knew a good deal about the doctor through Holliday, and how he might be got at through his desire to be free from routine. As for him, human life as such meant nothing whatever to him—I heard him say so. All he cares for is science."

"Do you think Holliday had anything to do with it?" Roger asked tentatively, playing with the window-cord.

"I am fairly sure he hadn't, though he may have suspected something. At the last he was dragged into it quite against his will, or at least I got that idea. He was in a blue funk, too—simply dying to clear out."

"Just the same," remarked Roger rather grimly, "our friend Arthur is not going to be able to skin out of the affair so easily as he thinks. A wireless has already been sent to the boat he sailed on, and when he reaches port he'll be detained and sent back here. In any case, he'll be wanted as an accessory after the act, which may prove an unpleasant business for him.... Go on, though; tell me how you actually came to make up your mind that something was wrong."

"I never did make up my mind until it was too late—that was the awful part! When I think it all over, though, I can see that the thing that most roused my suspicions—not altogether by itself, but taken together with what happened later—was the doctor's flying into a passion with me for mislaying a hypodermic needle. I haven't told you that yet, have I?"

"No. Was it after the injection?"

"It was, and at the very moment when you cut your hand. I put the needle down to attend to you, and I completely forgot where I had laid it. He was fearfully angry, called me names and abused me in a way that got my back up. There seemed no reason for it; I couldn't understand it at all. Then the same day your father got suddenly worse, you remember, and I should have forgotten all about the beast's nasty temper, only..."

"Yes, what happened?"

"Why, quite suddenly, I found the needle! Where do you think? Inside a big book of drawings! I began wondering; I put two and two together.... You see, I didn't dare mention my awful suspicion—I couldn't! It might have ruined me for ever if I was wrong. So I did the only thing I could think of: I took the needle to that chemist and got it analysed. You know all the rest."

"If only you had confided in me, Esther!"

"Even so it was too late to save your father; nothing would have saved him. And you quite understand that if the suspicion had proved unfounded it would have finished me as a nurse for all time!"

He looked at her intently.

"Would that have meant so much to you?"

"Well, what do you think? I've got to earn my living."

"But as far as that goes you might have guessed—that is you might have..."

He broke off as a knock at the door heralded the entrance of a waiter bearing a tray with two frosty cocktails.

"Ah! here's something to put a little colour in your cheeks. You want bucking up, you know! Here's how!"

She took an appreciative sip, then set down her glass, turning on him a slightly troubled face.

"Roger ... I suppose if this man is caught, it will mean a trial. I shall be wanted as a witness, sha'n't I? The chief witness, even!"

"Yes, my dear, you will," he replied reluctantly. "I hate the thought of it as much as you do. I wish there were some way to spare you."

"I expect he'll try to prove I'm insane," she said slowly. "Or else that I had some low motive in trying to fasten suspicion on to him. Perhaps he'll even suggest to his lawyer that I was out to blackmail him!"

"Esther, you're frightfully astute to think of such a thing. It's quite on the cards he will do that. He'll use every weapon in his power, unless ..."

"Unless what?"

"Well, there's a pretty black lot of evidence against him. Therese's death in itself, the way in which she died, was a damaging admission. It seems to me possible that he'll give up the fight entirely. It's hard to predict anything. One doesn't know what cards he has up his sleeve."

Her clouded gaze strayed past him out of the window at the glimmering points of light.

"There is something still so terrifying to me about his machine-like efficiency," she said, "that I can believe him capable of anything. His whole plan was so perfectly thought out, down to the smallest detail. It only broke down through the purely accidental. Once through my losing the needle—though that wasn't so bad as his losing his temper!—and once because he let Holliday give me the injection instead of doing it himself. And yet when I think of what he may say at the trial..."

He leaned forward suddenly and took her two hands in his.

"Esther, listen to me! Will you promise to marry me, at once, before this beastly trial comes on?"

Once again the wave of colour swept over her face. She gave a little nervous laugh.

"But you haven't asked me at all, yet!"

"I'm asking you now. Besides, you knew I meant to. I've been making inquiries this afternoon. There are a lot of formalities that have to be gone through with: we have to see an English solicitor, sign a lot of papers, be affiched two Sundays—a sort of banns, you know—and then we have to be married at the mairie. Altogether the business takes just over a couple of weeks, so the sooner one decides the sooner one can set about it, you see?"

She could think of no reply. Her home, her sisters, came into her mind; she stammered, then laughed again with a lump in her throat. Those tears again! She mustn't be so stupid...

There was a sharp rap at the door, more businesslike than the last.

"Who in hell is that?" Roger burst out in irritable annoyance.

It proved to be the valet, obsequious and apologetic, yet full of importance.

"There is a sergent-de-ville to speak with Monsieur," he informed them mysteriously, but with a Frenchman's full appreciation of the ruptured tete-a-tete.

"I'll have to go, I suppose," Roger informed her. "But I'll get it disposed of as quickly as possible."

Ten minutes went slowly by. She had tried not to let Roger see how much she dreaded the prospect of the witness-box. In her present state of nerves she felt she might be guilty of a hundred contradictions and indiscretions, if faced with the basilisk eyes and over-powering personality of the man she feared. At the very thought of him she began to tremble all over as though with ague. It was perfectly absurd, of course, but there it was. Still now, if she chose, she could face the trying experience as a married woman, as Roger Clifford's wife. That security somehow promised her a new strength. Roger's wife! And in a fortnight's time! A different sort of tremor seized her, a frisson of exquisite joy....

The door opened. Roger came towards her, took her hands again in his, and looked at her closely. She grew apprehensive of what he had to tell her.

"What is it? What has happened?"

"Don't be frightened. They have caught Sartorius. They captured him aboard a fruit-boat in the harbour, about an hour ago. The boat was under sailing orders, bound for a port in Morocco; they think the captain was a friend of Sartorius's. Anyway, they surrounded the doctor in his cabin. He didn't put up any fight—simply looked at them, blew his nose, and followed them up without a word."

She stared at him blankly, wondering what more he had to say.

"Yes—go on. What then?"

"They handcuffed him, of course, and let him sit between two of them in the car. He was quite composed, had nothing to say. It was dark inside the car; they couldn't see him very well. One of the officers thought he leaned against him pretty heavily. When they got to the station he didn't get up, didn't move at all."

"What do you mean?"

"He did us a good turn, Esther. He was quite dead—poisoned, beyond doubt."

"Poisoned! I wonder how he did it?"

"It is amazing, isn't it? It was the stolid calmness of the fellow that put them off, I suppose. They think he must have taken something he had ready when he blew his nose."

She looked at him, her pupils dilated, trying to adjust her ideas to this new development. She felt strangely bewildered.

"It seems so—so stupid! I can't take it in. A clever man like that ... first to run away, then to throw up the sponge..."

"I know, that's the way it strikes me, too; he seemed at the last so lacking in resource. Still, he was probably like one of those big, heavy cars that are wonderful on the straight, but can't turn quickly in a sharp corner. Take one of those two-ton Hispano-Switzers——"

"Or the Juggernaut," she suggested slowly.

"By Jove, yes, the Juggernaut ... he was like that."

He looked at her with an awful realisation of how near her slender body had come to being ruthlessly crushed by the human machine—simply because it happened to put itself in the path. That he, too, had all unconsciously been in the path and had barely escaped destruction was now of minor importance.

For several seconds Esther stood with her hands against her heart, making an effort to grasp, to envisage, the whole of her strange adventure. Since she had set foot in Cannes two months before she had watched an old man done slowly to death, had saved a life that meant everything to her, and had been directly responsible for the events leading up to two deaths. What a part she had played! She could scarcely take it in....

She came out of her reverie to find herself in Roger's strong arms, his lips warm upon hers. Thought deserted her for a breathless moment.

"Do you know what I'm thinking?" he whispered in what might be termed the first conscious interval. "There may not be any pressing necessity for an immediate wedding, and yet..."

"Yes?" she murmured, her face against his, her heart beating fast.

"Well, a fortnight is a pretty long engagement—at least for me. What do you say?"

Her answer, somewhat muffled, came after a longish pause.

"Since you force me to admit it," she whispered against his neck, "it's quite long enough for me—too!"



THE END