Part 37 (1/2)
”Oh, what shall I do!” she sobbed. ”Go back, you brute! I--I hate you.
There are policemen in the wood. I'll scream for help!”
”No need, Miss Manning,” said a calm voice which seemed to come from the circ.u.mambient air. ”Don't cry out or be alarmed, no matter what happens!”
A hand, not Robert Fenley's caught her shoulder in a rea.s.suring grip.
A tall figure brushed by, and she heard a curious sound that had a certain smack in it--a hard smack, combined with a thudding effect, as if some one had smitten a pillow with a fist. A fist it was a.s.suredly, and a hard one; but it smote no pillow. With a gurgling cough, Robert Fenley toppled headlong to the edge of the lake, and lay there probably some minutes, for the man who had hit him knew how and where to strike.
Sylvia did not scream. She had recognized Trenholme's voice, but she felt absurdly like fainting. Perhaps she swayed slightly, and her rescuer was aware of it, for he gathered her up in his arms as he might carry a scared child, nor did he set her on her feet when they were clear of the trees and in the open park.
”You are quite safe now,” he said soothingly. ”You are greatly upset, of course, and you need a minute or two to pull yourself together; but no one will hurt you while I am here. When you feel able to speak, you'll tell me where to take you, and I'll be your escort.”
”I can speak now, thank you,” said Sylvia, with a composure that was somewhat remarkable. ”Please put me down!”
He obeyed, but she imagined he gave her a silent hug before his clasp relaxed. Even then his left hand still rested on her shoulder in a protective way.
CHAPTER XIV
THE SPREADING OF THE NET
That John Trenholme should be in the right place at the right moment, and that the place should happen to be one where his presence was urgently required in Sylvia Manning's behalf, was not such a far-fetched coincidence as it might be deemed, for instance, by a jury. Juries are composed mainly of bald-headed men, men whose s.h.i.+ning pates have been denuded of hair by years and experience, and these factors dry the heart as surely as they impoverish the scalp.
Consequently, juries (in bulk, be it understood; individual jurors may, perhaps, retain the emotional equipment of a Chatterton) are skeptical when asked to accept the vagaries of the artistic temperament in extenuation of some so-called irrational action.
In the present case counsel for the defense would plead that his clients (Sylvia would undoubtedly figure in the charge) were moved by an overwhelming impulse shared in common. It was a glorious night, he might urge; each had been thinking of the other; each elected to stroll forth under the stars; their sympathies were linked by the strange circ.u.mstances which had led to the production of a noteworthy picture--what more likely than that they should visit the scene to which that picture owed its genesis?
Trenholme, it might be held, had not knowingly reached that stage of soul-sickness which brings the pa.s.sionate cry to _Valentine's_ lips:
Except I be by Sylvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Sylvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon.
”But, gentlemen,” the wily one would continue, ”that indefinable excitation of the nervous system which is summed up in the one small word 'love' must have a beginning; and whether that beginning springs from spore or germ, it is admittedly capable of amazingly rapid growth. The male defendant may not even have been aware of its existence, but subsequent events establish the diagnosis beyond cavil; and I would remind you that the melodious lines I have just quoted could not have been written by our immortal bard, Shakespeare, if two gentlemen of Verona, and two Veronese ladies as well, had not yielded to influences not altogether unlike those which governed my clients on this memorable occasion.”
Juries invariably treat Shakespeare's opinions with profound respect.
They know they ought to be well acquainted with his ”works,” but they are not, and hope to conceal their ignorance by accepting the poet's philosophy without reservation.
If, however, owing to the forensic skill of an advocate, romance might be held accountable for the wanderings of John and Sylvia, what of Robert? He, at least, was not under its magic spell. He, when the fateful hour struck, was merely drinking himself drowsy. To explain _him_, witnesses would be needed, and who more credible than a Superintendent and Detective Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department?
When Winter had smoked, and Furneaux had contributed some personal reminiscences the whole aim and object of which was the perplexing and mystification of that discreet person, Tomlinson, the two retired to their room at an early hour. The butler pressed them hospitably to try the house's special blend of Scotch whisky, but they had declined resolutely. Both acknowledged to an unwonted la.s.situde and sleepiness--symptoms which Hilton Fenley might expect and inquire about. When they were gone, the major domo sat down to review the day's doings.
His master's death at the hands of a murderer had shocked and saddened him far more than his manner betrayed. If some fantastic chain of events brought Tomlinson to the scaffold he would still retain the demeanor of an exemplary butler. But beneath the externals of his office he had a heart and a brain; and his heart grieved for a respected employer, and his brain told him that Scotland Yard was no wiser than he when it came to suspecting a likely person of having committed the crime, let alone arresting the suspect and proving his guilt.
Of course, therein Tomlinson was in error. Even butlers of renown have their limitations, and his stopped far short of the peculiar science of felon-hunting in which Winter and Furneaux were geniuses, each in his own line.
a.s.suredly he would have been vastly astonished could he have seen their movements when the bedroom door closed on them. In fact, his trained ear might have found some new quality in such a commonplace thing as the closing of the door. Every lock and bolt and catch in The Towers was in perfect working order, yet the lock of this door failed to click, for the excellent reason that it was jammed by a tiny wedge.
Hence, it could be opened noiselessly if need be; and lest a hinge might squeak each hinge was forthwith drenched with vaseline. Further, a tiny circlet of India rubber, equipped with a small spike, was placed between door and jamb.
Then, murmuring in undertones when they spoke, the detectives unpacked their portmanteaux. Winter produced no article out of the ordinary run, but Furneaux unrolled a knotted contrivance which proved to be a rope ladder.
”One or both of us may have to go out by the window,” he said. ”At any rate, we have Wellington's authority for the military axiom that a good leader always provides a line of retreat.”