The House Opposite: A Mystery

“Well, what is this missing link?” he asked, with obviously enforced gaiety. He looked squarely at me, and, as he did so, I became convinced that he already knew the answer to that question. For a moment we stared at each other in silence. Were my looks tell-tale, I wondered, and could he see that I had discovered his secret?

“Say,” broke in Mrs. Atkins, “don’t go to sleep. What was this missing thing?”

I would have given anything not to have had to answer.

“No hat was found with the body,” I said. Atkins, I noticed, was again looking fixedly at his wife, who had grown deathly white, and sat staring at him, as if hypnotised. Both had, apparently, forgotten me, but yet I felt deeply embarrassed at being present, and dropped my eyes to my plate so as to give them a chance to regain their composure unobserved.

“Has the hat been found?” I heard her inquire, and her high soprano voice had again that peculiar grating quality I had noticed during her interview with the Coroner.

“Yes,” I answered, “it was found in Argot’s possession. He actually wore it, and laid it down under my nose. Insanity can go no further.”

“But how did you know it was the missing hat?” demanded Atkins, without taking his eyes off his wife.

What could I answer? I was appalled at the dilemma into which my vanity and stupidity had led me.

“I suspected it was the hat which was wanted,” I blundered on, “because Mr. Merritt had told me he was looking for an ordinary white straw containing the name of a Chicago hatter. Argot’s hat answered to this description, and, as the Frenchman had never been West, I concluded that he had not got it by fair means.”

“So the dead man hailed from Chicago, did he?” inquired Atkins.

“The detective thinks so,” I answered.

“Have the police discovered his name yet?”

“I—I am not sure!”

“You are discreet, I see.”

“Indeed, no,” I assured him. “The last time I saw Mr. Merritt he was still in doubt as to the man’s real name.”

“He only knew that the initials were A. B.,” said Atkins, quickly.

I glanced, rapidly, from the husband to the wife. They sat, facing each other, unflinchingly, like two antagonists of mettle, their faces drawn and set. But the strain proved too much for the woman, and, in another moment, she would have fallen to the floor if I had not managed to catch her. Instead of assisting me, her husband sat quite still, wiping great beads of perspiration from his forehead.

“Come here,” I said, “and help me to carry your wife to the window.”

He got up, as if dazed, and came slowly toward me, and, together, we carried her to a lounge in the drawing-room.

“Look here, you told me yourself that all mention of the murder made your wife extremely nervous, and yet you distinctly encouraged us to talk about it this evening. Do you think that right?”

He stared at me with unseeing eyes, and appeared not to understand what I was saying.

“I had to find out the truth,” he muttered.

“Look here, man,” I cried, shaking him by the arm, “pull yourself together. Don’t let your wife see that expression on your face when she comes to. This is not a simple faint; your wife’s heart is affected, and if you excite her still further you may kill her.”

That roused him, and he now joined to the best of his ability in my endeavors to restore her. She soon opened her eyes, and glanced timidly at her husband. He managed to smile affectionately at her, which seemed to reassure her.

“How stupid of me to faint!” she exclaimed, “but it was so very hot.”

“Yes, the heat is dreadful; you really should not overtax yourself during this weather,” said her husband, gently, laying his hand on hers. She beamed at him, while a lovely pink overspread her pale face.

“As a doctor, may I urge Mrs. Atkins to go to bed immediately?” I said.

“Oh, no, no,” she cried petulantly; “I’m all right.” But as she tried to stand up she staggered helplessly.

“I insist on your going to bed, Lulu; I shall carry you up-stairs at once.” And the big man picked her up without more ado. She smiled at me over his shoulder, dimpling like a pleased child.

“You see, Doctor, what a tyrant he is,” she cried, waving her small hand as she disappeared.

When Atkins returned, I rose to say good night, but he motioned me to return to my seat, and handing me a box of cigars, insisted on my taking one. Then, dragging a chair forward, he sat down facing me. We puffed away for several minutes, in silence. I was sure, from his manner, that he was trying to get up his courage to tell me something.

“You said just now that Mrs. Atkins has something the matter with her heart?”

“I’m afraid so; but I do not fancy it is anything very serious, and if it is taken in time, and she leads a quiet, happy life, there is no reason that she should not recover completely.”

He got up and paced the room.

“I love her,” he murmured.

I watched him with increasing perplexity.

“Well, if that is so, treat her differently. You sit and watch her in a way that is enough to make anyone nervous, let alone a delicate woman. Forgive my speaking so plainly, but I consider it my duty as a physician. I am convinced that the extreme nervousness you spoke of (and which, by the way, I have failed to observe) is not to be attributed to the murder at all, but to your behaviour. I don’t think you have any idea how strange that is.”

“Oh, but my wife has not been nervous since the Frenchman was arrested. We watched him being taken away from your house, and last night she slept quietly for the first time since the tragedy.” He paused and looked at me as if he longed to say more.

“Well, that is quite natural, I think. I can imagine nothing more alarming than to know that you are living under the same roof with an undetected criminal, who might at any time make use of his freedom to commit another murder. Till she knew who was guilty, she must have suspected and feared everybody. Now that she knows the fellow to be under lock and key, she can again sleep in peace.”

Atkins sat down.

“Doctor, men of your calling are the same as confessors, are they not?”

“If you mean as regards the sanctity of professional communications, yes.”

“Then I should like to confide a few things to you under the seal of that professional secrecy.”

“All right; go ahead.”

“Do you know that my wife is from Chicago?”

“Yes.”

“I have never been there myself, and consequently know none of her friends. You may have heard that my father was very much opposed to my marriage. He collected a lot of cock-and-bull stories about my wife, which, needless to say, I did not believe. So the wedding took place, and, until a week ago, I can truthfully say that I have been perfectly happy.”

“What happened then?”

“I had to go out of town for two days on business, and got back very late on Wednesday night, having been delayed by an accident on the line. I was careful to be very quiet as I let myself in, anxious not to wake up my wife, who, I expected, would be fast asleep at that hour. I was therefore surprised and pleased to find the hall still ablaze with light. So, she had sat up for me after all, I thought. Taking off my hat I turned to hang it on the rack when I noticed a strange hat among my own. I took it down and examined it. It contained the name of a Chicago hatter and the initials A. B. were stamped on the inside band. At first I was simply puzzled, then it occurred to me that its owner must be still on the premises. That thought roused all my latent jealousy, so, putting the hat quietly back, I stole on tiptoe to the parlor. Peeping through the portières, I saw my wife lying asleep on the sofa. She was quite alone. To whom then did the hat belong? What man had left in such hurry or agitation as to forget so essential a thing? All the stories my father had told me came back to me with an overwhelming rush. Then I blushed at my want of confidence. All I had to do, I assured myself, was to wake up my wife and she would explain everything at once. I should not need to ask a question even; she would of her own accord tell me about her visitor. Full of these hopes I entered the room. She opened her eyes almost immediately and greeted me with even greater warmth than usual. I responded as best I could, but my impatience to hear what she had to say was so great as to render me insensible to everything else. I soon led our talk round to what she had been doing during my absence. She told me in a general way, but, Doctor, she made no mention of a gentleman visitor! I think I was patient. Again and again I gave her the chance to confide in me. At last, I asked her right out if she had happened to see any of her Chicago friends. She hesitated a minute, then answered, deliberately, No! To doubt was no longer possible. She was concealing something from me; therefore, there was something to conceal. And yet she dared to hang around my neck and nestle close to me. It made me sick to feel the false creature so near. I don’t know what came over me. The room swam before my eyes, and starting to my feet I flung her from me. She fell in a heap by the window and lay quite still, staring at me with speechless terror. I had had no intention of hurting her and was horrified at my brutality. I went to her and tried to raise her up, but at my approach she shrieked aloud and shrank away from me. I was thoroughly ashamed now and begged her to forgive my behaviour. But for some time she only shook her head, till at last, overcome by her emotions, she burst into hysterical sobs. This was too much for me. I forgot everything except that I loved her, and, kneeling down, gathered her into my arms. She no longer resisted me, but like a tired child let me do with her what I would. I carried her upstairs and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her fall asleep. From that day to this neither of us has ever referred to this occurrence! I didn’t, because—well, my motives were very mixed. In the first place, I couldn’t apologize for my behaviour without telling her the reason first, and that I was unwilling to do unasked. I was ashamed of my suspicions, and wanted the explanation to be offered by her and not solicited by me. And then, underlying everything, was an unacknowledged dread of what I might discover, and terror that I might again forget myself. But what were her reasons for never asking for the meaning of my conduct? Why did she not make me sue on my knees for pardon? She has always made a great fuss whenever I have offended her before; why did she pass over this outrage in silence? Did she fear what questions I might ask? Did she suspect the cause of my anger? That night, before going to bed, I took that accursed hat and flung it out of the dining-room window. It fell to the court below, and there Argot must have picked it up.”

“When did you first become convinced that that hat had belonged to the murdered man?”

“Not for several days. In fact, I have never been perfectly sure till this evening.”

“Really?”

“Yes; you see it did not occur to me for some time that there was any connection between my wife’s visitor and the—the victim.” Here the poor fellow shuddered. “Her manner was slightly constrained, and I saw she was depressed, but I thought that a natural result of the coolness that had arisen between us. I soon found out, however, that although our strained relations might weigh on her somewhat, the chief cause of her trouble was the murder. She hardly ever spoke of it, but I could see that it was never out of her mind. She used to send out for all the papers and pore over them by the hour, and was so nervous that it was positively painful to be in the room with her. She would start and scream with or without provocation. Another peculiarity she developed was an extreme disinclination to leaving the house. She went out on Thursday afternoon, I believe, but from that day to the time of Argot’s arrest I don’t think she ever left the building unless I insisted on it. And another queer thing she did, was to stand behind the curtains and peer at your house. I would catch her doing this at all hours of the day and night. Then I began to wonder more and more why this murder had such an effect on her. I read and re-read all that was printed about it, and suddenly it came to me that no hat had been found with the body. I searched the papers again feverishly. I had not been mistaken. Every article of clothing was carefully enumerated, but no hat was mentioned. It was then I first suspected that the dead man and my wife’s visitor were one and the same person. It was an awful moment, Doctor.”

He paused a while to control his emotions. “After that I kept continually puzzling as to how the fellow could have come by his death. Thank God, I was quite sure my little wife had no hand in that! You say Argot killed him; perhaps he did, though I can’t imagine why or how. As soon as Mrs. Atkins heard that the Frenchman had been arrested her whole manner changed. Her nervousness disappeared as if by magic, and to-day she resumed her usual mode of life. She has even talked about the murder occasionally. But the barrier between us has not diminished. I can not forget that she concealed that man’s visit from me. I have longed, yet dreaded, to have the police discover his identity, fearing that if they did his connection with my wife would also come out; and yet so anxious am I to know the nature of that connection as to be willing to run almost any risk to discover the truth. But things have come to a crisis to-night. We can no longer go on living side by side with this secret between us. She must tell me what there was between them. And now, when I can bear the suspense no longer, you insist that she must not be excited.”

I felt terribly sorry for the poor fellow, and hesitated what to advise.

“Get a good doctor,” I said at last, “and have Mrs. Atkins’s heart examined. Her trouble may not be as serious as I think it is, and in that case there would be no further need of caution.”

“Won’t you undertake the case?”

“Have you no family physician?”

“Yes; Dr. Hartley.”

“He is an excellent man, and I think it would be much less agitating to Mrs. Atkins to be treated by her own doctor. You see it is very important that she should be kept quiet. I should like to ask you one thing, however: Don’t you think you ought to tell the police that it was you who first found the hat and who threw it into the yard?”

“I don’t think it the least necessary,” he answered, in great alarm; “what harm can this additional suspicion do Argot? There is no doubt that he tried to murder you, and is quite irresponsible. Why should he not be guilty of the other crime? You suspected him before you knew that the hat was in his possession.”

“That is all very true. And the man is hopelessly insane, I hear, and, guilty or not guilty, will probably spend the rest of his life in a lunatic asylum. Well, I must be off. Let me know what Dr. Hartley’s verdict is. I am especially anxious that my fears may prove groundless, because I am sure that if you and Mrs. Atkins could have a frank talk everything would soon be satisfactorily explained.”

“Do you think so?” he exclaimed, eagerly.

“I’m sure of it,” and, with a hearty handshake, I left him.

CHAPTER XIV

MY HYSTERICAL PATIENT

THAT night I could not sleep, and when on receiving my mail the next morning I found that it contained no line from Fred, my anxiety could no longer be kept within bounds, and I determined that, come what might, another day should not pass without my seeing May Derwent. I left the hospital as soon as I decently could, but, even so, it was almost one o’clock before I was once more on my way to Beverley. On arriving there, I found to my disgust that there were no cabs at the station. An obliging countryman offered to “hitch up a team,” but I declined, thinking it would be quicker to walk than to wait for it, as the Derwents’ house was hardly a mile off. A delicious breeze had sprung up and was blowing new life into me, and I should have enjoyed my walk except for the fact that, as my visit must necessarily be a very short one, I begrudged every minute spent away from May Derwent. I was, therefore, trudging along at a great rate, entirely absorbed in reaching my destination in the shortest possible time, when I was surprised to perceive in the distance a woman running rapidly towards me. As there was neither man nor beast in sight, I wondered at the reason of her haste. A sudden illness? A fire? As the flying figure drew nearer, I was dismayed to recognize May Derwent. I rushed forward to meet her, and a moment later she lay panting and trembling in my arms. As I looked down and saw her fair head lying on my breast I felt as if I were having a foretaste of heaven. I was recalled to earth by feeling her slight form shudder convulsively and by hearing an occasional frightened sob.

“What has happened, May? What has frightened you?” I feared that she would resent this use of her Christian name, but she evidently did not notice it, for she only clung the tighter to me.

Mrs. Derwent, whose approach I had been watching, here joined us, hot and out of breath from her unwonted exertion. Her indignation at finding May in the arms of a comparative stranger was such that she dragged her daughter quite roughly from me.

“You must really calm yourself, May,” she commanded, with more severity than I had thought her capable of.

But the poor child only continued to tremble and cry. As it seemed a hopeless undertaking to try and quiet her, Mrs. Derwent and I each took her by an arm and between us we assisted her home. As we were nearing it, I saw Norman hurrying towards us.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired, anxiously.

As May had grown gradually more composed, her mother felt she could now leave her to my care, and, joining Norman, they walked briskly ahead, an arrangement which I don’t think that young man at all relished.

My darling and I strolled slowly on, she leaning confidingly on me, and I was well content.

“You are not frightened, now?” I asked.

She raised her beautiful eyes for an instant to mine.

“No,” she murmured; and all I could see of her averted face was one small crimson ear.

“I hope you will never be afraid when I am with you,” I said, pressing her arm gently to my side. She did not withdraw from me, only hung her head lower, so I went on bravely.

“These last forty-four hours have been the longest and most intolerable of my life!”

She elevated her eyebrows, and I thought I perceived a faint smile hovering around her lips.

“Indeed!”

“I hope you got some flowers I sent you yesterday?”

“Yes. Didn’t you receive my note thanking you for them? They were very beautiful!”

I loudly anathematised the post which had delayed so important a message.

This time there was no doubt about it—and a roguish smile was parting her lips. This emboldened me to ask: “Were these roses as good as the first lot? I got them at a different place.”

“Oh, did you send those also? There was no card with them.”

“I purposely omitted to enclose one, as I feared you might consider that I was presuming on our slight acquaintance. Besides, I doubted whether you would remember me or had even caught my name.”

“I had not.”

There was a pause.

“Oh, what must you have thought of me! What must you think of me!” she exclaimed, in tones of deep distress, trying to draw her arm away. But I held her fast.

“Believe me, I entertain for you the greatest respect and admiration. I should never dream of criticising anything you do or might have done.”

She shot a grateful glance at me, and seeing we were unobserved I ventured to raise her small gloved hand reverently to my lips. She blushed again, but did not repulse me.

On arriving at the house, I insisted on her lying down, and, hoping the quiet would do her good, we left her alone. On leaving the room, we passed Norman pacing up and down outside, like a faithful dog. He did not offer to join us, but remained at his post.

I had not questioned May as to the cause of her fright, fearing to excite her, but I was none the less anxious to know what had occurred. Luckily, Mrs. Derwent was as eager to enlighten me as I was to learn.

“You know, Doctor Fortescue, how I have tried lately to keep everything away from my daughter which could possibly agitate her. However, when she suggested that she would like to walk to the village I gladly acquiesced, never dreaming that on a quiet country road anything could occur to frighten her, nervous as she was. With the exception of last Sunday, this was the first time since her return from New York that she had been willing to go outside the gate; therefore I was especially glad she should have this little change. I offered to accompany her or rather them (for Mr. Norman, of course, joined us), and we all three started off together. When we had gone some distance from the house, Mr. Norman remembered an important letter which he had left on his writing-table and which he was most anxious should catch the mid-day mail. So he turned back to get it. I noticed at the time that May appeared very reluctant to have him go. I even thought that she was on the point of asking him not to leave her, but I was glad to see that she controlled herself, for her horror of being separated from that young man has seemed to me not only silly, but very compromising. So we walked on alone, but very slowly, so that he could easily overtake us. The road was pretty, the day heavenly, and my shaken spirits were lighter than they had been for some time.” Mrs. Derwent paused a moment to wipe her eyes. “Did you happen to notice,” she continued, “that clump of bushes near the bend of the road?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, just as we were passing those I caught sight of a horrid-looking tramp, lying on his back, half hidden by the undergrowth. May was sauntering along swinging her parasol, which she had not opened, as our whole way had lain in the shade. She evidently did not see the fellow, but I watched him get up and follow us on the other side of the bushes. I was a little frightened, but before I could decide what I had better do he had approached May and said something to her which I was unable to catch. It must have been something very dreadful, for she uttered a piercing shriek, and turning on him like a young tigress hit him several times violently over the head with her sunshade. Dropping everything, she fled from the scene. You know the rest.”

The last words were spoken a trifle austerely, and I saw that Mrs. Derwent had not forgotten the position in which she had found her daughter, although she probably considered that that position was entirely due to May’s hysterical condition and that I had been an innocent factor in the situation.

“What became of the tramp?” I inquired, eagerly. “I saw no one following your daughter.”

“He did not do so. I stood for a moment watching her tear down the road, and when again I remembered the man I found he had disappeared.”

“Would you know the fellow, if you saw him again?”

“Certainly! He was an unusually repulsive specimen of his tribe.”

As Mrs. Derwent had failed to recognise him, the man could not have been her son, as I had for a moment feared.

“By the way, Doctor, May is still bent on going to New York.”

“Well, perhaps it is advisable that she should do so.”

“But why?”

“The quiet of the country does not seem to be doing her much good, does it? Let us, therefore, try the excitement of New York, and see what effect that will have. Besides, I am very anxious to have Miss Derwent see some great nerve specialist. I am still a very young practitioner, and I confess her case baffles me.”

“I see that you fear that she is insane!” cried Mrs. Derwent.

“Indeed, I do not,” I assured her, “but I think her nerves are very seriously out of order. If she goes on like this, she will soon be in a bad way. If you wish me to do so, I will find out what specialist I can most easily get hold of, and make arrangements for his seeing your daughter with as little delay as possible.”

“Thank you.”

My time was now almost up, so I asked to see my patient again, so as to assure myself that she was none the worse for her fright.

I found her with her eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and, from time to time, her body would still twitch convulsively. However, she welcomed us with a smile, and her pulse was decidedly stronger. It was a terrible trial to me to see that lovely girl lying there, and to feel that, so far, I had been powerless to help her. I thought that, perhaps, if she talked of her recent adventure it would prevent her brooding over it. So, after sympathising with her in a general way, I asked what the tramp had said to terrify her so much. She shook her head feebly.