CHAPTER XVI
THAT TACTLESS DETECTIVE
HER visit to town had certainly done May no harm. On the day of their arrival, she and her mother dined with me at the newest thing in restaurants, and we went afterwards to a roof garden. I had provided a man of an age suitable to Mrs. Derwent to make up the party, and so the evening passed pleasantly for all—delightfully for me. For, to my great relief, May seemed really better. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she flitted gaily from one topic to another, and only occasionally did she give one of her nervous starts. Her good spirits kept up nearly to the end, when she suddenly sank back into the state of apathy, which, alas! I knew so well.
Mrs. Derwent had taken care to inform me that Norman had called late that afternoon to inquire how they had borne the journey, and had been surprised to hear that they were dining out. Was this a hint that I should have invited him also? If so, it was one that I did not mean to take. Having at last succeeded in parting him from May, I was determined not to be the one to bring them together again.
I had decided, in deference to May’s morbid horror of seeing a doctor, that it would be better that her first interview with the nerve specialist should take place under circumstances which would lead her to suppose that their meeting was purely accidental. Thinking herself unnoticed, she would put no restraint on herself, and he would thus be able to judge much more easily of the full extent of her peculiarities. Mrs. Derwent and I had therefore arranged that we should all lunch together on the day following their arrival in town. Atkins’s affairs, however, detained me so long that I was almost late for my appointment, and when I at last got to the Waldorf, I found the doctor already waiting for me.
Luckily, the ladies were also late, so that I had ample time before they turned up to describe May’s symptoms, and to give him a hurried account of what we knew of her experiences at the Rosemere. When she at last appeared, very pale, but looking lovelier than ever, in a trailing blue gown, I saw that he was much impressed by her. Her manner was languid rather than nervous, and she greeted us both with quiet dignity. Notwithstanding the object of the lunch, it passed off very pleasantly, and I am sure no one could have guessed from our behaviour that it was not a purely social occasion. Doctor Storrs especially was wonderful, and was soon chatting and laughing with May as if he had known her all her life. After lunch, Mrs. Derwent and I retired to a distant corner. The Doctor led the young lady to a window seat, and I was glad to see that they were soon talking earnestly to each other. I didn’t dare to watch them, for fear she might suspect that we had arranged this interview. Doctor Storrs kept her there almost an hour, and when they at last joined us she looked quite ghastly, and her mouth quivered pathetically.
As we stood in the hall, waiting for the ladies’ sunshades to be brought, I was astonished and annoyed to see Merritt coming towards us. He caught Miss Derwent’s eye and bowed. She smiled and bowed in return, which encouraged him to join us.
“How do you do? I trust you are well,” he stammered. He seemed quite painfully embarrassed, which surprised me, as I should never have thought him capable of shyness.
“Quite well, thank you,” she answered, graciously, evidently pitying his confusion.
“That was a dreadful affair at the Rosemere,” he bungled on, twisting his hat nervously round and round.
She drew herself up.
“I suppose the Doctor has told you the latest development of that affair?” he plunged on, regardless of her stiffness.
I stared at him in surprise; what was the matter with the man?
“No,” she answered, looking anxiously at me.
“Well, he’s discreet; you see we don’t want it to get into the papers—” he paused, as if waiting to be questioned.
“What has happened?” struggled through her ashen lips.
“I don’t know if you know Mrs. Atkins,” he went on, more glibly; “she’s a young bride, who has an apartment at the Rosemere.”
She shook her head impatiently.
“Well, this lady has disappeared,” he went on, lowering his voice; “and we very much fear that she has fled because she knew more about that murder than she should have done.”
Miss Derwent tottered, and steadied herself against a table, but Mr. Merritt, with surprising denseness, failed to notice her agitation, and continued:
“It’s very sad for her husband. Such a fine young fellow, and only married since May! He has been driven almost crazy by her flight. Of course, it’s difficult to pity a murderess, and yet, when I think of that poor young thing forced to fly from her home in the middle of the night, I can’t help feeling sorry for her. Luckily, she has heart disease, so that the agitation of being hunted from one place to another will probably soon kill her. That would be the happiest solution for all concerned.”
The sunshades having been brought, Mrs. Derwent, after glancing several times impatiently at her daughter, at last moved towards her, but the latter motioned her back.
“Excuse me, Mamma, but I must say a few more words to this gentleman. I should like to know some more about Mrs. Atkins,” she continued, turning again to the detective. “What made her think she was suspected?”
“Well, you see, the dead man was a friend of hers, and had been calling on her the very evening he was murdered. The fellow’s name was Allan Brown, and we have discovered that a good many years ago he was credited with being one of her admirers. I guess that’s true, too; but he was a worthless chap, and she no doubt turned him down. At all events, he disappeared from Chicago, and we doubt if she has seen him since. Our theory is, that when he found out that she was rich, and married, he tried to blackmail her. We know that he was drunk at the time of his death, and so we think that, in a fit of desperation, she killed him. It was a dreadful thing to do. I don’t say it wasn’t, but if you had seen her—so small, so ill, so worn by anxiety and remorse—I don’t think you could help wishing she might escape paying the full penalty of her crime.”
“I do hope so. What is her name, did you say?”
“Mrs. Lawrence P. Atkins.”
“Mrs. Lawrence P. Atkins,” she repeated. “And you cannot find her?”
“We have not yet been able to do so.”
“This is too dreadful; how I pity the poor husband.” And her eyes sought her mother, and rested on her with an expression I could not fathom.
The detective stood watching the girl for a moment, then, with a low bow, finally took himself off. My parting nod was very curt. Could any one have been more awkward, more tactless, more indiscreet, than he had been during his conversation with Miss Derwent? Was the man drunk? And what did he mean by talking about the Atkins’s affairs in this way?
As the girl turned to say good-bye I was struck by a subtle change that had come over her; a great calm seemed to have settled upon her and a strange, steady light burnt in her eyes.
As I was anxious to have a private talk with the Doctor, I jumped into an automobile with him, for he had only just enough time to catch his train.
“Well, Doctor Storrs, what do you think of the young lady’s case?”
“That girl is no more insane than I am, Fortescue. She is suffering from some terrible shock, but even now she has more self-control than nine women out of ten. What kind of a shock she has had I don’t know, but am sure it is connected in some way with the Rosemere murder. If you ever do discover its exact nature, mark my words, you will find she has been through some ghastly experience and has borne up with amazing fortitude.”
“What do you think ought to be done for her?”
“You will find that there is very little that can be done. Something is still hanging over her, I am sure; in fact she hinted as much to me. Now, unless we can find out the cause of her trouble and remove it, it is useless to look for an amelioration of her condition. In the meantime, let her have her head. She knows what she has to struggle against; we don’t.”
“It’s all very mysterious, but I wish we could help her.”
We had now reached his destination, and, with a hurried farewell, he disappeared into the station.
I had promised Mrs. Derwent to let her know immediately the result of my talk with Storrs, so, without alighting, I drove at once to the hotel. In order to avoid arousing May’s suspicions by calling so soon again, Mrs. Derwent had agreed to meet me in the hotel parlour. I told her as briefly as I could what the Doctor had said. When I had finished, I saw that she was struggling with conflicting emotions.
“What can have happened to her? Oh, it is all so dreadful that I don’t know what to think or fear.”
“Can’t you get your daughter to confide in you?”
“I will try,” she murmured, as the large tears stole down her white cheeks, and, rising, she held out her long slender hand, on which sparkled a few handsome rings. As she stood there—tall, stately, still beautiful, in spite of her sufferings, her small, classic head crowned with a wreath of silvery hair—she looked like some afflicted queen, and I pitied her from the bottom of my heart. But was not my distress as great as hers!
On leaving the poor lady I hurried back to my office, where I found Atkins sitting in a miserable heap. He looked so dreadfully ill that I was alarmed.
“Have you had anything to eat to-day?” I asked. He shook his head in disgust. Without another word, I rang for my boy, and in a quarter of an hour a very passable little meal was spread on my table.
“Now, eat that,” I said. He frowned, and shook his head.
“Atkins, you are behaving like a child; you must not fall ill now, or what will become of your wife?”
He hesitated a minute, then sat obediently down. I drew up a chair also, and, by playing with some fruit, pretended to be sharing his meal. The more I watched him the more I became convinced that something must be done to relieve the tension under which he suffered. A new emotion might serve the purpose; so I said:
“I have just found out some interesting facts about the murdered man.”
He dropped his knife and fork.
“What?” he gasped.
“Nothing at all derogatory to your wife, I assure you; I am more than ever convinced that a frank talk would have cleared up your little misunderstanding long ago.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and I’ll tell you the whole story, only you must eat.”
He fell to with feverish haste, his hollow eyes fixed on my face.
“Your wife’s visitor was not a friend of hers, and Merritt (here I strained a point) is sure she has not met him for years. He used to be one of her admirers till she refused to see him, and then he left Chicago and has not been seen there since; but he has a bad record in several other cities. The night he was killed he came to your apartment drunk, and the detective thinks he probably tried to get money from your wife. It seems to me natural that she should have concealed his visit. He was not a guest to be proud of, and, besides, she may have been afraid of rousing your jealousy, for you are pretty jealous, you know.”
“What a crazy fool I have been; I deserve to lose her. But,” he inquired, with renewed suspicion, “why has she run away?”
“Because she found out that the fact that the dead man had gone to the Rosemere to see her had become known to the police, for when I saw her yesterday afternoon I blurted out that the detective did not believe in Argot’s guilt, but was on the track of some female. She at once jumped to the conclusion that he suspected her, and decided to fly before she could be apprehended, and so save her life and your honour.”
“Well, Doctor,” he cried, pushing his plate away, “I feel better. Your news is such a relief. I must now be off again. I can’t rest. Oh, how I wish I might be the one to find my little girl!”
“I do hope you will; only don’t be disappointed if you are not immediately successful; New York is a big place, remember. But till you do find your wife I wish that instead of going back to your apartment you would stay here with me; we are both alone, and would be company for each other.”
“Thank you; if I don’t find her, I’ll accept your offer. You’re awfully kind, Doctor.”
The poor fellow turned up again, footsore and weary, at about twelve that night. He was too exhausted by that time to suffer much, but I gave him a sedative so as to make sure of his having a good sleep.
CHAPTER XVII
ONE WOMAN EXONERATED
ATKINS and I were still at breakfast when, to my surprise, the detective was announced.
Atkins started to his feet.
“Any news of my wife?” he inquired, anxiously.
“None, I regret to say,” answered Merritt.
I was still very much annoyed with him for having been so indiscreet and tactless in his interview with May Derwent, but he looked so dejected that my anger melted a little.
Atkins left us almost immediately, and started on his weary search. When he was gone, I motioned Merritt to take his place.
“Have you had any breakfast?”
“Well, not much, I confess. I was in such a hurry to hear whether anything had been heard of Mrs. Atkins or not that I only gulped down a cup of coffee before coming here.”
“You must have something at once,” I urged. “Here’s some beefsteak and I’ll ring for the boy to–”
“Hold on a moment. Are you very sure the hatchet is buried?” he inquired, with a quizzical smile.
“For the time being, certainly,” I laughed. “But I reserve the right of digging it up again unless things turn out as I wish them to.”
A sad look came over his face.
“Ah, Doctor, things so rarely do turn out just as one wishes them to!”
“And now, Merritt,” I demanded, when, breakfast being over, we had lighted our cigars, “will you kindly tell me what made you talk as you did yesterday to Miss Derwent?”
“I had a purpose.”
“What possible good could it do to remind Miss Derwent of an incident which all her friends are most anxious to have her forget?”
“It may do no good.”
“Do you think you have the right to harrow a delicate girl unnecessarily?”
“Have a little patience, Doctor; I am not a brute!”
“And to talk of Mrs. Atkins as you did! Don’t you know that her husband especially wishes to keep her flight secret?”
“I know. But Miss Derwent is no gossip.”
“How do you know?”
“Hold on, Doctor; I’m not in the witness box yet. Can’t you wait a day or two?”
A commotion in the hall put an end to our conversation. Merritt and I looked at each other. Could that be Atkins’s voice which we heard? Indeed it was; and the next minute the man himself appeared, beaming with happiness, and tenderly supporting his wife. Pale and dishevelled, staggering slightly as she walked, she was but the wreck of her former self. Her husband laid her on a divan and, kneeling down beside her, murmured indistinguishable words of remorse and love. She lay quite still, her eyes closed, her breath coming in short gasps. I rushed off for some brandy, which I forced down her throat. That revived her, and she looked about her. When her eyes fell on the detective, she cried aloud and tried to struggle to her feet, but her husband put his arm around her and pulled her down again.
“Don’t be afraid of him. He’s all right.”
“Really?”
She seemed but half reassured.
“You can trust me, I promise you,” said the detective. “We are all quite sure you had nothing to do with the man’s death. Only we must find out who he was, and when and how he left you. If you will tell us all that occurred, it may help us to discover the criminal.”
“Did you know, Larrie, that the man came to the building to see me?”
Atkins nodded.
“And you are not angry?”
“No, indeed! Tell us all about it.”
“Oh, I will, I will! I could never be real happy with a secret between us.” She paused a moment. “Well, his name was Allan Brown, and years and years ago, when I was nothing but a silly girl, I fancied myself in love with him, and—and—I married him.”
Atkins started back, and I feared for a moment that he would say or do something which neither of them would ever be able to forget. But the past two days had taught him a lesson; the agony he had been through was still fresh in his mind; so, after a short struggle with himself, he took his wife’s hand in his, and gently pressed it. The pretty blush, the happy smile, the evident relief with which she looked at him must have amply repaid him for his self-control.
“He treated me just shamefully,” she continued, “and after three weeks of perfect misery, I left him. Pa at once began proceedings for a divorce, and, as Allan didn’t contest it, it was granted me very shortly. I resumed my maiden name, and went back to live with my father. My experience of married life had been so terrible that I couldn’t bear ever to think or speak of it. Years went by without anything occurring to remind me of my former husband, and I had almost succeeded in forgetting that there was such a person, when I met you, Larrie. The idea of marrying again had always been so abhorrent to me that I did not at first realise where we were drifting to, and you were such an impetuous wooer that I found myself engaged to you without having had any previous intention of becoming so. Of course, I ought then to have told you that I had been married before; there was nothing disgraceful in the fact, and you had a right to know it. Only, somehow, I just couldn’t bear to let the memory of that hateful experience sully my new happiness, even for a moment; so I kept putting off telling you from day to day till the time went by when I could have done so, easily and naturally. At last, I said to myself: Why need Larrie ever know? Only a few of my old friends heard of my unfortunate marriage, and they were little likely ever to refer to the fact before you. It was even doubtful if you ever would meet any of them, as we were to live in New York. So I decided to hold my tongue. And all went well till one morning, a little over a fortnight ago. I was walking carelessly down Broadway, stopping occasionally to look in at some shop window, when a man suddenly halted in front of me. It was Allan Brown. I knew him at once, although he had altered very much for the worse. I remembered him a tall, athletic young man with fine, clear-cut features and a ruddy brown complexion. He was always so fussy about his clothes, that we used to call him ‘Wales.’ And now his coat was unbrushed, his boots were unblackened. He had grown fat; his features had become bloated, and his skin had a pasty, unhealthy look. I was so taken aback at his suddenly appearing like a ghost from my dead past, that I stood perfectly still for a minute. Then, as I realised the full extent of his impudence in daring to stop me, I tried to brush past him.
“‘Not so fast, my dear, not so fast; surely a husband and wife, meeting after such a long separation, should at least exchange a few words before drifting apart again.’
“‘You are no husband of mine,’ I cried.
“‘Really,’ he exclaimed, lifting his eyebrows carelessly; ‘since when have I ceased to be your husband, I should like to know?’
“That just took my breath away.
“‘For ten years, thank God,’ said I.
“‘Well, it’s always good to thank God,’ and his wicked eyes smiled maliciously at me; ‘only in this case he is receiving what he has not earned.’
“‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
“‘That I have never ceased to be your husband, my dear.’
“‘It’s a lie, it’s a lie!’ I cried, but my knees began to tremble; ‘I’ve been divorced from you for the last ten years, and don’t you dare to pretend you don’t know it.’
“‘I needn’t pretend at all, as it happens, for this is the first I ever have heard of it; and so, my dear wife, be very careful not to make another man happy on the strength of that divorce, for if you do, you may find yourself in a very awkward position, to say the least of it.’
“I looked at him. His manner had all the quiet assurance I remembered so well. Could what he said be true? Was it possible that my divorce was not legal? Father had said it was all right, but he might be mistaken, and, in that case, what should I do? My perturbation must have been written very plainly on my face, for, after watching me a minute in silence, he continued. ‘Ah, I see that is what you have done—and who is my unlucky successor, if I may ask?’
“Now, I knew that he was capable of any deviltry, and, if he found out that I had married again, it would be just like him to go to you, and make a scene, just for the pleasure of annoying us. Besides, as I had not told you of my first marriage, it would be dreadful if you should hear of it from Allan Brown, of all people. You would never forgive me in that case, I felt sure. So I lifted my head; ‘I have no husband,’ said I.
“But he only smiled sarcastically at me, as he calmly lit a cigarette.
“‘Prevarication, my dear lady, is evidently not your forte. Out with it. What is the name of the unhappy man? I only call him unhappy (bien entendu) because he is about to lose you.’
“‘I’m not married,’ I repeated.
“‘I know you are married, and I mean to find out who to, if I have to follow you all day.’
“I had been walking rapidly along, hoping to shake him off, but he had persistently kept pace with me. Now I stopped. A policeman was coming towards us. In my desperation, I decided to ask him to arrest Allan for annoying me. The latter guessed my intention, and said: ‘Oh, no; I wouldn’t do that; I should inform him of the fact that you are my wife—an honour you seem hardly to appreciate, by the way—and you would have to accompany me to the police station, where our conflicting stories would no doubt arouse much interest, and probably be considered worthy of head-lines in the evening papers. Do you think the man you are now living with would enjoy your acquiring notoriety in such a way? Eh?’
“‘Well,’ I cried, ‘what is it you want?’
“‘The opportunity of seeing you again, that is all; you must acknowledge that I am very moderate in my demands. I do not brutally insist on my rights.’
“‘But why—why do you wish to see me again?’ I asked.
“‘You are surprised that I should want to see my wife again? Really, you are so—so modern.’
“‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ I said (for all this fooling made me mad). ‘What do you want? Tell me at once.’
“‘Really, my dear lady, since you are so insistent, I will be quite frank with you; I really don’t know. I am enjoying this meeting extremely, and I think another may afford me equal pleasure.’
“‘You devil!’
“‘You never did appreciate me. Well, are you going to tell me what you now call yourself, or are we going to continue walking about together all day?’
“‘I am Mrs. Henry Smith,’ I said, at last.
“‘H’m! Smith—not an unusual name, is it? Not much of an improvement on Brown, eh? And your address?’
“‘The Waldorf,’ I answered, naming the first place that came into my head.
“‘How convenient! I am staying there also; so, instead of discussing our little differences in the street, let us drive back to the hotel at once,’ and, before I realised what he was doing, he had hailed a cab. I started back.
“‘Don’t make a scene in public,’ he commanded, and his manner became suddenly so fierce that I was fairly frightened, and obeyed him automatically. A moment later I was being driven rapidly up town.
“‘I don’t live at the Waldorf,’ I at last acknowledged, as we were nearing Thirty-third street.
“‘Of course not, and your name isn’t Smith; I know that; but where shall I tell the coachman to drive to?’
“There was no help for it; I had to give my real address.
“‘And now let us decide when I shall call on you. I don’t mind selecting a time when my rival is out. You see, I am very accommodating—at present,’ he added, significantly.
“What was I to do? I dared not refuse him. I knew you would be out of town the following evening, so agreed to see him then. He did not follow me into the Rosemere, as I was afraid he might, but drove quickly off. I wrote and telegraphed at once to Pa, asking him to make sure that my divorce was perfectly legal. I hoped that I might receive a reassuring answer before the time set for my interview with Brown, in which case I should simply refuse to receive him and confess to you my previous marriage as soon as you returned. Then I should have nothing more to dread from him. That day and the next, however, went by without a word from Father. I couldn’t understand his silence. It confirmed my worst fears. As the time when I expected my tormentor drew near, I became more and more nervous. I feared and hoped I knew not what from this meeting. I told both my girls they might go out, as I did not wish them to know about my expected visitor, and then regretted I had left myself so unprotected. So I got out my Smith & Wesson, and carefully loaded it. I can shoot pretty straight, and Allan was quite aware of that fact, I am glad to say; so I felt happier. He was so very late for his appointment, that I had begun to hope he was not coming at all, when the door-bell rang. As soon as I had let him in I saw that he had been drinking. Strangely enough, that reassured me somewhat; I felt that I and my pistol stood a better chance of being able to manage him in that condition than when that fiendish brain of his was in proper working order. He no longer indulged in gibes and sarcasms, but this time did not hesitate to demand hush money.
“‘What is your price?’ I asked.
“‘A thousand dollars.’
“Of course, I had no such sum, nor any way of obtaining it. I told him so.
“‘What rot! Why, those rings you’ve got on are worth more than that.’
“‘Those rings were given to me by my husband, and if I part with them he will insist on knowing what has become of them.’
“‘I don’t care about that,’ he said, settling himself deeper into his chair; ‘either you give me that money or I stay here till your lover returns.’
“I knew him to be capable of it.
“‘Look here,’ said I, ‘I can’t get you a thousand dollars, so that’s all there is about it; but if you’ll take some jewelry that Pa gave me, and which I know is worth about that, I’ll give it you on condition that you sign a paper, saying that you have blackmailed me, and that your allegations are quite without foundation.’
“‘I won’t take your jewelry on any consideration,’ he answered. ‘What should I do with it? if I sold it I could only get a trifle of what it is worth, besides running the risk of being supposed to have stolen it. No, no, my lady; it must be cash down or no deal.’
“After a great deal of further altercation, he agreed to wait twenty-four hours for his money. I was to employ this respite in trying to sell my jewelry, but if by the following evening I had failed to raise a thousand dollars he swore he would sell my story to the newspapers. He told me that he had an appointment in Boston the next morning, and that he had not enough money to pay his expenses. So he made me give him all the cash there was in the house. Luckily, I had very little. Before leaving, he lurched into the dining-room and poured himself out a stiff drink of whiskey.
“‘Now, mind that you have that money by to-morrow evening, do you hear? And don’t think I shan’t be back in time to keep my appointment with you, for I shall. Never miss a date with a pretty woman, even if she does happen to be your wife, is my motto,’ and with that final shot he departed. As the elevator had stopped running, I told him he would have to walk down-stairs. I stood for a moment watching him reel from side to side, and I wondered at the time if he would ever get down without breaking his neck. Not that I cared much, I confess; and that was the last I saw of him alive. The next day was spent in trying to raise that thousand dollars. The pawn brokers offered me an absurdly small sum for my jewelry, and wanted all sorts of proof that it was really my property. I tried to borrow from an acquaintance (I have no friends in New York), but she refused, and intimated that your wife could not possibly be in need of money except for an illegitimate purpose. She was quite right, and I liked her no less for her distrust of me. At last I made up my mind that it was impossible to raise the sum he demanded, and returned home determined to brazen it out. Still, no news from Father. What could be the reason of his silence, I wondered; any answer would be better than no answer.
“I braced myself to meet Allan, hopeless but resigned. However, hour after hour went by and still no sign of him. When eleven o’clock struck without his having put in an appearance, I knew that a respite had been mercifully granted me. I was expecting you home very shortly, so thought I’d sit up for you. However, the fatigue and excitement of the last few days proved too much for me, and I fell asleep on the sofa. I had been longing for you all day, and fully intended to tell you the dreadful news as soon as I saw you. But somehow or other, when at last you did arrive you seemed so distant and cold that I weakly put off my confession till a more favourable moment.”
Atkins hung his head.
“The next morning, when there was still no news of my persecutor, I began to breathe more freely. I was told that there had been an accident in the building, but that Allan Brown was the victim never occurred to me. Imagine my horror and consternation when, on being shown the corpse, I recognised my first husband. A thousand wild conjectures as to the cause of his death flashed through my mind, and when I heard that he had been murdered I feared for one awful moment that you might have met him and killed him either in anger or self-defence. When I learned that the crime had been committed on Tuesday I was inexpressibly relieved. For on that day you had not even been in New York. My next anxiety was lest the fact that the dead man had come to the building to see me should become known. When asked if I recognised the corpse I lied instinctively, unthinkingly. It was a crazy thing for me to have done, for I should have been instantly detected if it had not been for the surprising coincidence that Greywood (that’s his name, isn’t it), who had also been in the building that evening, so closely resembled my visitor. But I knew nothing of this, and had no intention of casting suspicion on any one else when I so stoutly denied all knowledge of the man. The Coroner’s cross-questioning terrified me, for I was sure he suspected me of knowing more than I cared to say. But when that ordeal was over, and I was again within my own four walls, I could feel nothing but extreme thankfulness that the evil genius of my life was removed from my path at last. My only remaining fear was lest I should be suspected of his death. I imagined that I was being shadowed, and fancied that a man was stationed in the flat above the Doctor’s, who watched this house night and day. Was that so, Mr. Merritt?”