"Only, I suppose, to someone who had an alibi for that time."
"By gad!" cried the colonel. "That's the time young Delangua said he was talking to the keeper."
"He told us that very particularly," said Mr Satterthwaite.
They looked at each other. They had an uneasy feeling as of solid ground failing beneath their feet. Facts went spinning round, turning new and unexpected faces. And in the centre of the kaleidoscope was the dark, smiling face of Mr Quin.
"But in that case - " began Melrose " - in that case - "
Mr Satterthwaite, nimble-witted, finished his sentence for him. "It's all the other way round. A plant just the same - but a plant against the valet. Oh, but it can't be! It's impossible. Why each of them accused themselves of the crime."
"Yes," said Mr Quin. "Up till then you suspected them, didn't you?" His voice went on, placid and dreamy. "Just like something out of a book, you said, colonel. They got the idea there. It's what the innocent hero and heroine do. Of course it made you think them innocent - there was the force of tradition behind them. Mr Satterthwaite has been saying all along it was like something on the stage. You were both right. It wasn't real. You've been saying so all along without knowing what you were saying. They'd have told a much better story than that if they'd wanted to be believed."
The two men looked at him helplessly.
"It would be clever," said Mr Satterthwaite slowly. "It would be diabolically clever. And I've thought of something else. The butler said he went in at seven to shut the windows - so he must have expected them to be open."
"That's the way Delangua came in,' said Mr Quin. "He killed Sir James with one blow, and he and she together did what they had to do - "
He looked at Mr Satterthwaite, encouraging him to reconstruct the scene. He did so, hesitatingly.
"They smashed the clock and put it on its side. Yes. They altered the watch and smashed it. Then he went out of the window, and she fastened it after him. But there's one thing I don't see. Why bother with the watch at all? Why not simply put back the hands of the clock?"
"The clock was always a little obvious," said Mr Quin. "Anyone might have seen through a rather transparent device like that."
"But surely the watch was too far-fetched. Why, it was pure chance that we ever thought of the watch."
"Oh, no," said Mr Quin. "It was the lady's suggestion, remember."
Mr Satterthwaite stared at him, fascinated.
"And yet, you know," said Mr Quin dreamily, "the one person who wouldn't be likely to overlook the watch would be the valet. Valets know better than anyone what their masters carry in their pockets. If he altered the clock, the valet would have altered the watch, too. They don't understand human nature, those two. They are not like Mr Satterthwaite."
Mr Satterthwaite shook his head.
"I was all wrong," he murmured humbly. "I thought that you had come to save them."
"So I did," said Mr Quin. "Oh! Not those two - the others. Perhaps you didn't notice the lady's maid? She wasn't wearing blue brocade, or acting a dramatic part. But she's really a very pretty girl, and I think she loves that man Jennings very much. I think that between you you'll be able to save her man from getting hanged."
"We've no proof of any kind," said Colonel Melrose heavily.
Mr Quin smiled. "Mr Satterthwaite has."
"I?" Mr Satterthwaite was astonished.
Mr Quin went on.
"You've got a proof that that watch wasn't smashed in Sir James's pocket. You can't smash a watch like that without opening the case. Just try it and see. Someone took the watch out and opened it, set back the hands, smashed the glass, and then shut it and put it back. They never noticed that a fragment of glass was missing."
"Oh!" cried Mr Satterthwaite. His hand flew to his waist-coat pocket. He drew out a fragment of curved glass.
It was his moment.
"With this," said Mr Satterthwaite importantly, "I shall save a man from death."
NEXT TO A DOG
II
Theodora Darrell was sitting opposite him. At last she was his. And he knew now how incredulous, up to the very last minute, he had been. He had not dared to let himself believe. That magical, elusive quality about her had frightened him. It had seemed impossible that she should ever belong to him.
Now the suspense was over. The irrevocable step was taken. He looked across at her. She lay back in the corner, quite still. The faint smile lingered on her lips, her eyes were cast down, the long, black lashes swept the creamy curve of her cheek.
He thought: "What's in her mind now? What is she thinking of? Me? Her husband? What does she think about him anyway? Did she care for him once? Or did she never care? Does she hate him, or is she indifferent to him?" And with a pang the thought swept through him: "I don't know. I never shall know. I love her, and I don't know anything about her - what she thinks or what she feels."
His mind circled round the thought of Theodora Darrell's husband. He had known plenty of married women who were only too ready to talk about their husbands - of how they were misunderstood by them, of how their finer feelings were ignored. Vincent Easton reflected cynically that it was one of the best-known opening gambits.
But except casually, Theo had never spoken of Richard Darrell. Easton knew of him what everybody knew. He was a popular man, handsome, with an engaging, carefree manner. Everybody liked Darrell. His wife always seemed on excellent terms with him. But that proved nothing, Vincent reflected. Theo was well-bred - she would not air her grievances in public. And between them, no word had passed. From that second evening of their meeting, when they had walked together in the garden, silent, their shoulders touching, and he had felt the faint tremor that shook her at his touch, there had been no explainings, no defining of the position. She had returned his kisses, a dumb, trembling creature, shorn of all that hard brilliance which, together with her cream-and-rose beauty, had made her famous. Never once had she spoken of her husband. Vincent had been thankful for that at the time. He had been glad to be spared the arguments of a woman who wished to assure herself and her lover that they were justified in yielding to their love.
Yet now the tacit conspiracy of silence worried him. He had again that panic-stricken sense of knowing nothing about this strange creature who was willingly linking her life to his. He was afraid.
In the impulse to reassure himself, he bent forward and laid a hand on the black-clad knee opposite him. He felt once again the faint tremor that shook her, and he reached up for her hand. Bending forward, he kissed the palm, a long, lingering kiss. He felt the response of her fingers on his and, looking up, met her eyes, and was content. He leaned back in his seat. For the moment, he wanted no more. They were together. She was his. And presently he said in a light, almost bantering tone: "You're very silent?"
"Am I?"
"Yes." He waited a minute, then said in a graver tone: "You're sure you don't - regret?"
Her eyes opened wide at that. "Oh, no!"
He did not doubt the reply. There was an assurance of sincerity behind it.
"What are you thinking about? I want to know."
In a low voice she answered: "I think I'm afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Of happiness."
He moved over beside her then , held her to him and kissed the softness of her face and neck.
"I love you," he said. "I love you - love you."
Her answer was in the clinging of her body, the abandon of her lips.
Then he moved back to his own corner. He picked up a magazine and so did she. Every now and then, over the top of the magazines, their eyes met. Then they smiled.
They arrived at Dover just after five. They were to spend the night there, and cross to the Continent on the following day. Theo entered their sitting room in the hotel with Vincent close behind her. He had a couple of evening papers in his hand which he threw down on the table. Two of the hotel servants brought in the luggage and withdrew.
Theo turned from the window wh
ere she had been standing looking out. In another minute they were in each other's arms.
There was a discreet tap on the door and they drew apart again.
"Damn it all," said Vincent, "it doesn't seem as though we were ever going to be alone."
Theo smiled. "It doesn't look like it," she said softly. Sitting down on the sofa, she picked up one of the papers.
The knock proved to be a waiter bearing tea. He laid it on the table, drawing the latter up to the sofa on which Theo was sitting, cast a deft glance round, inquired if there were anything further, and withdrew.
Vincent, who had gone into the adjoining room, came back into the sitting room.
"Now for tea," he said cheerily, but stopped suddenly in the middle of the room. "Anything wrong?" he asked.
Theo was sitting bolt upright on the sofa. She was staring in front of her with dazed eyes, and her face had gone deathly white.
Vincent took a quick step towards her. "What is it, sweetheart?"
For answer she held out the paper to him, her finger pointing to the headline.
Vincent took the paper from her. "FAILURE OF HOBSON, JEKYLL
AND LUCAS," he read. The name of the big city firm conveyed nothing to him at the moment, though he had an irritating conviction in the back of his mind that it ought to do so. He looked inquiringly at Theo.
"Richard is Hobson, Jekyll and Lucas," she explained.
"Your husband?"
"Yes."
Vincent returned to the paper and read the bald information it conveyed carefully. Phrases such as "sudden crash," "serious revelations to follow," "other houses affected" struck him disagreeably.
Roused by a movement, he looked up. Theo was adjusting her little black hat in front of the mirror. She turned at the movement he made.
Her eyes looked steadily into his.
"Vincent - I must go to Richard."
He sprang up. "Theo - don't he absurd."
She repeated mechanically:
"I must go to Richard."
"But, my dear - "
She made a gesture towards the paper on the floor.
"That means ruin - bankruptcy. I can't choose this day of all others to leave him."
"You had left him before you heard of this. Be reasonable!"
She shook her head mournfully.
"You don't understand. I must go to Richard." And from that he could not move her. Strange that a creature so soft, so pliant, could he so unyielding. After the first, she did not argue. She let him say what he had to say unhindered. He held her in his arms, seeking to break her will by enslaving her senses, but though her soft mouth returned his kisses, he felt in her something aloof and invincible that withstood all his pleadings.
He let her go at last, sick and weary of the vain endeavour. From pleading he had turned to bitterness, reproaching her with never having loved him. That, too, she took in silence, without protest, her face, dumb and pitiful, giving the lie to his words. Rage mastered him in the end; he hurled at her every cruel word he could think of, seeking only to bruise and batter her to her knees.
At last the words gave out; there was nothing more to say. He sat, his head in his hands, staring down at the red pile carpet. By the door, Theodora stood, a black shadow with a white face.
It was all over.
She said quietly: "Good-bye, Vincent."
He did not answer.
The door opened - and shut again.
III
The Darrells lived in a house in Chelsea - an intriguing, old-world house, standing in a little garden of its own. Up the front of the house grew a magnolia tree, smutty, dirty, begrimed, but still a magnolia.
Theo looked up at it, as she stood on the doorstep some three hours later. A sudden smile twisted her mouth in pain.
She went straight to the study at the back of the house. A man was pacing up and down in the room - a young man, with a handsome face and a haggard expression.
He gave an ejaculation of relief as she came in.
"Thank God you've turned up, Theo. They said you'd taken your luggage with you and gone off out of town somewhere."
"I heard the news and came back."
Richard Darrell put an arm about her and drew her to the couch.
They sat down upon it side by side. Theo tore herself free of the encircling arms in what seemed a perfectly natural manner.
"How bad is it, Richard?" she asked quietly.
"Just as bad as it can be - and that's saying a lot."
"Tell me!"
He began to walk up and down again as he talked. Theo sat and watched him. He was not to know that every now and then the room went dim, and his voice faded from her hearing, while another room in a hotel at Dover came clearly before her eyes.
Nevertheless she managed to listen intelligently enough. He came back and sat down on the couch by her.
"Fortunately," he ended, "they can't touch your marriage settlement. The house is yours also."
Theo nodded thoughtfully.
"We shall have that at any rate ," she said. "Then everything will not be too bad? It means a fresh start, that is all."
"Oh! Quite so. Yes."
But his voice did not ring true, and Theo thought suddenly: "There's something else. He hasn't told me everything."
"There's nothing more, Richard?" she said gently. "Nothing worse?"
He hesitated for just half a second, then: "Worse? What should there be?"
"I don't know," said Theo.
"It'll be all right," said Richard, speaking more as though to reassure himself than Theo. "Of course, it'll be all right."
He flung an arm about her suddenly.
"I'm glad you're here," he said . "It'll be all right now that you're here. Whatever else happens, I've got you, haven't I?"
She said gently: "Yes, you've got me." And this time she left his arm round her.
He kissed her and held her close to him, as though in some strange way he derived comfort from her nearness.
"I've got you, Theo," he said again presently, and she answered as before: "Yes, Richard."
He slipped from the couch to the floor at her feet.
"I'm tired out," he said fretfully. "My God, it's been a day. Awful! I don't know what I should do if you weren't here. After all, one's wife is one's wife, isn't she?"
She did not speak, only bowed her head in assent.
He laid his head on her lap. The sigh he gave was like that of a tired child.
Theo thought again: "There's something he hasn't told me. What is it?"
Mechanically her hand dropped to his smooth, dark head, and she stroked it gently, as a mother might comfort a child.
Richard murmured vaguely:
"It'll be all right now you're here. You won't let me down."
His breathing grew slow and even. He slept. Her hand still smoothed his head.
But her eyes looked steadily into the darkness in front of her, seeing nothing.
"Don't you think, Richard," said Theodora, "that you'd better tell me everything?"
It was three days later. They were in the drawing room before dinner.
Richard started, and flushed. "I don't know what you mean," he parried.
"Don't you?"
He shot a quick glance at her.
"Of course there are - well - details."
"I ought to know everything, don't you think, if I am to help?"
He looked at her strangely. "What makes you think I want you to help?"
She was a little astonished.
"My dear Richard, I'm your wife."
He smiled suddenly, the old, attractive, carefree smile. "So you are, Theo. And a very good-looking wife, too. I never could stand ugly women."
He began walking up and down the room, as was his custom when something was worrying him.
"I won't deny you're right in a way," he said presently. "There is something." He broke off.
"Yes - "
"It's so damned hard to explain things of this kin
d to women. They get hold of the wrong end of the stick - fancy a thing is - well, what it isn't."
Theo said nothing.
"You see," went on Richard, "the law's one thing, and right and wrong are quite another. I may do a thing that's perfectly right and honest, but the law wouldn't take the same view of it. Nine times out of ten, everything pans out all right, and the tenth time you well, hit a snag."
Theo began to understand. She thought to herself: "Why am I not surprised? Did I always know, deep down, that he wasn't straight?"
Richard went on talking. He explained himself at unnecessary lengths. Theo was content for him to cloak the actual details of the affair in this mantle of verbosity. The matter concerned a large tract of South African property. Exactly what Richard had done, she was not concerned to know. Morally, he assured her, everything was fair and aboveboard; legally - well, there it was, no getting away from the fact, he had rendered himself liable to criminal prosecution.
He kept shooting quick glances at his wife as he talked. He was nervous and uncomfortable. And still he excused himself and tried to explain away that which a child might have seen in its naked truth. Then finally in a burst of justification, he broke down. Perhaps Theo's eyes, momentarily scornful, had something to do with it. He sank down in a chair by the fireplace, his head in his hands.
"There it is, Theo," he said brokenly. "What are you going to do about it?"
She came over to him with scarcely a moment's pause and, kneeling down by the chair, put her face against his.
"What can he done, Richard? What can we do?"
He caught her to him.
"You mean it? You'll stick to me?"
"Of course. My dear, of course."
He said, moved to sincerity in spite of himself: "I'm a thief, Theo.
That's what it means, shorn of fine language - just a thief."
"Then I'm a thief's wife, Richard. We'll sink or swim together."
They were silent for a little while. Presently Richard recovered something of his jaunty manner.
"You know, Theo, I've got a plan, but we'll talk of that later. It's just on dinnertime. We must go and change. Put on that creamy thingummybob of yours, you know - the Caillot model."
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