Part 42 (1/2)

Garratt Skinner smiled.

”Insist perhaps! But how enforce it, my friend? That's another matter.”

”I think we have the means to do that,” said Chayne. ”We can point out to Walter Hine, for instance, that your ascent from the Brenva Glacier was an attempt to murder him.”

”An ugly word, Captain Chayne. You would find it difficult of proof.”

”The story is fairly complete,” returned Chayne. ”There is first of all a telegram from Mr. Jarvice couched in curious language.”

Garratt Skinner's face lost its smile of amus.e.m.e.nt.

”Indeed?” he said. He was plainly disconcerted.

”Yes.” Chayne produced the telegram from his letter case, read it aloud with his eyes upon Garratt Skinner, and replaced it. ”'What are you waiting for? Hurry up! Jarvice.' There is no need at all events to ask Mr. Jarvice what he was waiting for, is there? He wanted to lay his hands upon the money for which Hine's life was insured.”

Garratt Skinner leaned back in his chair. His eyes never left Chayne's face, his face grew set and stern. He had a dangerous look, the look of a desperate man at bay.

”Then there is a certain incident to be considered which took place in the house near Weymouth. You must at times have been puzzled by it--perhaps a little alarmed too. Do you remember one evening when a whistle from the shadows on the road and a yokel's shout drove you out of Walter Hine's room, sent you creeping out of it as stealthily as you entered--nay, did more than that, for that whistle and that shout drove you out of Dorsets.h.i.+re. Ah! I see you remember.”

Garratt Skinner indeed had often enough been troubled by the recollection of that night. The shout, the whistle ringing out so suddenly and abruptly from the darkness and the silence had struck upon his imagination and alarmed him by their mystery. Who was the man who had seen? And what had he seen? Garratt Skinner had never felt quite safe since that evening. There was some one, a stranger, going about the world with the key to his secret, even if he had not guessed the secret.

”It was I who whistled. I who shouted.”

”You!” cried Garratt Skinner. ”You!”

”Yes. Sylvia was with me. You thought to do that night what you thought to do a few days ago above the Brenva ridge. Both times together we were able to hinder you. But once Sylvia hindered you alone. There is the affair of the cocaine.”

Chayne looked toward his wife with a look of great pride for the bravery which she had shown. She was sitting aloof in the embrasure of the window with her face averted and a hand pressed over her eyes and forehead.

Chayne looked back to Garratt Skinner, and there was more anger in his face than he had ever shown.

”I will never forgive you the distress you have caused to Sylvia,” he said.

But Garratt Skinner's eyes were upon Sylvia, and in his face, too, there was a humorous look of pride. She had courage. He remembered how she had confronted him when Walter Hine lay sick. He said no word to her, however, and again he turned to Chayne, who went on:

”There is also your past career to add weight to the argument, Mr.--Strood.”

Point by point Chayne set out in detail the case for the prosecution.

Garratt Skinner listened without interruption, but he knew that he was beaten. The evidence against him was too strong. It might not be enough legally to secure his conviction at a public trial--though even upon that question there would be the gravest doubt--but it would be enough to carry cert.i.tude to every ear which listened and to every eye which read.

”The game is played out,” Chayne continued. ”We have Walter Hine, and we shall not let him slip back into your hands. How much of the story we shall tell him we are not yet sure--but all if it be necessary. And, if it be necessary, to others beside.”

There was a definite threat in the last words. But Garratt Skinner had already made up his mind. Since the game was played out, since defeat had come, he took it without anger or excuse.

”Very well,” he said. ”Peace in the family circle is after all very desirable--eh, Sylvia? I agree with the deepest regret to part from my young friend, Walter Hine. I leave him in your hands.” He was speaking with a humorous magnanimity. But his eyes wandered back to Sylvia, who sat some distance away in the embrasure of the window, with her face in her hands; and his voice changed.

”Sylvia,” he said, gently, ”come here.”

Sylvia rose and walked over to the table.

The waiting, the knowledge which had come to her during the last few days, had told their tale. She had the look which Chayne too well remembered, the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the languor in her walk, the pallor in her cheeks, the distress and shame in her expression.