"I see a clear sequence of facts, outlined by yourselves, but of which you have not seen the significance. Let us go back ten years and look at what we see--untrammeled by ideas or sentiment."
Mr. Quin had risen. He looked very tall. The fire leaped fitfully behind him. He spoke in a low compelling voice. "You are at dinner. Derek Capel announces his engagement. You think then it was to Marjorie Dilke. You are not so sure now. He has the restlessly excited manner of a man who has successfully defied Fate--who, in your own words, has pulled off a big coup against overwhelming odds. Then comes the clanging of the bell. He goes out to get the long overdue mail. He doesn't open his letters, but you mention yourselves that _he opened the paper to glance at the news_. It is ten years ago--so we cannot know what the news was that day--a far-off earthquake, a near-at-hand political crisis? The only thing we do know about the contents of that paper is that it contained one small paragraph--_a paragraph stating that the Home Office had given permission to exhume the body of Mr. Appleton three days ago_."
"What?"
Mr. Quin went on: "Derek Capel goes up to his room, and there he sees something out of the window. Sir Richard Conway has told us that the curtain was not drawn across it and further that it gave on the drive. What did he see? What could he have seen that forced him to take his life?"
"What do you mean? What did he see?"
"I think," said Mr. Quin, "that he saw a policeman. A policeman who had come about a dog. But Derek Capel didn't know that--he just saw--a policeman."
There was a long silence--as though it took some time to drive the inference home.
"My God!" whispered Evesham at last. "You can't mean that? Appleton? But he wasn't there at the time Appleton died. The old man was alone with his wife--"
"But he may have been there a week earlier. Strychnine is not very soluble unless it is in the form of the hydrochloride. The greater part of it, put into the port, would be taken in the last glass, perhaps a week after he left."
Portal sprang forward. His voice was hoarse and his eyes bloodshot. "Why did she break the decanter?" he cried. "Why did she break the decanter? Tell me that."
For the first time that evening, Mr. Quin addressed himself to Mr. Satterthwaite. "You have a wide experience of life, Mr. Satterthwaite. Perhaps you can tell us that."
Mr. Satterthwaite's voice trembled a little. His cue had come at last. He was to speak some of the most important lines in the play. He was an actor now--not a looker-on.
"As I see it," he murmured modestly, "she--cared for Derek Capel. She was, I think, a good woman--and she had sent him away. When her husband--died, she suspected the truth. And so, to save the man she loved, she tried to destroy the evidence against him. Later, I think, he persuaded her that her suspicions were unfounded, and she consented to marry him. But even then, she hung back--women, I fancy, have a lot of instinct."
Mr. Satterthwaite had spoken his part.
Suddenly a long trembling sigh filled the air.
"My God!" cried Evesham, starting, "what was that?"
Mr. Satterthwaite could have told him that it was Eleanor Portal in the gallery above, but he was too artistic to spoil a good effect.
Mr. Quin was smiling. "My car will be ready by now. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Evesham. I have, I hope, done something for my friend."
They stared at him in blank amazement.
"That aspect of the matter has not struck you? He loved this woman, you know. Loved her enough to commit murder for her sake. When retribution overtook him, as he mistakenly thought, he took his own life. But, unwittingly, he left her to face the music."
"She was acquitted," muttered Evesham.
"Because the case against her could not be proved. I fancy--it may be only a fancy--that she is still--facing the music."
Portal had sunk into a chair, his face buried in his hands.
Quin turned to Satterthwaite. "Good-by, Mr. Satterthwaite. You are interested in the drama, are you not?"
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded--surprised.
"I must recommend the harlequinade to your attention. It is dying out nowadays--but it repays attention, I assure you. Its symbolism is a little difficult to follow--but the immortals are always immortal, you know. I wish you all good night."
They saw him stride out into the dark. As before, the colored glass gave the effect of motley.
Mr. Satterthwaite went upstairs. He went to draw down his window, for the air was cold. The figure of Mr. Quin moved down the drive, and from a side door came a woman's figure, running. For a moment they spoke together, then she retraced her steps to the house. She passed just below the window, and Mr. Satterthwaite was struck anew by the vitality of her face. She moved now like a woman in a happy dream.
"Eleanor!"
Alec Portal had joined her.
"Eleanor, forgive me--forgive me. You told me the truth, but God forgive me--I did not quite believe--"
Mr. Satterthwaite was intensely interested in other people's affairs, but he was also a gentleman. It was borne in upon him that he must shut the window. He did so.
But he shut it very slowly.
He heard her voice, exquisite and indescribable. "I know--I know. You have been in hell. So was I once. Loving--yet alternately believing and suspecting--thrusting aside one's doubts and having them spring up again with leering faces. I know, Alec, I know. But there is a worse hell than that, the hell I have lived in with you. I have seen your doubt--your fear of me--poisoning all our love. That man, that chance passer-by, saved me. I could bear it no longer, you understand. Tonight--tonight I was going to kill myself--Alec--Alec!"
THE SHADOW ON THE GLASS
"Listen to this," said Lady Cynthia Drage.
She read aloud from the journal she held in her hand. "'Mr. and Mrs. Unkerton are entertaining a party at Greenways House this week. Among the guests are Lady Cynthia Drage, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Scott, Major Porter, D.S.O., Mrs. Staverton, Captain Allenson, and Mr. Satterthwaite.'"
"It's as well," remarked Lady Cynthia, casting away the paper, "to know what we're in for. But they _have_ made a mess of things!"
Her companion, that same Mr. Satterthwaite whose name figured at the end of the list of guests, looked at her interrogatively. It had been said that if Mr. Satterthwaite was found at the houses of those rich who had newly arrived, it was a sign either that the cooking was unusually good, or that a drama of human life was to be enacted there. Mr. Satterthwaite was abnormally interested in the comedies and tragedies of his fellow men.
Lady Cynthia, who was a middle-aged woman, with a hard face and a liberal allowance of makeup, tapped him smartly with the newest thing in parasols which lay rakishly across her knee.
"Don't pretend you don't understand me. You do perfectly. What's more, I believe you're here on purpose to see the fur fly!"
Mr. Satterthwaite protested vigorously. He didn't know what she was talking about.
"I'm talking about Richard Scott. Do you pretend you've never heard of him?"
"No, of course not. He's the big-game man, isn't he?"
"That's it--'Great big bears and tigers, etc.,' as the song says. Of course, he's a great lion himself just now--the Unkertons would naturally be mad to get hold of him--_and_ the bride! A charming child--oh! quite a charming child--but so naïve, only twenty, you know, and he must be at least forty-five."
"Mrs. Scott seems to me very charming," said Mr. Satterthwaite sedately.
"Yes, poor child."
"Why poor child?"
Lady Cynthia cast him a look of reproach, and went on, approaching the point at issue in her own manner. "Porter's all right--a dull dog, though--another of these African hunters, all sunburn and silence. Second fiddle to Richard Scott and always has been--lifelong friends and all that sort of thing. When I come to think of it, I believe they were together on that trip--"
"Which trip?"
"_The_ trip. The Mrs. Staverton trip. You'll be saying next you've never heard of Mrs. Staverton."
"I _have_ heard of Mrs. Staverton," said Mr. Satterthwaite, almost with unwillingness.
And he and Lady Cynthia exchanged glances.
"It's so exactly like the Unkertons," wailed the latter; "they are absolutely hopeless--socially, I mean. The idea of asking those two together! Of course they'd heard that Mrs. Staverton was a sportswoman and a traveler and all that, and about her book. People like the Unkertons don't even begin to realize what pitfalls there are! I've been running them, myself, for the last year, and what I've gone through nobody knows. One has to be constantly at their elbow. 'Don't do that! You can't do this!' Thank goodness, I'm through with it now. Not that we've quarreled--oh! no, I never quarrel--but somebody else can take on the job. As I've always said, I can put up with vulgarity, but I can't stand meanness!"
After this somewhat cryptic utterance, Lady Cynthia was silent for a moment, ruminating on the Unkertons' meanness as displayed to herself.
"If I'd still been running the show for them," she went on presently, "I should have said quite firmly and plainly, 'You can't ask Mrs. Staverton with the Richard Scotts. She and he were once--'"