Walker dropped aside with a muttered apology. Bell approached the figure in the doorway and whispered a few words rapidly in her ear. The effect was electrical. The figure seemed to wilt and shrivel up, all the power and resistance had gone. She stepped aside, moaning and wringing her hands. She babbled of strange things; the old, far-away look came into her eyes again.

Without a word of comment or sign of triumph Bell entered the sick room.

Then he raised his head and sniffed the heavy atmosphere as an eager hound might have done. A quick, sharp question rose to his lips, only to be instantly suppressed as he noted the vacant glance of his colleague.

The white figure on the bed lay perfectly motionless. It was the figure of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, a beauty heightened and accentuated by the dead-white pallor of her features. Still the face looked resolute and the exquisitely chiselled lips were firm.

"Alb.u.men," Bell muttered. "What fiend's game is this? I wonder if that scoundrel--but, no. In that case there would be no object in concealing my presence here. I wonder--"

He paused and touched the pure white brow with his fingers. At the same moment Enid came into the room. She panted like one who has run fast and far.

"Well," she whispered, "is she better, better or--Hatherly, read this."

The last words were so low that Bell hardly heard them. He shot a swift glance at his colleague before he opened the paper. One look and he had mastered the contents. Then the swift glance was directed from Walker to the girl standing there looking at Bell with a world of pa.s.sionate entreaty and longing in her eyes.

"It is _your_ sister who lies there," Bell whispered, meaningly, "and yet you--"

He paused, and Enid nodded. There was evidently a great struggle going on in Bell's mind. He was grappling with something that he only partially understood, but he did know perfectly well that he was being asked to do something absolutely wrong and that he was going to yield for the sake of the girl he loved.

He rose abruptly from the bedside and crossed over to Walker.

"You are perfectly correct," he said. "At this rate--at this rate the patient cannot possibly last till the morning. It is quite hopeless."

Walker smiled feebly.

"It is a melancholy satisfaction to have my opinion confirmed," he said.

"Miss Henson, if you will get Williams to see me as far as the lodge-gates ... it is so late that--er--"

Williams came at length, and the little doctor departed. Enid fairly cowered before the blazing, searching look that Bell turned upon her. She fell to plucking the bedclothes nervously.

"What does it mean?" he asked, hoa.r.s.ely. "What fiend's plaything are you meddling with? Don't you know that if that girl dies it will be murder?

It was only for your sake that I didn't speak my mind before the fool who has just gone. He has seen murder done under his eyes for days, and he is ready to give a certificate of the cause of death. And the strange thing is that in the ordinary way he would be quite justified in doing so."

"Chris is not going to die; at least, not in that way," Enid whispered, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Then leave her alone. No more drugs; no medicine even. Give Nature a chance. Thank Heaven, the girl has a perfect const.i.tution."

"Chris is not going to die," Enid repeated, doggedly, "but the certificate will be given, all the same. Oh, Hatherly, you must trust me--trust me as you have never done before. Look at me, study me. Did you ever know me to do a mean or dishonourable thing?"

They were down in the drawing-room again; David waiting, with a strange sense of embarra.s.sment under Margaret Henson's distant eyes; indeed, it was probable that she had never noticed him at all. All the same she turned eagerly to Bell.

"Tell me the worst," she cried. "Tell me all there is to know."

"Your niece's sufferings are over," Bell said, gravely; "I have no more to tell you."

A profound silence followed, broken presently by angry voices outside.

Then Williams looked in at the door and beckoned Enid to him. His face was wreathed in an uneasy grin.

"Mr. Henson has got away," he said. "Blest if I can say how. And they dogs have rolled him about, and tore his clothes, and made such a picture of him as you never saw. And a sweet temper he's in!"

"Where is he now?" Enid asked. "There are people here he must not see."

"Well, he came back in through the study window, swearing dreadful for so respectable a gentleman. And he went right up to his room, after ordering whisky and soda-water."

Enid flew back to the drawing-room. Not a moment was to be lost. At any hazard Reginald Henson must be kept in ignorance of the presence of strangers. A minute later, and the darkness of the night had swallowed them up. Williams fastened the lodge-gates behind them, and they turned their faces in the direction of Rottingdean Road.

"A strange night's work," David said, presently.

"Aye, but pregnant with result," Bell answered. There was a stern, exulting ring in his voice. "There is much to do and much danger to be faced, but we are on the right track at last. But why did you send me that note just now?"

David smiled as he lighted a cigarette.

"It is part of the scheme," he said. "Part of my scheme, you understand.

But, princ.i.p.ally, I sent you the note because Miss Enid asked me to."

CHAPTER XVI

MARGARET SEES A GHOST

With a sigh of unutterable relief Enid heard Williams returning. Reginald Henson had not come down yet, and the rest of the servants had retired some time. Williams came up with a request as to whether he could do anything more before he went to bed.

"Just one thing," said Enid. "The good dogs have done their work well to-night, but they have not quite finished. Find Rollo for me, and bring him here quick. Then you can shut up the house, and I will see that Mr.

Henson is made comfortable after his fright."

The big dog came presently and followed Enid timidly upstairs. Apparently the great black-muzzled brute had been there before, as evidently he knew he was doing wrong. He crawled along the corridor till he came to the room where the sick girl lay, and here he followed Enid. The lamp was turned down low as Enid glanced at the bed. Then she smiled faintly, yet hopefully.

There was n.o.body in the room. The patient's bed was empty!

"It works well," Enid murmured. "May it go on as it has been started.

Lie down, Rollo; lie there, good dog. And if anybody comes in tear him to pieces."

The great brute crouched down obediently, thumping his tail on the floor as an indication that he understood. As if a load had been taken from her mind Enid crept down the stairs. She had hardly reached the hall before Henson followed her. His big face was white with pa.s.sion; he was trembling from head to foot from fright and pain. There was a red rash on his forehead that by no means tended to improve his appearance.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, hoa.r.s.ely.

Enid looked at him coolly. She could afford to do so now. All the danger was past, and she felt certain that the events of the evening were unknown to him.

"I might ask you the same question," she said. "You look white and shaken; you might have been thrown violently into a heap of stones. But please don't make a noise. It is not fitting now. Chris--"

Enid hesitated; the prevarication did not come so easily as she had expected.

"Chris has gone," she said. "She pa.s.sed away an hour ago."

Henson muttered something that sounded like consolation. He could be polite and suave enough on occasions, but not to-night. Even philanthropists are selfish at times. Moreover, his nerves were badly shaken and he wanted a stimulant badly.

"I am going to bed," Enid said, wearily. "Goodnight."