"Yes: there had been a pretty bad scene. I was furious, and Mamma was so much upset that I doubt if she'll be fit to talk to-night.

But it's a blessed relief to her, now that she knows you are anch.o.r.ed here for a while, to protect us, and that, at the worst, we can ring up Jermyn Street."

"Why," I exclaimed, "what the devil is there to protect you from?"

"Jack--Mr. Foe, that is--has been watching this house for days.

He haunts the pavement opposite, all the hours he is off duty.

Mamma is sure that he means evil, and I wish I was sure that he didn't. He has gone under, Roddy. It is awful to look out, as Furnilove draws the blinds, and see that figure there stationed, reproaching us--yet for what harm that we have done him? He is even ragged. . . . I should not be surprised to hear he was starving.

Yet what can we do?"

"Tell me his address," said I.

She hesitated. "Why should you suppose that I know his address?" she asked, shading her face.

But I took her up bluntly. "I am sorry," I said, "to be discharging apophthegms upon you to-night: but you must hear just one other.

Every woman follows and traces a man who has once laid his heart on her altar. I am sorry, Con, to call up an instance from so far back in the past: but you knew where to 'phone even for me, this morning.

. . . So own up, child, and tell me, where is Foe?"

"I believe," she answered after a while, the handscreen hiding her face, "he has found work in one of these emergency hospitals they are putting up. . . . It's at a place called Casterville Gardens, down by Gravesend. When first he started watching this house, he was in rags; but for the last fortnight he has worn khaki, and it improves his appearance wonderfully. . . . Besides, when a man is in the army, you have the comfort to know that, at least, he isn't starving."

"Was it so bad as that?" I asked. "Well, and now about Farrell?"

"Ah!" said she, "when you saw him get into that taxi, I had dismissed him. He was going--or said he was going--straight to Printing House Square to get that abominable paragraph contradicted. I told him that he was to return to-night and bring me his a.s.surance that it was contradicted--either that, or never to enter this house again. . . .

And now, Roddy, as he may be late--as I would only be content with his seeing the Editor in person--and as editors, I understand, come down late to their work--suppose you mix yourself a whisky-and-soda: for here is Furnilove with the gla.s.ses. . . . Furnilove! keep the latch up for an hour or so, and the door on the chain. Mr. Farrell may be calling late with a particular message. Do not admit him beyond the hall, but come and report to me here. Sir Roderick will receive him in the hall and take the message."

"Yes, miss," said the obedient Furnilove.

"That is all." Constantia pondered.--"Except that you may tell the housemaid not to worry about the room for Sir Roderick. He will not sleep here, after all. And you may send Henriette up with word to Mamma that all is right and Sir Roderick stays only to receive Mr.

Farrell's message. He will probably be going at once on receipt of it, and then you can lock up. The others can go to bed when they choose."

"Very good, miss," said Furnilove, and withdrew.

"And now," said Constantia, "since he is late, keep me amused.

Tell me all about the island."

So I told her this and that of my voyaging; and the time drew on until the clock on the mantelpiece chimed a half-hour. It was one-thirty.

"The d.i.c.kens!" said I, pulling out my own watch and consulting it.

"Farrell is a long time at Printing House Square. In my belief, Con, he won't be returning."

Just at that moment the front door bell pealed loudly.

We stood up together. We heard Furnilove padding towards the door, and we both moved out into the pa.s.sage as he slid up the latch and unhooked the chain. Constantia, in her eagerness, had pressed a little ahead of me.

A man rushed in, disregarding Furnilove, shouldering him aside--a man in a furred overcoat. Expecting Farrell, for the moment I mistook him for Farrell. Even when above the fur collar I caught the sight of common khaki, for another moment I took him for Farrell.

But he ran for Constantia, stretching out his arms as if to embrace her; and as he stretched them, under the hall light, I saw that one of his hands was bleeding.

I had enough presence of mind to spring in front of her and ward him off. It was Foe.

"It's all right," he gasped, staring at me. "No need to make a fuss.

. . . I have killed him." And with that, still staring at me horribly, he sank slowly and collapsed in a huddle at my feet, raving out incoherent words.

Furnilove behaved admirably. Having a.s.sured himself that Miss Constantia was safe, and that I had the intruder under control, he went smartly to the telephone. . . . Amid Foe's ravings I heard him ringing up the exchange and, after a pause, summoning the doctor.

"We had better have the spare room prepared again, after all," said Constantia. "We can't turn him out, in this state. . . . And there's a dressing-room, Roddy, next door, if you can put up with it. . . .

But what has happened, G.o.d knows."

"G.o.d knows," said I. "But he's a lunatic, unless I'm mistaken.

We'll hear what the doctor says. . . . But he shan't sleep here, to trouble you. . . . Furnilove, whistle up and have a taxi ready. . . ."

"Oh, what is he saying?" moaned Constantia as the body on the floor still twisted as if burrowing to hide itself, now muttering and again shouting in a voice that reverberated along the pa.s.sage, "Kill him!

d.a.m.n that dog!--kill him!"

I knelt on the body and held it still. It was the body of my best friend, and I knelt on it, almost throttling him.

"One can't ring up a lunatic asylum, at this hour of the morning,"

I found myself gasping. "He's for my flat, to-night, if your doctor will take charge of him with me." And with that I looked up and caught sight of Constantia's mother at the head of the staircase.

"It's all right, Mrs. Denistoun," said I, glancing up. "It's my friend, Jack Foe--my friend that was. With the doctor's leave I'll get him back presently to Jermyn Street, where Jephson and I will look after him for the night. . . . Jephson used to worship him, and will wait on him as a slave."

And with that--as it seemed amid the blasts of Furnilove's whistle in the porchway and the _toot-toot_ of a taxi, answering it--a quiet man stood above my shoulder. It was the doctor: and Furnilove had been so explicit on the 'phone that the doctor--whose name I learnt afterwards to be Tredgold--almost by magic whipped out a small bottle from his pocket.

"Water," said he, after a look at the patient, "and a tumbler, quick!"

Furnilove dashed into the library and returned with both.

"Bromide," said Dr. Tredgold. "Let him take it down and then hold his head steady for a few minutes. . . . Right! . . . Now the question is, where to bestow him? I can't answer for him when the dose wears off: but it's no case to leave with two ladies."

"There's a taxi, doctor," said I, "if we can get him into it. I have a flat in Jermyn Street, and a trustworthy manservant. I suggest that he'll do there for the night."

"Right," said Dr. Tredgold again; "and the sooner the better.

I'll come with you, when I've bound up this wound on his hand.

It's a nasty one. . . . It looks to me--Yes, and it is, too!"

"What is it?" I asked.

"A dog-bite."

"So _that_ was what he killed!" thought I, and aloud I said, "Thank G.o.d!"

"Eh?" said the doctor. "A dog-bite's a queer thing to thank G.o.d for."

"It might have been worse," I answered.

"H'm: well it's bad enough," Dr. Tredgold replied, busy with his bandaging.

NIGHT THE TWENTY-FIFTH.