The mysterious Mr. Quin
had found his fingerprints, you remember, both on the wood of the side
door and on one of the two cocktail glasses on the table in the music
room. He admitted then that he had come to see Lady Barnaby, that they
had had a stormy interview, but that it had ended in his having managed
to soothe her down. He swore that he left his gun outside leaning
against the wall near the door, and that he left Lady Barnaby alive and
well, the time being then a minute or two after a quarter-past six. He
went straight home, he says, but evidence was called to show that he
did not reach his farm until a quarter to seven, and, as I have just
mentioned, it is barely a mile away. It would not take half an hour to
get there. He forgot all about his gun, he declares. Not a very likely
statement--and yet--"
"And yet?" queried Mr. Quin.
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly, "it's a possible one, isn't it?
Counsel ridiculed the supposition, of course, but I think he was wrong.
You see, I've known a good many young men, and these emotional scenes
upset them very much--especially the dark nervous type like Martin
Wylde. Women, now, can go through a scene like that and feel positively
better for it afterward, with all their wits about them. It acts like
a safety valve for them, steadies their nerves down and all that. But
I can see Martin Wylde going away with his head in a whirl, sick and
miserable, and without a thought of the gun he had left leaning up
against the wall."
He was silent for some minutes before he went on:
"Not that it matters. For the next part is only too clear,
unfortunately. It was exactly twenty minutes past six when the shot
was heard. All the servants heard it, the cook, the kitchen-maid, the
butler, the housemaid, and Lady Barnaby's own maid. They came rushing
to the music room. She was lying huddled over the arm of her chair. The
gun had been discharged close to the back of her head, so that the shot
hadn't a chance to scatter. At least two of them penetrated the brain."
He paused again and Mr. Quin asked casually, "The servants gave
evidence, I suppose?"
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. "Yes. The butler got there a second or two
before the others, but their evidence was practically a repetition of
each other's."
"So they _all_ gave evidence," said Mr. Quin musingly. "There were no
exceptions?"
"Now I remember it," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "the housemaid was only
called at the inquest. She's gone to Canada since, I believe."
"I see," said Mr. Quin.
There was a silence, and somehow the air of the little restaurant
seemed to be charged with an uneasy feeling. Mr. Satterthwaite felt
suddenly as though he were on the defensive.
"Why shouldn't she?" he said abruptly.
"Why should she?" said Mr. Quin with a very slight shrug of the
shoulders.
Somehow the question annoyed Mr. Satterthwaite. He wanted to shy away
from it--to get back on familiar ground.
"There couldn't be much doubt who fired the shot. As a matter of fact,
the servants seemed to have lost their heads a bit. There was no one
in the house to take charge. It was some minutes before anyone thought
of ringing up the police, and when they did so, they found that the
telephone was out of order."
"Oh," said Mr. Quin. "The telephone was out of order."
"It was," said Mr. Satterthwaite--and was struck suddenly by the
feeling that he had said something tremendously important. "It might,
of course, have been done on purpose," he said slowly. "But there seems
no point in that. Death was practically instantaneous."
Mr. Quin said nothing, and Mr. Satterthwaite felt that his explanation
was unsatisfactory.
"There was absolutely no one to suspect but young Wylde," he went on.
"By his own account, even, he was only out of the house three minutes
before the shot was fired. And who else could have fired it? Sir George
was at a bridge party a few houses away. He left there at half-past six
and was met just outside the gate by a servant bringing him the news.
The last rubber finished at half-past six exactly--no doubt about that.
Then there was Sir George's secretary, Henry Thompson. He was in London
that day, and actually at a business meeting at the moment the shot was
fired. Finally there is Sylvia Dale, who, after all, had a perfectly
good motive, impossible as it seems that she should have had anything
to do with such a crime. She was at the station of Deering Vale seeing
a friend off by the 6:28 train. That lets her out. Then the servants.
What earthly motive could any one of them have? Besides, they all
arrived on the spot practically simultaneously. No, it must have been
Martin Wylde."
But he said it in a dissatisfied kind of voice.
They went on with their lunch. Mr. Quin was not in a talkative mood,
and Mr. Satterthwaite had said all he had to say. But the silence was
not a barren one. It was filled with the growing dissatisfaction of Mr.
Satterthwaite, heightened and fostered in some strange way by the mere
quiescence of the other man.
Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly put down his knife and fork with a clatter.
"Supposing that that young man is really innocent," he said. "He's
going to be hanged."
He looked very startled and upset about it. And still Mr. Quin said
nothing.
"It's not as though--" began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped. "Why
shouldn't the woman go to Canada?" he ended inconsequently.
Mr. Quin shook his head.
"I don't even know what part of Canada she went to," continued Mr.
Satterthwaite peevishly.
"Could you find out?" suggested the other.
"I suppose I could. The butler, now. He'd know. Or possibly Thompson,
the secretary."
He paused again. When he resumed speech, his voice sounded almost
pleading. "It's not as though it were anything to do with me?"
"That a young man is going to be hanged in a little over three weeks?"
"Well, yes--if you put it that way, I suppose. Yes, I see what you
mean. Life and death. And that poor girl, too. It's not that I'm
hard-hearted--but, after all--what good will it do? Isn't the whole
thing rather fantastic? Even if I found out where the woman's gone to
in Canada--why, it would probably mean that I should have to go out
there myself."
Mr. Satterthwaite looked seriously upset. "And I was thinking of going
to the Riviera next week," he said pathetically.
And his glance toward Mr. Quin said as plainly as it could be said: _Do
let me off, won't you?_
"You have never been to Canada?"
"Never."
"A very interesting country."
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him undecidedly. "You think I ought to go?"
Mr. Quin leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. Between
puffs of smoke, he spoke deliberately.
"You are, I believe, a rich man, Mr. Satterthwaite. Not a
millionaire, but a man able to indulge a hobby without counting the
expense. You have looked on at the dramas of other people. Have
you never contemplated stepping in and playing a part? Have you
never seen yourself for a minute as the arbiter of other people's
destinies--standing in the center of the stage with life and death in
your hands?"
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward. The old eagerness surged over him.
"You mean--if I go on this wild goose chase to Canada--"
Mr. Quin smiled. "Oh! it was your suggestion, going to Canada, not
mine," he said lightly.
"You can't put me off like that," said Mr. Satterthwaite earnestly.
"Whenever I have come across you--" He stopped.
"Well?"
"There is something about you I do not understand. Perhaps I never
shall. The last time I met you--"
"On Midsummer Eve."
Mr. Satterthwaite was startled, as though the words held a clue that he
did not quite understand.
"Was it Midsummer Eve?" he asked confusedly.
"Yes. But let us not dwell on that. It is unimportant, is it not?"
"Since you say so," said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously. He felt that
elusive clue slipping through his fingers. "When I come back from
Canada"--he paused a little awkwardly--"I--I--should much like to see
you again."
"I am afraid I have no fixed address for the moment," said Mr. Quin
regretfully. "But I often come to this place. If you also frequent it,
we shall no doubt meet before very long."
They parted pleasantly.
Mr. Satterthwaite was very excited. He hurried round to Cook's and
inquired about boat sailings. Then he rang up Deering Hill. The voice
of a butler, suave and deferential, answered him.
"My name is Satterthwaite. I am speaking for a--er--firm of solicitors.
I wished to make a few inquiries about a young woman who was recently
housemaid in your establishment."
"Would that be Louisa, sir? Louisa Bullard?"
"That is the name," said Mr. Satterthwaite, very pleased to be told it.
"I regret she is not in this country, sir. She went to Canada six
months ago."
"Can you give me her present address?"
The butler was afraid he couldn't. It was a place in the mountains she
had gone to--a Scotch name--ah! Banff, that was it. Some of the other
young women in the house had been expecting to hear from her, but she
had never written or given them any address.
Mr. Satterthwaite thanked him and rang off. He was still undaunted. The
adventurous spirit was strong in his breast. He would go to Banff. If
this Louisa Bullard was there, he would track her down somehow or other.
* * * * *
To his own surprise, he enjoyed the trip greatly. It was many years
since he had taken a long sea voyage. The Riviera, Le Touquet and
Deauville, and Scotland had been his usual round. The feeling that he
was setting off on an impossible mission added a secret zest to his
journey. What an utter fool these fellow travelers of his would think
him did they but know the object of his quest! But then--they were not
acquainted with Mr. Quin.
In Banff he found his objective easily attained. Louisa Bullard was
employed in the large hotel there. Twelve hours after his arrival he
was standing face to face with her.
She was a woman of about thirty-five, anemic-looking, but with a strong
frame. She had pale brown hair inclined to curl, and a pair of honest
brown eyes. She was, he thought, slightly stupid, but very trustworthy.
She accepted quite readily his statement that he had been asked to
collect a few further facts from her about the tragedy at Deering Hill.
"I saw in the paper that Mr. Martin Wylde had been convicted, sir. Very
sad it is, too."
She seemed, however, to have no doubt as to his guilt.
"A nice young gentleman gone wrong. But though I wouldn't speak ill
of the dead, it was her ladyship what led him on. Wouldn't leave him
alone, she wouldn't. Well, they've both got their punishment. There's a
text used to hang on my wall when I was a child, '_God is not mocked_,'
and it's very true. I knew something was going to happen that very
evening--and sure enough it did."
"How was that?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I was in my room, sir, changing my dress, and I happened to glance out
of the window. There was a train going along, and the white smoke of
it rose up in the air, and if you'll believe me it formed itself into
the sign of a gigantic hand. A great white hand against the crimson of
the sky. The fingers were crooked-like, as though they were reaching
out for something. It fair gave me a turn. 'Did you ever, now?' I said
to myself. 'That's a sign of something coming'--and sure enough at
that very minute I heard the shot. 'It's come,' I said to myself, and
I rushed downstairs and joined Carrie and the others who were in the
hall, and we went into the music room and there she was, shot through
the head--and the blood and everything. Horrible! I spoke up, I did,
and told Sir George how I'd seen the sign beforehand, but he didn't
seem to think much of it. An unlucky day, that was; I'd felt it in my