by Annie Haynes
“Sometimes it is convenient to die,” he said sullenly. “And you—and you were always too much inclined to take things on trust, Judy!”
The woman looked at him, her breath quickening, the first dawning of a horrible suspicion turning her white and cold.
“What do you mean?”
He laughed, though a curious indrawing of breath mingled with his laughter.
“I told you a lie when we parted, Judith. You made me mad, and I meant to bring your pride down somehow, but if I had known how you would take it—”
“A lie,” Judith repeated. “A lie!” She drew farther from him, back against the wall, her face absolutely colourless save for the dark rings round her eyes, her lips stiff and cold. “What lie did you tell me?”
The man looked at her, his face was flushed, his eyes were bloodshot; with a throb of disgust Judith realized he had been drinking.
“You know,” he said hoarsely. “You haven’t forgotten, for all your disdainful ways! I told you a lie when I said you were not my wife—that our marriage was not legal!”
“You did not!” The words caught in a strangled sob in Judith’s throat. She put up her hands, and wrenched the fastenings of her cloak apart, tore like a wild thing at the chiffon round her neck. “It was not a lie!” she panted. “It was the truth you told me—God’s truth. I was not your wife—I was never your wife for a single minute, thank Heaven.”
“You were!” A very ugly light burned in the man’s pale, prominent eyes—a light that might have warned her to be careful. “You are,” he amended. “You are my wife, Judy; you are not Mad Carew’s, and I mean to have my own. Come,” putting out his hand, “you loved me once, you will not find it impossible to love me again.”
“Never!” Judith backed near the archway. For the moment she did not heed the danger of rousing the man, of kindling the fire that smouldered in his eyes. “Love you!” she repeated, “I never loved you, never, never—not for a single moment! I”—with a sob—“know that now!”
“Do you really?” The man sprang forward and caught her arm roughly. “And who has made you so wise?” he questioned with a harsh laugh. “Mad Carew? Never mind, Judy, I can afford to laugh! For, do as you will, you are mine, mine only.”
Judith stood still in his clasp. She would not struggle with him, she would not try to match her puny strength against his, but her ungloved hand tightened round the shining toy she held. It might be—it might be that only that way would freedom come!
“Judith,” the man went on pleading thickly, “I was mad that night—mad with drink, or I wouldn’t have laid a hand on you, I wouldn’t have lied to you. Our marriage was legal enough; the woman I had married before had been dead for years, but luck was against me. You would be better without me, that was what I thought, Judy, indeed!” his voice growing maudlin.
Still Judith did not speak. She was standing against the velvet portière now, silhouetted against the dark background; her delicate features, the ghastly pallor of her face had a cameo-like effect, her big changeful eyes followed his every movement.
His hand dropped from her arm. “But now, Judy, good luck has come to me at last. For every pound of Mad Carew’s I will give you ten. I will give you a title too. Ay, you shall be my lady, still, and hold up your head with the best of them. You come back to me, Judy. I tell you I have loved you always—you only!”
“I think not!” Judith laughed scornfully. “You—what do you—what do such as you know of love?” She went on recklessly. “Nothing, less than nothing! I will never come back to you, never. You may be speaking the truth now, as you may have told me a lie before—I may be your wife—your most unhappy miserable wife—I may never have been—his! But at least I will never willingly see you again. Do you dream that I will take one penny of your boasted wealth? Rather than touch it I would starve.”
“Would you?” the man said very quietly, his pale eyes watching her every movement. “Would you really?” His look might have told her that the maudlin mood was passing, that he was becoming quarrelsome. With a sudden movement he jerked up her arm. “What is this?” with a contemptuous laugh. “Ah, I see; well, a revolver is a dangerous toy in inexperienced hands. I think we will dispense with it.” He twisted her hand, and catching the revolver from her threw it carelessly on the table, knocking over the glass inkstand that stood in the centre. The table-cloth was red, the ink poured across it in a black stream.
She glanced at the man who stood very near her now, his tanned face flushed, his light eyes reddened and angry. A shiver of terror shook her; she mentally measured the distance to the door, if only she could get away!
He caught her look and laughed mockingly. “Oh, no! You are not going, Judy! I haven’t done with you yet. Think of all we have to discuss after our long parting.”
There was a slight sound that might have come from the passage behind—she started with the faint hope that rescue might be at hand. The man heard the noise too; he turned his head and listened.
Judy saw her momentary advantage; she sprang forward. Before he had realized her intention she had reached the other room, caught at the door that must lead into the passage, and was tugging at it with insistent, impotent fingers.
There was a loud laugh behind her. “Ah, I thought of that beforehand! No use crying, Judy; the door is locked and the key is outside. Now—now don’t you understand that you are in my power? That you are mine—mine!”
Judith set her teeth as she faced him, standing back against the door. He caught her in his arms.
“Do you know that you haven’t given me one kiss yet, Judy? I haven’t had the welcome I had looked forward to from my wife.”
Judith struggled desperately to get away from him, striking blindly at the handsome face, the broad chest.
In vain, her strength was as nothing against his; she was drawn more closely to him; she could feel his hot breath upon her cheek. With one last mad effort at resistance she threw herself backwards. There was a click, then sudden darkness.
In one instant Judy realized what had happened. She had knocked against the electric switch; and it had given her the opportunity for which she had been longing. The arms that had been holding her so tightly momentarily relaxed; with a quickness born of her terrible plight she slipped out of them into the darkness.
There was the sound of an oath as the man felt blindly for the switch—failed to find it. Then as Judith tried to grope her way to the door by which she had entered, she heard that he was coming after her, swearing, knocking over the furniture. She gained the wall; surely—surely it was the outer room! Where was the door? There was not the smallest glint of light to show its whereabouts, and she had thought so certainly that it had been partly opened. It was horrible, horrible, feeling round the room, trying frantically to find the door, hearing the while the heavy breathing of the man who was pursuing her.
Once they were so near that she actually touched him. At last she felt wood—the door, the blessed door; another second and her fingers caught against a blind. It was the window—great tears came into her eyes. But the door was opposite; surely she could make her way across. Putting out her hands before her, she tried to walk softly. Yes: here was the centre table, where the revolver had been thrown, the ink upset. She felt about, there was the ink certainly, her hands were wet, but where was the revolver?
There came a cry.
“Ah! I have you now!” It seemed a long way away in the other room. “No use struggling now, Judy!”
Then across the darkness there rang out the sharp staccato sound of a revolver shot. There was a groan; a heavy fall.
CHAPTER IV
Judith stood as one petrified. What had happened? What was happening? She became conscious of a new sound—an odd gurgling sound. The darkness was peopled with horrible images, the gurgling died away into silence. What was it? she asked herself, her limbs trembling under her, a sweat of deadly terror breaking out upon her forehead. What had that ping, ping sounded like? Could
it have been a revolver shot? If—if it were, who had fired it? And who had fallen on the floor?
Was it possible that the man who said he was her husband had shot himself by accident? He had not guessed that the revolver was loaded, and he had used it to frighten her.
As she stood there she told herself that she was a coward and a fool. He was hurt, perhaps dying. Summoning up all her courage, she managed to raise her voice.
“What is it? Where are you? Are you hurt, Cyril?” the old name seemed to come naturally to her lips.
There was no answer. But as she waited, her head bent forward to catch the least sound, she became aware that she was not alone in the room, that some one else was breathing softly close to her. It was not the man who had been pursuing her, she knew that instinctively. An agony of terror shook her, what did that veil of darkness cover? Who—what was stealthily passing her? It was very near her now—that thing with the horribly soft breath, very, very near her; putting out her hand, she would surely touch it. If it came one step nearer, assuredly it would knock against her.
Her overstrained nerves would bear no more. With a shriek of horror, she fled across the room, hitting herself against the chairs, finally running with outstretched hands against the locked door. It was locked still, but as she dashed herself helplessly against it, one hand touched the switch-board. With a cry she pulled the button down and glanced fearfully over her shoulder into the room. As she turned slowly further round, she caught sight of something protruding beyond the easy chair.
She moved round stealthily, fearfully. A man lay on the floor in a curious doubled-up heap, a man whose fair head and broad shoulders were very familiar. “Cyril! Cyril!” she said hoarsely, beneath her breath. There was no answer; she tottered across feebly. She felt no fear now of the thing on the carpet—only a great pity as she sank on her knees beside it.
A ghastly dark line had trickled down on the carpet, the florid face was white, the eyes sightless and staring. With a cry Judith tried to raise the heavy inert head, she took the nerveless hands in hers. “Cyril! Cyril!” she sobbed, as she felt the dead weight, as a dense mist gathered before her eyes.
Judith never knew how long she crouched there, on the floor beside the dead man. Strange thoughts buzzed through her brain, memories of the past, trifles that had no bearing on the present. But at last she awoke to a consciousness of her surroundings, of the danger in which she stood. People might come in at any moment. How could she explain her presence in the flat? How tell them of the dead man’s insults, of the sudden darkness, and the unknown hand that had fired the fatal shot? They would not believe her. They might say it was she—she who had killed the man who lay there stark on the carpet before her.
The terror of that last thought pierced the thick cloud that had momentarily obscured her brain; she must get away, at all costs she must get away.
She started to her feet, shuddering as she saw the dark crimson stain that disfigured the front of her white bodice; she drew her cloak more closely round her, fastened down her veil. Then she turned and her lips moved silently as she looked down at the corpse; moved by some sudden impulse, she stooped and laid her hand for a moment on the cold forehead.
At the door of the room she paused again. What unseen danger might be lurking in the flat? At last she took her courage in both hands, and stepped out into the passage. All was apparently quiet; she could hear no sound, see no sign of the murderer. She opened the door of the flat with trembling fingers and pulled it to behind her. She was shaking from head to foot as she slowly made her way down the stairs.
As she neared the bottom of the first flight she heard some one coming up, whistling cheerfully. She saw that it was a man, a young man apparently; then she glanced away quickly, one hand holding down her veil. The man stood aside politely, then there was a sudden exclamation.
“Why, it is Judy! Judy, by all that is delightful! The very last person I expected to meet here.”
It was a voice she had prayed she might never hear again on earth. The sound of it brought her to a sudden standstill. The man was blocking the way with outstretched hands—a man with a fair bronzed face, with smiling blue eyes and white teeth that gleamed beneath his drooping moustache.
“This is a surprise, Judy—a pleasant surprise!” he went on. “I had no idea that you and Cyril had made it up.”
Judith’s tortured eyes stared straight at him, her cold hand lay in his for an instant. Oh, why had she waited? she asked herself passionately; why had she not got away before this man,—who stood for so much that was evil in the past—saw and recognized her?
He did not seem to heed her silence; he turned and walked down the stairs.
“Cyril is looking fit, isn’t he?” he said easily. “I half thought of going to him to-night, but I don’t know whether I shall have time; as a matter of fact I have some business with another man in the next flat.”
Judith made some inaudible reply. His bold, overfamiliar manner did not alter.
“You will have a taxi,” he said as they reached the vestibule.
But Judith shook her head. “I am going by the Tube. Good-bye.”
He laughed. “At any rate you must let me see you safely in for old times’ sake.”
“Oh, no, no!” Judith put out her hands. “You must not. Don’t you see that I can’t bear it; I must be alone.”
The insolent laughter in the man’s blue eyes deepened. “I see that you are not disposed to give your old friends a welcome, Judy,” he said, mock reproach in his tone. “And there is so much I want to know. I want to hear all you have been doing since our last meeting. And how Cyril found you. Poor fellow, he has been half distracted to hear nothing of you for so long.”
“He met me,” Judith answered vaguely. “Goodbye.”
“It is not good-bye,” he assured her lightly. “I shall only say au revoir, Judy. We shall meet again.”
Judith hurried away; some instinct made her look back as she reached the bottom of the steps. He was standing just as she had left him, but was it her fancy or was it some effect of the flickering light? It seemed to her that his face was distorted by a mocking, evil smile. With an inaudible sound of terror she turned and disappeared among the crowd.
As she hurried past the end of the street a man standing in a doorway opposite drew farther back in the shadow, then came out and turned after her. But Judith had not glanced at him. All her mind was intent on getting to the station at the earliest possible moment; the man following had some ado to keep up with her hurrying footsteps.
Sitting in the crowded carriage of the Tube, she clasped her hands together beneath her cloak. Oh, it was hard, terribly hard, she told herself passionately, that these two men should come into her life again. She had thought herself so safe, she had never dreamed that the dead past would rise again.
Then her mind went back shudderingly to that flat at Abbey Court and its ghastly secret. Who was it who had stolen in and shot Cyril Stanmore? Whose breathing was it she heard as she waited there in the darkness?
The dead man had made many enemies, she knew that some of them must have stolen in and taken this terrible revenge.
She let herself into the house in Grosvenor Square with the latch-key that she had taken care to provide herself with, and was conscious of a passing throb of surprise at finding none of the menservants in the hall.
She went into her room, where everything looked as she had left it. Evidently her absence had not been discovered. She took off her toque and threw it aside; she unfastened her cloak and tossed it back. Then, all alone as she was, she uttered a cry of horror, as she saw again the front of her white dress all splashed and stained with blood. Then there came a knock at the door, and Célestine’s voice:
“Miladi, Sir Anthony, he tell me to bring you one little bottle of champagne, to make you eat one little piece of chicken.”
Judith snatched up the couvre-pied, and drew it round her tightly. She shivered as she met the maid’s gaze, her hands
caught tightly at the cloth.
“Put the tray down,” she said. “It—perhaps I may feel better presently—perhaps I will take something.”
“I hope so, miladi, or Sir Anthony, he will be much distressed when he comes home,” Célestine brought up a small table and put the tray upon it.
Judith, with her terrible guilty knowledge, cowered before the girl’s eyes. In vain she told herself that there was nothing to be seen, that the couvre-pied hid both her hat and cloak as well as the front of her gown. Célestine’s gaze told her that something had surprised her, that she had seen something unexpected.
Célestine was spreading out a dainty little supper, the wing of a chicken, some jelly, a small bottle of champagne; she brought the table a little nearer to her mistress.
Judith’s eyes followed hers, then she made a quick involuntary gesture of concealment. Célestine’s gaze was riveted on the hand that held the couvre-pied firmly over the tell-tale bodice. The delicate skin, the slender pink-tipped fingers were all blackened with ink.
“Miladi will take her supper.” The maid’s tone was perfectly respectful, but there was a subtle change in its quality.
Judith did not look up. After that first instinctive gesture she had not moved.
“That will do, Célestine, I will ring when I have finished,” she said decidedly.
Left alone, she leaned forward and, taking up the wineglass, drank off the contents feverishly.
Then she stood up, a tall slim figure, with great terror-haunted eyes, burning in a white tragic face. Catching a glimpse of herself in the long pier glass, of the disfiguring stains on the front of her gown, she shuddered violently.
Then, she caught at her dress, she tore at the fastenings with her blackened fingers, and threw it from her on the floor. She gathered it up in a heap in her arms and, crossing the room to a small wardrobe that contained some of her oldest dresses and was seldom used, she thrust her bundle deep down in the well, dropped an old skirt over it, closed the door and locked it, and, after a moment’s thought, put the key away in her jewel-case. Then she looked down at her ink-stained hands. Pumice stone removed the worst stains from her fingers themselves, but the ink had got under her delicate nails, and no effort of hers would move it.