The Agony Column Part 6

"You are no longer sure of that. Thinking it over, you have come to the conclusion that it may have been barely six-thirty when you heard the noise of a struggle."

"Indeed?" said I. I tried to sound sarcastic, but I was really too astonished by her tone.

"Yes--indeed!" she replied. "That is what you will tell Inspector Bray when next you see him. 'It may have been six-thirty,' you will tell him.

'I have thought it over and I am not certain.'"

"Even for a very charming lady," I said "I can not misrepresent the facts in a matter so important. It was after seven--"

"I am not asking you to do a favor for a lady," she replied. "I am asking you to do a favor for yourself. If you refuse the consequences may be most unpleasant."

"I'm rather at a loss--" I began.

She was silent for a moment. Then she turned and I felt her looking at me through the veil.

"Who was Archibald Enwright?" she demanded. My heart sank. I recognized the weapon in her hands. "The police," she went on, "do not yet know that the letter of introduction you brought to the captain was signed by a man who addressed Fraser-Freer as Dear Cousin, but who is completely unknown to the family. Once that information reaches Scotland Yard, your chance of escaping arrest is slim.

"They may not be able to fasten this crime upon you, but there will be complications most distasteful. One's liberty is well worth keeping--and then, too, before the case ends, there will be wide publicity--"

"'Well?" said I.

"That is why you are going to suffer a lapse of memory in the matter of the hour at which you heard that struggle. As you think it over, it is going to occur to you that it may have been six-thirty, not seven.

Otherwise--"

"Go on."

"Otherwise the letter of introduction you gave to the captain will be sent anonymously to Inspector Bray."

"You have that letter!" I cried.

"Not I," she answered. "But it will be sent to Bray. It will be pointed out to him that you were posing under false colors. You could not escape!"

I was most uncomfortable. The net of suspicion seemed closing in about me. But I was resentful, too, of the confidence in this woman's voice.

"None the less," said I, "I refuse to change my testimony. The truth is the truth--"

The woman had moved to the door. She turned.

"To-morrow," she replied, "it is not unlikely you will see Inspector Bray. As I said, I came here to give you advice. You had better take it.

What does it matter--a half-hour this way or that? And the difference is prison for you. Good night."

She was gone. I followed into the hall. Below, in the street, I heard the rattle of her taxi.

I went back into my room and sat down. I was upset, and no mistake.

Outside my windows the continuous symphony of the city played on--the busses, the trains, the never-silent voices. I gazed out. What a tremendous acreage of dank brick houses and dank British souls! I felt horribly alone. I may add that I felt a bit frightened, as though that great city were slowly closing in on me.

Who was this woman of mystery? What place had she held in the life--and perhaps in the death--of Captain Fraser-Freer? Why should she come boldly to my rooms to make her impossible demand?

I resolved that, even at the risk of my own comfort, I would stick to the truth. And to that resolve I would have clung had I not shortly received another visit--this one far more inexplicable, far more surprising, than the first.

It was about nine o'clock when Walters tapped at my door and told me two gentlemen wished to see me. A moment later into my study walked Lieutenant Norman Fraser-Freer and a fine old gentleman with a face that suggested some faded portrait hanging on an aristocrat's wall. I had never seen him before.

"I hope it is quite convenient for you to see us," said young Fraser-Freer.

I a.s.sured him that it was. The boy's face was drawn and haggard; there was terrible suffering in his eyes, yet about him hung, like a halo, the glory of a great resolution.

"May I present my father?" he said. "General Fraser-Freer, retired. We have come on a matter of supreme importance--"

The old man muttered something I could not catch. I could see that he had been hard hit by the loss of his elder son. I asked them to be seated; the general complied, but the boy walked the floor in a manner most distressing.

"I shall not be long," he remarked. "Nor at a time like this is one in the mood to be diplomatic. I will only say, sir, that we have come to ask of you a great--a very great favor indeed. You may not see fit to grant it. If that is the case we can not well reproach you. But if you can--"

"It is a great favor, sir!" broke in the general. "And I am in the odd position where I do not know whether you will serve me best by granting it or by refusing to do so."

"Father--please--if you don't mind--" The boy's voice was kindly but determined. He turned to me.

"Sir--you have testified to the police that it was a bit past seven when you heard in the room above the sounds of the struggle which--which--You understand."

In view of the mission of the caller who had departed a scant hour previously, the boy's question startled me.

"Such was my testimony," I answered. "It was the truth."

"Naturally," said Lieutenant Fraser-Freer. "But--er--as a matter of fact, we are here to ask that you alter your testimony. Could you, as a favor to us who have suffered so cruel a loss--a favor we should never forget--could you not make the hour of that struggle half after six?"

I was quite overwhelmed.

"Your--reasons?" I managed at last to ask.

"I am not able to give them to you in full," the boy answered. "I can only say this: It happens that at seven o'clock last Thursday night I was dining with friends at the Savoy--friends who would not be likely to forget the occasion."

The old general leaped to his feet.

"Norman," he cried, "I can not let you do this thing! I simply will not--"

"Hush, father," said the boy wearily. "We have threshed it all out. You have promised--"

The old man sank back into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

"If you are willing to change your testimony," young Fraser-Freer went on to me, "I shall at once confess to the police that it was I who--who murdered my brother. They suspect me. They know that late last Thursday afternoon I purchased a revolver, for which, they believe, at the last moment I subst.i.tuted the knife. They know that I was in debt to him; that we had quarreled about money matters; that by his death I, and I alone, could profit."

He broke off suddenly and came toward me, holding out his arms with a pleading gesture I can never forget.

"Do this for me!" he cried. "Let me confess! Let me end this whole horrible business here and now."

Surely no man had ever to answer such an appeal before.

"Why?" I found myself saying, and over and over I repeated it--"Why?

Why?"

The lieutenant faced me, and I hope never again to see such a look in a man's eyes.