The Gray Mask Part 15

"I see. The chair," Garth said.

"Every sound from this room," the man explained, "must be torture to her. I suppose you policemen think all this fuss and feathers necessary.

You'd do better to get after Randall."

Garth curbed his own irritation.

"When do you think we'll be able to question her?"

"G.o.d knows! If this keeps up. She's in a bad way. Do you suppose I'd waste my time here otherwise. I tell you quiet is essential."

Garth rested his hands against the table. The knotted veins testified to his anxiety, but his tone was casual.

"By the way, doctor, since you're Mrs. Randall's cousin, you must have known the doctor pretty well."

"Yes, yes, very well."

"Did you ever notice--was he in the habit of wearing a flower in his b.u.t.ton-hole?"

The other glanced at him suspiciously.

"What are you driving at?"

"Answer me, please," Garth insisted.

"I never saw him with one. He was a very masculine type--no affectations."

Garth flushed.

"And Mr. Treving?" he asked. "You knew him, too?"

"Slightly."

"Did he?"

"What? Wear a flower? I'm sure I don't know. Never noticed. But I think it likely enough."

Garth's hands relaxed. He straightened.

"Thank you, doctor. There'll be no more noise here to-night. I'm sorry about the chair. I'd rather you didn't say anything about those questions."

The doctor's face, which had shown suffering all through, broke into a derisive smile.

"About the flowers! I understand. One must appear wise, even if there's nothing to be wise about."

"Quite so," Garth said gravely.

The other returned to the bedroom and Garth went downstairs. He paused in the hall long enough to take the latch-key from the table and slip it in his pocket. Then he walked to the back of the house where the servants were collected in an uneasy group. There was a chauffeur, he found, a butler, a cook, and a maid. Another maid, they told him, was with Mrs. Randall.

Garth questioned them about last night's wedding and the hour of their return, but they were an incoherent lot, all talking at once, and saying nothing useful. Therefore he returned to the verandah where he stood, trying to put himself in Randall's place, casting about for his likely course when he had sensibly decided not to use his automobile.

The sun had set. The dusk had already rendered objects at a distance indistinct. A decided chill heralded the night. The two detectives sat disconsolately on the steps. Mrs. Randall's voice continued its pitiful monotone, now and then torn by unavailing and demoralizing cries.

Garth started. He stared at a patch of shrubbery on the hillside to the right. Certainly something had moved there. It occurred to him that to a man in the shrubbery the three forms under the verandah roof would be in this light invisible. Again he was sure there was movement over there.

If it were Randall, come back! His experience had taught him that such a return was psychologically conformable.

Without speaking to the others he walked to the end of the verandah and dropped over the rail. Aiding the friendly dusk by keeping behind trees and bushes as far as possible, he approached the patch of shrubbery.

After a moment there was no question. The foliage did not wholly secrete the figure of a man. The man appeared to listen. Garth's hand tightened on his revolver. The description fitted, but that was scarcely necessary, for on this cold evening the man was hatless.

Garth appraised the fugitive's damp and stained clothing. He could picture him hiding all night and day--perhaps in that small, half-ruined stone building which showed dimly from here--until the necessities of hunger or the impulse to return to the scene of his crime and learn its denouement had driven him from cover. The haggard face seemed eloquent of guilt.

Garth sprang up and, his revolver ready, faced the man.

"Dr. Randall! I've plenty of help near."

Randall stepped back.

"And what about Treving?" he asked in a husky voice.

Garth watched him warily.

"I'm sorry," he answered, "but I've got to take you for his murder."

Randall's face whitened. He held himself rigidly. After a time he relaxed and laughed. His words came with difficulty as if his mouth held no moisture.

"I'm wanted for Treving's murder!"

"You'll come quietly?"

"Yes. What's that noise? I thought I heard some one scream, a--a woman."

"Dr. Randall," Garth began steadily, "did you ever--"

"See here," Randall interrupted, "I'll answer no questions until I've seen my lawyer. Where's my wife? What about my wife?"

Garth cleared his throat.

"She's been hysterical--well--practically out of her head."

Garth could not fathom Randall's expression as he walked at his side towards the house.

"Of course," he said, "she'll be called as a witness against you--in fact the only human witness of the crime itself."

The doctor smiled contentedly.

"Yes," he said. "I should like to see her."

"Dr. Redding's with her," Garth explained, "but if it's in my presence I've no objection if he hasn't."