Isbel, it seemed, had been out for two hours, and Mrs. Moor had no idea where she was.
In a very decomposed manner, Marshall muttered something about returning later in the day. He took his departure abruptly-almost rudely. She could not think what had come over him. Probably it was some business worry.
Meanwhile Marshall, with a face which grew sterner each minute, sought his car in the hotel garage. While it was being got out, he produced and lit a cigar. He wished t assure himself that his feelings were tranquil, and that the visit to Runhill he was about to make was a quite ordinary, matter-of-fact transaction, of no special consequence, and undertaken merely as a piece of necessary routine work…Perhaps he really did not see, perhaps he did not wish to see, that it can never be an ordinary transaction to test a woman's honour…
He got in, turned up the collar of his rainproof coat, pulled down his crushed-in hat, and started off. It was a quarter to one. He pushed the car along fast to Shoreham, but, once past the houses, he let her go altogether…In just over the half hour he reached Runhill Lodge.
Priday appeared.
Marshall got down…"Good afternoon! Is there anyone up at the house?" He had returned the cigar-stump t his mouth when he had spoken.
"The boss is there, sir."
"Mr. Judge?"
"Ah."
"Anyone with him?" The keen glint of his eye, as he threw a side-glance, belied his indifferent tone.
"No, sir, he's by himself. He ain't been there much above half an hour."
Marshall remained silent for a minute.
"I'll walk up to him, I think."
"Shall I open the gate?"
"No, I said I'd walk up. The car's quite all right where it is. Thank you, Priday."
He threw away his stump, passed through the side gate, and started slowly up the drive, with bent head. Priday, after gazing after him for a short time, disappeared again inside the lodge. The dismal, wetting mist made it no sort of day to be out in.
As he approached the house, Marshall saw a small car standing outside the main entrance. It was evidently Judge's. When he came up to it, he leant over the side, to make a somewhat ashamed, but none the less careful scrutiny of the seats and floor. He hardly dared to confess himself what he feared to see there. It was with heartfelt relief that he failed to detect anything of a compromising character. He crossed to the house. The hall door was unlocked; he opened it, and went straight in.
The hall was grey, sombre, and silent. He wondered which would be the likeliest part of the house to start looking for Judge…Nine chances out of ten, he would be upstairs in his favourite lurking-spot-the East Room. It might be good sense to go there first…What did that damned correspondence mean by there being rooms hard to find?…Oh, hell! Isbel couldn't be there. Priday said no one was there except Judge…why the devil wsa he wasting precious timen mooning in the hall, when he ought by now to be up at the top of the house?…
He made for the main staircase and raced up, three steps at a time. Without pausing on the landing, he immediately attacked the upper flight, and in less than a minute was groping his way through the black darkness of the upstairs corridor.
He saw at once that the door of the East Room was standing open. Upon getting closer he saw something else. A man was lying, huddled and motionless, on the floor, near one of the walls. It required no flash of inspiration to guess that it was Judge-but what had happened to him? Was he asleep, fainting, or drunk?…He leapt over to him, and pulled his face round…then let go again in horror. The man was dead!…
There was no doubt of the fact, and there was little doubt of the cause of death. The discoloured face told its own story-apoplexy!…To make quite sure, he tested the heart. After crouching for at least five minutes, with his hand on Judge's naked chest, he saw that it was hopeless to go on-there was not the faintest whisper of a heart-beat.
He did whatever he thought was immediately necessary, then walked away and downstairs, to fetch assistance.
The unexpected tragedy had put his own affair entirely out of his head. He had forgotten Isbel's connection with the house, and, for the moment, almost her very existence. He was too preoccupied with his immediate plans for action to see anything around him; otherwise, upon reaching the head of the main staircase, he would have at once perceived, straight ahead of him, Isbel herself, sitting in a chair near the other end of the hall. As it was, it was not until he was close upon her that he jumped back with a start…Her face was white, her eyes were closed, her clothing appeared to be wet and stained with mud, while her whole attitude was one of lassitude and exhaustion.
"Isbel! What does this mean?…" He came on again until he nearly stood over her. She opened her eyes slowly and looked up with weary indifference, manifesting no surprise at his presence, nor, indeed, any emotion whatever.
"How did you get here?" was all she asked.
"Never mind me. How did you come to be in this house?"
"I fainted outside, and came in to sit down, before going home."
"Outside? But what were you doing outside? What are you doing in this part of the world at all?"
It was several seconds before she answered.
"Don't be hard on me, Marshall, I can't explain now…I have a confession to make-but not now."
He whipped the anonymous letter out of his pocket-case, and handed it to her. "Will you read that?"
She did so, while he watched her closely; his heart sank, as he saw that she showed neither astonishment nor indignation. She read it through twice, quite apathetically, and then passed it back without a word.
"Well?…" demanded Marshall.
"I know who wrote that. Is that what you want?"
"Never mind who wrote it. Is it true?"
"Perhaps it isn't true; but it was written in good faith. I meant to come here this morning with Mr. Judge, but he disappointed me."
"I see…May I ask why…?"-but he was unable to finish.
"Why, I wished to be here with him?…" She smiled bitterly. "Please don't press me to give explanation which you won't receive."
There was dead silence.
"Then you haven't seen him to-day?" asked Marshall.
"I can't say-I don't know. I don't know whom I've seen, and whom I haven't seen. I have fainted. I don't know anything."
"So perhaps you don't know where he is at this moment?"
"That I'll swear to, Marshall. I've only just this minute entered the house for the first time."
"Then I'll tell you. He's upstairs in the East Room"…He looked at her, to see if she were as ignorant of the tragedy as her words and manner professed, but she did not even appear interested.
"Dead," he added, suddenly and brutally.
Isbel half-rose from her eat, and turned such a greenish colour that he thought she was about to swoon again, but he did not go to her assistance. She recovered herself by an effort.
"Have you killed him?" she demanded quietly.
"I have not. I don't believe in private assassinations. He has had some sort of fit-and now I'm off to tell Priday and fetch a doctor…We had better resume this very interesting conversation later. And if I may venture to offer a suggestion-there will probably be an inquest, and, if you have no special desire to appear among the witnesses, it would be as well for you to lose no time in getting clear of the premises. Does anyone know you're here, barring Judge himself?"
"No."
"Then how did you get in?"
"By another gate."
"Well, take my advice, and go out the same way. Can you find your way on to the main Steyning road?"
"I expect so."
"Then walk on, and I'll pick you up in the car further on. I've got to fetch a doctor, so you'll be there as son as I shall…Go now-don't waste time."
Isbel remained sitting.
"Marshall!…"
"What is it?"