Agatha Webb
Page 3
III
THE EMPTY DRAWER
As they re-entered the larger room, they were astonished to come uponMiss Page standing in the doorway. She was gazing at the recumbentfigure of the dead woman, and for a moment seemed unconscious of theirpresence.
"How did you get in? Which of my men was weak enough to let you pass,against my express instructions?" asked the constable, who was of anirritable and suspicious nature.
She let the hood drop from her head, and, turning, surveyed him with aslow smile. There was witchery in that smile sufficient to affect a muchmore cultivated and callous nature than his, and though he had beenproof against it once he could not quite resist the effect of itsrepetition.
"I insisted upon entering," said she. "Do not blame the men; they didnot want to use force against a woman." She had not a good voice and sheknew it; but she covered up this defect by a choice of intonations thatcarried her lightest speech to the heart. Hard-visaged Amos Fenton gavea grunt, which was as near an expression of approval as he ever gave toanyone.
"Well! well!" he growled, but not ill-naturedly, "it's a morbidcuriosity that brings you here. Better drop it, girl; it won't do youany good in the eyes of sensible people."
"Thank you," was her demure reply, her lips dimpling at the corners in away to shock the sensitive Mr. Sutherland.
Glancing from her to the still outlines of the noble figure on thecouch, he remarked with an air of mild reproof:
"I do not understand you, Miss Page. If this solemn sight has no powerto stop your coquetries, nothing can. As for your curiosity, it is bothill-timed and unwomanly. Let me see you leave this house at once, MissPage; and if in the few hours which must elapse before breakfast you canfind time to pack your trunks, you will still farther oblige me."
"Oh, don't send me away, I entreat you."
It was a cry from her inner heart, which she probably regretted, for sheinstantly sought to cover up her inadvertent self-betrayal by asubmissive bend of the head and a step backward. Neither Mr. Fenton norMr. Sutherland seemed to hear the one or see the other, their attentionhaving returned to the more serious matter in hand.
"The dress which our poor friend wears shows her to have been struckbefore retiring," commented Mr. Sutherland, after another short surveyof Mrs. Webb's figure. "If Philemon--"
"Excuse me, sir," interrupted the voice of the young man who had beenleft in the hall, "the lady is listening to what you say. She is stillat the head of the stairs."
"She is, is she!" cried Fenton, sharply, his admiration for thefascinating stranger having oozed out at his companion's rebuff. "I willsoon show her--" But the words melted into thin air as he reached thedoor. The young girl had disappeared, and only a faint perfume remainedin the place where she had stood.
"A most extraordinary person," grumbled the constable, turning back, butstopping again as a faint murmur came up from below.
"The gentleman is waking," called up a voice whose lack of music wasquite perceptible at a distance.
With a bound Mr. Fenton descended the stairs, followed by Mr.Sutherland.
Miss Page stood before the door of the room in which sat Philemon Webb.As they reached her side, she made a little bow that was half mocking,half deprecatory, and slipped from the house. An almost unbearablesensation of incongruity vanished with her, and Mr. Sutherland, for one,breathed like a man relieved.
"I wish the doctor would come," Fenton said, as they watched the slowlifting of Philemon Webb's head. "Our fastest rider has gone for him,but he's out Portchester way, and it may be an hour yet before he canget here."
"Philemon!"
Mr. Sutherland had advanced and was standing by his old friend's side.
"Philemon, what has become of your guests? You've waited for them hereuntil morning."
The old man with a dazed look surveyed the two plates set on either sideof him and shook his head.
"James and John are getting proud," said he, "or they forget, theyforget."
James and John. He must mean the Zabels, yet there were many othersanswering to these names in town. Mr. Sutherland made another effort.
"Philemon, where is your wife? I do not see any place set here for her!"
"Agatha's sick, Agatha's cross; she don't care for a poor old man likeme."
"Agatha's dead and you know it," thundered back the constable, withill-judged severity. "Who killed her? tell me that. Who killed her?"
A sudden quenching of the last spark of intelligence in the old man'seye was the dreadful effect of these words. Laughing with that strangegurgle which proclaims an utterly irresponsible mind, he cried:
"The pussy cat! It was the pussy cat. Who's killed? I'm not killed.Let's go to Jericho."
Mr. Sutherland took him by the arm and led him up-stairs. Perhaps thesight of his dead wife would restore him. But he looked at her with thesame indifference he showed to everything else.
"I don't like her calico dresses," said he. "She might have worn silk,but she wouldn't. Agatha, will you wear silk to my funeral?"
The experiment was too painful, and they drew him away. But theconstable's curiosity had been roused, and after they had found some oneto take care of him, he drew Mr. Sutherland aside and said:
"What did the old man mean by saying she might have worn silk? Are theybetter off than they seem?" Mr. Sutherland closed the door beforereplying.
"They are rich," he declared, to the utter amazement of the other. "Thatis, they were; but they may have been robbed; if so, Philemon was notthe wretch who killed her. I have been told that she kept her money inan old-fashioned cupboard. Do you suppose they alluded to that one?"
He pointed to a door set in the wall over the fireplace, and Mr. Fenton,perceiving a key sticking in the lock, stepped quickly across the floorand opened it. A row of books met his eyes, but on taking them down acouple of drawers were seen at the back.
"Are they locked?" asked Mr. Sutherland.
"One is and one is not."
"Open the one that is unlocked."
Mr. Fenton did so.
"It is empty," said he.
Mr. Sutherland cast a look toward the dead woman, and again the perfectserenity of her countenance struck him.
"I do not know whether to regard her as the victim of her husband'simbecility or of some vile robber's cupidity. Can you find the key tothe other drawer?"
"I will try."
"Suppose you begin, then, by looking on her person. It should be in herpocket, if no marauder has been here."
"It is not in her pocket."
"Hanging to her neck, then, by a string?"
"No; there is a locket here, but no key. A very handsome locket, Mr.Sutherland, with a child's lock of golden hair--"
"Never mind, we will see that later; it is the key we want just now."
"Good heavens!"
"What is it?"
"It is in her hand; the one that lies underneath."
"Ah! A point, Fenton."
"A great point."
"Stand by her, Fenton. Don't let anyone rob her of that key till thecoroner comes, and we are at liberty to take it."
"I will not leave her for an instant."
"Meanwhile, I will put back these books."
He had scarcely done so when a fresh arrival occurred. This time it wasone of the village clergymen.