His mind went whirling around again. Tones, over-tones, half-tones. He didn't know much about these things--but Eastney knew. Pray heaven he would be in time!
The taxi stopped. Mr. Satterthwaite flung himself out and raced up the stone stairs to a second floor like a young athlete. The door of the flat was ajar. He pushed it open and the great tenor voice welcomed him. The words of "The Shepherd's Song" were familiar to him in a less unconventional setting.
"_Shepherd, see thy horse's flowing mane_--"
He was in time then. He burst open the sitting-room door. Gillian was sitting there in a tall chair by the fireplace.
"_Barya Mischa's daughter is to wed today: To the wedding I must haste away._"
She must have thought him mad. He clutched at her, crying out something incomprehensible, and half pulled, half dragged her out till they stood upon the stairway.
"_To the wedding I must haste away-- Ya-ha!_"
A wonderful high note, full-throated, powerful, hit full in the middle, a note any singer might be proud of. And with it another sound, the faint tinkle of broken glass.
A stray cat darted past them and in through the flat door. Gillian made a movement, but Mr. Satterthwaite held her back, speaking incoherently.
"No, no--it's deadly; no smell, nothing to warn you. A mere whiff, and it's all over. Nobody knows quite how deadly it would be. It's unlike anything that's ever been tried before."
He was repeating the things that Philip Eastney had told him over the table at dinner.
Gillian stared at him uncomprehendingly.
Philip Eastney drew out his watch and looked at it. It was just half-past eleven. For the last three quarters of an hour he had been pacing up and down the Embankment. He looked out over the Thames and then turned--to look into the face of his dinner companion.
"That's odd," he said, and laughed. "We seem fated to run into each other tonight."
"If you call it Fate," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
Philip Eastney looked at him more attentively and his own expression changed.
"Yes?" he said quietly.
Mr. Satterthwaite went straight to the point. "I have just come from Miss West's flat."
"Yes?"
The same voice, with the same deadly quiet.
"We have--taken a dead cat out of it."
There was silence, then Eastney said, "Who are you?"
Mr. Satterthwaite spoke for some time. He recited the whole history of events.
"So you see, I was in time," he ended up. He paused and added quite gently, "Have you anything to--say?"
He expected something, some outburst, some wild justification. But nothing came.
"No," said Philip Eastney quietly, and turned on his heel and walked away.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked after him till his figure was swallowed up in the gloom. In spite of himself, he had a strange fellow feeling for Eastney, the feeling of an artist for another artist, of a sentimentalist for a real lover, of a plain man for a genius.
At last he roused himself with a start and began to walk in the same direction as Eastney. A fog was beginning to come up. Presently he met a policeman who looked at him suspiciously.
"Did you hear a kind of splash just now?" asked the policeman.
"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
The policeman was peering out over the river.
"Another of these suicides, I expect," he grunted disconsolately. "They will do it."
"I suppose," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that they have their reasons."
"Money, mostly," said the policeman. "Sometimes it's a woman," he said, as he prepared to move away. "It's not always their fault, but some women cause a lot of trouble."
"Some women," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite softly.
When the policeman had gone on, he sat down on a seat with the fog coming up all around him, and thought about Helen of Troy, and wondered if she were a nice, ordinary woman, blessed or cursed with a wonderful face.
THE DEAD HARLEQUIN
Mr. Satterthwaite walked slowly up Bond Street enjoying the sunshine. He was, as usual, carefully and beautifully dressed, and was bound for the Harchester Galleries, where there was an exhibition of the paintings of one Frank Bristow, a new and hitherto unknown artist who showed signs of suddenly becoming the rage. Mr. Satterthwaite was a patron of the arts.
As Mr. Satterthwaite entered the Harchester Galleries, he was greeted at once with a smile of pleased recognition. "Good morning, Mr. Satterthwaite, I thought we should see you before long. You know Bristow's work? Fine--very fine indeed. Quite unique of its kind."
Mr. Satterthwaite purchased a catalogue and stepped through the open archway into the long room where the artist's work was displayed. They were watercolors, executed with such extraordinary technique and finish that they resembled colored etchings. Mr. Satterthwaite walked slowly round the walls, scrutinizing and on the whole approving. He thought that this young man deserved to arrive. Here were originality, vision, and a most severe and exacting technique. There were crudities, of course. That was only to be expected--but there was also something closely allied to genius. Mr. Satterthwaite paused before a little masterpiece representing Westminster Bridge with its crowd of buses, trams, and hurrying pedestrians. A tiny thing and wonderfully perfect. It was called, he noted, "The Ant Heap." He passed on and quite suddenly drew in his breath with a gasp, his imagination held and riveted.
The picture was called "The Dead Harlequin." The fore-front of it represented a floor of inlaid squares of black and white marble. In the middle of the floor lay Harlequin on his back with his arms outstretched in his motley of black and red. Behind him was a window and outside that window, gazing in at the figure on the floor, was what appeared to be the same man silhouetted against the red glow of the setting sun.
The picture excited Mr. Satterthwaite for two reasons. The first reason was that he recognized, or thought that he recognized, the face of the man in the picture. It bore a distinct resemblance to a certain Mr. Quin, an acquaintance whom Mr. Satterthwaite had encountered under somewhat mystifying circumstances.
"Surely I can't be mistaken," he murmured. "If it _is_ so--what does it mean?"
For it had been Mr. Satterthwaite's experience that every appearance of Mr. Quin had some distinct significance attaching to it.
There was, as already mentioned, a second reason for Mr. Satterthwaite's interest. He recognized the scene of the picture. "The Terrace Room at Charnley," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "curious--and very interesting."
He looked with more attention at the picture, wondering what exactly had been in the artist's mind. One Harlequin dead on the floor, another Harlequin looking through the window--or was it the same Harlequin? He moved slowly along the walls, gazing at other pictures with unseeing eyes, with his mind always busy on the same subject. He was excited. Life, which had seemed a little drab this morning, was drab no longer. He knew quite certainly that he was on the threshold of exciting and interesting events. He crossed to the table where sat Mr. Cobb, a dignitary of the Harchester Galleries, whom he had known for many years.
"I have a fancy for buying Number Thirty-nine," he said, "if it is not already sold."
Mr. Cobb consulted a ledger. "The pick of the bunch," he murmured. "Quite a little gem, isn't it? No, it is not sold." He quoted a price. "It is a good investment, Mr. Satterthwaite. You will have to pay three times as much for it this time next year."
"That is always said on these occasions," said Mr. Satterthwaite, smiling.
"Well, and haven't I been right?" demanded Mr. Cobb. "I don't believe, if you were to sell your collection, Mr. Satterthwaite, that a single picture would fetch less than you gave for it."
"I will buy this picture," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I will give you a check now."
"You won't regret it. We believe in Bristow."
"He is a young man?"
"Twenty-seven or -eight, I should say."
"I should like to meet him," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Perhaps he will come and dine with me one night?"
"I can give you his address. I am sure he would leap at the chance. Your name stands for a good deal in the artistic world."
"You flatter me," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and was going on when Mr. Cobb interrupted.
"Here he is now. I will introduce you to him right away."
He rose from behind his table. Mr. Satterthwaite accompanied him to where a big clumsy young man was leaning against the wall surveying the world at large from behind the barricade of a ferocious scowl.
Mr. Cobb made the necessary introductions and Mr. Satterthwaite made a formal and gracious little speech.
"I have just had the pleasure of acquiring one of your pictures, 'The Dead Harlequin.'"
"Oh! Well! You won't lose by it," said Mr. Bristow, ungraciously. "It's a bit of damned good work, although I say it."
"I can see that," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Your work interests me very much, Mr. Bristow. It is extraordinarily mature for so young a man. I wonder if you would give me the pleasure of dining with me one night? Are you engaged this evening?"