They went downstairs in silence. Mr. Mottisfont's study was in darkness, and Elizabeth brought in the lamp from the hall, holding it very steadily. Then she sat down at the great littered desk and rang up the exchange. She gave the number and they waited. After what seemed like a very long time, Elizabeth heard David's voice.
“Hullo!”
“It is I- Elizabeth,” said Elizabeth Chantrey.
“What is it?”
“Can you come here at once? I want to see you at once. Yes, it is very important-important and urgent.”
Mary was in an agony of impatience. “What does he say? Will he come at once?”
But Elizabeth answered David and not her sister.
“No, presently won't do. It must be at once. It 's really urgent, David, or I would n't ask it. Yes, thank you so much. In my room.”
She put down the receiver, rang off, and turned to Mary.
“He is coming. Had you not better send Edward a message, or he will be coming back here? Ring up, and say that you are staying with me for an hour, and that Markham will walk home with you.”
In Elizabeth 's little brown room the silence weighed and the time lagged. Mary walked up and down, moving perpetually-restlessly-uselessly. There was a small Dutch mirror above the writing-table. Its cut glass border caught the light, and reflected it in diamond points and rainbow flashes. It was the brightest thing in the room. Mary stood for a moment and looked at her own face. She began to arrange her hair with nervous, trembling fingers. She rubbed her cheeks, and straightened the lace at her throat. Then she fell to pacing up and down again.
“The room 's so hot,” she said suddenly. And she went quickly to the window and flung it open. The air came in, cold and mournfully damp. Mary drew half a dozen long breaths. Then she shivered, her teeth chattered. She shut the window with a jerk, and as she did so David Blake came into the room. It was Elizabeth he saw, and it was to Elizabeth that he spoke.
“Is anything the matter? Anything fresh?” Elizabeth moved aside, and all at once he saw Mary Mottisfont.
“Mary wants to speak to you,” said Elizabeth. She made a step towards the door, but Mary called her sharply. “No, Liz-stay!”
And Elizabeth drew back into the shadowed corner by the window, whilst Mary came forward into the light. For a moment there was silence. Mary's hands were clasped before her, her chin was a little lifted, her eyes were desperately intent.
“David,” she said in a low fluttering voice, “Oh, David-I was in here-I heard-I could not help hearing.”
“What did you hear?” asked David Blake. The words came from him with a sort of startled hardness.
“I heard everything you said to Edward-about Mr. Mottisfont. You said it was poison. I heard you say it.”
“Yes,” said David Blake.
“And Edward took him the tea,” said Mary quickly. “Don't you see, David-don't you see how dreadful it is for Edward? People who did n't know him might say-they might think such dreadful things-and if there were an inquest-” the words came in a sort of strangled whisper. “There can't be an inquest-there can't. Oh, David, you 'll sign the certificate, won't you?”
David's face had been changing while she spoke. The first hard startled look went from it. It was succeeded by a flash of something like horror, and then by pain-pain and a great pity.
“No, Mary, dear, I can't,” he said very gently. He looked at her, and further words died upon his lips. Mary came nearer. There was a big chair in front of the fireplace, and she rested one hand on the back of it. It seemed as if she needed something firm to touch, her world was shifting so. David had remained standing by the door, but Mary was not a yard away from him now.
“You see, David,” she said, still in that low tremulous voice, “you see, David, you have n't thought-you can't have thought-what it will mean if you don't. Edward might be suspected of a most dreadful thing. I 'm sure you have n't thought of that. He might even”-Mary's eyes widened-“he might even be arrested-and tried-and I could n't bear it.” The hand that rested on the chair began to tremble very much. “I could n't bear it,” said Mary piteously.
“Mary, my dear,” said David, “this is a business matter, and you must n't interfere-I can't possibly sign the certificate. Poor old Mr. Mottisfont did not die a natural death, and the matter will have to be inquired into. No innocent person need have anything to be afraid of.”
“Oh!” said Mary. Her breath came hard. “You have n't told any one-not yet? You have n't written? Oh, am I too late? Have you told people already?”
“No.” said David, “not yet, but I must.”
The tears came with a rush to Mary's eyes, and began to roll down her cheeks.
“No, no, David, no,” she said. Her left hand went out towards him gropingly. “Oh, no, David, you must n't. You have n't thought-indeed you have n't. Innocent people can't always prove that they are innocent. They can't. There 's a book-a dreadful book. I 've just been reading it. There was a man who was quite, quite innocent-as innocent as Edward-and he could n't prove it. And they were going to hang him-David!”
Mary's voice broke off with a sort of jerk. Her face became suddenly ghastly. There was an extremity of terror in every sharpened feature. Elizabeth stood quite straight and still by the window. She was all in shadow, her brown dress lost against the soft brown gloom of the half-drawn velvet curtain. She felt like a shadow herself as she looked and listened. The numbness was upon her still. She was conscious as it were of a black cloud that overshadowed them all-herself, Mary, Edward. But not David. David stood just beyond, and Mary was trying to hold him and to draw him into the blackness. Something in Elizabeth 's deadened consciousness kept saying over and over again: “Not David, not David.” Elizabeth saw the black cloud with a strange internal vision. With her bodily eyes she watched David's face. She saw it harden when Mary looked at him, and quiver with pain when she looked away. She saw his hand go out and touch Mary's hand, and she heard him say:
“Mary, I can't. Don't ask me.”
Mary put her other hand suddenly on David's wrist. A bright colour flamed into her cheeks.
“David, you used to be fond of me-once-not long ago. You said you would do anything for me. Anything in the world. You said you loved me. And you said that nowadays a man did not get the opportunity of showing a woman what he would do for her. You wanted to do something for me then, and I had nothing to ask you. Are n't you fond of me any more, David? Won't you do anything for me now?-now that I ask you?”
David pulled his hand roughly from her grasp. He pushed past her, and crossed the room.
“Mary, you don't know what you are asking me,” he said in a tone of sharp exasperation. “You don't know what you are talking about. You don't seem to realize that you are asking me to become an accessory after the fact in a case of murder.”
Mary shuddered. The word was like a blow. She spoke in a hurried whispering way.
“But Edward-it 's for Edward. What will happen to Edward? And to me? Don't you care? We 've only been married six months. It 's such a little time. Don't you care at all? I never knew such dreadful things could happen-not to one's self. You read things in papers, and you never think-you never, never think that a thing like that could happen to yourself. I suppose those people don't all die, but I should die. Oh, David, are n't you going to help us?”
She spoke the last words as a child might have spoken them. Her eyes were fixed appealingly upon David's face. Mary Mottisfont had very beautiful eyes. They were hazel in colour, and in shape and expression they resembled those of another Mary, who was also Queen of Hearts.