The warmth with which Barbara greeted me
when I made my first appearance at her flat
struck me as rather pathetic, and for the first time
I seemed to understand what it was that had induced
her to marry Harold Monkhouse. She was not a
solitary woman by nature and she had never been used
to a solitary existence. When Stella’s death had
broken up her home and left her with no intimate
friend in the world but me, I had been too much taken
up with my own bereavement to give much consideration
to her. But now, as she stood before me in her
pretty sitting room, holding both my hands and
smiling her welcome, it was suddenly borne in on me that
her state was rather forlorn in spite of her really
comfortable means. Indeed, my heart prompted me to
some demonstrations of affection and I was restrained
only by the caution of a confirmed bachelor. For
Barbara was now a widow; and even while my
sympathy with my almost life-long friend tempted me to
pet her a little, some faint echoes of Mr. Tony Weller’s
counsels bade me beware.
“You are quite an anchoress here, Barbara,” I said,
“though you have a mighty comfortable cell. I see
you have a new maid, too. I should have thought you
would have brought Mabel with you.”
“She wouldn’t come—naturally. She said she
preferred to go and live among strangers and forget what
had happened at Hilborough Square. Poor Mabel!
She was very brave and good, but it was a terrible
experience for her.”
“Do you know what has become of her?”
“No. She has disappeared completely. Of course,
she has never applied for a reference.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“My dear Rupert,” she replied a little bitterly, “do
you suppose that she would want to advertise her
connection with Mrs. Harold Monkhouse?”
“No, I suppose she would be likely to exaggerate
the publicity of the affair, as I think you do. And
how is Madeline? I rather expected that you and she
would have shared a flat. Why didn’t you?”
Barbara was disposed to be evasive. “I don’t
know,” she replied, “that the plan commended itself
to either of us. We have our separate interests, you
know. At any rate, she never made any such
suggestion and neither did I.”
“Do you ever see Wallingford now?” I asked.
“Indeed, I do,” she replied; “in fact I have had to
hint to him that he mustn’t call too frequently. One
must consider appearances, and, until I spoke, he was
here nearly every day. But I hated doing it.”
“Still, Barbara, it was very necessary. It would
be so in the case of any young woman; but in your
case—er—especially so.”
I broke off awkwardly, not liking to say exactly what
was in my mind. For, of course, in the atmosphere
of suspicion which hung about him, his frequent visits
would be a source of real danger. No motive for the
murder had yet been suggested. It would be a
disaster if his folly were to create the false appearance of
one. But, as I have said, I shrank from pointing this
out, though I think she understood what was in my
mind, for she discreetly ignored the abrupt finish of
my sentence and continued:
“Poor Tony! He is so very self-centred and he
seems so dependent on me. And really, Rupert, I am a
good deal concerned about him.”
“Why?” I asked, rather unsympathetically.
“He is getting so queer. He was always rather odd,
as you know, but this trouble seems to be quite
upsetting his balance. I am afraid he is getting
delusions—and yet, in a way, I hope that he is.”
“What do you mean? What sort of delusions?”
“He imagines that he is being followed and watched.
It is a perfect obsession, especially since that
superintendent man called on him and cross-questioned him.
But I don’t think I told you about that.”
“No, you did not,” said I, quite truthfully, but with
an uncomfortable feeling that I was indirectly telling
a lie.
“Well, it seems that this man, Miller, called at his
rooms—so you see he knew where Tony was living—and,
according to Tony’s account, extracted by all sorts
of dreadful threats, a full confession of the means by
which he obtained that cocaine.”
“And how did he obtain it?”
“Oh, he just bought it at a wholesale druggist’s.
Rather casual of the druggist to have supplied him, I
think, but still, he needn’t have made such a secret
of it. However, since then he has been possessed by
this obsession. He imagines that he is constantly
under observation. He thinks that some man hangs
about near his rooms and watches his comings and
goings and follows him about whenever he goes abroad.
I suppose there can’t be anything in it?”
“Of course not. The police have something better
to do than spend their time shadowing harmless idiots.
Why on earth should they shadow him? If they have
any suspicions of him, those suspicions relate to the
past, not to the present.”
“But I don’t think Tony connects these watchers
with the police. I fancy he suspects them of being
agents of Dr. Thorndyke. You remember that he was
suspicious and uneasy about Dr. Thorndyke from the
first; and I know that he suspects him of having set
the superintendent on him about the cocaine.”
“The deuce he does!” I exclaimed, a little startled.
“Have you any idea what makes him suspect
Thorndyke of that?”
“He says that the superintendent accepted his
statement at the time when the cocaine was found, or at
least, did not seem disposed to press him on the
question as to where he obtained it, and that this inquisition
occurred only after you had put the case in Dr.
Thorndyke’s hands.”
I reflected on this statement with some surprise.
Of course, Wallingford was quite right, as I knew from
first-hand knowledge. But how had he arrived at this
belief? Was it a mere guess, based on his evident
prejudice against Thorndyke? or had he something to
go on? And was it possible that his other suspicions
might be correct? Could it be that Thorndyke was
really keeping him under observation? I could
imagine no object for such a proceeding. But
Thorndyke’s methods were so unlike those of the police or
of any one else that it was idle to speculate on what he
might do; and his emphatic advice to Miller showed
that he regarded Wallingford at least with some
interest.
“Well, Barbara,” I said, mentally postponing the
problem for future consideration, “let us forget
Wallingford and everybody else. What are we going to do
this afternoon? Is there a matinée that we could go
to, or shall we go and hear some music?”
“No, Rupert,” she replied. “I don’t want any
theatres or music. I can have those when you are not
here. Let us go and walk about Kensington Gardens
and gossip as we used to in the old days. But we have
a little business to discuss first. Let us get that
finished and then we can put it away and be free.
You were going to advise me about the house in
Hilborough Square. My own feeling is that I should like
to sell it and have done with it once for all.”
“I shouldn’t do that, Barbara,” said I. “It is a
valuable property, but just at present its value is
depreciated. It would be difficult to dispose of at
anything like a reasonable price until recent events have
been forgotten. The better plan would be to let it
at a low rent for a year or two.”
“But would anybody take it?”
“Undoubtedly, if the rent were low enough. Leave
it to Brodribb and me to manage. You needn’t come
into the matter at all beyond signing the lease. Is
the house in fairly good repair?”
“Most of it is, but there are one or two rooms that
will need redecorating, particularly poor Harold’s.
That had to be left when the other rooms were done
because he refused to be disturbed. It is in a very
dilapidated state. The paint is dreadfully shabby and
the paper is positively dropping off the walls in places.
I daresay you remember its condition.”
“I do, very well, seeing that I helped Madeline to
paste some of the loose pieces back in their places. But
we needn’t go into details now. I will go and look over
the house and see what is absolutely necessary to
make the place presentable. Who has the keys?”
“I have the latch-keys. The other keys are inside
the house.”
“And I suppose you don’t wish to inspect the place
yourself?”
“No. I do not. I wish never to set eyes upon that
house again.”
She unlocked a little bureau, and taking a bunch of
latch-keys from one of the drawers handed it to me.
Then she went away to put on her out-door clothes.
Left alone in the room, I sauntered round and
inspected Barbara’s new abode, noting how, already, it
seemed to reflect in some indefinable way the
personality of the tenant. It is this sympathetic quality
in human dwelling-places which gives its special charm
and interest to a room in which some person of
character has lived and worked, and which, conversely,
imparts such deadly dulness to the “best room” in which
no one is suffered to distribute the friendly,
humanizing litter, and which is jealously preserved, with all
its lifeless ornamentation—its unenjoyed pictures and
its unread books—intact and undefiled by any traces
of human occupation. The furniture of this room was
mostly familiar to me, for it was that of the old
boudoir. There was the little piano, the two cosy
armchairs, the open book-shelves with their array of
well-used books, the water-colours on the walls, and above
the chimney-piece, the little portrait of Stella with the
thin plait of golden hair bordering the frame.
I halted before it and gazed at the beloved face
which seemed to look out at me with such friendly
recognition, and let my thoughts drift back into the
pleasant old times and stray into those that might
have been if death had mercifully passed by this sweet
maid and left me the one companion that my heart
yearned for. Now that time had softened my passionate
grief into a tender regret, I could think of her
with a sort of quiet detachment that was not without
its bitter-sweet pleasure. I could let myself speculate
on what my life might have been if she had lived, and
what part she would have played in it; questions that,
strangely enough, had never arisen while she was alive.
I was so immersed in my reverie that I did not hear
Barbara come into the room, and the first intimation
that I had of her presence was when I felt her hand slip
quietly into mine. I turned to look at her and met her
eyes, brimming with tears, fixed on me with an
expression of such unutterable sadness that, in a moment,
my heart leaped out to her, borne on a wave of
sympathy and pity which swept away all my caution and
reserve. Forgetful of everything but her loneliness and
the grief which we shared, I drew her to me and kissed
her. It seemed the natural thing to do and I felt that
she understood, though she flushed warmly and the
tears started from her eyes so that she must needs
wipe them away. Then she looked at me with the
faintest, most pathetic little smile and without a word,
we turned together and walked out of the room.
Barbara was, as I have said, a rather inscrutable
and extremely self-contained woman, but she could be,
on occasions, a very delightful companion. And so I
found her to-day. At first a little pensive and silent,
she presently warmed up into a quite unwonted gaiety
and chatted so pleasantly and made so evident her
pleasure at having me back that I yearned no more
for the Bar Mess but was able to forget the horrors and
anxieties of the past and give myself up to the very
agreeable present.
I have seldom spent a more enjoyable afternoon.
Late autumn as it was, the day was mild and sunny,
the sky of that wonderful tender, misty blue that is
the peculiar glory of London. And the gardens, too,
though they were beginning to take on their winter
garb, had not yet quite lost their autumnal charm.
Still, on the noble elms, thin as their raiment was
growing, the golden and russet foliage lingered, and
the leaves that they had already shed remained to
clothe the earth with a many-coloured carpet.
We had crossed the gardens by some of the wider
paths and had turned into one of the pleasant
by-paths when Barbara, spying a seat set back between a
couple of elms, suggested that we should rest for a
few minutes before recrossing the gardens to go forth
in search of tea. Accordingly we sat down, sheltered
on either side by the great boles of the elms and
warmed by the rays of the late afternoon sun; but we
had been seated hardly a minute when the peace and
forgetfulness that had made our ramble so delightful
were dissipated in a moment by an apparition on the
wide path that we had just left.
I was the first to observe it. Glancing back through
the interval between the elm on my left and another at
a little distance, I noticed a man coming toward us.
My attention was first drawn to him by his rather
singular behaviour. He seemed to be dividing his attention
between something that was ahead of him and something
behind. But I had taken no special note of him
until I saw him step, with a rather absurd air of
secrecy and caution, behind a tree-trunk and peer
round it along the way that he had come. After keeping
a look-out in this fashion for nearly a minute,
apparently without result, he backed away from the tree
and came forward at a quick pace, peering eagerly
ahead and on both sides and pausing now and again
to cast a quick look back over his shoulder. I drew
Barbara’s attention to him, remarking:
“There is a gentleman who seems to be afflicted
with Wallingford’s disease. He is trying to look all
round the compass at once.”
Barbara looked at the man, watching his movements
for a time with a faint smile. But suddenly the smile
faded and she exclaimed:
“Why, I believe it is Tony! Yes, I am sure it is.”
And Tony it was. I recognized him almost as soon
as she spoke. He came on now at a quick pace and
seemed in a hurry either to escape from what he
supposed to be behind him or to overtake whatever was
in front. He had apparently not seen us, for though
we must have been visible to him—or we could not
have seen him—we were rendered inconspicuous by
the two trees between which we sat. Presently he
disappeared as the nearer elm-trunk hid him from our
view, and I waited with half-amused annoyance for
him to reappear.
“What a nuisance he is!” said Barbara. “Disturbing
our peaceful tête-à-tête. But he won’t freeze on
to us. He would rather forego my much desired
society than put up with yours.” She laughed softly and
added in a thoughtful tone: “I wonder what he is
doing here.”
I had been wondering that, myself. Kensington
Gardens were quite near to Barbara’s flat, but they
were a long way from Jermyn Street. It was certainly
odd that he should be here and on this day of all days.
But at this point my reflections were interrupted by
the appearance of their subject from behind the big
elm-trunk.
He came on us suddenly and was quite close before
he saw us. When he did see us, however, he stopped
short within a few paces of us, regarding us with a
wild stare. It was the first time that I had seen him
since the funeral; and certainly his appearance had not
improved in the interval. There was something
neglected and dishevelled in his aspect that was
distinctly suggestive of drink or drugs. But what
principally struck me was the expression of furious hate
with which he glared at me. There was no mistaking
it. Whatever might be the cause, there could be no
doubt that he regarded me with almost murderous
animosity. He remained in this posture only for a few
seconds. Then, as Barbara had begun to utter a few
words of greeting, he raised his hat and strode away
without a word.
Barbara looked at his retreating figure with a vexed
smile.
“Silly fellow!” she exclaimed. “He is angry that I
have come out to spend a few hours with my oldest
friend, and shows it like a bad-mannered child. I
wish he would behave more like an ordinary person.”
“You can hardly expect him to behave like what he
is not,” I said. “Besides, a very ordinary man may
feel jealous at seeing another man admitted to terms of
intimacy, which are denied to him, with the woman to
whom he is specially attached. For I suppose,
Barbara, we may take it that that is the position?”
“I suppose so,” she admitted. “He is certainly very
devoted to me, and I am afraid he is rather jealous of
you.”
As she spoke, I looked at her and could not but
feel a faint sympathy with Wallingford. She was really
a very handsome woman; and to-day she was not only
looking her best; she seemed, in some mysterious way
to have grown younger, more girlish. The rather
sombre gravity of the last few years seemed to be
quite dissipated since we had left the flat, and much
of the charm of her youth had come back to her.
“He looked more than rather jealous,” said I.
“Venomous hatred was what I read in his face. Do you
think he has anything against me other than my
position as his rival in your affections?”
“Yes, I do. He is mortally afraid of you. He
believes that you suspect him of having, at least had a
hand in poor Harold’s death and that you have set
Dr. Thorndyke to track him down and bring the crime
home to him. And his terror of Dr. Thorndyke is
positively an insane obsession.”
I was by no means so sure of this, but I said nothing,
and she continued:
“I suppose you don’t know whether Dr. Thorndyke
does really look on him with any suspicion? To me
the idea is preposterous. Indeed, I find it impossible
to believe that there was any crime at all. I am
convinced that poor Harold was the victim of some strange
accident.”
“I quite agree with you, Barbara. That is exactly
my own view. But I don’t think it is Thorndyke’s.
As to whom he suspects—if he suspects anybody—I
have not the faintest idea. He is a most extraordinarily
close and secretive man. No one ever knows what is
in his mind until the very moment when he strikes.
And he never does strike until he has his case so
complete that he can take it into court with the certainty
of getting a conviction, or an acquittal, as the case may
be.”
“But I suppose there are mysteries that elude even
his skill?”
“No doubt there are; and I am not sure that our
mystery is not one of them. Even Thorndyke can’t create
evidence, and as he pointed out to me, the evidence in
our case lies in the past and is mostly irrecoverable.”
“I hope it is not entirely irrecoverable,” said she;
“for until some reasonable solution of the mystery is
reached, an atmosphere of suspicion will continue to
hang about all the inmates of that house. So let us
wish Dr. Thorndyke his usual success; and when he
has proved that no one was guilty—which I am
convinced is the fact—perhaps poor Tony will forgive
him.”
With this, we dismissed the subject, and, getting up
from the seat, made our way out of the gardens just as
the sun was setting behind the trees, and went in search
of a suitable tea-shop. And there we lingered gossiping
until the evening was well advanced and it was time for
me to see Barbara home to her flat and betake myself
to Fig Tree Court and make some pretence of doing an
evening’s work.
