Part 53 (2/2)

She left the room, and speedily returned with a decanter of brandy. All their exertions proved useless; the head hung aside, the eyes stared.

In a few minutes Carnaby asked whether a doctor had been sent for.

'Yes. When I hear him at the door I shall go away. You came here against my advice, and you've made a pretty job of it. Well, you'll always get work at a slaughter-house.'

Her laugh was harder to bear than the words it followed. Hugh, with a terrible look, waved her away from him.

'Go--or I don't know what I may do next. Take yourself out of my sight!--out!'

She gave way before him, backing to the door; there she laughed again, waved her hand in a contemptuous farewell, and withdrew.

For half an hour Carnaby stood by the divan, or paced the room. Once or twice he imagined a movement of Redgrave's features, and bent to regard them closely; but in truth there was no slightest change. Within doors and without prevailed unbroken silence; not a step, not a rustle. The room seemed to grow intolerably hot. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Hugh went to the window and opened it a few inches; a scent of vegetation and of fresh earth came to him with the cool air. He noticed that rain had begun to fall, large drops pattering softly on leaves and gra.s.s and the roof of the veranda. Then sounded the rolling of carriage wheels, nearer and nearer. It was the doctor's carriage, no doubt.

Uncertainty soon came to an end. Cyrus Redgrave was beyond help: he must have breathed his last--so said the doctor--at the moment when he fell. Not as a result of the fall; the blow of Carnaby's fist had killed him. There is one stroke which, if delivered with sufficient accuracy and sufficient force, will slay more surely than any other: it is the stroke which catches an uplifted chin just at the right angle to drive the head back and shatter the spinal cord. This had plainly happened. The man's neck was broken, and he died on the spot.

Carnaby and the doctor stood regarding each other. They spoke in subdued voices.

'It was not a fight, you say?'

'One blow from me, that was all. He said something that maddened me.'

'Shall you report yourself?'

'Yes. Here is my card.'

'A sad business, Mr. Carnaby, Can I be of any use to you?'

'You can--though I hesitate to ask it. Mrs. Fenimore should be told at once. I can't do that myself.'

'I know Mrs. Fenimore very well. I will see her--if she is at home.'

On this errand the doctor set forth. As soon as he was gone, Hugh rang the bell; the same domestic as before answered it, and again he asked for Mrs. Lant. He waited five minutes; the servant came back, saying that Mrs. Lant was not in the house. This did not greatly surprise him, but he insisted on a repet.i.tion of the search. Mrs. Lant could not be found. Evidently her disappearance was a mystery to this young woman, who seemed ingenuous to the point of simple-mindedness.

'You are not to go into that room,' said Hugh. (They were talking in the hall.) 'The doctor will return presently.'

And therewith he left the house. But not the grounds; for in rain and darkness he stood watching from a place of concealment, watching at the same time Redgrave's curtained window and the front entrance. His patience was not overtaxed. There sounded an approaching vehicle; it came up the drive and stopped at the front door, where at once alighted the doctor and a lady. Hugh's espial was at an end. As the two stepped into the house he walked quickly away.

Yes, he would 'report himself', but not until he had seen Sibyl. To that end he must go home and wait there. The people at Wimbledon, who doubtless would communicate with the police, might cause him to be arrested before his wife's return. He feared this much more than what was to follow. Worse than anything that could befall him would be to lose the opportunity of speaking in private with Sibyl before she knew what had happened.

In the early hours of the morning he lay down upon his bed and had s.n.a.t.c.hes of troubled sleep. Knowing that he was wrong in the particular surmise which led him to Redgrave's house, Sibyl's absence no longer disturbed him with suspicions; a few hours would banish from his mind the last doubt of her, if any really remained. He had played the madman, bringing ruin upon himself and misery incalculable upon his wife, just because that thieving woman lied to him. She, of course, had made her speedy escape; and was it not as well? For, if the whole story became known, what hope was there that Sibyl would come out of it with untarnished fame? Merely for malice' sake, the woman would repeat and magnify her calumnies. If she successfully concealed herself, it might be possible to avoid a mention of Sibyl's name. He imagined various devices for this purpose, his brain plotting even when he slept.

To Alma Rolfe he gave scarcely a thought. If the worst were true of her, Rolfe had only to thank his own absurdity, which allowed such a conceited simpleton to do as she chose. The case looked black against her. Well, she had had her lesson, and in _that_ quarter could come to no more harm. What sort of an appearance was she likely to make at Prince's Hall today?--feather-headed fool!

Before five o'clock the sunlight streamed into his bedroom. Sparrows twittered about the window, and somewhere close by, perhaps in a neighbour's flat, a caged throstle piped as though it were in the fields. Then began the street noises, and Hugh could lie still no longer. Remembering that at any moment his freedom might come to an end, he applied himself to arranging certain important matters. The housemaid came upon him with surprise; he bade her get breakfast, and, when the meal was ready, partook of it with moderate appet.i.te.

The postman brought letters; nothing of interest for him, and for Sibyl only an envelope which, as one could feel, contained a mere card of invitation. But soon after nine o'clock there arrived a telegram. It was from Sibyl herself, and--from Weymouth.

'Why are you not here? She died yesterday. If this reaches you, reply at once.'

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