Only seven were hanged
photographs, a pot of paste, and some cardboard mounts. He nodded
toward a wineglass on the table.
"Jelks, please fetch a little water in that glass. I want to damp
the backs of these pictures to make them stick fast."
Jelks took the glass and brought it back filled with water.
"Can I help you in any way, sir?" he asked, seeing his employer using
both hands to hold down a mount.
"No, thanks. I can manage all right. Get ahead with your polishing.
Clean hands are wanted for this job."
Jelks returned to his work, closing the sitting-room door behind him.
In the sitting-room, as soon as he was alone, Walter Seale ceased to
be interested in photographs. He had not been mounting them at all,
just pretending; and he was now looking, with every sign of intense
interest and satisfaction, at the glass Jelks had brought him. A
strange smile was on his face. He took a cigarette from his case and
began to smoke leisurely, still gazing at the glass.
When he had finished his cigarette he lifted the wineglass carefully,
one finger and thumb on the rim and base, respectively; emptied the
water into a flower-bowl; and, when dry, placed the glass in a small
cardboard box that seemed to be made for it. He next put the box
into a drawer of his writing-desk and locked the drawer. The first
step in his elaborate plan had been achieved.
That evening, while dressing for dinner, which he was taking at the
club, he called Jelks once more. This time he informed Jelks that he
had lost a valuable set of studs. He was very perturbed at the loss,
as also was Jelks. A search failed to reveal the missing studs.
"I left them on my dressing-table," said Seale, indignantly. "They
couldn't walk off. They were there this afternoon."
"I never saw them," protested Jelks.
"There was nobody here except you and me," retorted his employer,
meaningly. "It's a scandalous thing to lose valuable articles right
under one's nose. I shall have to use a set for my shirt that I
don't care for. Are you sure you did not lift them?"
"I did not lift them; and I did not steal them, if that's what you
mean, sir," replied Jelks. "You may search my room if you like. I
swear I know nothing about them."
Walter Seale considered the matter. He had the shirt-studs in his
pocket at that very moment; but he was playing his game.
"Very well, Jelks, I'll say nothing more about the matter for the
time being. I am going over to the Continent tomorrow for a week,
and I shall want these studs when I come back."
"I'll try to find them, sir. I'll hunt through the flat----"
"Well, no. I was thinking of locking up the flat, Jelks. You had
better take a week's holiday, as there is no need for you to stay
here alone. I shall send for you if I want you when I return. I
want you to leave here tomorrow morning. I am going off in the
afternoon. Your address will always be at the offices of the Rescue
Guild, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," replied Jelks, humbly, stunned by the possibility of
losing his job. "If you don't want me again, will you give me a
reference?"
"I'll see to that when I come back, Jelks." And Walter Seale went
off to his dinner at his club.
The next morning Jelks informed him that he had searched over the
whole flat but could not find the missing shirt-studs. Walter Seale
made no comment. He paid Jelks his wages, and after saying that he
would let him know if he desired his services when he returned from
France, he retired to his room.
Before lunch time the valet's belongings had been removed and Seale
was alone in the flat. The second step in his plan had been carried
out.
For the time being he dismissed the personality of Jelks from his
mind and concentrated on his next move. He went out for lunch and
returned to his flat before tea time. After waiting for a short time
he prepared for the great crisis.
He went up the carpeted stairs of the block of flats and rang the
bell next a door on the top floor.
His summons brought a woman clad in a bewitching afternoon gown. She
was young, beautiful, attractive; but her brows wrinkled as she
recognized her caller.
"May I see you for a minute, Dora? I thought you'd be at home."
"I hardly expected you to come here again," she answered, coldly.
"You know I told you not to call."
"It may be the last time you'll see me. Surely you won't refuse a
final interview?"
She allowed him to enter, and he walked straight into the tiny parlor
where she had been sitting at crochet work. The fire was lit in the
grate, the room was as cozy as a nest. On a side table, on a tea
tray, were a cup and saucer, a plate of cakes, and a silver teapot.
"What have you to say?" she asked, a little uneasily. "Have you done
what you promised?"
He sat down, but he was gazing at her, trying to read her thoughts.
"You know I love you, Dora."
"You must not begin that over again. I have answered you once and
for all time. Have you straightened out the swindle in which I
detected you----"
"Dora----"
"Please answer my question. I told you that unless you put that
matter right I would tell my husband tonight."
"You really meant that threat?"
"Certainly I meant it. Now answer my question. That is the only
matter you are to talk about to me."
"Then you will never love me? You will never accept my love?"
"Mr. Seale, how dare you begin all that again!"
They looked at each other for a moment, she with indignation, he with
a desperate desire to move her.
She seemed to read something in his face, for she suddenly made an
exclamation.
"You have not carried out your promise--the one chance I gave you! I
shall tell my husband the whole affair of your swindle when he comes
home."
"I have not carried out my promise," cried Seale, harshly. "I cannot
carry it out. If you would only be reasonable----"
"If you do not go away I shall have you ejected."
"Is that your last word?" he cried, passionately. "Reflect that I
love you more than your husband does----"
She clutched her crochet work tightly and threw her arm out toward
the door. She was more beautiful than ever in that attitude, a
perfect woman. Even though she was angry, Seale desired to possess
her.
"Go!" she cried. "I gave you a chance. Now go!"
It was then that Walter Seale, seeing her so determined, committed
his terrible, passionate crime.
He shot her where she stood.
It was the work of a moment. He whipped out his revolver and fired
like lightning. Thwarted passion was behind that shot, the desire to
possess was the urge.
She fell, bleeding from a wound in the center of the forehead. She
was dead before she touched the floor.
Looking on her lifeless form, Walter Seale realized that the crisis,
the apex of all his plans, had arrived--and passed. He could never
undo that act, he could never bring back that life.
He experienced neither fear nor remorse. In a way he had killed this
woman to save himself.
He had always declared that he loved her, even before she had married
her husband; but he was of no interest to her, though he pressed his
friendship on her and on her husband after the marriage. He pestered
her with his attentions after as he had pestered her before. Since
he could not possess her as his wife, he wanted to possess her
anyhow. This continued appeal had compelled the woman to tell him
that if he wished to retain friendship he must cease to talk of love.
From that moment Seale opened a new campaign.
It mattered nothing to him that she was the wife of another man.
Indeed, this only added to his mental unrest. Unrequited love may be
a torture as exquisite as any ever devised; and he considered that
she belonged to him by right of his own infatuation.
The truth was, nevertheless, that he had become enamoured of her
because he was a voluptuary by nature. Men of his kind share with
painters and sculptors the discerning knowledge of a perfect form
when they have but glanced at it; but where an artist may view such a
form with all the enthusiasm of a creative workman bent on copying,
Walter Seale saw a masterpiece for love.
His new campaign became subtle, and he took pains that it should be
unnoticed. His conduct became strictly correct. He appeared to
accept the situation and continued his friendship with the woman and
her husband, biding his time. He was aware that the husband did not
know of the siege he had made, or was making, of his wife's heart.
She had told Seale that she had not mentioned the circumstance to her
husband, not because she had anything to hide, but because she did
not wish to give her husband any anxiety. All this helped Seale
toward his objective, which was nothing less than the ruin of the
husband so that the wife might surrender.
Seale was in the City, dabbling in financial transactions. He
advised the husband on deals, keeping back the fact that he himself
was barely solvent. By one move after another he had obtained the
husband's confidence until he had involved him to such an extent that
there was little hope of recovery. To save himself he had descended
to forging the husband's signature. It was merely a matter of time,
he knew, before he could recover sufficiently to save his own face,
but by adjusting affairs he would leave the husband worse than
bankrupt. But the woman had found him out.
With that instinct which is the finest weapon of a good wife, she had
suspected Seale. She had made inquiries, as a woman makes them,
which is the most secretive way of all. She had faced Seale with an
accusation, and she had given him a short period of time in which to
restore the situation or face her husband. It was because he had
pleaded for this chance that she had given it him.
But Walter Seale knew that it was beyond his power to make
restoration. His crooked deal would go through without any suspicion
attaching to himself. The woman's discovery meant disaster. Her
ultimatum meant disgrace in any case.
Warring with the humiliation of being found out was the frantic
desire he had to possess her. This desire amounted almost to an
insanity that he could not, or did not, control. From the moment
that she intimated she had discovered his deception he saw that she
was forever beyond his reach. He saw his danger. He resolved to
make one last appeal, and if the appeal failed she must pay the
penalty of finding out these things. Thus his selfishness came to
the top.
Once she was dead, he would be avenged on both wife and husband. If
she lived she would denounce him and he would lose not only her, but
his liberty. The forked stick on which he found himself did not
cause him much anxiety as to choice of ways. He was, like many men
who are not criminals, prepared to sacrifice anything or anybody to
his own ends. This quality had caused him to be regarded as a good
business man. He would have made an excellent lawyer. His excuses
and distortions of plain truths were innumerable; and mostly they
were plausible.
Everything went by the board so that he might survive. His valet was
but a pawn in the game, a decoy, a figurehead behind which he
sheltered. The desire to have the woman was in his mind right up to
the last moment, but the necessity to save himself outweighed this
when he saw that she was incorruptible.
He had planned the climax and the steps leading to it with superb
cunning. He knew the movements of the woman's husband and was aware
that he would not return from the City until late in the evening. He
knew that the maid would be out for her half-day when he called.
While he stood looking at the body of his victim the clock on the
mantelpiece chimed the hour. He glanced up and noted that he had