The Secret House. Wallace Edgar
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demanded – Poltavo could lie very easily.
"Or Mr. Gorth?" she asked, and he shook his head.
She drew a deep breath of relief. "And my uncle?" The question was a whisper. She appeared to hang upon his reply.
The Count hesitated. "I do not know," he admitted finally. "If he were not influenced by Dr. Fall, I believe he would be my friend." It was a bow at a venture. He was following the bent of her inclination.
For the first time that evening Doris looked at him with interest.
"May I ask how your uncle came to know Gorth?"
He asked the question with the assurance of one who knew all that was to be known save on this point.
She hesitated awhile.
"I don't quite know. The doctor we have always known. He lives in the country, and we only see him occasionally. He is – " She hesitated and then went on rapidly: "I think he has rather dreadful work. He is in charge of a lunatic."
Poltavo was interested.
"Please go on," he said.
The girl smiled. "I am afraid you are an awful gossip," she rallied, but became more serious. "I don't like him very much, but uncle says that is my prejudice. He is one of those quiet, sure men who say very little and make one feel rather foolish. Don't you know that feeling? It is as though one were dancing the tango in front of the Sphinx."
Poltavo showed his white teeth in a smile.
"I have yet to have that experience," he said.
She nodded.
"One of these days you will meet Dr. Fall and you will know how helpless one can feel in his presence."
A remarkable prophecy which was recalled by Poltavo at a moment when he was powerless to profit by the warning.
"Mr. Gorth?"
Again she hesitated and shrugged her shoulders.
"Well," she said frankly, "he is just a common man. He looks almost like a criminal to my mind. But apparently he has been a loyal servant to uncle for many years."
"Tell me," asked Poltavo, "on what terms is Dr. Fall with your uncle? On terms of equality?"
She nodded.
"Naturally," she said with a look of surprise, "he is a gentleman, and is, I believe, fairly well off."
"And Gorth?" asked Poltavo.
He was interested for many reasons as one who had to take the place of that silent figure which lay in the fog-shrouded house.
"I hardly know how to describe uncle's relations with Gorth," she answered, a little puzzled. "There was a time when they were on terms of perfect equality, but sometimes uncle would be very angry with him indeed. He was rather a horrid man really. Do you know a paper called Gossip's Corner?" she asked suddenly.
Poltavo had heard of the journal and had found a certain malicious joy in reading its scandalous paragraphs.
"Well," she said in answer to his nod, "that was Mr. Gorth's idea of literature. Uncle would never have the paper in his house, but whenever you saw Mr. Gorth – he invariably waited for uncle in the kitchen – you would be sure to find him chuckling over some of the horrid things which that paper published. Uncle used to get more angry about this than anything else, Mr. Gorth took a delight in all the unpleasant things which this wretched little paper printed. I have heard it said that he had something to do with its publication; but when I spoke to uncle about it, he was rather cross with me for thinking such a thing."
Poltavo was conscious that the eyes of Farrington were searching his face narrowly, and out of the corner of his eye he noted the obvious disapproval. He turned round carelessly.
"An admirable sight – a London theatre crowd."
"Very," said the millionaire, drily.
"Celebrities on every hand – Montague Fallock, for instance, is here."
Farrington nodded.
"And that wise-looking young man in the very end seat of the fourth row – he is in the shadow, but you may see him."
"T. B. Smith," said Farrington, shortly. "I have seen him – I have seen everybody but – "
"But – ?"
"The occupant of the royal box. She keeps in the shadow all the time. She is not a detective, too, I suppose?" he asked, sarcastically. He looked round. Frank Doughton, his niece and Lady Dinsmore were engrossed in conversation.
"Poltavo," he said, dropping his voice, "I want to know who that woman is in the opposite box – I have a reason."
The orchestra was playing a soft intermezzo, and of a sudden the lights went down in the house, hushed to silence as the curtain went slowly up upon the second act.
There was a shifting of chairs to distribute the view, a tense moment of silence as the chorus came down a rocky defile and then – a white pencil of flame shot out from the royal box and a sharp crash of a pistol report.
"My God!" gasped Mr. Farrington, and staggered back.
There was a loud babble of voices, a stentorian voice from the back of the stalls shouted, "House lights – quick!" The curtain fell as the house was bathed in the sudden glare of lights.
T. B. saw the flash and leapt for the side aisle: two steps and he was at the door which led to the royal box. It was empty. He passed quickly through the retiring room – empty also, but the private entrance giving on to the street was open and the fog was drifting through in great wreaths.
He stepped out into the street and blew a shrill whistle. Instantly from the gloom came a plain clothes policeman – No, he had seen nobody pass. T. B. went back to the theatre, raced round to the box opposite and found it in confusion.
"Where is Mr. Farrington?" he asked, quickly.
He addressed his remark to Poltavo.
"He is gone," said the other, with a shrug.
"He was here when the pistol was fired – at this box, my friend, as the bullet will testify." He pointed to the mark on the enamelled panel behind. "When the lights came he had gone – that is all."
"He can't have gone," said T. B. shortly. "The theatre is surrounded. I have a warrant for his arrest."
A cry from the girl stopped him. She was white and shaking.
"Arrest!" she gasped, "on what charge?"
"On a charge of being concerned with one Gorth in burglary at the Docks – and with an attempted murder."
"Gorth!" cried the girl, vehemently. "If any man is guilty, it is Gorth – that evil man – "
"Speak softly of the dead," said T. B. gently. "Mr. Gorth, as I have every reason to believe, received wounds from which he died. Perhaps you can enlighten me, Poltavo?"
But the Count could only spread deprecating hands.
T. B. went out into the corridor. There was an emergency exit to the street, but the door was closed. On the floor he found a glove, on the door itself the print of a bloody hand.
But there was no sign of Farrington.
CHAPTER VII
Two days later, at the stroke of ten, Frank Doughton sprang from his taxi in front of the office of the Evening Times.
He stood for a moment, drawing in the fresh March air, sweet with the breath of approaching spring. The fog of last night had vanished, leaving no trace. He caught the scent of Southern lilacs from an adjoining florist shop.
He took the stairs three at a time.
"Chief in yet?" he inquired of Jamieson, the news editor, who looked up in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock.
"No, he's not down yet. You've broken your record."
Frank nodded.
"I've got to get away early."
Tossing