shall have something sent up to her. You might perhaps ask her if she would care to see a doctor. I could telephone for Browne.’
‘No, thank you, sir. She told me to tell you not to trouble, only please to excuse her.’
‘Mrs Tollard will not be down tonight,’ he told his guests, when they assembled at dinner. ‘I should think it must be a touch of neuralgia myself.’
All expressed sympathy, though Elaine’s face wore a look of slight scepticism, as if she doubted the cause of the malaise.
‘She did look seedy this morning,’ said young Haine.
‘She is a pale type,’ said Mrs Minever.
After dinner, Mrs Minever, the Heads, Mr Barley, and the Heads’ friend, with Elaine and Ortho Haine, decided for bridge. Nelly Sayers wanted Mrs Gailey to go with her to the billiard-room, where they could discuss Margery and her neuralgia to their heart’s content, but a fourth was wanted for the second table, so she sat down with a book.
At half-past eleven the last rubber had been played, and Mrs Minever closed her bag, and got up. She was followed by Mrs Gailey, Elaine, and the others, the Heads lingering almost to the last to discuss some incident in the evening’s play. Then they too disappeared, and Mr Barley was left alone with Haine, who was yawning heavily.
‘Fine woman, Miss Gurdon,’ he said to his host, raising a desultory hand.
‘Very,’ said Mr Barley. ‘Brilliant even. I have a great respect for her.’
‘Doesn’t seem to be much love lost between her and Mrs Tollard,’ drawled Haine.
Mr Barley frowned. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t say that. But you’re tired, Haine. What about bed?’
‘Bed it is, sir,’ said Ortho obediently. ‘Good-night.’
Mr Barley retired last, looking thoughtful. Half an hour later, and the house was quiet. It was a still and warm night. Isolated in its park, there were no sounds from the main road that bounded the grounds on the south side.
Mr Barley fell asleep at twelve. He had tired himself speculating about Tollard and his wife. They would come round in time, he thought. These tiffs were a part of many married lives.
He was awakened about half-past five next morning by a sound. It seemed to him low but penetrating. He sat up in bed, and listened. A soft thud followed. He got out of bed, slipped on his trousers, slippers, and a dressing-gown, and was about to go out into the lobby when there was a knock at his door.
‘Come in,’ he said, in a disturbed voice.
He thought it might be his man. To his surprise it was Elaine Gurdon.
She wore moccasin slippers, and had on a silk dressing-gown over her night-dress. Her hair had been loosely coiled on top of her head, and held there by a long obsidian pin, with an amber head. He noticed that she was very tense, though she was in perfect control of herself.
‘What’s the matter?’ he stammered.
She put a finger on her lips. ‘Don’t rouse anyone yet. Come with me, please. Mrs Tollard is very ill. She may be dead. I have just come from her room.’ Mr Barley tried twice to speak. His face was ashen. He trembled as he stood staring at Elaine. Then he followed her out of the room, and down along the passage to the bedroom occupied by Margery Tollard.
THE bedrooms on the right side of the lobby faced south. The one occupied by Margery Tollard had a door communicating with that formerly used by her husband, which was, of course, empty since his departure.
Still silent, but much shaken, Mr Barley followed Elaine Gurdon to the door, watched her turn the handle, and push the door open. Then he advanced ahead of her into the room.
Something in the posture of the figure that lay face upwards on the floor near the window told him that Mrs Tollard was dead. He stopped to stare for a few moments, passing his hand agitatedly over his forehead. Then, accompanied by Elaine, he went forward and looked down into the dead face.
It looked haggard and tormented, the lips drawn back from the teeth in an ugly way. He shuddered.
‘I must send for the doctor at once. I don’t understand what can have happened. Will you help me get her on to the bed?’
Elaine shook her head doubtfully. ‘I don’t think it wise. I have seen many dead people before now, and this doesn’t look natural.’
‘You can’t mean murder?’ he asked, his jaw dropping.
‘I mean we had better leave her where she is,’ said Elaine. ‘Telephone at once to the doctor, and to the police. That is the only thing to do. I shall stay here until they come, or until you return.’
‘Please do,’ he said. ‘I suppose we shall have to tell the others? Shocking affair, dreadful, awful! But I must telephone. That can’t wait.’
He hurried out of the room, and slipped downstairs. He was anxious to alarm no one just yet, and at that hour most of the guests were wrapped in heavy sleep. It took him some time to get a reply from Dr Browne’s house, but, when the sleepy man at the other end of the wire heard what had happened, he assured Mr Barley that he would drive over at once.
Mr Barley next rang up the police station. Another short wait here. Then he heard the sergeant’s voice, hurriedly told him of the tragic event, and went upstairs again.
No one had been disturbed. Elaine was standing looking out of the window when he returned to the room. A great deal was required to shake her nerve. She had seen death too near, and too often, to lose control.
‘You will notice that this window is wide open, Mr Barley,’ she said in a low voice, as he went to her side, ‘top and bottom.’
‘So was mine,’ he said, rubbing his hands nervously together. ‘It was a very hot night.’
‘At all events, remember it,’ she said, so significantly that it rang in his head for long after. ‘Is the doctor coming?’
‘Yes, and the police sergeant. Dear me! Dear me! What ought I to do? The people here will be alarmed. Will it be wise to defer telling them?’
‘For the present, yes,’ she said.
‘And later on I could make arrangements for them to go.’
She shook her head. ‘The police may want to see them all.’
The thought of the police worried him. ‘I think I must lock up this room then. We can’t stand here. I don’t like it. If we could have put her on the bed, it would have been different, but she looks terrible lying there.’
‘Very well,’ said Elaine. ‘It’s lucky most of the others are sleeping in the other wing of the house. Only
