 THE GAME PLAYED IN THE DARK by Ernest Brammer . . . This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. THE GAME PLAYED IN THE DARK by Ernest Brammer It's a funny thing, sir, said Inspector Beedle, regarding Mr. Karados, with the pensive respect that he always extended towards the blind amateur. It's a funny thing, but nothing seems to go on abroad now, but what you'll find some trace of it here in London, if you take trouble to look? In the right quarter contributed Karados. Well, yes, agreed the Inspector, but nothing comes of it, nine times out of ten, because it's no one's particular business to look here. All the things been taken up and finished from the other end. I don't mean ordinary murders or sing-landed burglars, of course, but a modest ring of professional pride betrayed the quiet enthusiast. Well, first-class crimes. The State Antonio Five Percent Bond Coupons suggested Karados. Oh, you're right, Mr. Karados. Beedle shook his head sadly, as though perhaps on that occasion someone ought to have looked. A man as a fit in the Inquiry Office of the Agent General for British Equatoria, and two hundred and fifty thousand pounds' worth of fake securities is the result in Mexico. Then look at that jade-fill-fock charm, pawned for one and three down the basin, and the use that could have been made of it at the Karakoff-Witual Murder Trial. The West Hamstead had lost memory puzzle, and the Barry Purr bomb conspiracy that might have been smothered if one had known. Quite true, sir, and the three children of that Chicago millionaire. Cyrus v. Bunting, wasn't it? Kidnapped in broad daylight outside the New York Lyric, and here, three weeks later, the dumb girl who chalked the wall at Charing Cross. I remember reading once in a financial article that every piece of foreign gold had a string from it, leading to Thread Needle Street. A figure of speech there, of course, but, apt enough, I don't doubt. Well, it seems to me that every big crime done abroad leaves a fingerprint here in London, if only, as you say, we look in the right quarter. And at the right moment, added Carrados, the time is often the present, the place, the spot between our very noses. We take a step, and the chance has gone wherever. The inspector nodded and contributed a weighty monosalval of sympathetic agreement. The most prosaic of men, in the pursuit of his ordinary duties, it nevertheless subtly appealed to some half-dormant streak of vanity, to have his profession taken romantically, when there was no serious work on hand. So perhaps not for ever, in one case in a thousand, after all, amended the blind man thoughtfully. This perpetual duel between the law and the criminal has sometimes appeared to me in the terms of a game of cricket, inspector. Law is in the field, the criminal at the wicked. If law makes a mistake, sends down a loose ball, or drops a catch, the criminal scores a little, or has another lease of life. But if he makes a mistake, if he lets a straight ball-pass, or spoons towards a steady man, he's done for. His mistakes are fatal. Those of the law are only temporary and retrievable. Very good, sir, said Mr. Beedle, rising. The conversation had taken place in the study at the turrets, where Beedle had found occasion to present himself. Very apt indeed. I must remember that. Well, sir, I only hope that this Guido the razor lot will send a catch in our direction. This delicately marked Inspector Beedle's instinctive contempt for Guido. As a craftsman he was compelled on his reputation to respect him, and he had accordingly availed himself of Karados' friendship for a confabulation. As a man he was a foreigner, worse an Italian. And if left to his own resources, the Inspector would have opposed to his sinuous flexibility those rigid, essentially Britannia-metal methods of the force that strike the impartial observer as so ponderous, so amateurish and conventional. And it must be admitted, often so curiously and inexplicably successful. The offence that had circuitously brought Ile Rasogio, and his lot, within the cognizance of Scotland Yard, outlines the kind of story that is discreetly hinted at by the society paragraphist of the day, politely disbelieved by the astute reader, and then at last laid indiscreetly bare in all its details by the inevitable princessly recollections of a generation later. It centered round an impending royal marriage in Vienna. A certain jealous Countess Eggs, there you have the discretion of the paragrapher, and a document or two that might be relied upon. The aristocratic biographer will impartially sum up the contingencies to play the duke with the approaching nuptials. To procure the evidence of these papers the Countess enlisted the services of Guido. As reliable a scoundrel as she could probably have selected for the commission. To a certain point, to the abstraction of the papers in fact, he succeeded, but it was with pursuit close upon his heels. There was that disadvantage of employing a rogue to do the work that implicated roguery. For whatever moral right the Countess had to the property, her accomplice had no legal right whatever to his liberty. On half a dozen charges at least he could be arrested on sight in as many capitals of Europe. He slipped out of Vienna by the Nordbahn with his destination known, resourcefully stopped the express outside Sasslau and got away across to Khrudin. By this time the game and the moves were pretty well understood in more than one keenly interested quarter. Diplomacy supplemented justice and the immediate history of Guido became that of a fox hunted from covert to covert with all the familiar earths stopped against him. From part of bits he passed on to Glatz, reached Breslau and went down the Oder to Shtetin. Out of the liberality of his employer's advances he had ample funds to keep going and he dropped and rejoined his accomplices as the occasion ruled. A week's harrying found him in Copenhagen, still with no time to spare and he missed his purpose there. He crossed to Malmo by ferry, took the connecting night train to Stockholm and the same morning sailed down the Sozjon ostensibly bound for Oboe intending to cross to Ravel and so get back to Central Europe by the less frequented routes. But in this move again luck was against him and receiving warning just in time and by the mysterious agency that had so far protected him he contrived to be dropped from the steamer by boat among the islands of the crowded archipelago, made his way to Helsingvore and within 48 hours was back again on the Frihaven with pursuit for the moment blinked and a breathing time to the good. To appreciate the exact significance of these wanderings it is necessary to recall the conditions. Guido was not zigzagging a course across Europe in an aimless search for the picturesque, still less inspired by any love of the melodramatic. To him every step was vital, each tangent or rebound the necessary outcome of his much badgered plans. In his pocket repose the papers for which he had run grave risks. The price agreed upon for the service was sufficiently lavish to make the risks worth taking, time after time. But in order to consummate the transaction it was necessary that the booty should be put into his employer's hand. Halfway across Europe that employer was waiting with such patience as she could maintain, herself watched and the shadowed at every step. The Countess X was sufficiently exalted to be personally immune from the high-handed methods of her country's secret service, but every approach to her was tapped. The problem for Guido was to earn a long enough respite to enable him to communicate his position to the Countess and for her to go or to reach him by a trusty hand. Then the whole fabric of intrigue could fall to pieces, but so far Guido had been kept successfully on the run, and in the meanwhile time was pressing. They lost him after the utola, Bidell reported, in explaining the circumstances to Max Caradoss. Three days later they found that he'd been back again in Copenhagen, but by that time he'd flown. Now they were without a trace except the inference of these orange peach blossom agonies in the Times. But the Countess has gone hurriedly to Paris, and Lavoyard thinks it all points to London. I suppose the Foreign Office is anxious to oblige just now. I expect so, sir, agreed Bidell. But of course my instructions don't come from that quarter. What appeals to us is that it would be a feather in our camps. They're still a little sore up at the yard about hands the piper. Naturally, assented Caradoss. Well, I'll see what I can do if there's any real occasion. Let me know anything, and if you see your chance yourself. Come round for a talk, if you like. On today's Wednesday I shall be in, at any rate, on Friday evening. Without being a precision, the blind man was usually exact in such matters. There are those who hold that an engagement must be kept at all hazard. Men who would miss a deathbed message in order to keep literal faith with a beggar. Caradoss took lower if more substantial ground. My word, he sometimes had occasion to remark, is subject to contingencies like everything else about me. If I make a promise, it is conditional on nothing which seems more important arising to counteract it. That, along men of sense, is understood. And, as it happened, something did occur on this occasion. He was summoned to the telephone, just before dinner on Friday evening, to receive a message personally. Greater X, his secretary, had taken the call, but came in to say that the caller would give him nothing beyond his name, Bredna. The name was unknown to Caradoss, but such incidents were not uncommon, and he proceeded to comply. Yes, he responded. I am Max Caradoss speaking. What is it? Oh, it's you, sir, is it? Mr Brickwell told me to get to you direct. Well, are you all right, Brickwell? Are you the British Museum? Yes, I am Bredna in the Chaldean Art Department. There in the great stew here, we've just found out that someone has managed to get access to the second inner Greek room and looted some of the cabinets there. It's all a mystery as yet. What is missing? asked Caradoss. So far we can only definitely speak of about six trays of Greek coins, a hundred to a hundred and twenty, roughly. Important. The line conveyed a caustic bark of tragic amusement. Well, yes, I should say so. The beggar seems to have known his business. All fine specimens of the best period—siracus, misana, croton, amphiphilus, eunice, eviantos, kimons—the chief quite wept. Caradoss groaned. There was not a piece among them that he had not handled lovingly. What are you doing? he demanded. Mr Brickwell has been to Scotland Yard and other advice. We are not making it public as yet. We don't want a hint of it to be dropped anywhere, if you don't mind, sir. That will be all right. It was for that reason that I was to speak with you personally. We are notifying the chief dealers and likely collectors to whom the coins or some of them may be offered at once, if it is thought we haven't found out yet. Judging from the expertness displayed in the selection, we don't think there's any danger of the lot being sold to a pawnbroker or metal dealer, so that we're running very little real risk in not advertising the loss. Yes, probably it is as well, replied Caradoss. Is there anything that Mr Brickwell wishes me to do? Only this, sir. If you're offered a suspicious lot of Greek coins or here of them, would you have a look, I mean, ascertain whether they're likely to be ours, and if you think they are, communicate with us in Scotland Yard at once. Certainly, replied the blind man, tell Mr Brickwell that he can rely on me if any indication comes my way, convey my regrets to him, and tell him that I feel the loss quite as a personal one. I don't think that you and I have met as yet, Mr Brebner. It no, sir, said the voice diffidently, but I have looked forward to the pleasure. Perhaps this unfortunate business will bring me an introduction. You're very kind, was Caradoss's acknowledgment of the compliment. Any time. I was going to say that perhaps you don't know my weakness, but I have spent many pleasant hours over your wonderful collection. That ensures the personal element. Goodbye. Caradoss was really disturbed by the loss, although his concern was tempered by the reflection that the coins would inevitably in the end find their way back to the museum. That their restitution might involve ransom to the extent of several thousand pounds was the least poignant detail of the situation. The one harrowing thought was that the booty might, through stress or ignorance, find its way into the melting pot. That dreadful contingency, remote but insistent, was enough to affect the appetite of the blind enthusiast. He was expecting Inspector Beedle, who would be full of his own case, but he could not altogether dismiss the aspects of possibility that Brebner's communication opened before his mind. He was still concerned with the chances of destruction, and a very indifferent companion for Greater X, who alone sat with him when Parkinson presented himself. Dinner was over, but Caradoss had remained rather longer than his custom, smoking his mild Turkish cigarette in silence. A lady wishes to see you, sir. She said you would not know her name, but that her business would interest you. The form of message was sufficiently unusual to take the attention of both men. You don't know her, of course, Parkinson? inquired his master. For just a second the immaculate Parkinson seemed tongue-tied. Then he delivered himself in his most ceremonial strain. I regret to say that I cannot claim the advantage, sir, he replied. Better let me tackle her, sir, suggested Greater X with easy confidence. It's probably a sub. The sportive offer was declined by a smile and a shake of the head. Caradoss turned to his attendant. I shall be in the studied Parkinson. Show her there in three minutes. You stay and have another cigarette, Greater X. By that time she'll either have gone or have interested me. In three minutes' time Parkinson threw open the studied door. The lady, sir, he announced. Could he have seen? Caradoss would have received the impression of a plainly, almost doubly dressed young woman of Buxom figure. She wore a light veil, but it was ineffective in concealing the unattraction of the face beneath. The features were smart, and the upper lip darkened with the more than incipient moustache of the southern brunette. The worse remained, for a disfiguring rash had assailed patches of her skin. As she entered she swept the room and its occupant with a quiet but comprehensive survey. Please take a chair, madam. You wish to see me. The ghost of a demure smile flickered about her mouth as she complied, and in that moment her face seemed less uncommonly. Her eye lingered for a moment on a cabinet above the desk, and one might have noticed that her eye was very bright. Then she replied. You are, sir, Caradoss, in the person? Caradoss made his smiling admission, and changed his position of fraction, possibly to catch her curiously pitched voice the better. The great collector of the annaticuities. I do collect a little, he admitted, guardedly. You will forgive me, senor, if my language is not altogether good. When I leave out enables with my mother, we let boardings chiefly to English and Americans. I pick up the words, but since I marry and go to live in Calabria, my English has gone all red. No, you say rusty. Yes, that is it, quite a rusty. It is excellent, said Caradoss. I am sure we shall understand one another perfectly. The lady shot a penetrating glance, but the blind man's expression was merely suave and courteous. Then she continued. My husband is of the name of Raja, Mikaeli Raja. We have vineyard and a little property near Foranzan. She paused to examine the tips of her gloves for quite an appreciable moment. Senor, she burst out with some vehemence. The laws of my country are not good at all. From what I hear on all sides, said Caradoss, I am afraid that your country is not alone. There is in Foranzan a poor labourer, Jan Verde, of name, continued the visitor, dashing volubly into her narrative. He is one day digging in the vineyard, the vineyard of my husband, when his spade strikes itself upon an obstruction. Aha, says Jan, what have we here? And he goes down upon his knees to see. It is an oil jar of red earth, Senor, such as was anciently used, and in it is filled with silver money. Jan is poor, but he is a wiser. Does he call upon the authorities? No, no, he understands that they are all corrupt. He carries what he has found to my husband, for he knows him to be a man of great honour. My husband also is of brief decision. His mind is made up. Jan, he says, keep your mouth shut. This will be your ultimate profit. Jan understands, for he can't trust my husband. He makes a sign of a mutual implication. Then he goes back to the spade digging. My husband understands a little of these things, but not enough. We go to the collections of methanol and apples, and even aroma. And there we see other pieces of silver money, similar, and learn that they are of great value. They are of different sizes, but most will cover a clearer and of the thickness of two. On the one side, imagine the great head of a pig and a deity. On the other, so many things I cannot remember what. A gesture of circumferential despair indicated the hopeless variety of design. A bigger or quadrigal of mules, suggested Caradoss. An eagle carrying off a hair. A figure flying with a wreath. A trophy of arms. Some of those, perhaps. See, see, Ben. Right, Madame Faragia. You understand, I perceive a senor. We are very cautious, for on every side is extortion and an unjust law. See, it is even forbidden to take these things out of the country. Yet if we try to dispose of them at home, they will be seized, and we punished them. They are Tristora Torpato, what you call Trisio Troven, and belonging to the state. These coins, which the industry of yen discovered, and which had lain for so long in the ground of my husband's vineyard. So you brought them to England. See, senor, it is spoken of as a land of justice and of rich nobility, who buy these things at highest prices. Also my speaking a little of the language would serve us here. I suppose you have the coins for disposal, then. You can show them to me. My husband retains them. I will take you, but you must first give a parola d'anore of an English senior, not to betray us, or to speak of the circumstance. Caradoss had already foreseen this eventuality and decided to accept it. Whether a promise exacted on the plea of Trisio Trove would bind him to respect the dispoilers of the British Museum was a point for subsequent consideration. Prudence demanded that he should investigate the offer at once, and to cavill over Madame Farage's conditions would be fatal to that object. If the coins were, as there seemed little reason to doubt, the proceeds of the robbery, a modest ransom might be the safest way of preserving irreplaceable treasures, and in that case Caradoss could offer his services as the necessary intermediary. I give you the promise you require, Madame, he accordingly declared. It is sufficient, assented Madame. I will now take you to the spot. It is necessary that you alone should accompany me. For my husband is so distraught in this country where he understands not a word of what he's spoken, that his poor spirit would cry, we are surrounded. If he saw two strangers approach the house, oh, he has become most dreadful in his anxiety, my husband. He imagine only he keeps on the fire a cauldron of molten lead, and he would not hesitate to plunge into it this treasure and obliterate its existence. If he imagined himself in danger. So speculated Caradoss inwardly a likely precaution for a simple vine-grower of Calabria. Very well, he assented aloud, I will go with you alone. Where is the place? Madame Farage searched in the ancient purse that she discovered in her rusty handbag, and produced a scrap of paper. People do not understand sometimes my way of saying it, she explained. May I? said Caradoss, stretching out his hand. He took the paper and touched the writing with his fingertips. Oh, yes, seven herons-born place. That is on the edge of herons-born park, is it not? He transferred the paper casually to his desk as he spoke and stood up. How did you come, Madame Farage? Madame Farage followed the girl's action with a discreet smile that did not touch her voice. By a motor-bus, first one, and then another, inquiring at every turning. Oh, but it was interminable, sighed the lady. My driver is off for the evening. I did not expect to be going out, but I will phone up a taxi, and it will be at the gate as soon as we are. He dispatched the message, and then, turning to the house telephone, switched on to Greater X. I am just going round to herons-born park, he explained. Don't stay, Greater X, but if anyone calls expecting to see me, they can say that I don't anticipate being away more than an hour. Parkinson was hovering about the hall. With quite novel officiousness, he pressed upon his master a succession of articles that were not required. Over this usually complacent attendant, the unattractive features of Madame Farage appeared to exercise a stealthy fascination. For a dozen times the lady detected his eyes questioning her face, and a dozen times he looked guiltily away again. But his incongruities could not delay for more than a few minutes the opening of the door. I do not accompany you, sir, he inquired, with the suggestion plainly tendered in his voice, that it would be much better if he did. Not this time, Parkinson. A very well, sir. Is there any particular address which we can telephone in case you are required, sir? Mr. Greater X has instructions. Parkinson stood aside, his resource is exhausted. Madame Farage laughed a little mockingly as they walked down the drive. You are a man, sir, and think I may eat, your signal, carados. She declared, vivaciously. Carados, who held the key of his usually exact attendance perturbation, for he himself had recognized in Madame Farage the angelic Nina Brun of the Sicilian tetradram incident from the moment she opened her mouth, admitted to himself the humour of her audacity. But it was not until half an hour later that Enlightenment rewarded Parkinson. Inspector Beedle had just arrived, and was speaking with Greater X, when the conscientious valet, who had been winnowing his memory in solitude, broke in upon them, more distressed than either had ever seen him in his life before, and with the breathless introduction. It was the ears, sir. I have her ears at last! poured out his tale of suspicion, recognition, and his present fears. In the meantime, the two objects of his concern had reached the gate as the summoned taxicab drew up. Seven herons-worn place, called Carados to the driver, and Nonor interposed the lady with decision, and led him to stop at the beginning of the street. It is not far to walk. My husband would be on the verge of distraction, if he thought in the dark that it was the arrival of the police. Who knows? Brack Edge Road, opposite the end of Herons-worn Place, amended Carados. Herons-worn Place had the reputation, among those who were curious in such matters, of being the most reclusive residential spot inside the four-mile circle. To earn that distinction it was needless to say a cul-de-sac. It bounded one side of Herons-worn Park, but did not, at any point of its length, give access to that pleasant. It was entirely devoted to an ostentatious little houses, something between the villa and the cottage, some detached and some in pairs, but all possessing the endowment of larger, more unbridges gardens than can generally be secured within the radius. The local house agent described them as delightfully old world, or completely modernized, according to the requirement of the applicant. The cab was dismissed at the corner. A Madame Faragia guided her companion along the silent and deserted way. She had begun to talk with renewed animation, but her ceaseless chatter only served to emphasize to Carados the one fact that it was contrived to disguise. I am not causing you to miss the house with booking after me. Number seven. Madame Faragia. He had posed. No, certainly, she replied readily. It is a little further. The numbers are from the other end, but we are there. She stopped at a gate and opened it, still guiding him. They passed into a garden, moist and sweet, scented with distillate odours of a dewy evening. As she turned to relatch the gate, the blind man endeavoured politely to anticipate her. Between them his hat fell to the ground. My clumsiness. He apologised, recovering it from the step. My old impulses and my present helplessness. Alas, Madame Faragia! One learns of pudence by experience, said Madame Sageley. She was scarcely to know, poor lady. But even as she uttered this trite aphorism, under cover of darkness and his hat, Mr. Carados had just ruined his signatorying by blazoning a golden seven upon her garden step. To establish its identity, if need be. A cul-de-sac that numbered from the closed end seemed to demand some investigation. Seldom, he replied to her remark, but one goes on taking risks. So, we are there? Madame Faragia had opened the front door with a latch-key. She dropped the latch and led Carados forward along the narrow hall. The room they entered was at the back of the house. And from the position of the road, it therefore overlooked the park. Again the door was locked behind them. The celebrated Mr. Carados announced, Madame Faragia, with a sparkle of triumph in her voice. She waved her hand towards a lean, dark man who had stood beside the door as they entered. Maya Asband. Beneath our poor roof, in the most fraternal manner, commented the dark man in the same derisive spirit, but it is wonderful. The even more celebrated Mr. Dompierre, unless I am mistaken, retorted Carados blandly, I bow on our first real meeting. Were you new? exclaimed the Dompierre of the earlier incident incredulously. Stoker, you were right, and I owe you a hundred lira. Who recognized you, Nina? Well, how should I know? demanded the real Madame Dompierre crossly. This blind man himself, by chance. You pay a poor compliment to your charming wife's personality to imagine that one could forget her so soon, but in Carados, and you a Frenchman, Dompierre. You knew, Mr. Carados, and yet you ventured here. You were either a fool or a hero. An enthusiast, it is the same as both. Interposed the lady. What did I tell you? What does it matter if he recognized? You see, surely you exaggerate, Mr. Dompierre, contributed Carados. I may yet pay tribute to your industry. Perhaps I regret the circumstance and the necessity, but I am here to make the best of it. Let me see the things Madame has spoken of, and then we can consider the detail of their price, either for myself or on behalf of others. There was no immediate reply. From Dompierre came a satinine chuckle, and from Madame Dompierre a titter that accompanied a grimace. For one of the rare occasions in his life, Carados found himself wholly out of touch with the atmosphere of the situation. Instinctively he turned his face towards the other occupant of the room, the man addressed as Stoker, whom he knew to be standing near the window. This unfortunate business has brought me an introduction. Said a familiar voice. For one dreadful moment the universe stood still around Carados. Then, with the crash and grind of overwhelming mental tumult, the whole strategy revealed itself, like the sections of a gigantic puzzle falling into place before his eyes. There had been no robbery at the British Museum. That plausible concoction was as fictitious as the intentionally transparent tale of treasure trove. Carados recognised now how ineffective the one device would have been without the other in drawing him, how convincing the two together. And while smarting at the humiliation of his plight, he could not restrain a dash of admiration at the ingenuity, the accurately conjectured line of inference of the plot. It was again the familiar artifice of the cunning pitfall masked by the clumsily contrived trap just beyond it. And straight away into it he had blundered. And this, continued the same voice, is Carados, Max Carados, upon whose perspicuity a government, only the present government, let me injustice say, depends to outwit the undesirable alien. My country. Oh, my country. Is it really, Monsieur Carados? Inquired dompier in polite sarcasm? Are you sure, Nina, that you have not brought a man from Scotland Yard instead? Vasta. He is here. What more do you want? Do not mark the poor, sightless and gentleman. Answered Madame Dompier in doubtful sympathy. That's exactly what I was wondering, ventured Carados mildly. I am here. What more do you want? Perhaps you, Mr. Stoker. Excuse me. Stoker is a mere colloquial appellation based on a trifling incident of my career in connection with a disabled liner. The title illustrates the childish weakness of the criminal classes for nicknames. Together with their pitiable baldness of invention, my real name is Montmorency, Mr. Carados Eustice Montmorency. Thank you, Mr. Montmorency, said Carados gravely. We are on opposite sides of the table here tonight, but I should be proud to have been with you in the stokehold of the Benvenuto. That was pleasure, muttered the Englishman. This is business. Oh, quite so, agreed Carados. So far I am not exactly complaining, but I think it is high time to be told, and I address myself to you, why I have been decoyed here, and what your purpose is. Mr. Montmorency turned to his accomplice. Dompierre, he remarked with great clearness, why the devil is Mr. Carados kept standing. Oh, oh, Evan exclaimed Madame Dompierre with tragic resignation and flung herself down on a couch. A scourgey, grindling man, and with burlesque grace he placed a chair for their guest's acceptance. Your curiosity is natural, continued Mr. Montmorency, with a cold eye towards Dompierre's antics. Although I rarely think that by this time you ought to have guessed the truth, in fact I don't doubt that you have guessed, Mr. Carados, and that you are only endeavouring to gain time. For that reason, because it will perhaps convince you that we have nothing to fear, I don't mind obliging you. Bitter ace, and murmured Dompierre uneasily. Thank you, Bill, said the Englishman, with genuine fruntery. I won't fail to report your intelligence to the Rassaugeur. Yes, Mr. Carados, as you have already conjectured, it is the affair of the Countess X, to which you owe this inconvenience. You will appreciate the compliment that underlies your temporary seclusion, I'm sure. When circumstances favoured our plans, and London became the inevitable place of meeting, you and your loan stood in the way. We guessed that you would be consulted, and we frankly feared your intervention. You were consulted. We know that Inspector Beedle visited you two days ago, and he has no other case in hand. Your quiescence for just three days had to be obtained at any cost. So here you are. I see, assented Carados. And having got me here, how do you propose to keep me? Of course that detail has received consideration. In fact, we secured this furnished house solely with that in view. There are three courses before us. The first, quite pleasant, hangs on your acquiescence. The second, more drastic, comes into operation if you decline. The third, but really, Mr. Carados, I hope you won't oblige me even to discuss the third. You will understand that it is rather objectionable for me to contemplate the necessity of two able-bodied men having to use even the smallest amount of physical compulsion to one who is blind and helpless. I hope you will be reasonable and accept the inevitable. The inevitable is the one thing that I invariably accept, replied Carados. What does it involve? You will write a note to your secretary, explaining that what you have learned at Seven Herons-Born Place makes it necessary for you to go immediately abroad for a few days. By the way, Mr. Carados, although this is Herons-Born Place, it is not number seven. Dear, dear me, said the prisoner, you seem to have had me at every turn, Mr. Montmorency. An obvious precaution. The wider course of giving you a different street altogether we rejected as being too risky in getting you here. To continue, to give conviction to the message you will direct your man Parkinson to follow by the first boat train to-morrow, with all the requirements for short stay, and to put up at Mascots, as usual, waiting your arrival there. A very convincing, agreed Carados, where shall I be in reality? In a charming, though rather isolated bungalow on the South Coast, your wants will be attended to, those of boat, you can row, or fish. You will be run down by motor-car and brought back to your own gate. It's really very pleasant for a few days. I've often stayed there myself. Your recommendation carries way to suppose for the sake of curiosity that I decline. You'll still go there, but your treatment will be commensurate with your behavior. The car to take you is at this moment waiting in a convenient spot on the other side of the park. We shall go down the garden at the back, cross the park, and put you in the car. Anyway, and if I resist, the man whose pleasantry it had been to call himself Eustace Montmorency shrugged his shoulders. Don't be a fool, he said tolerantly. You know who you're dealing with, and the kind of risks we run. If you call out or endanger us at a critical point, we shall not hesitate to silence you effectively. The blind man knew that it was no idle threat. In spite of the cloak of humour and fantasy thrown over the proceedings, he was in the power of coolly desperate men. The window was curtained and shuttered against sight and sound. The door behind him locked. Possibly at that moment a revolver threatened him. Certainly weapons lay within reach of both his keepers. Tell me what to write, he asked, with capitulation in his voice. Dompier twirled his moustachios in relieved approval. Madame laughed from her place on the couch and picked up a book, watching Montmorency over the cover of its pages. As for that gentleman, he masked his satisfaction by the practical business of placing on the table before Carrados the accessories of the letter. Put into your own words the message that I outlined just now. That perhaps to make it altogether natural, I had better write on a page of the notebook that I always use, suggested Carrados. Do you wish to make it natural? demanded Montmorency with latent suspicion. If the miscarriage of your plan is to result in my head being not, yes, I do, was the reply. Gaud chuckled Dompier and sought to avoid Mr Montmorency's cold glance by turning on the electric table lamp for the blind man's benefit. Madame Dompier laughed shrilly. Thank you, Monsieur, said Carrados. You have done quite right. What is light to you is warmth to me. Heat, energy, inspiration, now to business. He took out the pocket-book he had spoken of and leisurely proceeded to flatten it down upon the table before him. As his tranquil, pleasant eyes ranged the room meanwhile, it was hard to believe that the shutters of an impenetrable darkness lay between them and the world. They rested for a moment on the two accomplices who stood beyond the table, picked out Madame Dompier lolling on the sofa to his right, and measured the proportions of the long, narrow room. They seemed to note the positions of the window at the one end and the door almost at the other, and even to take into account the single, pendant electric light, which up till then had been the sole illuminant. You prefer a pencil, asked Montmorency. I generally use it for casual purposes, but not, he added, touching the point critically, like this. Alert for any sign of retaliation, they watched him take an insignificant pen knife from his pocket, and begin to trim the pencil. Was there in his mind any mad impulse to force conclusions with that puny weapon? Dompier worked his face into a fiercer expression, and touched reassuringly the handle of his knife. Montmorency looked on for a moment, then, whistling softly to himself, turned his back on the table and strolled towards the window, avoiding Madame Nina's pursuant eye. Then, with overwhelming suddenness, it came and its form altogether unexpected. Caradoss had been putting the last strokes to the pencil, whittling it down upon the table. There had been no hasty movement, no violent act to give them warning. Only the little blade had pushed itself nearer and nearer to the electric light-core lying there. And suddenly, and instantly, the room was plunged into absolute darkness. To the door, Dom, shouted Montmorency in a flash, I'm at the window, don't let him pass, and we're all right. I am here, replied Dompier from the door. He will not attempt to pass. Came the quiet voice of Caradoss from across the room. You are now all exactly where I want you. You are both covered. If either moves an inch, I fire, and remember that I shoot by sound, not sight. But what does it mean, stammered Montmorency, above the despairing wail of Madame Dompier? It means that we are now on equal terms. Three blind men in a dark room. The numerical advantage that you possess is counterbalanced by the fact that you are out of your element. I am in, mine. Dom, whispered Montmorency across the dark space, strike a match. I have none. I would not, Dompier, if I were you. Advised Caradoss with a short laugh. It might be dangerous. At once his voice seemed to leap into a passion. Drop that matchbox, he cried. You are standing on the brink of your grave, you fool. Drop it, I say. Let me hear it fall. A breath of thought, almost too short to call a pause. Then a little thud of surrender sounded from the carpet by the door. The two conspirators seemed to hold their breath. That's right. The placid voice once more resumed its sway. Why cannot things be agreeable? I hate to have to shout, but you seem far from grasping the situation yet. Remember that I do not take the slightest risk. Also, please remember, Mr. Montmorency, that the action, even of a hair-trigger automatic, scrapes slightly as it comes up, and remind you of that for your own good, because if you are so ill-advised to think of trying to pot me in the dark, that noise gives me a fifth of a second start of you. Do you bear any chance no zingies in Mercer Street? The shooting gallery? Ask Mr. Montmorency, a little sulkingy. The same. If you happen to come through this alive, and are interested, you might ask zingy to show you a target of mine that he keeps. Seven shots at twenty yards, the target indicated by four watches, none of them so loud as the one you were wearing. He keeps it as a curiosity. I wear no watch, but a dompier expressing his thought aloud. No, Mr. Dompier, but you wear a heart, and that's not on your sleeve, said Caradoss. Just now it is quite as loud as Mr. Montmorency's watch. It is more central, too. I shall not have to allow any margin. That's right, breathe naturally. For the unhappy Dompier had given a gasp of apprehension. It does not make any difference to me, and after a time holding one's breath becomes really painful. A monsieur, declared Dompier earnestly, there was no intention of submitting you to injury, I swear. This Englishman did but speak within his hat. And the most extreme you would have been but bound and gagged. Take care, killing is a dangerous game. For you, not for me, was the bland rejoinder. If you kill me, you will be hanged for it. If I kill you, I shall be honorably acquitted. You can imagine the scene, the sympathetic court, the recital of your villainies, the story of my indignities. Then with stumbling feet and groping hands, the helpless blind man is led forward to give evidence. Sensation. No, no, it isn't really fair. But I can kill you both with absolute certainty, and providence will be saddled with all the responsibility. Please don't fidget with your feet, monsieur Dompier. I know that you aren't moving, but one is liable to make mistakes. Before I die, said Montmorency, and for some reason laughed unconvincingly in the dark. Before I die, Mr. Caradoss, I should really like to know what has happened to the light. That surely isn't providence. Would it be ungenerous to suggest that you are trying to gain time? You ought to know what has happened. But as it may satisfy you that I have nothing to fear from delay, I don't mind telling you. In my hand was a sharp knife. Contemptable. You were satisfied, as a weapon. Beneath my nose the flecks of the electric lamp. It was only necessary for me to draw the one across the other, and the system was short-circuited. Every lamp on that fuse is cut off, and in the distributing box in the hall you will find a burned-out wire. You perhaps, but miss your Dompierre's experience in plating, ought to have put him up to simple electricity? How did you know that there is a distributing box in all? Asked Dompierre, with dull resentment. My dear Dompierre, why beat the air with futile questions? replied Max Caradoss. What does it matter? Have it in the cellar, if you like. True, interposed Montmorency, the only thing that needs concern is now. But it is in the old nine feet high, but a Dompierre in bitterness. Yet he, this blind man, the only thing that needs concern is, repeated the Englishman, severely ignoring the interruption, is what you intend doing in the end, Mr. Caradoss. The end is a little difficult to foresee, was the admission. So far I am all for maintaining the status quo. Will the first grey light of morning find us still in this impasse? No, for between us we have condemned the room to eternal darkness. Probably about daybreak, Dompierre will drop off to sleep and roll against the door. I, unfortunately mistaking his attention, will send a bullet through. Pardon, madame, I should have remembered, but pray don't move. I protest, monsieur, don't protest. Just sit still. Very likely it will be Mr. Montmorency who will fall off to sleep the first, after all. Then we will anticipate that difficulty, said the one in question, speaking with renewed decision. We will play the last hand with our cards upon the table, if you like. Nina, Mr. Caradoss will not injure you, whatever happens. Be sure of that. When the moment comes, you will rise. A one word, put in Caradoss, with determination. My position is precarious, and I take no risks. As you say, I cannot injure madame Dompierre, and you two men are therefore my hostages for her good behaviour. If she rises from the couch, you, Dompierre, fall. If she advances another step, Mr. Montmorency follows you. Do nothing rash, Carissima, urged her husband, with passion at solicitude. You might get hit in place of me, we will yet find a better way. You dare not, Mr. Caradoss, flung out Montmorency, for the first time beginning to show signs of wear in this duel of the temper. He dare not, Dompierre, in cold blood and unprovoked, no jury would have quit you. Another who fails to do you justice, madame Nina, said the blind man with ironic gallantry. The action might be a little high-handed, one admits. But when you, appropriately clothed, and in your right complexions, stepped into the witness-box, and I said, gentlemen of the jury, what is my crime? That I made madame Dompierre a widow? Can you doubt their gratitude and my acquittal? Truly my countrymen are not all bats or monks, madame. Dompierre was breathing with perfect freedom now. While from the couch came the sounds of stifled emotion. But whether the maidie was involved in a paroxysm of sobs or of laughter, it might be difficult to swear. It was perhaps an hour after the flourish of the introduction, with which madame Dompierre had closed the door of the trap upon the blind man's entrance. The minutes had passed, but the situation remained unchanged, though the ingenuity of certainly two of the occupants of the room had been tormented into shreds to discover a means of turning it to their advantage. So far the terrible omniscience of the blind man in the dark, and the respect for his marksmanship, with which his coolness had inspired them, dominated the group. But one strong card yet remained to be played, and at last the moment came upon which the conspirators had pinned their despairing hopes. There was the sound of movement in the hall outside, not the first about the house, but towards the new complication, Carrados had been strangely unobservant. True, Montmorency had talked rather loudly to carry over the dangerous moments, but now there came an unmistakable snip, and to the accomplices it could only mean one thing. Montmorency was ready on the instant. Down, Dom, he cried, Throw yourself down! Break in, Guido! Break in the door! We're held up! There was an immediate response. The door, under the pressure of a human battering ram, burst open with a crash. On the threshold, the intruders, four or five in number, stopped starkly for a moment, held in astonishment by the extraordinary scene that the light from the hall and their own bull's eyes revealed. Flat on their faces, to present the least possible surface to Carrados's aim. Dompierre and Montmorency lay extended beside the window and behind the door. On the couch, with her head buried beneath the cushions, Madame Dompierre sought to shut out the sight and sound of violence. Carrados had not moved, but with arms resting on the table, and fingers placidly locked together, he smiled benignly on the new arrivals. His attitude, compared with the extravagance of those around him, gave the impression of a complacent modern deity, presiding over some grotesque ceremonial of pagan worship. So, Inspector, you could not wait for me after all, was his greeting. End of The Game Played in the Dark Read by Andy Minter She wished to remain undisturbed, and moreover had locked the doors of her room. The house was very still. The rain was falling subtly from a laden sky in which there was no gleam, no wreath, no promise. A generous wood fire had been lighted in the ample fireplace, and it brightened and illumined the luxurious apartment to its furthest corners. From some remote nook of her writing desk, the woman took a thick bundle of letters, bound tightly together with strong, coarse twine, and placed it upon the table in the center of the room. For weeks she had been schooling herself of what she was about to do. There was a strong deliberation in the lines of her long, thin, sensitive face. Her hands, too, were long and delicate and blue veined. With a pair of scissors she snapped the cord binding the letters together, thus released the ones which were topmost slid down to the table, and she with a quick movement thrust her fingers among them, scattering and turning them over until they quite covered the broad surface of the table. Before her were envelopes of various sizes and shapes, all of them addressed in the handwriting of one man and one woman. He had sent her letters all back to her one day. When sick with dread of possibilities, she had asked to have them returned. She had meant then to destroy them all, his and her own. That was four years ago, and she had been feeding upon them ever since. They had sustained her, she believed, and kept her spirit from perishing utterly. Now the day had come when the premonition of danger could no longer remain unheeded. She knew that before many months were passed, she would have to part from her treasure, leaving it unguarded. She swanked from inflicting the pain, the anguish, which the discovery of these letters would bring to others, to one above all who was near to her, and whose tenderness and years of devotion had made him in a manner dear to her. She calmly selected a letter at random from the pile and cast it into the roaring fire. A second one followed almost as calmly, with the third her hand began to tremble. When in a sudden paroxon she cast a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth into the flames in breathless succession. Then she stopped and began to pant, for she was far from strong, and she stayed staring into the fire with pained and savagized. Oh, what had she done? What had she not done? With feverish apprehension, she began to search among the letters before her. Which of them had she so ruthlessly, so cruelly put out of her existence? Heaven's grant not the first, that very first one written before they had learned, or dared to say to each other, I love you, no, no, there it was, safe enough. She laughed with pleasure and held it to her lips. What if that other most precious and most imprudent one was missing? In which every word of untempered passion had long ago eaten its way into her brain and which stirred her still today, as it had done a hundred times before when she thought of it. She crushed it between her palms when she found it. She kissed it again and again. With her sharp white teeth she tore the far corner from the letter where the name was written. She bit the torn scrap and tasted it between her lips and upon her tongue like some God-given morsel. What unbounded thankfulness she felt it out having destroyed them all. How desolate and empty would have been her remaining days without them, with only her thoughts, elusive thoughts that she could not hold in her hands and press as she did these to her cheeks and her heart. This man had changed the water in her veins to wine. Whose taste had brought delirium to both of them. It was all one and past now save for these letters that she held and circled in her arms. She stayed breathing softly and continually and with the hectic cheek resting upon them. She was thinking that you have a way to keep them without possible ultimate entry to that other one whom they would stab more cruelly than keen-knife blades. At last she felt the way. It was a way that frightened and bewildered her to think of at first, but she had reached it by deduction too sure to admit of doubt. She meant of course to destroy them herself before the end came, but how does the end come and when? Who can tell? She would guard again the possibility of accident by leaving them in charge the very one who above all should be spared a knowledge of their contents. She roused herself from the stupor of thought and gathered the scattered letters once more together, binding them again with a tough twine. She wrapped the compact monologue tight sheet of white polished paper. Then she wrote an ink upon the back of it in large firm characters. I leave this package to the care of my husband with perfect faith in his loyalty and his love. I ask him to destroy it unopened. It was not sealed. Only bit of string held the wrapper, but she could remove and replace it well whenever the humor came to her to pass an hour in some intoxicating dream of the days when she felt she had lived. If he had come upon that bundle of letters in the first flush of his poignant sorrow, there would not have been an instant hesitancy to destroy it promptly and without question would have seemed a welcome expression of devotion, a way of reaching her, of crying out his love to her while the world was still filled with the illusion of her presence. But months had passed since that spring day when they had found her stretched upon the floor, clutching the key of a writing desk which she appeared to have been attempting to reach when death overtook her. Day was much like that day a year ago when the leaves were falling in the rain, pouring steadily from the leaden sky which held no glean, no promise. He had happened accidentally upon the package in that remote nook of her desk. Just as she herself had done a year ago, he carried it to the table and laid it down there staring with puzzled eyes at the message which confronted him. I leave this package to the care of my husband. With perfect faith in his loyalty and his love, I ask him to destroy it unopened. She had made no mistake. Every line of his face, no longer young, spoke loyalty and honesty and his eyes were as faithful as the dogs and his loving. He was a tall, powerful man standing there in the firelight with shoulders that stooped a little and hair that was growing somewhat thin and gray and a face that was distinguished and must have been handsome when he smiled. But he was slow. Destroy it unopened, he reread, half aloud, but why unopened? He took the package again in his hands and turning it about and feeling it discovered that it was composed of many letters tightly packed together. So here were her letters which she was asking him to destroy unopened. She had never seemed in her lockdown to have had a secret from him. He knew her to have been cold and passionless, but true and watchful of his comfort and his happiness. Might he not be holding in his hands the secret of some other one which had been confided to her and which she had promised to guard, but no, she would have indicated the fact by some additional line or word. The secret was her own, something contained in these letters, and she wanted it to die with her. If he could have thought of her as on some distant, shadowy shore waiting for him throughout the years without stretched hands to come and join her again, he would not have hesitated. With hopeful confidence he would have thought in that blessed meeting time, soul-soul she would tell me all, till then I can wait and trust. But he could not think of her in any far-off paradise awaiting him. He felt that there was no smallest part of her anywhere in the universe more than there had been before she was born into the world. But she had embodied herself with terrible significance and an intangible wish, uttered when life still coursed through her veins, knowing that would reach him when the annihilation of death was between them, but uttered with all confidence in its power and potency. He was moved by the splendid daring, the magnificence of the act, which at the same time exalted him and lifted him above the head of common mortals. What secret save one could a woman choose to have die with her? As quickly as the suggestion came to his mind, so swiftly did the man instinctive possession creep into his blood. His fingers cramped about the package in his hands, and he sank into a chair beside the table. The agonizing suspicion that perhaps another hand shared with him, her thoughts, her affection, her life deprived him for a swift instant of honor and reason. He thrust the end of his strong thumb beneath the string, which with a single turn would have yielded with perfect faith in your loyalty and your love. It was not the written characters addressing themselves to the eye was like a voice speaking to his soul. With a tremor of anguished, he bowed his head down upon the letters. He had once seen a clairvoyant hold a letter to his forehead, and purport in doing so to discover its contents. He wondered for a wild moment if such a gift for force of wishing might come to him. But he was only conscious of the smooth surface of the paper, cold against his brow like a touch of a dead woman's hand. A half hour past before he lived in his head, an unspeakable conflict had raged within him, but his loyalty and his love had conquered. His face was pale and deep-blind with suffering, but there was no more hesitancy to be seen there. He did not for a moment think of casting the stick package into the flames to be licked by the furry tongue and charred and half revealed to his eyes. That was not what she meant. He arose and, taking a heavy bronze paperweight from the table, bound it securely to the package. He walked to the window, looked out into the street below. Darkness had come, and it was still raining. He could hear the rain dashing against the windowpades, and could see it falling through the dull yellow rim of light cast by the lightest street lamp. He prepared himself to go out and, when he was quite ready to leave the house, thrust the weighted package into the deep pocket of his topcoat. He did not hurry along the street as most people were doing at that hour, but walked with long, slow, deliberate steps, not seeming to mind the penetrating chill and rain driving into his face, despite the shelter of his umbrella. His dwelling was not far removed from the business section of the city, and it was not a great while before he found himself at the entrance of the bridge that spanned the river. The deep, broad, swift black river dividing two states. He walked on and out to the very center of the structure. The wind was blowing fiercely and keenly. The darkness where he stood was impenetrable. The sounds and the blights in the city he had left seemed like all the stars of heavens massed together, sinking into some distant mysterious horizon, leaving him along in a black, boundless universe. He drew the package from his pocket and, leaning as far as he could over the broad stone rail of the bridge, cast it from him into the river. It fell straight and swiftly from his hand. He could not follow his descent from the darkness, nor hear its dip into the water, far below, and vanished silently, seemingly into some inky and fathomable space. He felt as if he were fleeing it back to her in that unknown world, whether she had gone. An hour or two later he sat at his table in the company of several men whom he had invited that day to dine with him. A secret had settled upon his spirit, a conviction, a certitude that there could be but one secret which a woman would choose to have died with her. This one thought was possessing him and occupied his brain, keeping it nimble and alert with suspicion. It clutched his heart making every breath of existence a fresh moment of pain. The men about him were no longer their friends of yesterday. In each one he discerned a possible enemy. He attended absolutely to their talk. He was remembering how she had conducted herself toward this one and that one, striving to recall conversation, subtleties of facial expressions that might admit what he did not suspect at the moment. Shades of meeting in words that seemed ordinary in a change of social amenities. He led the conversation to the subject of women, probing those men for their opinions and experiences. There was not one but claimed some infallible power to command the affections of any woman whom his fancy might select. He had heard the empty bows before from the same group and had always met it with good human contempt. But tonight every flagrant in ignorance was charged with a new meaning, revealing possibilities that he had hitherto never taken into account. He was glad when they were gone he was eager to be alone, not from any desire or intention to sleep. He was impatient who had gained her room. That room in which she had lived a large portion of her life where he had found these letters. There must surely be some of them somewhere. He thought some forgotten scrap, some written thought or expression lying, unguarded by an invisible command. At the hour when he usually retired for the night, he set himself down before her writing desk and began the search of drawers, slides, pigeon holes, nooks and corners. He did not leave a scrap of anything unread. Many of the letters which he found were old, some he had read before others were new to him. But in none did he find the faintest evidence that his wife had not been the true and loyal woman he had always believed her to be. The night was nearly spent before the search ended. The brief troubled sleep which he snatched before his hour for rising was freighted with feverish grotesque dreams. Though all of which he could hear and could see dimly the dark river rushing by, carrying away his heart, his ambitions, his life. But it was not alone in letters that women betrayed their emotions, he thought. Often he had known them, especially when in love to mark fugitive sentimental passages and books of verse or prose, thus expressing and revealing their own hidden thought. Might she not have done this? Then began a second and far more exhausting and arduous quest than the first, turning page by page the volumes that crowded her room, books of fiction, poetry, philosophy. She'd read them all, but nowhere by the shadow of a sign could he find that the author had echoed the secrets of her existence, the secret which he'd held in his hands and had cast into the river. He began cautiously and gradually to question this one and that one, striving to learn by indirect ways which each had thought of her. For the most he learned, she had been unsympathetic because of her coldness of manner. One had admired her intellect, another her accomplishments. A third had thought her beautiful before disease claimed her regretting, however, that her beauty had liked warmth of color and expression. She was praised by some virginalness and kindness and by others for clubbiness and tact. Oh, it was usually to try to discover anything from men. He might have known it was women who would talk of what they knew. They did talk unreservedly. Most of them had loved her. Those who had not had held her in respect and esteem. And yet, and yet there is but one secret which a woman would choose to have died with her was the thought which continued to haunt him and deprive him of rest. Days and nights of uncertainty and slowly to nerve him and torture him. An assurance of the worst that he dreaded would have offered him peace to most welcome even at the price of happiness. It seemed no longer of any moment to him that men should come and go and fall or rise in the world and wed and die. He did not signify if money came to him by a turn of chance or eluded him. Empty and meaningless seemed to him all devices which the world offers for men's entertainment. The food and the drink set before him had lost their flavor. He did not longer know or care if the sun shone or the clouds lowered him. A cruel hazard had struck him there where he was weakest. Shattering his whole being leaving him with but one wish in his soul. One gnawing desire to know the mystery which he had held in his hands and cast into the river. One night when there was no star shining he wandered recklessly upon the streets. He no longer sought to know from men or women what they dared not or could not tell him. Only the river knew. He went and stood again upon the bridge where he had stood many an hour since that night when the darkness then had closed around him and engulfed his manhood. Only the river knew and babbled and he listened to it and told him nothing but it promised all. He could hear it promising him with caressing voice. Peace and sweet repose. He could hear the sweep the song of the water inviting him. A moment more and he had gone to seek her and to join her and her secret thought in the immeasurable rest. When Martha Hale opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind she ran back for her big woollen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round her head her eye made a scandalised sweep of her kitchen. It was no ordinary thing that called her away. It was probably further from ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dixon County. But what her eye took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving, her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half un-sifted. She hated to see things half done, but she had been at that when the team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale and then the sheriff came running in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too, adding with a grin that he guessed she was getting scary and wanted another woman along. So she had dropped everything right where it was. Martha—now came her husband's impatient voice—don't keep folks waiting out here in the cold. She again opened the storm-door, and this time joined the three men and the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated buggy. After she had the robes tucked round her she took another look at the woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Mrs. Peters the year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about her was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin and didn't have a strong voice. Mrs. Gorman, sheriff's wife before Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to be backing up the law with every word. But if Mrs. Peters didn't look like a sheriff's wife, Peters made it up in looking like a sheriff. He was, to a dot, the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff—a heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with the law-abiding, as if to make it plain that he knew the difference between criminals and non-criminals. And right there it came into Mrs. Hale's mind, with a stab, that this man who was so pleasant and lively with all of them was going to the rights now as a sheriff. The country's not very pleasant this time of year, Mrs. Peters at last ventured, as if she felt they ought to be talking as well as the men. Mrs. Hale scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone up a little hill and could see the right place now, and seeing it did not make her feel like talking. It looked very lonesome this cold March morning. It had always been a lonesome looking place. It was down in a hollow, and the poplar trees around it were lonesome looking trees. The men were looking at it and talking about what had happened. The county attorney was bending to one side of the buggy, and kept looking steadily at the place as they drew up to it. I'm glad you came with me, Mrs. Peters said nervously, as the two women were about to follow the men in through the kitchen door. Even after she had her foot on the doorstep, her hand on the knob, Martha Hale had a moment of feeling she could not cross that threshold, and the reason it seemed she couldn't cross it now was simply because she hadn't crossed it before. Time and time again it had been in her mind. I ought to go over and see Minnie Foster. She still thought of her as Minnie Foster, though for twenty years she had been Mrs. Right. And then there was always something to do, and Minnie Foster would go from her mind. But now she could come. The men went over to the stove. The women stood close together by the door. Young Henderson, the county attorney, turned around and said, come up to the fire, ladies. Mrs. Peters took a step forward, then stopped. I'm not cold, she said. And so the two women stood by the door, at first not even so much as looking around the kitchen. The men talked for a minute about what a good thing it was the sheriff had sent his deputy out that morning to make a fire for them. And then Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned his outer coat, and leaned his hands on the kitchen table in a way that seemed to mark the beginning of official business. Now, Mr. Hale, he said, in a sort of semi-official voice, before we move things about, you tell Mr. Henderson just what it was you saw when you came here yesterday morning. The county attorney was looking around the kitchen. By the way, he said, has anything been moved? He turned to the sheriff. Are things just as you left them yesterday? Peters looked from cupboard to sink, from that to a small worn rocker, a little to one side of the kitchen table. It's just the same. Somebody should have been here yesterday, said the county attorney. Oh, yesterday! returned the sheriff, with a little gesture, as of yesterday having been more than he could bear to think of. When I had to send Frank to Morris Centre for that man who went crazy, let me tell you, I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by today, George, and as long as I went over everything here myself. Well, Mr. Hale, said the county attorney, in a way of letting what was past and gone go. Tell us just what happened when you came here yesterday morning. Mrs. Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking feeling of the mother whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often wandered along, and got things mixed up in a story. He hoped he would tell this straightened plain, and not say unnecessary things, that would just make things harder for Minnie Foster. He didn't begin at once, and she noticed that he looked queer, as if standing in that kitchen and having to tell what he had seen there yesterday morning made him almost sick. Yes, Mr. Hale, the county attorney reminded. Harry and I had started a town with a load of potatoes. Mrs. Hale's husband began. Harry was Mrs. Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with them now, for the very good reason that those potatoes never got to town yesterday, and he was taking them this morning. So he hadn't been home when the sheriff stopped to say he wanted Mr. Hale to come over to the right place, and tell the county attorney his story there, where he could point it all out. With all Mrs. Hale's other emotions came the fear now that maybe Harry wasn't dressed warm enough. They hadn't any of them realised how that north wind did bite. We'd come along this road, Hale was going on, with a motion of his hand to the road over which they had just come. And as we got inside the house, I says to Harry, I'm going to see if I can't get John Wright to take a telephone. You see, he explained to Henderson, unless I can get somebody to go in with me, they won't come out on this branch road, except for a price I can't pay. I'd spoken to Wright about it once before, but he put me off, saying folks talk too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet. Guess you know about how much he talked himself. But I thought maybe if I went to the house, and talked about it before his wife, and said all the women folks like the telephones, and that in this lonesome stretch of road it would be a good thing. Well, I said to Harry that that was what I was going to say, though I said at the same time that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John. Now there he was, saying things he didn't need to say. Mrs. Hale tried to catch her husband's eye, but fortunately the county attorney interrupted with. Let's talk about that a little later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that, but I'm very anxious now to get along to just what happened when you got here. When he began this time, it was very deliberately and carefully. I didn't see or hear anything. I knocked at the door, and still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up. It was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again, louder, and I thought I heard somebody say come in. I wasn't sure. I'm not sure yet. But I opened the door, this door, jerking a hand toward the door by which the two women stood. And there, in that rocker, pointing to it, sat Mrs. Wright. Everyone in the kitchen looked at the rocker. It came into Mrs. Hale's mind that that rocker didn't look in the least like Mini Foster, the Mini Foster of twenty years before. It was a dingy red, with wooden rungs up the back, and the middle rung was gone, and the chair sagged to one side. How did she look? the county attorney was inquiring. Well, said Hale, she looked queer. How do you mean queer? As he asked it, he took out a notebook and pencil. Mrs. Hale did not like the sight of that pencil. She kept her eye fixed on her husband, as if to keep him from saying unnecessary things that would go into that notebook and make trouble. Hale did speak guardedly, as if the pencil had affected him too. Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next, and kind of done up. How did she seem to feel about your coming? Why, I don't think she minded one way or other. She didn't pay much attention. I said how do, Mrs. Wright? It's cold, ain't it? And she said is it? And went on pleating at her apron. Well, I was surprised. She didn't ask me to come up to the stove or to sit down, but just sit there, not even looking at me. And so I said I want to see John. And then she laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh. I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said a little sharp. Can I see John? No. So she, kind of dull like. Ain't he home? says I. Then she looked at me. Yes. So she, he's home. Then why can't I see him? I asked her, out of patience with her now. Cos he's dead. So she, just as quiet and dull, and fell to pleating her apron. Dead? says I, like you do when you can't take in what you've heard. She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rocking back and forth. Why? Where is he? says I, not knowing what to say. She just pointed upstairs, like this, pointing to the room above. I got up, with the idea of going up there myself. By this time I didn't know what to do. I walked from there, to here, then I says, why what did he die of? He died of a rope around his neck. So she, and just went on pleating at her apron. Hale stopped speaking, and stood staring at the rocker, as if he were still seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. Nobody spoke. It was as if everyone was seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. And what did you do then? The county attorney at last broke the silence. I went out and called Harry. I thought I might need help. I got Harry in, and we went upstairs. His voice fell almost to a whisper. There he was, lying over the— I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs. The county attorney interrupted, where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story. Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked— He stopped, his face twitching. But Harry, he went up to him, and he said, No, he's dead all right, and we better not touch anything. So we went downstairs. She was still sitting that same way. Has anybody been notified, I asked? No, so she, unconcerned. Who did this, Mrs. Wright, said Harry. He said it businesslike, and she stopped pleading at her apron. I don't know, she says. You don't know, says Harry. When you sleeping in the bed with him? Yes, says she, but I was on the inside. Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up, says Harry. I didn't wake up, she said after him. We may have looked as if we didn't see how that could be. For after a minute, she said, I sleep sound. Harry was going to ask her more questions. But I said maybe that weren't our business. Maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went as fast as he could over to High Road, the river's place, where there's a telephone. And what did she do when she knew you had gone for the coroner? The attorney got his pencil in his hand, all ready for writing. She moved from that chair to this one over here, Hale pointed to a small chair in the corner, and just sat there with her hands held together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone. And at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me, scared. At the sound of a moving pencil, the man who was telling the story looked up. I don't know, maybe it wasn't scared, he hastened. I wouldn't like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr Lloyd came and knew Mr Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't. He said that last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing. Everyone moved a little. The county attorney walked toward the stair door. I guess we go upstairs first, then out to the barn and around there. He paused and looked around the kitchen. You're convinced there was nothing important here? He asked the sheriff. Nothing that would point to any motive. The sheriff too looked all around, as if to reconvince himself. Nothing here but kitchen things, he said, with a little laugh for the insignificance of kitchen things. The county attorney was looking at the cupboard, a peculiar ungainly structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part of it being built in the wall, and the lower part just the old fashioned kitchen cupboard. As if its queerness attracted him, he got a chair and opened the upper part and looked in. After a moment he drew his hand away sticky. Here's a nice mess, he said resentfully. The two women had drawn nearer, and now the sheriff's wife spoke. Oh, her fruit! she said, looking to Mrs Hale for sympathetic understanding. She turned back to the county attorney and explained. She worried about that when it turned so cold last night. She said the fire would go out and her jars might burst. Mrs Peter's husband broke into a laugh. Well, can you beat the woman, held from murder and worrying about her preserves? The young attorney set his lips. I guess before we're through with her, she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about. Oh, well, said Mrs Hale's husband, with good-natured superiority. Women are used to worrying over trifles. The two women moved a little closer together. Neither of them spoke. The county attorney seemed suddenly to remember his manners and think of his future. And yet, said he, with the gallantry of a young politician, for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies? The women did not speak, did not unbend. He went to the sink and began washing his hands. He turned to wipe them on the roller-towel, weld it for a cleaner place. Dirty towels, not much for a housekeeper, would you say, ladies? He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink. There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm, said Mrs Hale, stiffly. To be sure. And yet, with a little bow to her, I know there are some Dixon County farmhouses that do not have such roller-towels. He gave it a pull to expose its full length again. Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always as clean as they might be. Ah, loyalty or sex, I see, he laughed. He stopped and gave her a keen look. But you and Mrs Wright were neighbours. I suppose you were friends, too. Martha Hale shook her head. I've seen little enough of her of late years. I've not been in this house. It's more than a year. And why was that? You didn't like her? I liked her well enough, she replied with spirit. Farmer's wives have their hands full, Mr Henderson, and then she looked around the kitchen. Yes, he encouraged. It never seemed a very cheerful place, said she, more to herself than to him. No, he agreed. I don't think anyone would call it cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the home-making instinct. Well, I don't know his right hand, either, she muttered. You mean they didn't get on very well, he was quick to ask. No, I don't mean anything, she answered with decision. As she turned a little away from him, she added, but I don't think a place would be any the cheerfuler for John Wright's being in it. I'd like to talk to you about that a little later, Mrs Hale, he said. I'm anxious to get the lay of things upstairs now. He moved toward the stair-door, followed by the two men. I suppose anything Mrs Peters does will be all right, the sheriff inquired. She was to take some clothes in for her, you know, and a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday. The county attorney looked at the two women they were leaving there alone among the kitchen things. Yes, Mrs Peters, he said, his glance resting on the woman who was not Mrs Peters, the big farmer woman who stood behind the sheriff's wife. Of course Mrs Peters is one of us, he said, in a manner of entrusting responsibility, and keep your eye out to Mrs Peters for anything that might be of use, no telling, you women might come upon a clue to the motive, and that's the thing we need. Mr Hale rubbed his face after the fashion of a showman getting ready for a pleasantry. But would the women know a clue if they did come upon it, he said, and having delivered himself of this, he followed the others through the stair-door. The women stood motionless and silent, listening to the footsteps, first upon the stairs, then in the room above them. Then, as if releasing herself from something strange, Mrs Hale began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's disdainful push at the foot had deranged. I'd hate to have men coming into my kitchen, she said testily, snooping round and criticising. Of course it's no more than her duty, said the sheriff's wife, in her manner of timid acquiescence. Duty's all right, replied Mrs Hale bluffly, but I guess that deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire might have got a little of this on. She gave the roller-tower a pull. Wish I'd thought of that sooner, seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up when she had to come away in such a hurry. She looked around the kitchen. Suddenly it was not slicked up. Her eye was held by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The cover was off the wooden bucket, and beside it was a paper bag, half full. Mrs Hale moved toward it. She was putting this in there, she said to herself, slowly. She thought of the flower in her kitchen at home, half sifted, half not sifted. She had been interrupted, and had left things half done. What had interrupted Mini Foster? Why had that work been left half done? She made a move, as if to finish it, unfinished things always bothered her. And then she glanced round, and saw that Mrs Peters was watching her. And she didn't want Mrs Peters to get that feeling she had got of work begun, and then for some reason not finished.