The Whirlpool Part 52

Not return tonight? Hugh scarcely restrained an exclamation, and had much ado to utter his next words.

'Did she mention where she was going?'

'No, sir. I took the dressing-bag down to the cab, and the cabman was told to drive to the post-office.'

'Very well. That will do.'

'Shall you dine at home, sir?'

'Dine? No.'

Sibyl gone away for the night? Where could she have gone to? He began to look about for the telegram she had received; it might be lying somewhere, and possibly would explain her departure. In the waste-paper basket he found the torn envelope lying at the top; but the despatch itself was not to be discovered.

Gone for the night? and just when he was supposed to have left town?

The cabman told to drive to the post-office? This might be for the purpose of despatching a reply. Yet no; the reply would have been written at once and sent by the messenger in the usual way.

Unless--unless Sibyl, for some reason, preferred to send the message more privately? Or again, she might not care to let the servant know whither the cab was really to convey her.

Sheer madness, all this. Had not Sibyl fifty legitimate ways of spending a night from home? Yet there was the fact that she had never before done so unexpectedly. Never before----?

He looked at his watch; half-past six. He rang the bell again.

'Has any one called since Mrs. Carnaby left home?'

'Yes, sir; there have been three calls. Mrs. Rolfe----'

'Mrs. Rolfe?'

'Yes, sir. She seemed very disappointed. I told her Mrs. Carnaby would not be back tonight.'

'And the others?'

Two persons of no account. Hugh dismissed them, and the servant, with a wave of the hand.

He felt a faintness such as accompanies extreme hunger, but had no inclination for food. The whisky bottle was a natural resource; a tumbler of right Scotch restored his circulation, and in a few minutes gave him a raging appet.i.te. He could not eat here; but eat he must, and that quickly. Seizing his hat, he ran down the stairs, hailed a hansom, and drove to the nearest restaurant he could think of.

After eating without knowledge of the viands, and drinking a bottle of claret in like unconsciousness, he smoked for half an hour, his eyes vacantly set, his limbs lax and heavy, as though in the torpor of difficult digestion. When the cigar was finished, he roused himself, looked at the time, and asked for a railway guide. There was a train to Wimbledon at ten minutes past eight; he might possibly catch it.

Starting into sudden activity, he hastily left the restaurant, and reached Waterloo Station with not a moment to spare.

At Wimbledon he took a cab, and was driven up the hill. Under a clouded sky, dusk had already changed to darkness; the evening was warm and still. Impatient with what he thought the slow progress of the vehicle, Hugh sat with his body bent forward, straining as did the horse, on which his eyes were fixed, and perspiring in the imaginary effort. The address he had given was Mrs. Fenimore's; but when he drew near he signalled to the driver: 'Stop at the gate. Don't drive up.'

From the entrance to Mrs. Fenimore's round to the by-road which was the direct approach to Redgrave's bungalow would be a walk of some ten minutes. Hugh had his reasons for not taking this direction. Having dismissed his cab, he entered by the lodge-gate, and walked up the drive, moving quickly, and with a lighter step than was natural to him.

When he came within view of the house, he turned aside, and made his way over the gra.s.s, in the deep shadow of leafy lime-trees, until the illumined windows were again hidden from him. He had seen no one, and heard no sound. A path which skirted the gardens would bring him in a few minutes to Redgrave's abode; this he found and followed.

The bungalow was built in a corner of the park where previously had stood a gardener's cottage; round about it grew a few old trees, and on two sides spread a shrubbery, sheltering the newly-made lawn and flower-beds. Here it was very dark; Hugh advanced cautiously, stopping now and then to listen. He reached a point where the front of the house became visible. A light shone at the door, but there was no movement, and Hugh could hear only his own hard breathing.

He kept behind the laurels, and made a half-circuit of the house. On pa.s.sing to the farther side, he would come within view of those windows which opened so conveniently, as Mrs. Maskell had said--the windows of Redgrave's sitting-room, drawing-room, study, or whatever he called it.

To this end it was necessary to quit the cover of the shrubs and cross a lawn. As he stepped on to the mown gra.s.s, his ear caught a sound, the sound of talking in a subdued tone; it came, he thought, from that side of the building which he could not yet see. A few quick silent steps, and this conjecture became a certainty: someone was talking within a few yards of him, just round the obstructing corner, and he felt sure the voice was Redgrave's. It paused; another voice made reply, but in so low a murmur that its accents were not to be recognised. That it was the voice of a woman the listener had no doubt. Spurred by a choking anguish, he moved forward. He saw two figures standing in a dim light from the window-door--a man and a woman; the man bareheaded, his companion in outdoor clothing. At the same moment he himself was perceived. He heard a hurried 'Go in!' and at once the woman disappeared.

Face to face with Redgrave, he looked at the window; but the curtain which dulled the light from within concealed everything.

'Who was that?'

'Why--Carnaby? What the deuce----?'

'Who was _that_?'

'Who?--what do you mean?'

Carnaby took a step; Redgrave laid an arresting hand upon him. There needed but this touch. In frenzied wrath, yet with the precision of trained muscle, Hugh struck out; and Redgrave went down before him--thudding upon the door of the veranda like one who falls dead.

CHAPTER 13

He forced the window; he rushed into the room, and there before him, pallid, trembling, agonising, stood Alma Rolfe.

'You?'

She panted incoherent phrases. She was here to speak with Mr. Redgrave on business--about her concert tomorrow. She had not entered the house until this moment. She had met Mr. Redgrave in the garden----

'What is that to me?' broke in Hugh, staring wildly, his fist still clenched. 'I am not your husband.'

'Mr. Carnaby, you _will_ believe me? I came for a minute or two--to speak about----'

'It's nothing to me, Mrs. Rolfe,' he again interrupted her, in a hoa.r.s.e, faint voice. 'What have I done?' He looked to the window, whence came no sound. 'Have I gone mad? By G.o.d, I almost fear it!'

'You believe me, Mr. Carnaby?' She moved to him and seized his hand.

'You know me too well--you know I couldn't--say you believe me! Say one kind, friendly word!'

She looked distracted. Clinging to his hand, she burst into tears. But Hugh hardly noticed her; he kept turning towards the window, with eyes of unutterable misery.

'Wait here; I'll come back.'

He stepped out from the window, and saw that Redgrave lay just where he had fallen--straight, still, his face turned upwards. Hugh stooped, and moved him into the light; the face was deathly--placid, but for its wide eyes, which seemed to look at his enemy. No blood upon the lips; no sign of violence.

'Where did I hit him? He fell with his head against something, I suppose.'

From the parted lips there issued no perceptible breath. A fear, which was more than half astonishment, took hold upon Carnaby. He looked up--for the light was all at once obstructed--and saw Alma gazing at him.

'What is it?' she asked in a terrified whisper. 'Why is he lying there?'

'I struck him--he is unconscious.'

'Struck him?'

He drew her into the room again.