The After House

Exactly what occurred during Elsa Lee's visit to her brother-in-law's

cabin I have never learned. He was sober, I know, and somewhat dazed,

with no recollection whatever of the previous night, except a hazy

idea that he had quarreled with Richardson.

Jones and I waited outside. He suggested that we have prayers over

the bodies when we placed them in the boat, and I agreed to read the

burial service from the Episcopal Prayer Book. The voices from Turner's

cabin came steadily, Miss Lee's low tones, Turner's heavy bass only

now and then. Once I heard her give a startled exclamation, and both

Jones and I leaped to the door. But the next moment she was talking

again quietly.

Ten minutes--fifteen--passed. I grew restless and took to wandering

about the cabin. Mrs. Johns came to the door opposite, and asked to

have tea sent down to the stewardess. I called the request up the

companionway, unwilling to leave the cabin for a moment. When I came

back, Jones was standing at the door of Vail's cabin, looking in. His

face was pale.

"Look there!" he said hoarsely. "Look at the bell. He must have

tried to push the button!"

I stared in. Williams had put the cabin to rights, as nearly as

he could. The soaked mattress was gone, and a clean linen sheet

was spread over the bunk. Poor Vail's clothing, as he had taken it

off the night before, hung on a mahogany stand beside the bed, and

above, almost concealed by his coat, was the bell. Jones's eyes

were fixed on the darkish smear, over and around the bell, on the

white paint.

I measured the height of the bell from the bed. It was well above,

and to one side--a smear rather than a print, too indeterminate

to be of any value, sinister, cruel.

"He didn't do that, Charlie," I said. "He couldn't have got up

to it after--That is the murderer's mark. He leaned there, one

hand against the wall, to look down at his work. And, without

knowing it, he pressed the button that roused the two women."

He had not heard the story of Henrietta Sloane, and, as we waited,

I told him. Some of the tension was relaxing. He tried, in his

argumentative German way, to drag me into a discussion as to the

foreordination of a death that resulted from an accidental ringing

of a bell. But my ears were alert for the voices near by, and soon

Miss Lee opened the door.

Turner was sitting on his bunk. He had made an attempt to shave,

and had cut his chin severely. He was in a dressing-gown, and was

holding a handkerchief to his face; he peered at me over it with

red-rimmed eyes.

"This--this is horrible, Leslie," he said. "I can hardly believe

it."