He had lain in a sort of stupor4 among the dead leaves, close beside the body, and when at length he opened his eyes, it was to find them within a few inches of a tired, white face, fouled5 over in blood and mud. He had flung one of his arms, too, as if protectingly, over the head of the dead man and his fingers were sticky, in an unpleasant way.
For a few seconds he stared incredulously at his companion among the leaves, and then with a choke of horror, he snatched his arm away and recoiled6 in disgust.
Then in a flash everything came back to him. The stone house upon the marsh7 — the room where he had lain, awaiting death — the coming of Henrik — his path of agony among the sandhills — his firing upon his enemies — and finally his discovery of the bullet hole in the head of the man who was now lying so near to him.
He sat up and began chafing8 his legs for they were stiff and cold. His head was still hurting, but the pain there was now bearable, and he thought that with an effort he would be able to make his way home to the Abbey. Then he would decide what must he his next move, for there were so many things to consider, and he could not determine anything, off-hand.
He looked mechanically at his wrist to ascertain9 the time, but instantly remembered that his watch had not been upon him when Henrik was carrying him away. Then, turning again to regard the dead man, he perceived that the latter was now wearing it.
He smiled a grim smile, as he unstrapped it. The way of the world every time. How quickly the wheel of fortune swung over. So soon was the despoiler10 — despoiled11!
But if he did find the watch upon the body — that was the only thing he found, for all the man’s pockets had been emptied and turned inside out.
“And to think what a nerve his murderer had!” he thought wearily. “To stay here and empty his pockets, when at any moment, for all he knew, a dozen enemies might be leaping down upon him over the ditch side!”
He saw where his own bullet had struck the man, through the bone just below the knee.
“Well, I am in no condition now to go over him more thoroughly12,” he sighed, “but tomorrow we’ll come and see what we can learn!”
Then an idea struck him, and with the intention of riding away, at the price of much renewed throbbing13 of his head, he hauled the bicycle up on to the meadow.
But he realised instantly that he would never be able to mount it, for he was too shaky in all his limbs and indeed twice, fell over it in his attempts to raise it up. So he left it where it was and started away on foot.
And he soon found that there was a dreadful pilgrimage before him. His giddiness came back at once, his head throbbed14 like an engine, and it was agonising even to proceed very slowly, taking only a few stops at a time.
But he plodded15 on and on, with each hundred yards becoming an eternity16 of time.
At last it dawned upon him that he would never succeed in reaching the Abbey, and he was half-minded to give up all further struggling, and pass the rest of the night under a hedge. But the air was so cold and chilling that he was afraid with any lying down he might pass into a stupor. He looked at his watch and saw that it was getting on for half-past one.
Then he remembered that it would be much nearer to go to the bungalow17 where Sir Parry’s housekeeper18 lived, and he smiled in comical relief at the thought that there, as well as shelter, he would be able to receive treatment for his hurts.
A nurse attendant at a lunatic asylum19 would certainly know something about blows and bruises20, and be able to relieve his pains!
So he turned his steps in the direction of the wood behind Sir Parry’s house and at length was standing21 before the bungalow where the housekeeper lived.
The place was all in darkness, but one of the windows was open and he called out over the garden fence.
“Mrs. Dilling, Mrs. Dilling, I’m Mr. Larose and I want you.” He could not have shouted loudly if he had wanted to, and his voice was very faint, but the woman heard him, and almost as soon as he had finished speaking had put her head out of the window.
“What is it?” she asked quickly. “What do you want?”
“I’ve been hurt,” replied Larose, “and I feel as if I were almost going to faint,” and he started to totter22 up the garden path.
A sharp exclamation23 came from her, and before he had had time to reach the door, it opened and she stood before him, in a dressing-gown.
“I’m sorry ——” he began, and then she caught him in her arms.
Then with all the competence24 of one who had been trained in a good school, she took everything in hand.
She lifted him up bodily and carried him on to her bed. She lit the lamp with fingers that were perfectly25 steady. She felt his pulse and gave him two tablespoonfuls of brandy. She partially26 undressed him and covered him over with blankets. She lit the oil heater and gave him two hot-water bags, one at his feet and one over his heart. She bathed and bandaged his head, and finally brought in a basin of soup and fed him with it herself.
And it was all done without any fuss or bother, and with the thoroughness of one who was delighting in her work. And not only did she do it with thoroughness, but with sympathy as well, for Larose saw her eyes fill with tears as she was bending over his wound.
“Now, you’re not hurt much,” she said cheerfully, “and there’s no bone broken. A good long sleep and you’ll almost be your own self again.”
The detective felt his heart too full for words. Hopeless and in the last stages of exhaustion27 but a little while ago, he had passed suddenly into peace, comfort and tender care. This gaunt-faced woman was as a mother in her loving-kindness and the gentleness of sweet heart was in the touch of her hands.
A feeling of delicious drowsiness28 began to creep over him and he seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into a delightful29 feather bed. Then all his pains and troubles passed from him and he was unconscious to all the world.
“He’ll do,” nodded the woman as she bent over him. “He’ll sleep now for twelve hours.”
But several times during the night and long after dawn had broken, she crept in to listen to his breathing and feel his pulse. He was, however, quite oblivious30 to her presence.
Just before half-past seven she locked the doors of the bungalow, and, accompanied by the deaf and dumb girl who lived with her, proceeded to Sir Parry’s house.
But the detective slept on and on and on.
Sir Parry was in a bad humor that morning and directly he set eyes upon his housekeeper he handed her a piece of paper on which was written in precise and neat handwriting, “I shall not be in to dinner to-night, and don’t you forget you are never to come here except during your prescribed hours. I am annoyed with you.”
The woman nodded, pointing with an apologetic gesture, however, to the curtains, but her master only frowned.
“She has no intelligence,” he said out loud, “just the duster and the kettle mind.”
Larose awoke at last and felt very sorry for himself straightaway. His head ached and was very sore. His body ached, too, and he was not certain he had not got a chill. He was very thirsty.
He looked at his watch, but it had stopped, and he could form no idea of the time from the light outside, because the blinds were drawn32.
There were a water-bottle and a tumbler upon the table near his bedside, and he reached out and gave himself a long drink.
The housekeeper must have been listening for any movement, for before even he had put the tumbler down, the door opened and she came into the room.
“You are feeling better?” she asked, and then seeing the hesitating look upon the detective’s face, she added quickly, “But, of course, you won’t be feeling too good yet, for the wound will be stiff and sore and your head may ache for days.”
“Never mind my poor head,” said the detective ruefully, as she was proceeding33 to raise the blinds a little, “tell me, what is the time?”
“Just half-past four,” was the reply, “and you’ve had a nice long sleep. You needed ——”
But Larose had started up in the bed, and was now regarding her with angry eyes. “Half-past four!” he ejaculated. His voice was very stern. “Then you drugged me, Mrs. Dilling.”
“Yes,” she nodded calmly. “I put some luminal in your soup.”
He dropped back weakly upon the pillows. “Good God!” he exclaimed, “but you don’t know what you have done.”
“Oh! yes I do,” she replied, “and I’ve saved you from an absolute breakdown34. You were sick unto death when you came here last night.”
She moved over to the bedside and sat down. “I’ve a lot to tell you, Mr. Larose,” she went on, “and I’m going to keep nothing back.” She hardly breathed the next words. “My master intended to poison you yesterday, but I changed the poison for bicarbonate of soda35, and that is why you are alive now. Listen to me.”
Two hours later, and when it was quite dark, a very pale-faced and rather tottery36 Larose was making his way through the little door in the fence that separated Sir Parry’s property from the Abbey grounds.
He was feeling weak and ill, but the expression upon his face was a bright one, and, indeed, he seemed in quite a cheerful frame of mind.
But the moment he had closed the door behind him the cheerfulness all passed and his face puckered37 into a frown as he looked round.
“What the devil is happening?” he asked himself breathlessly. “Has everyone gone mad?”
And he might well ask, for not only was the Abbey itself a blaze of light, with every window lit up, but in all directions in the grounds, he could see lanterns and torches flashing among the trees.
In dreadful foreboding he raced over to the light that was nearest to him. “What’s happening?” he asked of a man who was beating through some bushes, and he saw he was addressing one of the under-footmen. “I’m the detective from Scotland Yard.”
The man appeared to be in a state of great excitement, and he jerked out, “The little master’s missing, sir. He can’t be found anywhere and we are beating all round the park.”
The heart of the detective almost stopped still. “When did it happen? Tell me quick,” he commanded.
“About twenty minutes ago, sir,” replied the footman. “Not more than that.”
“But tell me all about it,” snapped Larose, “and don’t waste a second. Where was he last seen?”
“He was with Sir Arnold Medway, sir. He had cut his finger and wouldn’t let anyone attend to it. Then Sir Arnold coaxed38 him into the library and was going to put some plaster upon it, when he found he’d left his glasses in the lounge and went to fetch them. Then when he came back the little boy had disappeared!” The man spoke39 very quickly. “And we are being sent to search the grounds now, but I don’t see how he could have got out of the Abbey, for the only door that was open at the time was the front door, and one of the gardeners was in the drive just at that time, looking for a trowel that he had dropped, and he is sure no one passed him.”
Larose thought like lightning. The last place where the child was seen was the library! The library was close to the lumber-room! The enemy in the Abbey knew of the existence of the lumber-room and the boarded-up well-chamber40 behind it! Then if the child had been taken, what was more probable than that he was hidden there! He might have been gagged or silenced somehow, with his kidnapper41 just waiting until the hue42 and cry had gone down outside, to return and get him away. Ah! but had the butler finished with the lumber-room and left the door unlocked?
With a nod of thanks to the footman, Larose ran to the cloister43 door, rejoicing that its key had been among the things that Henrik had returned to his pocket along with the little automatic.
He passed into the Abbey and ran up the long passage to the lumber-room door. It was shut but not locked, and he was inside in two seconds.
He had no torch with him, but quickly striking a match, saw at once that the child was not there. Then, starting to thread his way among the tins and rubbish towards the boarded-up end of the room, as the match flickered44 and died in his fingers, he suddenly became aware of a smell, other than paint or varnish45. It was faint, but distinctly ether-like in its character; it reminded him of a hospital.
“It’s not chloroform or ether,” he panted. “It’s more like ethyl chloride,” and knowing the explosive nature of all ether-like vapors46, he refrained from striking another match.
He groped his way warily47 across the room, with the strange smell certainly becoming no weaker, and then, reaching the boards shutting off the well-chamber, he pushed them quickly apart and dropped on to his hands and knees to pass through. The smell had now become quite strong.
Holding his breath in his excitement, he started to crawl round the sides of the little chamber, and almost immediately was electrified48 by one of his hands coming in contact with a warm face.
He passed his hands down to the body and with no surprise found that it was a little child. He bent his head down and heard slow and regular breathing. Then in one lightning flash of thought he made up his mind what he would do.
For the moment no one should be told that the child had been found, and he would himself hide him away again. Then, a watch being set upon the well chamber, they would catch at least one of the kidnappers49 red-handed, as, all unknowing that his secret had been discovered, he would be coming later to take the child.
Yes, that was the right thing to do, for it was imperative50, above all things, that everyone involved in the kidnapping should be unmasked. If the child were now at once restored to his mother, then the position would be exactly as it had been before, with the unknown enemy lurking51 close at hand, and waiting for the opportunity to strike.
He lifted the child tenderly into his arms and groped his way back into the lumber-room. Then, replacing the boards carefully, in a few seconds he was outside and running swiftly down the long passage to the little cloister door.
He let himself out and pushed to the door, without, however, closing it. Then, proceeding for about twenty yards and keeping all the time close to the walls of the Abbey, he laid the little boy down in the middle of a bed of chrysanthemums52. Then be raced over to where he saw the searchers were still busy with their lanterns and addressed the first one he came to. He recognised him as one of the gardeners.
“Quick!” he said. “I want you. Put out your lantern and come with me,” and the man, recognising the detective, obeyed at once.
He led him with all speed through the cloister door, and then, at the beginning of the long passage, stopped abruptly53 and spoke very sternly.
“Now you know I’m a detective from Scotland Yard,” he said. “Well, I’m going to give you a special job to do and you’ll have to keep all your wits about you to do it properly.”
“All right, sir,” said the man, “I’ll do my best.”
The detective went on. “You know the lumber-room up on the left there?”
“Yes, sir, where they keep the paint?”
“Good! then I’m going to leave you to watch that door, for I expect someone may be coming to it any minute, and I want to know who he will be.”
The man spoke in a hoarse54 whisper. “But I mayn’t be able to see him come, sir, in the dark like this.”
“Oh! you’ll have light enough,” snapped the detective. “There’s the reflection from that light round the corner, over the library door.” An idea came to him suddenly and he added quickly, “and if that light goes out, tip-toe instantly up to the lumber-room and grapple with anyone who comes near. It’ll be the man I want, and you’re to shout and shout until help comes, and you learn then whom you have been holding. You understand? You are not to let him go until there are witnesses present. Myself, I shan’t be gone long, perhaps only a quarter of an hour, but on no account are you to go away until I return.”
The detective left the man on guard, and a few minutes later, along with Sir Parry’s housekeeper, was bending over the little baronet, who was lying upon her bed.
“They’ve given him morphia,” she said in an awe-struck tone, as she lifted up one of his eyelids55, “and, look, there is where they put the needle into his arm.” Her face lost a little of its anxiety. “But the pulse and breathing are good and he’s not injured in any way.”
Larose looked her straight in the eyes. “And I can trust you?” he asked sternly. “There’ll be no going back now?”
“You can trust me,” she replied firmly, “and no one shall see him if he’s here a week, for, as I’ve told you, no one ever comes here.” She laid her hand upon the detective’s arm and her anxiety seemed to come back. “But you be careful, Mr. Larose,” she warned. “You ought to be in bed yourself and not rushing about like this.”
“All in the day’s work,” smiled the detective wanly56, “and I’m really much stronger than you think. I shall be quite all right, so don’t worry.”
But he was not feeling quite so sure about himself as he hurried back to the Abbey, for the dreadful giddiness was returning, and, altogether, he felt very weak and ill.
He gained the cloister door without meeting anyone, and then, to his consternation57, found that he had lost the key. It must have dropped out of his pocket, he thought, as he had been running with the little boy. Anyhow, it was a most unfortunate happening, for now he would have to go right round to the other side of the building to enter by the back door, and the possibility was that he might not now get in unseen by those he was particularly wishing to avoid. He was, however, relieved to find that the big front door was now closed, for no broad beam of light was streaming from it on to the gravelled drive.
But his good fortune was dead out, for just as he was passing the door, it swung open, and Sir Arnold Medway, standing just inside the hall, called out loudly, “Oh! here is Mr. Larose. He’s here. Lady Ardane.”
The detective would have muttered many bad words if he had not been feeling altogether too exhausted58 to expend59 any unnecessary breath.
There was now no help for it, and he had to cross into the lounge and become at once the centre of all interest and the cynosure60 of all eyes.
Everyone in the Abbey seemed to be there, but among the little sea of faces that confronted him, that of Lady Ardane stood out most clearly.
She was standing by her step-father, and deadly pale. It was evident that it was only by a tremendous effort she was restraining herself from tears. The expression upon her face was one of absolute terror, and her eyes were drawn and strained, as if she were already seeing the dead body of her child before her.
But the detective was given no time to indulge in any feelings of pity, for the moment Senator Harvey caught sight of him, he shouted angrily.
“Where have you been, sir? Do you know my grandson cannot be found?”
The detective nodded. “Yes, one of the men has just told me,” he replied very quietly.
“And what were you brought down here for,” went on the Senator furiously, “except to see that they didn’t get him?”
“I can’t be everywhere, Senator Harvey,” said Larose in the same level tones, “and I had to go away upon some inquiries61.”
“Inquiries, you dud policeman!” thundered the Senator, “and when you were making them the child was taken. You told my daughter he would be quite safe as long as you were here, and she believed you, but I never did think much of you from the first moment you arrived”— he sneered62 scoffingly63 —“with your gold cigarette case and your wonderful ties!” He snapped his fingers together. “Anyhow, we’ve rung up Norwich and told them you’re no good. They’ve got the matter in hand now.”
“We rang up Norwich, Mr. Larose,” explained Lady Ardane with studied calmness, “because we didn’t know where you were and”— she bit upon her lip to express her emotion —“we had no one here to give us any advice.”
“But you ought not to have left the Abbey for so long, Mr. Larose,” broke in Sir Parry sharply. “It was very ill advised and quite inexcusable, and you haven’t told the Senator yet where you’ve been.”
The detective’s great anxiety was to get away as speedily as possible, and he ignored Sir Parry altogether. Instead, he turned to Lady Ardane.
“It’s not hopeless yet,” he said quickly, “and we mustn’t lose heart. The Superintendent64 at Norwich is a most capable man, and he’ll have had every road blocked within ten minutes of your call. The wretches65 can’t get very far away.” He put his hand up to his head with a grimace66 of pain. “I’ve met with a little injury here, but directly I’ve changed my clothes I’ll want to speak to you again.”
He left the lounge in a direction as if he were going up to his room, but, perceiving that no one was following him, turned off in the corridor and made his way as quickly as he could to the passage where he left the gardener on watch. The man was still there and the detective asked breathlessly, “Anyone been?”
“Yes, sir, quite a lot of people,” replied the man. “They came just after you had gone.”
“Then who were they? Tell me, quick,” went on Larose with a dreadful sinking at his heart, for the man had spoken so cheerfully.
“Mr. Polkinghorne, Sir Parry, Senator Harvey, Sir Arnold, one of the new gentlemen whose name I don’t know, and Mr. Lestrange,” rattled67 off the man as if very pleased with himself for remembering everyone so pat.
“Who came first,” snapped Larose, “and what did he do?”
“They all came together,” was the reply, “with a lantern and torches, and they went inside and I heard them moving the tins about.” He seemed half afraid that he had done something wrong and added hesitatingly, “I didn’t interfere68.”
“Of course you didn’t,” laughed Larose, with a hollow laugh. “You kept away.”
“Yes, sir, and they didn’t see me. They only stayed a couple of minutes.”
The detective sighed. “Well, light your lantern now,” he said “and we’ll go and see if they’ve made the room untidy.”
But the room seemed just as he had left it except that the loose boards at the end were now gaping69 open and the ether-like smell had gone.
He thanked the gardener for his services, and then a great feeling of faintness coming over him, he asked the man to help him up to his room. “And we’ll go up the back stairs, please, so that we’ll be less likely to meet anyone.”
The gardener looked very concerned and well he might, for it seemed the detective could hardly stand. The many emotions of the last hour, following upon his sufferings of the previous night, had proved too much, even for the iron constitution that he possessed70.
The man saw him to his room and was then despatched with an urgent message to Peter Hollins to come at once.
Larose lay back upon the bed, too exhausted even to undress. It was not only that his head was throbbing and he felt sick and giddy, but every bone in his body seemed to ache, and he knew he was running a temperature. And his mental state made his physical one much worse, for if ever, he told himself, a cool head were required it was required then — and he knew he was almost down and out.
In the light of what he had learned from Sir Perry’s housekeeper, coupled with what he had found out for himself, the position of Lady Ardane stood out as a terribly dangerous one, and she must be warned, with no delay, of what was threatening.
He had not dared to warn her openly in the lounge, for her possible enemies were there with her then, and a premature71 disclosure would have ruined everything.
It was dreadful that he should be struck down at the critical moment and ——
But his thoughts were interrupted by a tap upon the door and the young nightwatchman entered the room.
“A pencil and a piece of paper from the desk,” whispered Larose, “and an envelope. I’m not very well.”
Hollins at once brought what he required, regarding the detective, however, with very troubled eyes.
Larose proceeded to inscribe72 in shaky characters: “Don’t worry, I have got your child back. He is safe with friends, but on no account breathe this to a soul, or he may be taken again. Trust me and burn this at once. P.S. — I am not very well. I got hurt last night. That is why I was away.”
“Now take this to Lady Ardane,” he said, “and give it to her, but only into her own hands. Tell her I’ll be better soon and will then come and speak to her. You understand?”
The young follow nodded, thinking at the same time that if he had never seen a sick man before, he was seeing one then.
Just as he was leaving the room, however, Larose asked with a great effort, “Oh! one thing, before you go. Did anything happen here today, before the child was taken, that would interest me?”
“Nothing that I know of,” replied Hollins after consideration, “except that one of the footmen told me old Henrik came up early this morning with a letter for Sir Arnold, and when Sir Arnold had read it, he got his car out of the garage and drove away at once. He took Henrik with him. Also we’ve just heard that the body of a man who’s been murdered has been found in a field about two miles away from here.”
The detective made no comment, and Hollins, thinking he had dropped off to sleep, tip-toed from his room.
Now the assistant-scoutmaster was accustomed to shoulder responsibility, and having walked very thoughtfully down the stairs upon his mission to find Lady Ardane, he first inquired of the butler, whom he encountered in the lounge, where Sir Arnold Medway was likely to be found.
He was sent to the drawing-room and, going up to Sir Arnold there, explained respectfully that he had just come from the detective, and was of opinion that the latter was looking very ill and ought to be seen by a doctor. The detective was so weak, he added, that he could hardly speak, and, indeed, seemed upon the point of collapse2.
The great surgeon rose up at once. “Thank you, young man,” he said. “You did quite right in coming to me. I thought just now that Mr. Larose was looking ill.”
And so if happened that a few minutes later Larose, feeling someone’s fingers upon his pulse, opened his eyes wearily, to find Sir Arnold Medway bending over him.
The detective’s mind had by this time become very confused, and, drawing his hand away, he tried to shout “Traitor73,” but the shout never rose above a whisper, and then he was only very dimly conscious of what happened afterwards.
He thought he was being undressed again, the second time he had undergone that indignity74 within twenty-four hours. Then something was done to his head, and he received a hypodermic injection in his arm. After that he speedily became unconscious of everything.
The next day, when he awoke, he found there was a nurse in uniform in attendance upon him. He started to speak, but, she told him that he was not to talk and he dropped off to sleep again.
Then he thought Lady Ardane came to speak to him, and he called her “Helen,” but a man, something like Sir Arnold to look at, ordered her away and the room became very dark. Then an eternity of time seemed to pass before he awoke one day to find that at last he could think quite clearly, and, seeing the nurse by the window, he called her to him.
“I’m much better,” he said cheerfully. “I’m nearly all right now. How long have I been here?”
“Never mind that,” she replied with all the importance that some people always feel when they are withholding75 even the simplest form of information. “When one is sick days don’t count at all.”
“But that’s all nonsense when one is being taken away from one’s work,” argued Larose. “Well, what day of the week is it? Ah! you needn’t tell me. It’s Sunday, for I hear the church bells.” He passed his hand over his chin. “And it isn’t weeks that I’ve been here — only days, and therefore today is the fifth one, as I was taken ill on Tuesday.”
With no comment the nurse left the room, and a few minutes later, returned with Sir Arnold, who, drawing a chair up to the bedside, nodded smilingly.
“And how are you feeling, Mr. Larose?” he asked.
“Much better, thank you,” replied the detective. “Except for being rather weak, I feel almost well.”
The surgeon shook his head. “I know you’ve the heart of a lion,” he said, “but a little time will have to pass yet before you’re anything like well. You’ve been a sick man, you know.”
“But I want to get up,” said Larose. “I must get up today.”
Sir Arnold shook his head. “No,” he said emphatically, “you’ll do nothing of the sort.” He leant over and laid his hand upon the detective’s arm. “Look here, my friend. You’re a master in your kingdom”— he shrugged77 his shoulders —“and I’m supposed to be not without some authority in mine.” He looked very stern. “Well, you are in my territory now and you’ll have to obey me, so you’ll get up when I allow you and not a minute before then. No, no, I know how urgent everything is”— his voice was very gentle —“and for the sake of Helen Ardane I’ll let you out of bed the first minute that I dare.”
“Well, may I speak to her,” asked Larose, “only just a few words?”
Sir Arnold held up his hand protestingly. “To-morrow we’ll talk about it, but today”— he patted him kindly78 upon the hand —“you’ll just take your medicine and be a good boy.”
“But what made me feel so ill?” asked Larose. “You can at least tell me that.”
Sir Arnold screwed up his eyebrows79. “What I might almost call,” he said slowly, “a form of delayed shock coming upon the top of a chill. You had a very nasty head wound, and from the crumpled80 state of your clothes, you had also been lying out upon the wet ground for some time; indeed I almost thought that first night that you were in for pneumonia81.” He rose from his chair. “But there, that’s enough for today. To-morrow, perhaps, we’ll have a little talk together and tell each other lots of things.” He laughed. “Really, it seems that you detectives are always getting into the wars.”
Larose meditated82 for a long time after he had gone. “And for a man whose actions want a lot of explaining,” he sighed, “I am prejudiced a lot in his favor. I don’t understand it at all, unless it be that a thoroughly bad man in private life can yet be a saint in his profession.”
He asked the nurse for a newspaper, and upon her emphatic76 refusal, sighed again and tried to compose himself for sleep.
The following morning he felt very much better, and in the absence of the nurse for a few minutes, slipped on to the floor and walked round the room. But he was very glad to reach the bed again, and made a wry83 face as he tucked himself into the clothes.
“No, no, Gilbert, not today,” he said. “To-morrow, perhaps, or maybe about Wednesday, you’ll be beginning to make things unpleasant for someone.” He sighed. “The devil of it is, you have so many people to put before the sights of your gun.”
All that morning he waited for the coming of Sir Arnold, but to his great disappointment there was no sign of him. The afternoon began to wane84 and still he did not come. Then just before dusk and when the detective had almost given up hope of seeing him, the surgeon strode into the room, and briskly pulling up a chair to the bedside, with a curt31 nod laid his fingers upon Larose’s pulse. The latter was too angry to speak.
“Good!” said the surgeon after a few moments, “and now you are in a fit state for us to have our little talk.” He smiled. “No, don’t look so angry, I purposely stayed away to ensure of your having another day in bed. When I have gone you can get up for a couple of hours, and tomorrow — well, tomorrow you shall get up and come down stairs.”
He turned round. “You can leave us for a few minutes, Sister,” he said to the nurse. “We have some private matters to discuss. I’ll ring when I’m going,” and when she had left the room, he turned to the detective and eyed him very grimly.
“Now, Mr. Larose,” he said, “I have a lot to tell you, but before I begin I want to know how we stand and what exactly are our relations to each other.” He spoke very deliberately85. “Since I have had the privilege of giving you my professional services, you have called me a traitor, a betrayer, a scoundrel and quite a lot of other unpleasant things, and that you were not mistaking me for someone else is evident, because you kept on coupling these epithets86 with references to my profession and the disgrace that I was bringing upon it.” He spoke very sternly. “Now, please, what did you mean and what have you against me!”
Larose was quite calm and collected. All his professional instincts had been aroused and he was in no way over-awed by the stern tone of the great surgeon.
“I’ll mince87 no words,” he said sharply. “I’m not sure of you.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sir Arnold sarcastically88. “That’s unfortunate.”
“You were the last person to be with the child before he disappeared,” said Larose.
“Quite so!” agreed the surgeon. “I was the last.”
“Then I know you,” went on Larose, “to have been consorting89 with two members of the very gang who took part in that attack upon Lady Ardane when I was with her in her car.” He punctuated90 every word. “I saw you come out of that house upon the marsh where they were hiding. I was not ten yards away, between the hedge, and with my own ears, I heard you warn them to be on the lookout91 for someone — presumably me.” He tapped his still bandaged head. “And I got that, because of your warning.”
Then, to his astonishment92, Sir Arnold looked very amused. “So, you were there,” he said with a smile, “when I was bidding good night to those two gentlemen, one of whom, later in the evening”— the smile dropped from his face now —“you pistolled in the back of the head at very close range, after you had already drilled a hole in his tibia.”
The detective flushed hotly. “The head injury was not mine,” he said, “but I admit the leg one was.”
“I am glad to learn it,” commented the surgeon, “for, upon the face of it, it does not seem a very sportsmanlike action to shoot anyone from behind, when he’s already down and out from another injury.” He went on, but now speaking very quietly. “The explanation of my calling at that house is very simple, and when you have heard it, if you are the reasonable man that I believe you to be, it will exonerate93 me in your eyes”— he smiled —“from all consorting, as you call it, with criminals.”
“I shall need some convincing,” said the detective stubbornly, “for I cannot put out of my mind that you have been close at hand upon the occasion of two other misfortunes besides that of the disappearance94 of the child. You were stationed next to me when that attempt at murder was made upon the afternoon of the shoot, and the third time, you were close by when I nearly suffered death in the house upon the marsh.” He shook his head. “The three things taken together look suspicious.”
But Sir Arnold smiled again. “Hear me, my friend, and then be my judge. The explanation of my calling at that house is very simple. I had not been too pleased with the condition of that fisherman’s hand and walked over to have a look at it that evening. But he was away, setting his lines, and I did not see him. Then, starting to return, I saw a light in that stone house, and the idea struck me that I could leave a message there for Henrik to come up and see me the next day. The occupants were most polite and I went in and had a little chat with them. Then, upon leaving, you must have overheard the one who opened the door for me promise to keep a look-out for Henrik’s return and give him my message.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “No, Mr. Larose, I had never seen those men before I called that night and one of them I have not seen since. The other I have, however, seen — in the mortuary shed at Burnham Market. His body was discovered not many hours after he had been shot, and from certain information which I received I was of opinion that his death was your handiwork.” He nodded. “That opinion, however, I may add, I have kept strictly95 to myself.”
With each word that Sir Arnold had uttered the suspicions of the detective had been growing weaker, and he began to realise most uncomfortably that not only had his judgment96 been at fault, once more, but also that instead of making discoveries about Sir Arnold, the latter had been making discoveries about him!
“Well, Mr. Larose,” said Sir Arnold with a smile, “now what’s the verdict? Do you believe me — with no reservation in your belief?”
The detective regarded the calm, proud face before him; the serene97 truthful98 eyes; the broad, open brow; the mouth, with its strong, yet tender lines; the firm, resolute99 chin, and the whole mien100 as that of a man who had no fear that anything might be found out against him. He regarded him intently for a few moments and then was quite convinced.
“Yes, Sir Arnold, I do,” he said quickly, “and I realise now that I was foolish to ever doubt you. The only excuse is that there were some things that did need explaining.” He nodded. “There were, were there not?”
“Certainly,” nodded back Sir Arnold. “If you saw me talking to those men, and found it imperative to shoot one of them afterwards, I don’t wonder your suspicions were aroused.” His face assumed a most serious expression. “But now, sir, I have some bad news for you.” He looked him straight in the eyes. “They got Lady Ardane three days ago. She was seized and carried off before our very eyes about half-past four on Thursday afternoon.”
Larose was too stunned101 to speak. His heart seemed to stand still and he stared at Sir Arnold with the face of a ghost. The latter went on ——
“It was no one’s fault, for no vigilance could have foreseen what was going to happen. She was with Sir Parry, about midway between the Abbey and the fence, when the red delivery van of Burnham Market Store came up the drive. Suddenly then the van turned round and stopped. Four men sprang out and seized Lady Ardane and Sir Parry. They both struggled, but it was quite hopeless, and they were dragged into the van and off it went. The whole thing was over in two minutes.”
“But some one went after them in the Abbey cars!” exclaimed Larose hoarsely102 and in a perfect agony at the recital103.
“Every car was out of action,” said Sir Arnold solemnly, “for the commutator in each one had been taken away. Also, the two motor bicycles had been tampered104 with, and as before, but this time a quarter of a mile away, the telephone wires had been cut.”
Then the horror-struck detective learnt all that had happened that Tuesday afternoon, but there was not really very much to tell in detail, for the kidnappers had just come and gone and left no trails behind them.
It appeared, however, that the customary Thursday afternoon route of the grocery van must have been well known to them, for their work there, as in the Abbey grounds, had been accomplished105 without a second’s waste of time.
The driver of the van had been hailed in an unfrequented lane by a man who was lying upon the ground, as if he had been seriously hurt, and the driver had at once stopped to find out what was the matter. Then suddenly, as he had told afterwards, a number of men had sprung out of the hedge, and stunned and bound him and thrown him into the ditch.
Then, apparently106 the van had been driven straight to the Abbey and the abduction carried out.
The police had been communicated with, with all possible speed, but although the country had been scoured107 in all directions, as before with the disappearance of the little baronet, they had not caught the kidnappers, and indeed could light upon no traces of them in any direction, after they had got away.
The grocery van had, however, been recovered the next day. It had been run into a thick wood, not three miles distant from the Abbey, upon the Falenham road. And that was all Sir Arnold could tell about what had happened.
By the time he had finished speaking, Larose had apparently recovered his composure, with all signs of his distress108 having passed. It was not, however, that he was not in terrible anxiety, but he was determined109 that by not giving way to emotion would he delay by one minute the hour when he would be allowed to take up his work.
But another shock was yet in store for him, although this time it was by no means of so unpleasant a nature as the last one.
Sir Arnold spoke again. “In one thing, however, Mr. Larose,” he said very solemnly, “we can both rejoice, for Lady Ardane did not go away a stricken woman, in terror of what had happened to her little boy. She did not know what had happened to him, but she had your note, and with implicit110 faith in your word, she knew her enemies had not obtained possession of her child.”
“What do you know about my note?” asked Larose sharply. “Did she tell you what it contained?”
“No,” replied Sir Arnold at once, “and it was not until she had been gone a day that I guessed what you had written to her, and could then understand the calm assurance with which she had taken the loss of little Charles.”
The detective frowned, with the dreadful thought now coursing through him that he might have given away many secrets during the time he had been ill.
Sir Arnold patted him in a most kindly fashion upon his hand. “But I haven’t told anyone,” he went on, “least of all, your brother police, that I go twice a day to see how the little boy is getting on.” He smiled good-humoredly. “Oh! it’s quite simple how I came to find out. The day after Sir Parry had been seized along with Lady Ardane, I thought it only decent to go and let his servants know what had happened. But they were not at Sir Parry’s house, so I went round to find the bungalow that I had heard of, among the trees, and imagine my amazement111 when Charles came running out directly he heard my voice calling over the fence. The housekeeper at first refused to tell me anything, but upon learning that I intended to take the child away, she broke down and confessed everything.”
“No blame can attach to her in any case,” said Larose instantly. “She took her orders from me, and I am responsible for anything she has done.”
“And in my opinion,” continued Sir Arnold, “you neither of you could have acted better than you have done. I won her confidence by assuring her that I was your friend and was looking after you professionally, and I got the whole story from her as to how the child had been found.” He laughed. “Really it was most audacious of you to hide him again, and it was pure bad luck that so many of us went with Polkinghorne to search that room.”
“Who first suggested going there,” asked Larose, “for that will at all events clear some one?”
“Polkinghorne,” was the reply, “for he was afraid he might have left the door open after he had removed some kittens that had been there and he thought the child might have fallen over and got stunned among those tins.”
“And I suppose,” said Larose drily, “that the house party has all broken down now. Bernard Daller has gone, Clive Huntington has gone and probably that Theodore Rankin.” He scoffed112. “The hounds have been called off, now the deer has been taken.”
“You are quite right about the first two,” replied Sir Arnold, “but Rankin is still here. He and the Senator are very busy and out all day, but I have no idea what they are doing.”
“One thing more,” asked Larose. “I am curious to learn how you came to associate me with that man who was shot.”
The surgeon shook his head. “And that is the one little thing I may not tell you,” he replied, “for it is a secret, not all my own.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Well, you may get up now for a couple of hours, tomorrow you may be up all day, and on Wednesday”— he smiled —“I suppose you will be your own willful self again. I will wash my hands of you then.”
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1
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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2
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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3
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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5
fouled
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| v.使污秽( foul的过去式和过去分词 )；弄脏；击球出界；（通常用废物）弄脏 | |
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6
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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7
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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8
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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9
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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10
despoiler
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11
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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13
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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14
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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15
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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16
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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17
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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18
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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19
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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20
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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21
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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22
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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23
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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25
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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27
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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28
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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29
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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32
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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34
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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35
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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tottery
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| adj.蹒跚的，摇摇欲倒 | |
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37
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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39
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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40
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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kidnapper
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| n.绑架者，拐骗者 | |
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42
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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43
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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44
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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46
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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48
electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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49
kidnappers
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| n.拐子，绑匪( kidnapper的名词复数 ) | |
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50
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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51
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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52
chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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53
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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54
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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55
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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56
wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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57
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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58
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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59
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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60
cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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61
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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62
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scoffingly
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| 带冷笑地 | |
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64
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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65
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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66
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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67
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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68
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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69
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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70
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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71
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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72
inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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73
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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74
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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75
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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76
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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77
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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78
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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79
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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80
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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81
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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82
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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83
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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84
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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85
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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86
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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87
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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88
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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89
consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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90
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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91
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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92
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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93
exonerate
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| v.免除责任，确定无罪 | |
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94
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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95
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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98
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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99
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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100
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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101
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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103
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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104
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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105
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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106
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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107
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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108
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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109
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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110
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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111
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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112
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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