I hardly heard him. I wanted to laugh and cry in the same breath--to
crawl into bed and have a cup of tea, and scold Liddy, and do any of
the thousand natural things that I had never expected to do again. And
the air! The touch of the cool night air on my face!
As Alex and I reached the second floor, Mr. Jamieson met us. He was
grave and quiet, and he nodded comprehendingly when he saw the safe.
"Will you come with me for a moment, Miss Innes?" he asked soberly, and
on my assenting, he led the way to the east wing. There were lights
moving around below, and some of the maids were standing gaping down.
They screamed when they saw me, and drew back to let me pass. There
was a sort of hush over the scene; Alex, behind me, muttered something
I could not hear, and brushed past me without ceremony. Then I
realized that a man was lying doubled up at the foot of the staircase,
and that Alex was stooping over him.
As I came slowly down, Winters stepped back, and Alex straightened
himself, looking at me across the body with impenetrable eyes. In his
hand he held a shaggy gray wig, and before me on the floor lay the man
whose headstone stood in Casanova churchyard--Paul Armstrong.
Winters told the story in a dozen words. In his headlong flight down
the circular staircase, with Winters just behind, Paul Armstrong had
pitched forward violently, struck his head against the door to the east
veranda, and probably broken his neck. He had died as Winters reached
him.
As the detective finished, I saw Halsey, pale and shaken, in the
card-room doorway, and for the first time that night I lost my
self-control. I put my arms around my boy, and for a moment he had to
support me. A second later, over Halsey's shoulder, I saw something
that turned my emotion into other channels, for, behind him, in the
shadowy card-room, were Gertrude and Alex, the gardener, and--there is
no use mincing matters--he was kissing her!
I was unable to speak. Twice I opened my mouth: then I turned Halsey
around and pointed. They were quite unconscious of us; her head was on
his shoulder, his face against her hair. As it happened, it was Mr.
Jamieson who broke up the tableau.
He stepped over to Alex and touched him on the arm.
"And now," he said quietly, "how long are you and I to play OUR little
comedy, Mr. Bailey?"