action of one man.
The woman, the weaker of the two, was probably more disposed to yield tothe force and strength of circumstances. Once before, in her marriageto Jack Pomfret, she had had the cup snatched from her lips, and bowedto the inevitable. From the few words recorded in the Major's accusingdiary, it would seem that, secured of a modest competence, she was readya second time to accept her fate.
And then, in that week's interval, it was easy to guess what hadhappened. She had consulted her old partner in crime, George Burton.He had reasoned, as it turned out, a little shallowly, remove Murchison,and the danger will be past. The resemblance of Murchison to ReginaldDavis had occurred to the pair, hence the cunningly prepared letters.
And how was the actual murder accomplished? Had they gone to CathcartSquare together, or had Burton followed her, getting in by means of thatbroken window-pane at the back? And did they know the Major was alone?In that last interview with Mrs Spencer, had he let out the fact thathe had given the caretaker a holiday, so that they should not bedisturbed?
These were side problems that could not be solved at the moment. Onlytwo persons could solve them, and those two, in all probability, wouldnever speak.
But how had they killed him? The Major was a strong, muscular fellowwho would fight tenaciously for his life. Norah Burton was a slenderwoman, almost verging on frailness, George Dutton, to call him by hislatest name, was certainly of a muscular build, although of only averageheight.
Well, of course, they had foreseen and prepared for all that. Whiletalking to him, she had sprayed over him the essence of someoverpowering and stupefying drug, and while he was staggering about,dazed and blinded, the man had stepped in and done the rest.
Owing to the absence of the caretaker, they had plenty of time. Theyhad rifled his pockets, taking out of them the money which, according tohis diary, he had brought along with him, his personal belongings, theticket which he had received at the luggage room of Victoria Station,and, of course, the confession which Norah Burton had or had not signed.No doubt, they had also examined his linen and underclothing to makesure that his name was not on them. If it had been, they would havedealt with it by stripping the body.
They had carried it out pretty well, on the whole. There were twothings they had not reckoned on. One was the resuscitation of ReginaldDavis. The other was the fact that Murchison kept a diary, one of thelast things that a man of his sort was likely to do.
Bryant, although not a very emotional man, felt very depressed as hecame to the result of his meditations. He felt sure that, if NorahBurton could have had her own way, she would have accepted her fate,gone forth on the world again with the slender pittance that either ofthe two men, her husband or his friend, would have allowed her.
She had suffered herself to be dominated by a more reckless and criminalspirit, with the result that the life of an honourable man had beentaken, and she was already standing at the foot of the gallows.
The pair, only knowing that the body had been exhumed and proved to bethat of Hugh Murchison--a terribly disturbing thought to them--butignorant of the discovery of that incriminating diary, were beingclosely watched. But they felt sure that nothing could be traced tothem, they had hidden their tracks so cleverly, as they thought.
It was now only a question of a few hours as to when they should betaken. And Bryant felt that Guy Spencer should know the truth beforeanybody else. Poor fellow! He would soften the blow to him as much ashe could.
That same evening he went round to Eaton Place, about seven o'clock. Hereckoned that he would catch Spencer before he went up to dress fordinner. "Poor devil," thought Bryant, "he won't have much appetite fordinner after he has read through that diary!"
Spencer was in the library, and the detective, whom he had met before inconnection with the mystery of Cathcart Square, was shown in. Spencerwelcomed him with his usual cordiality.
"Good-evening, Mr Bryant. Any fresh light upon this terrible thing?"
The footman had left the library door slightly open, after showingBryant in, and had retired swiftly to his quarters.
He was hardly out of the hall when Stella opened the front-door with herkey, and glided noiselessly in. All her movements were noiseless,suggesting, as somebody had once remarked of her, the silent motions ofa snake. She always carried a key, declaring that she could not be keptwaiting for servants to answer the door.
The library door was open, through the aperture she heard voices, andone of them she recognised. It was that of the Scotland Yard detective,who had cross-examined her very closely as to her various meetings withthe dead man. She had been afraid of Bryant. He had looked at her sosearchingly, and his manner always conveyed that he knew so much morethan he was prepared to disclose.
Bryant was speaking in a low, but very clear voice. Her hearing wassingularly acute, and she could catch every word.
"I am come on a very painful errand, Mr Spencer. There is a smallvolume here which throws a very clear light on what happened at CathcartSquare on that fatal evening of July the fourth."
Guy's cheerful accents rang out. "You mean you have got a clue, MrBryant. But why painful to me? If you are on the track of the murdererof my poor old friend, nobody will be more rejoiced than I."
Again the low, grave tones of Bryant:
"Mr Spencer, you will be a very stricken man when you have read throughit. Your poor friend left behind him a very copious diary, made up tothe morning of the day on which he was murdered. The original is at myoffice, you can inspect it at any time you like. This is a copy of theentries relating to Cathcart Square. It touches your domestic life veryclosely, in addition to proving why and by whom he was murdered."
Stella waited to hear no more. Her face had gone livid, she feltshaking in every limb. That her old enemy, Murchison, had left a diary!They had never thought of that possibility. The game was up. She hadstaked something on her marriage as Norah Burton with Jack Pomfret, andhad lost. This time she had staked everything and lost again, but nowshe had lost liberty and life in addition. There was but one end. Shemust seek at once the man who had, in a way, been a good and faithfulfriend, but also her evil genius.
She stole as quietly out of the hall as she had entered it, and hailed apassing taxi. She knew she would never enter the house at Eaton Placeagain.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
Mrs Spencer had plenty of money in her pocket. She was alwaysaccustomed to carry a large sum about her. Her adventurous life hadtaught her that it was always wiser to have a good amount of cash in herpossession. The time might come at any moment when you were in a tightcorner. She had promised a handsome reward to the taxi-cab driver if hecould get to a certain destination within the speed limit.
That destination was Kew Bridge, where it abuts on a little-knownneighbourhood called Strand-on-the-Green.
At the foot of Kew Bridge, the wretched and hunted woman halted, andpaid the driver his extravagant fare. What did it matter what she paidto-night? To-morrow she might not be able to pay. She shuddered as shethought of that to-morrow.
The taxi-driver drove slowly out of sight. She waited, from a sense ofhabitual caution, till he was well out of the way. And then,remembering everything, she smiled bitterly. Was there any need ofcaution now?
She went down a narrow lane, halted at the door of a small cottage, andrang the front-door bell. As she did so, she was aware of a man a fewyards away from her, who seemed to be strolling aimlessly about, a mandressed in ill-fitting clothes, and heavy boots.
A detective certainly! This man had followed her from Eaton Place in ataxi almost as swift as her own. Bryant knew his business, he was notgoing to lose sight of her, or of her reputed cousin, George Dutton.
The door was opened cautiously by George Dutton, alias George Burton.
It was a small furnished cottage that he had rented for some monthspast, at a rent commensurate with his means. He kept no servant; afeeble old woman came in the morning to clean
him up and prepare hisbreakfast. When he came back at night from the not very prosperousbucket-shop, he looked after himself, and cooked over a gas-stove hisevening meal.
The evenings were drawing in, and it was rather a dark night. He peeredfor a moment at his visitor, before he recognised her.
"Stella, by all that is wonderful." He called her by the new name, notthe old one of Norah. "Come in, dear, but your arrival in thisunexpected fashion does not suggest good news."
She passed hastily through the open doorway. "Shut it quick," she said,in a low, hoarse voice. "There is a man watching outside, I am sure heis a detective."
As a matter of fact, there were two detectives within a few feet of eachother, but in her agitation she had not observed the second man, who wasdeputed to keep watch on the movements of Mr George Dutton.
George Dutton was an old hand, and not to be lightly disturbed by smallincidents. But he recognised the significance of this visit. His ruddycolour died away.
"You have bad news," he said quietly.
"The worst, George. Bryant, the detective, paid a visit to Guy thisevening. I came in just in the nick of time. The library door wasajar, I heard what Bryant said. The Major has left a diary behind him,and, of course, he had put it all down, up to the arranged meeting inCathcart Square. The game is up, you will recognise that."
Dutton's mentality was a little bit slower than her own. "Did you hearany extracts read from the diary?"
"What a fool you are!" she cried indignantly. "Why should I wait tohear? If the man kept a diary, is it not easy to guess that he wouldhave related every incident connected with me, from our first meeting atthe Southleigh dinner-party? Bryant is watching me, there is adetective waiting outside. No doubt he is watching you, too. He isjust waiting to pounce."
"Then why has he gone to your husband?"
"Oh, you are too dense for worlds. Just to soften the blow. Can't youunderstand that he wants to warn him beforehand of the shame that isgoing to fall upon him, the discovery that his wife is a murderess?"
And then Mr Dutton understood. He stretched out appealing arms to her."My poor little girl, my ever faithful pal! And I have brought you tothis!"
"You have brought me to this," she said bitterly. "Did I not imploreyou upon my knees to accept the Major's terms, and you were soobstinate, so set. You would insist upon the other way because itseemed better to you. And I, fool that I was, always yielding to yoursinister influence, gave way as I always have done."
Scoundrel and criminal as he was, hardened by years of evil-doing, theman's self-control gave way at that accusation. He drew her to him,and, strange to say, she did not shrink from his embrace.
"My poor Stella, I have tried to do my best for you always, evensacrificed myself. But the end has come."
He recognised that, as she did.
"Yes," she said stoically, "as you say, the end has come. You havealways been very adept in falling into holes, and then digging yourselfout again. How are you going to dig yourself and me out of this hole,in the face of that incriminating diary?"
Dutton walked up and down, his face working, his hands and his bodytrembling. He was up against the gravest problem of his adventurouscareer. The shadow of the prison had always hovered over him, but nowthere was a more ghastly menace, the shadow of the gallows. From theprison, he could return. There was no return from the other.
He paused in his restless pacing, and came to a halt before the strickenwoman. He had recovered himself to a certain extent. He had gambledand lost, he was prepared to accept the fate of the unsuccessfulgambler.
"You are brave, old girl?" he asked briefly.
She looked up at him with a wan smile.
"Yes, I think I am brave. I can guess what you are about to suggest,with the detectives watching us outside." She burst into a little sob."Oh, you always thought you were so clever, and yet, if I had had themanagement of affairs, things might have been so different."
He spoke humbly. "I think you are right, Norah. I was always full ofarrogance and self-conceit. You were weaker in character than I was,but you had always more brains. And I was a blind fool not to admit it.Many a time you gave me your advice, and I rejected it."
"And what do you suggest now?" she asked, in a voice that had sunk to awhisper.
He looked at her steadily. He had screwed up his courage to thesticking point. Could he count upon an equal fortitude in her?
"It is the finish, old girl. You say the detectives are waitingoutside. Bryant has got a good case, and the diary will hang us. Thereis no getting over that."
"You propose--" she said falteringly.
He spoke quite steadily. The end had come, he had made up his mind, sofar as regards himself.
"We neither of us want to hang for the murder of Hugh Murchison?"
She shuddered, and hid her face with her hands. "Oh, that awfulevening! It has been like a nightmare ever since."
"I know," said Dutton soothingly. "It was one of my fatal mistakes.But it is no use crying over spilt milk. To-night we are face to facewith facts. We have gambled, and we have lost, and we have got to paythe penalty."
The wretched woman rose up, and wrung her hands. "And to think I mighthave been the Countess of Southleigh."
"I know; don't think I am not reckoning up all that," replied Dutton."But we have got to deal with facts to-night, with the detectiveswaiting outside. The game is up, you know that as well as I do. Wehave only a few hours before us, perhaps a few minutes, in which to makethe choice."
"I know," she answered. "You mean our only alternative is to cheat thelaw."
He looked at her steadily. "That is the only way. If we sufferourselves to be taken, we have not got a dog's chance."
Weak woman as she was, she gathered something of his iron resolution.Yes, they must die and die together, to cheat the law. Such was to bethe end of the brilliant adventuress who had inveigled two men intomarriage, Jack Pomfret and Guy Spencer, with her subtle and elusivecharm.
"And what do you suggest, George? You have thought of these things morethan I have."
"I have always thought of them," said Dutton gloomily. "Well, there arevarious ways I can suggest to you. I can shoot you first, and myselfafterwards."
She shuddered. "Some other way than that."
"I can give you some tabloids."
"Is there any pain?" she queried.
"Hardly any."
She shuddered again. "Hardly any. That does not sound veryconvincing."
He proposed a third alternative. "You can come up to my room, and lieon the bed. I will paper up all the doors and cracks and turn up thegas. You will simply go to sleep and never wake."
"That is the best," she said.
"If we had plenty of time. But they may take us in a few minutes.Bryant has seen your husband, he will not wait long after thatinterview."
"The tabloids, then," she said firmly.
Yes, it had come to this, she must cheat the law. Twice, she had hadher chance, once as the wife of Jack Pomfret, again as the wife of GuySpencer. And twice had the cup of triumph been snatched from her lips.
She must die, like a rat in a hole, in this obscure little cottage atStrand-on-the-Green, in the company of the man who had always been herevil genius.
Dutton went across to a small cupboard built in the wall of the shabbyparlour, and brought out a little bottle filled with capsules. Heextracted one and handed it to the shrinking woman.
"Take yours first, dear, I will take mine after." There was a look ofinfinite compassion in the scoundrel's face as he offered it to her.
Bravely she took it, and swallowed it with a great gulp, sitting in theshabby easy-chair. The effect was almost instantaneous, and when Duttonhad made sure that she was beyond human aid, he took a similar tabloidhimself, with the same result.
An hour later there was a thundering knock at the door of the cottage.One of the detectives had gone to a telephone off
ice and informed Bryantthat the woman had come to Strand-on-the-Green, and was with Dutton.The order came back from Bryant, who had only stayed a few minutes atEaton Place, that the pair were to be arrested at once.
Of course there was no response. After waiting for a few moments, themen broke in the frail door. But they were too late.
Norah Burton, and the man who had been so long associated with her--brother, cousin, lover, whatever he might be--had gone to theirjudgment.
It was a nine-days' wonder, and while his friends and acquaintances werestill discussing it at clubs and over tea-tables, Guy Spencer slippedquietly abroad. When he returned to England, at the end of twelvemonths, these tragic happenings had become little more than a memory tohis world.
He stayed a week with the Southleighs at their ancestral home in Sussex,and at the end of that week their friends read an important announcementin _The Morning Post_:--
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"A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between MrGuy Spencer and his cousin, Lady Nina, only daughter and child of theEarl of Southleigh."
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The End.
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