Still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a hand, out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled hair. The scent of whisky was stronger now; and Keith thought:
'He really is drunk. Nice thing for the new butler to see! If he can't behave--'
The figure against the wall heaved a sigh--so truly from an overburdened heart that Keith was conscious with a certain dismay of not having yet fathomed the cause of this uncanny silence. He got up, and, back to the fire, said with a brutality born of nerves rather than design:
'What is it, man? Have you committed a murder, that you stand there dumb as a fish?"For a second no answer at all, not even of breathing; then, just the whisper:
"Yes."
The sense of unreality which so helps one at moments of disaster enabled Keith to say vigorously:
"By Jove! You have been drinking!"
But it passed at once into deadly apprehension.
"What do you mean? Come here, where I can see you. What's the matter with you, Larry?"With a sudden lurch and dive, his brother left the shelter of the shadow, and sank into a chair in the circle of light. And another long, broken sigh escaped him.
"There's nothing the matter with me, Keith! It's true!"Keith stepped quickly forward, and stared down into his brother's face; and instantly he saw that it was true. No one could have simulated the look in those eyes--of horrified wonder, as if they would never again get on terms with the face to which they belonged.
To see them squeezed the heart-only real misery could look like that.
Then that sudden pity became angry bewilderment.
"What in God's name is this nonsense?"
But it was significant that he lowered his voice; went over to the door, too, to see if it were shut. Laurence had drawn his chair forward, huddling over the fire--a thin figure, a worn, high-cheekboned face with deep-sunk blue eyes, and wavy hair all ruffled, a face that still had a certain beauty. Putting a hand on that lean shoulder, Keith said:
"Come, Larry! Pull yourself together, and drop exaggeration.""It's true; I tell you; I've killed a man."
The noisy violence of that outburst acted like a douche. What was the fellow about--shouting out such words! But suddenly Laurence lifted his hands and wrung them. The gesture was so utterly painful that it drew a quiver from Keith's face.
"Why did you come here," he said, "and tell me this?"Larry's face was really unearthly sometimes, such strange gleams passed up on to it!
"Whom else should I tell? I came to know what I'm to do, Keith?
Give myself up, or what?"
At that sudden introduction of the practical Keith felt his heart twitch. Was it then as real as all that? But he said, very quietly:
"Just tell me -How did it come about, this--affair?"That question linked the dark, gruesome, fantastic nightmare on to actuality.
"When did it happen?"
"Last night."
In Larry's face there was--there had always been--something childishly truthful. He would never stand a chance in court! And Keith said:
"How? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from the beginning.
Drink this coffee; it'll clear your head."
Laurence took the little blue cup and drained it.
"Yes," he said. "It's like this, Keith. There's a girl I've known for some months now--"Women! And Keith said between his teeth: "Well?""Her father was a Pole who died over here when she was sixteen, and left her all alone. A man called Walenn, a mongrel American, living in the same house, married her, or pretended to--she's very pretty, Keith--he left her with a baby six months old, and another coming.
That one died, and she did nearly. Then she starved till another fellow took her on. She lived with him two years; then Walenn turned up again, and made her go back to him. The brute used to beat her black and blue, all for nothing. Then he left her again. When I met her she'd lost her elder child, too, and was taking anybody who came along."He suddenly looked up into Keith's face.
"But I've never met a sweeter woman, nor,a truer, that I swear.
Woman! She's only twenty now! When I went to her last night, that brute--that Walenn--had found her out again; and when he came for me, swaggering and bullying--Look!"--he touched a dark mark on his forehead--"I took his throat in my hands, and when I let go--""Yes?"
"Dead. I never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him behind."Again he made that gesture-wringing his hands.
In a hard voice Keith said:
"What did you do then?"
"We sat by it a long time. Then I carried it on my back down the street, round a corner to an archway.""How far?"
"About fifty yards."
"Was anyone--did anyone see?"
"No."
"What time?"
"Three."
"And then?"
"Went back to her."
"Why--in Heaven's name?"
"She was lonely and afraid; so was I, Keith.""Where is this place?"
"Forty-two, Borrow Street, Soho."
"And the archway?"
"Corner of Glove Lane."
"Good God! Why--I saw it in the paper!"
And seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, Keith read again that paragraph: "The body of a man was found this morning under an archway in Glove Lane, Soho. From marks about the throat grave suspicions of foul play are entertained. The body had apparently been robbed, and nothing was discovered leading to identification."It was real earnest, then. Murder! His own brother! He faced round and said:
"You saw this in the paper, and dreamed it. Understand--you dreamed it!"The wistful answer came:
"If only I had, Keith--if only I had!"
In his turn, Keith very nearly wrung his hands.
"Did you take anything from the--body?"
"This dropped while we were struggling.", It was an empty envelope with a South American post-mark addressed:
"Patrick Walenn, Simon's Hotel, Farrier Street, London." Again with that twitching in his heart, Keith said:
"Put it in the fire."
Then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out. By that command--he had--identified himself with this--this-- But he did not pluck it out. It blackened, writhed, and vanished. And once more he said:
