A slight chink of glasses made them both swing round. Unheard by them in the heat of their argument, Johnson had entered with a tray of glasses. His face was the imperturbable one of the good servant, but Dermot wondered just exactly how much he had overheard.
"That'll do, Johnson," said Sir Alington curtly. "You can go to bed."
"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."
Johnson withdrew.
The two men looked at each other. The momentary interruption had calmed the storm.
"Uncle," said Dermot. "I shouldn't have spoken to you as I did. I can quite see that from your point of view you are perfectly right. But I have loved Claire Trent for a long time. The fact that Jack Trent is my best friend has hitherto stood in the way of my ever speaking of love to Claire herself. But in these circumstances that fact no longer counts.
The idea that any monetary condition's can deter me is absurd. I think we've both said all there is to be said. Good night."
"Dermot -"
"It is really no good arguing further. Good night, Uncle Alington."
He went out quickly, shutting the door behind him. The hall was in darkness. He passed through it, opened the front door and emerged into the street, banging the door behind him.
A taxi had just deposited a fare at a house farther along the street and Dermot hailed it, and drove to the Grafton Galleries.
In the door of the ballroom he stood for a minute, bewildered, his head spinning. The raucous jazz music, the smiling women - it was as though he had stepped into another world.
Had he dreamed it all? Impossible that that grim conversation with his uncle should have really taken place. There was Claire floating past, like a lily in her white and silver gown that fitted sheathlike to her slenderness. She smiled at him, her face calm and serene. Surely it was all a dream.
The dance had stopped. Presently she was near him, smiling up into his face. As in a dream he asked her to dance. She was in his arms now, the raucous melodies had begun again.
He felt her flag a little.
"Tired? Do you want to stop?"
"If you don't mind. Can we go somewhere where we can talk? There is something I want to say to you."
Not a dream. He came back to earth with a bump. Could he ever have thought her face calm and serene? It was haunted with anxiety, with dread. How much did she know?
He found a quiet corner, and they sat down side by side.
"Well," he said, assuming a lightness he did not feel, "you said you had something you wanted to say to me?"
"Yes." Her eyes were cast down. She was playing nervously with the tassel of her gown. "It's difficult -"
"Tell me, Claire."
"It's just this, I want you to - to go away for a time."
He was astonished. Whatever he had expected, it was not this.
"You want me to go away? Why?"
"It's best to be honest, isn't it? I know that you are a - a gentleman and my friend. I want you to go away because I - I have let myself get fond of you."
"Claire."
Her words left him dumb - tongue-tied.
"Please do not think that I am conceited enough to fancy that you would ever be likely to fall in love with me. It is only that - I am not very happy - and - oh! I would rather you went away."
"Claire, don't you know that I have cared - cared damnably - ever since I met you?"
She lifted startled eyes to his face.
"You cared? You have cared a long time?"
"Since the beginning."
"Oh!" she cried. "Why didn't you tell me? Then? When I could have come to you! Why tell me now when it's too late. No, I'm mad - I don't know what I'm saying. I could never have come to you."
"Claire, what did you mean when you said 'now that it's too late'? Is it is it because of my uncle? What he knows?"
She nodded, the tears running down her face.
"Listen, Claire, you're not to believe all that. You're not to think about it.
Instead, you will come away with me. I will look after you - keep you safe always."
His arms went round her. He drew her to him, felt her tremble at his touch. Then suddenly she wrenched herself free.
"Oh, no, please. Can't you see? I couldn't now. It would be ugly - ugly ugly. All along I've wanted to be good - and now - it would be ugly as well."
He hesitated, baffled by her words. She looked at him appealingly.
"Please," she said. "I want to be good..."
Without a word, Dermot got up and left her. For the moment he was touched and racked by her words beyond argument He went for his hat and coat, running into Trent as he did so.
"Hallo, Dermot, you're off early."
"Yes, I'm not in the mood for dancing tonight"
"It's a rotten night," said Trent gloomily. "But you haven't got my worries."
Dermot had a sudden panic that Trent might be going to confide in him.
Not that - anything but that!
"Well, so long," he said hurriedly. "I'm off home."
"Home, eh? What about the warning of the spirits?"
"I'll risk that. Good night, Jack."
Dermot's flat was not far away. He walked there, feeling the need of the cool night air to calm his fevered brain. He let himself in with his key and switched on the light in the bedroom.
And all at once, for the second time that night, the feeling of the Red Signal surged over him. So overpowering was it that for the moment it swept even Claire from his mind.
Danger! He was in danger. At this very moment, in this very room!
He tried in vain to ridicule himself free of the fear. Perhaps his efforts were secretly halfhearted. So far, the Red Signal had given him timely warning which had enabled him to avoid disaster. Smiling a little at his own superstition, he made a careful tour of the flat. It was possible that some malefactor had got in and was lying concealed there. But his search revealed nothing. His man, Milson, was away, and the flat was absolutely empty.
He returned to his bedroom and undressed slowly, frowning to himself.
The sense of danger was acute as ever. He went to a drawer to get out a handkerchief, and suddenly stood stock still. There was an unfamiliar lump in the middle of the drawer.
His quick nervous fingers tore aside the handkerchiefs and took out the object concealed beneath them.
It was a revolver.
With the utmost astonishment Dermot examined it keenly. It was of a somewhat unfamiliar pattern, and one shot had been fired from it lately.
Beyond that he could make nothing of it Someone had placed it in that drawer that very evening. It had not been there when he dressed for dinner - he was sure of that.
He was about to replace it in the drawer, when he was startled by a bell ringing. It rang again and again, sounding unusually loud in the quietness of the empty flat.
Who could be coming to the front door at this hour? And only one answer came to the question - an answer instinctive and persistent.
Danger - danger - danger.
Led by some instinct for which he did not account, Dermot switched off his light, slipped on an overcoat that lay across a chair, and opened the hall door.
Two men stood outside. Beyond them Dermot caught sight of a blue uniform. A policeman!
"Mr West?" asked one of the two men.
It seemed to Dermot that ages elapsed before he answered. In reality it was only a few seconds before he replied in a very fair imitation of his servant's expressionless voice:
"Mr West hasn't come in yet."
"Hasn't come in yet, eh? Very well, then, I think we'd better come in and wait for him."
"No, you don't."
"See here, my man, I'm inspector Verall of Scotland Yard, and I've got a warrant for the arrest of your master. You can see it if you like."
Dermot perused the proffered paper, or pretended to do so, asking in a dazed voice:
"What for? What's he done?"
"Murder. Sir Alington West of Harley Street"
His brain in a whirl, Dermot fell back before his redoubtable visitors. He went into the sitting-room and switched on the light. The inspector followed him.
"Have a search round," he directed the other man. Then he turned to Dermot.
"You stay here, my man. No slipping off to warn your master. What's your name, by the way?"
"Milson, sir."
"What time do you expect your master in, Milson?"
"I don't know, sir, he was going to a dance, I believe. At the Grafton Galleries."
"He left there just under an hour ago. Sure he's not been back here?"
"I don't think so, sir. I fancy I should have heard him come in."
At this moment the second man came in from the adjoining room. In his hand he carried the revolver. He took it across to the inspector in some excitement. An expression of satisfaction flitted across the latter's face.
"That settles it," he remarked. "Must have slipped in and out without your hearing him. He's hooked it by now. I'd better be off. Cawley, you stay here, in case he should come back again, and you can keep an eye on this fellow. He may know more about his master than he pretends."
The inspector bustled off. Dermot endeavored to get the details of the affair from Cawley, who was quite ready to be talkative.
"Pretty clear case," he vouchsafed. "The murder was discovered almost immediately. Johnson, the manservant, had only just gone up to bed when he fancied he heard a shot, and came down again. Found Sir Alington dead, shot through the heart. He rang us up at once and we came along and heard his story."
"Which made it a pretty clear case?" ventured Dermot.
"Absolutely. This young West came in with his uncle and they were quarrelling when Johnson brought in the drinks. The old boy was threatening to make a new will, and your master was talking about shooting him. Not five minutes later the shot was heard. Oh, yes, clear enough."
Clear enough indeed. Dermot's heart sank as he realized the overwhelming evidence against him. And no way out save flight. He set his wits to work. Presently he suggested making a cup of tea. Cawley assented readily enough. He had already searched the flat and knew there was no back entrance.
Dermot was permitted to depart to the kitchen. Once there he put the kettle on, and chinked cups and saucers industriously. Then he stole swiftly to the window and lifted the sash. The flat was on the second floor, and outside the window was the small wire lift used by tradesmen which ran up and down on its steel cable.
Like a flash Dermot was outside the window and swinging himself down the wire rope. It cut into his hands, making them bleed, but he went on desperately.
A few minutes later he was emerging cautiously from the back of the block. Turning the corner, he cannoned into a figure standing by the sidewalk. To his utter amazement he recognized Jack Trent. Trent was fully alive to the perils of the situation.
"My God! Dermot! Quick, don't hang about here."
Taking him by the arm, he led him down a by street, then down another.
A lonely taxi was sighted and hailed and they jumped in, Trent giving the man his own address.
"Safest place for the moment. There we can decide what to do next to put those fools off the track. I came round here, hoping to be able to warn you before the police got here."
"I didn't even know that you had heard of it. Jack, you don't believe -"
"Of course not, old fellow, not for one minute. I know you far too well.
All the same, it's a nasty business for you. They came round asking questions - what time you got to the Grafton Galleries, when you left, and so on. Dermot, who could have done the old boy in?"
"I can't imagine. Whoever did it put the revolver in my drawer, I suppose. Must have been watching us pretty closely."
"That séance business was damned funny. 'Don't go home.' Meant for poor old West. He did go home, and got shot."
"It applies to me, too," said Dermot. "I went home and found a planted revolver and a police inspector."
"Well, I hope it doesn't get me, too," said Trent "Here we are."
He paid the taxi, opened the door with his latchkey, and guided Dermot up the dark stairs to his den, a small room on the first floor.
He threw open the door and Dermot walked in, while Trent switched on the light, and came to join him.
"Pretty safe here for the time being," he remarked. "Now we can get our heads together and decide what is best to be done."
"I've made a fool of myself," said Dermot suddenly. "I ought to have faced it out. I see more clearly now. The whole thing's a plot. What the devil are you laughing at?"
For Trent was leaning back in his chair, shaking with unrestrained mirth.
There was something horrible in the sound - something horrible, too, about the man altogether.
There was a curious light in his eyes.
"A damned clever plot," he gasped out. "Dermot, you're done for."
He drew the telephone towards him.
"What are you going to do?" asked Dermot.
"Ring up Scotland Yard. Tell 'em their bird's here - safe under lock and key. Yes, I locked the door when I came in and the key's in my pocket.
No good looking at that other door behind me. That leads into Claire's room, and she always locks it on her side. She's afraid of me, you know.
Been afraid of me a long time. She always knows when I'm thinking about that knife - a long sharp knife. No, you don't -"
Dermot had been about to make a rush at him. but the other had suddenly produced a revolver.
"That's the second of them," chuckled Trent. "I put the first in your drawer - after shooting old West with it - What are you looking at over my head? That door? It's no use, even if Claire were to open it - and she might to you - I'd shoot you before you got there. Not in the heart - not to kill, just wing you, so that you couldn't get away. I'm a jolly good shot, you know. I saved your life once. More fool I. No, no, I want you hanged - yes, hanged. It isn't you I want the knife for. It's Claire - pretty Claire, so white and soft. Old West knew. That's what he was here for tonight, to see if I were mad or not. He wanted to shut me up - so that I shouldn't get at Claire with a knife. I was very cunning. I took his latchkey and yours, too. I slipped away from the dance as soon as I got there. I saw you come out of his house, and I went in. I shot him and came away at once. Then I went to your place and left the revolver. I was at the Grafton Galleries again almost as soon as you were, and I put the latchkey back in your coat pocket when I was saying good night to you.
I don't mind telling you all this. There's no one else to hear, and when you're being hanged I'd like you to know I did it... There's not a loophole of escape. It makes me laugh... God, how it makes me laugh! What are you thinking of? What the devil are you looking at?"
"I'm thinking of some words you quoted just now. You'd have done better, Trent, not to come home."
"What do you mean?"
"Look behind you!"
Trent spun round. In the doorway of the communicating room stood Claire - and Inspector Verall...
Trent was quick. The revolver spoke just once - and found its mark. He fell forward across the table. The inspector sprang to his side, as Dermot stared at Claire in a dream. Thoughts flashed through his brain disjointedly. His uncle - their quarrel - the colossal misunderstanding the divorce laws of England which would never free Claire from an insane husband - "we must all pity her" - the plot between her and Sir Alington which the cunning of Trent had seen through - her cry to him, "Ugly - ugly - ugly!" Yes, but now -
The inspector straightened up.
"Dead," he said vexedly.
"Yes," Dermot heard himself saying, "he was always a good shot..."
THE FOURTH MAN
Canon Parfitt panted a little. Running for trains was not much of a business for a man of his age. For one thing his figure was not what it was and with the loss of his slender silhouette went an increasing tendency to be short of breath. This tendency the Canon himself always referred t
o, with dignity, as "My heart, you know!" He sank into the corner of the first-class carriage with a sigh of relief. The warmth of the heated carriage was most agreeable to him. Outside the snow was falling. Lucky to get a corner seat on a long night journey. Miserable business if you didn't. There ought to be a sleeper on this train. The other three corners were already occupied, and noting this fact Canon Parfitt became aware that the man in the far corner was smiling at him in gentle recognition. He was a clean-shaven man with a quizzical face and hair just turning gray on the temples. His profession was so clearly the law that no one could have mistaken him for anything else for a moment. Sir George Durand was, indeed, a v
ery famous lawyer. "Well, Parfitt," he remarked genially, "you had a run for it, didn't you?" "Very bad for my heart, I'm afraid," said the Canon. "Quite a coincidence meeting you, Sir George. Are you going far north?"
"Newcastle," said Sir George laconically. "By the way," he added, "do you know Dr Campbell Clark?"
The man sitting on the same side of the carriage as the Canon inclined his head pleasantly.
"We met on the platform," continued the lawyer. "Another coincidence."
Canon Parfitt looked at Dr Campbell Clark with a good deal of interest.
It was a name of which he had often heard. Dr Clark was in the forefront as a physician and mental specialist, and his last book, The Problem of the Unconscious Mind, had been the most discussed book of the year.
Canon Parfitt saw a square jaw, very steady blue eyes, and reddish hair untouched by gray, but thinning rapidly. And he received also the impression of a very forceful personality.
By a perfectly natural association of ideas the Canon looked across to the seat opposite him, half-expecting to receive a glance of recognition there also, but the fourth occupant of the carriage proved to be a total stranger - a foreigner, the Canon fancied. He was a slight dark man, rather insignificant in appearance. Hunched in a big overcoat, he appeared to be fast asleep.
"Canon Parfitt of Bradchester?" inquired Dr Campbell Clark in a pleasant voice.
The Canon looked flattered. Those "scientific sermons" of his had really made a great hit - especially since the press had taken them up. Well, that was what the Church needed - good modern up-to-date stuff.
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