facts?”
“No. Not really. It’s rather more than that. In my heart, I suppose, I prefer to go on writing gingerbread romances about the best of all possible worlds.”
“It is an evil world, young man. You have guessed, of course, who has inherited these criminal traits?”
“No.”
“Then it is time for plain speaking.— What was that? ”
“What was what?”
“That noise.”
Matthew Damon rose to his feet. So did Clive.
“You mean the thunder?”
“No; I do not mean the thunder. Or the fire, or the clock.”
Irrationally, as the mind will seize on trifles, Clive remembered that they faced each other now as they had faced each other in the train that afternoon, though in Clive’s case at least with very different emotions.
Matthew Damon, his left hand on the desk-top and his right hand straying again towards that same desk-drawer, moved his eyes sharply to the right. He looked at the closed door to the hall. Then he looked behind Clive’s back, at the closed door to the library some fifteen feet away.
“No, it was nothing. I was mistaken.”
There was nothing. Clive had followed his glances, and looked back at the ravaged face.
“They complain of me, Mr. Strickland, that I do not show affection. But I have tried. I have tried to love a changeling as I should, and do, love my own. To all outward appearances, in any event, I believe I have succeeded. You can bear witness—”
Once more he broke off, his lower lip drawn down so that you could see the teeth. He was staring past Clive’s shoulder.
Clive whipped round.
The door to the dark library had softly opened, with someone’s left hand holding the knob. The figure standing in the library was partly shaded by the door; its face, at least, was in such fashion hidden that it seemed to have no head.
In the blur of dazed impressions following the shock when that shape lifted a weapon and fired, Clive could be sure only that he saw a man wearing a dark frock-coat, a dark waistcoat, and trousers of a patterned red-and-white design.
VI. DEATH WITH PATTERNED TROUSERS
T HEY ASK YOU QUESTIONS , and you are honest. But what did happen and what did you see?
A heavy explosion of thunder, close above all these unwieldy chimney-stacks piled into the sky, almost blotted out the explosion of the pistol-shot. The weight of a man’s body, a man struck between the eyes as though by a sledgehammer, went back and over a chair behind the desk.
Clive heard this; he did not see it. Without knowledge of what he was doing, he ran straight at the library door.
The figure before him seemed to worm or dodge in a curious way. Clive himself instinctively dodged as something flew out towards him, catching the light, and landed with a thud on the carpet. The library door was pulled shut in his face; he heard a key turn from the other side. It was no use seizing at the knob and wrenching it. The door was locked.
He looked back over his shoulder, quickly, towards the chair behind Matthew Damon’s desk. Then he looked away again.
“‘Will wash out rust-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains …’”
Clive ran to the door leading to the hall. That was locked too, and on the outside.
He could not believe this. After twisting at the knob, resisting the impulse to hammer at the upper panels, he had to go down on his knees and peer at the keyhole. A key, which had not been there a while ago, was turned in the lock.
Matthew Damon’s right cuff twitched. Now you could hear his breathing.
Clive, averting his eyes from the place where the bullet had entered just above the bridge of the nose, was compelled to go to the man thrown back over the padded chair.
But it grew worse a moment later. Mr. Damon did not move for long, and he did not breathe ever again.
The rain began, a deluge, as Clive stood looking just past the edge of a limp arm. A reek of black powder stung the nostrils and made a palpable haze. He looked round at what lay on the carpet, a foot or two inside the
“No. Not really. It’s rather more than that. In my heart, I suppose, I prefer to go on writing gingerbread romances about the best of all possible worlds.”
“It is an evil world, young man. You have guessed, of course, who has inherited these criminal traits?”
“No.”
“Then it is time for plain speaking.— What was that? ”
“What was what?”
“That noise.”
Matthew Damon rose to his feet. So did Clive.
“You mean the thunder?”
“No; I do not mean the thunder. Or the fire, or the clock.”
Irrationally, as the mind will seize on trifles, Clive remembered that they faced each other now as they had faced each other in the train that afternoon, though in Clive’s case at least with very different emotions.
Matthew Damon, his left hand on the desk-top and his right hand straying again towards that same desk-drawer, moved his eyes sharply to the right. He looked at the closed door to the hall. Then he looked behind Clive’s back, at the closed door to the library some fifteen feet away.
“No, it was nothing. I was mistaken.”
There was nothing. Clive had followed his glances, and looked back at the ravaged face.
“They complain of me, Mr. Strickland, that I do not show affection. But I have tried. I have tried to love a changeling as I should, and do, love my own. To all outward appearances, in any event, I believe I have succeeded. You can bear witness—”
Once more he broke off, his lower lip drawn down so that you could see the teeth. He was staring past Clive’s shoulder.
Clive whipped round.
The door to the dark library had softly opened, with someone’s left hand holding the knob. The figure standing in the library was partly shaded by the door; its face, at least, was in such fashion hidden that it seemed to have no head.
In the blur of dazed impressions following the shock when that shape lifted a weapon and fired, Clive could be sure only that he saw a man wearing a dark frock-coat, a dark waistcoat, and trousers of a patterned red-and-white design.
VI. DEATH WITH PATTERNED TROUSERS
T HEY ASK YOU QUESTIONS , and you are honest. But what did happen and what did you see?
A heavy explosion of thunder, close above all these unwieldy chimney-stacks piled into the sky, almost blotted out the explosion of the pistol-shot. The weight of a man’s body, a man struck between the eyes as though by a sledgehammer, went back and over a chair behind the desk.
Clive heard this; he did not see it. Without knowledge of what he was doing, he ran straight at the library door.
The figure before him seemed to worm or dodge in a curious way. Clive himself instinctively dodged as something flew out towards him, catching the light, and landed with a thud on the carpet. The library door was pulled shut in his face; he heard a key turn from the other side. It was no use seizing at the knob and wrenching it. The door was locked.
He looked back over his shoulder, quickly, towards the chair behind Matthew Damon’s desk. Then he looked away again.
“‘Will wash out rust-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains …’”
Clive ran to the door leading to the hall. That was locked too, and on the outside.
He could not believe this. After twisting at the knob, resisting the impulse to hammer at the upper panels, he had to go down on his knees and peer at the keyhole. A key, which had not been there a while ago, was turned in the lock.
Matthew Damon’s right cuff twitched. Now you could hear his breathing.
Clive, averting his eyes from the place where the bullet had entered just above the bridge of the nose, was compelled to go to the man thrown back over the padded chair.
But it grew worse a moment later. Mr. Damon did not move for long, and he did not breathe ever again.
The rain began, a deluge, as Clive stood looking just past the edge of a limp arm. A reek of black powder stung the nostrils and made a palpable haze. He looked round at what lay on the carpet, a foot or two inside the
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