The Story Behind the Verdict/Chapter 1

from a London evening paper:

"At Windsor yesterday an inquiry was opened by the coroner (Mr. Morton Bull) into the death of Pierre Lamotte, the distinguished French dramatist, whose body was discovered at an early hour on Ssiturday morning, in the rushes by the 'Bells of Ouseley.'

"Pierre Lamotte is known in England principally by L'Ingénue, an English version of which was produced by the Players' Society early in the season under the title of The Flapper. It will be remembered that considerable and somewhat acrimonious controversy ensued after this performance. Other works of his that have been translated are a volume of verse, which was well received by the critics; and a lurid romance entitled 'Half-Brothers,' immediately placed on the Index Expurgatorius of the Library Association. We understand that Mr. Lamotte was in England on the present occasion in connection with L'Ecrevisse, now staged at the Odéon, and, according to rumour, to be seen at St. James's if ever the run of Renegades shows signs of having exhausted its popularity. At present there are no such signs.

"Mr. Lamotte, during his stay in England, was the guest of Keightley Wilbur, the young literary Mæcenas of Carlton House Terrace, who, it is understood, will be called to-morrow to throw what light is possible upon the mystery of his friend's death."

At the adjourned inquest, true to newspaper anticipation, the first witness called, after the necessary formalities had been gone through, was Mr. Keighley Wilbur. The court was crowded with literary celebrities and well-known people.

After being duly sworn, Mr. Wilbur said, in answer to questions:

"I am Keightley Wilbur, of Carlton House Terrace, author of 'The Nut's Progress,' 'Love,' and other pieces. I am also a playwright, and in my leisure hours I interest myself in sociology. Mr. Pierre Lamotte was my guest, but hardly my friend."

The coroner asked a little impatiently:

"You were intimate with him?"

"I have no intimates." He added, a little sententiously, perhaps: "The great are always lonely."

It was later on mentioned in one of the illustrated papers that Mr. Wilbur gave all his evidence as if he were aware that it would be reported verbatim; he held the court as an actor the stage, or a practised Parliamentarian the floor of St. Stephen's. This same enterprising illustrated paper, publishing his photograph, showed a rather thin and mobile visage, with black hair, smoothly brushed back and super-abundant, a Jewish cast of countenance, not unlike that of the late Benjamin Disraeli. The witness spoke in a pleasantly modulated voice with a slight drawl.

"I am an Etonian; practically self-educated."

Mr. Bull directed him, somewhat abruptly, to answer the questions without interpolations. Keightley Wilbur smiled at the reporters and shrugged his shoulders.

"Since I left New College, Oxford, I have rented the houseboat, the Marguerite, moored between Datchet and Windsor. Yes, I have entertained there many distinguished English and foreign guests."

He then explained unnecessarily that he should hardly apply the word "distinguished" to Pierre Lamotte. He preferred to call him a "promising young writer."

It was easy to see the witness was irritating the coroner by the manner in which he gave his evidence.

"You know that the book he published here was withdrawn from circulation?"

"I wrote to him immediately after that lamentable and absurd occurrence. I apologised on behalf of my country. Since then we have maintained a correspondence."

"Go on, please."

"When I heard that Mr. Lamotte proposed to visit England, I invited him to my house. He stayed with me last week, and we discussed L'Ecrevisse, It had been translated from the French, but I had to explain to him the necessity  that it should be re-translated into English. Sir George Alexander, Lamotte, and I lunched together at my house on Thursday, and spent the afternoon arguing how to make the play sufficiently innocuous for the censor and the prurient purists without denuding it of value. Sir George was greatly concerned over this. Pierre Lamotte and I spoke of  deodorisation, and advised him to call in a chemist's assistant."

There was some laughter in the court, immediately and sternly suppressed by the coroner, who threatened to have the court cleared.

In continuation, Keightley Wilbur said that, after the long interview with Sir George, he and Pierre Lamotte went down together from Paddington by the 5.5 to Windsor, arriving at 6.3. It was a beautiful evening; they changed into flannels, and sat in the dinghy talking about Puritanism and the play, until it was time to dress for dinner.

"Was there anyone else upon the houseboat—any servants or visitors?"

"There were two ladies, my Japanese valet who waited upon us, and, I believe, a couple of female servants—a cook and something that is called either a tweeny or a slavey."

In answer to a juryman the coroner said the two ladies and the servants were in court, and would be called in due course.

Keightley Wilbur answered the remaining questions put to him in a somewhat bored manner. He seemed to have lost interest in the affair.

"We dined. I don't know what we drank. Kito may be able to tell you. Not much, I should think: we were all abstemious. The ladies may have had champagne. Afterwards there was a little music. Madame Bosquet played to us; Miss Blaney sang. It was all very agreeable."

"Was there any other visitor?"

"Dr. Nicholson pulled up after dinner, moored his boat alongside, and came on board."

"How long did he remain?"

"About half an hour, I should think."

"Then the singing and playing were resumed until"

"I make a point of never knowing the time."

The answer annoyed the coroner, who made a remark intended to be sarcastic. Mr. Wilbur replied, pertinently, or impertinently, and there was a sharp little exchange of epigrams that kept the reporters busy. When matters became normal again Mr. Bull asked sarcastically:

"Perhaps you will not mind telling the court if you and Mr. Lamotte sat up later than the ladies?"

"I am pleased to oblige the court with the information. I trust my meaning will not be misconstrued. We retired practically simultaneously."

Mr. Bull ignored the innuendo, and asked:

"During the evening had there been a quarrel or dispute, or any break in the harmony?"

"There was certainly one break in the harmony."

The jury leaned forward, the reporters sharpened their pencils, and Mr. Bull felt pleased with himself for his question.

"Go on, please."

"One of the strings of the piano gave way: the G of the third octave, I believe."

The laughter gurgled again, and again Mr. Bull said he would not permit these exhibitions, rebuking Mr. Wilbur for his flippancy. Mr. Wilbur said wearily that he had been answering futile questions for over an hour.

"You can throw no further light on the case?"

"That, I understand, is your affair."

He was told he could stand down. The hour was late, and the court adjourned until the next day. In the meantime the jury were taken to see the houseboat and the room in which Mr. Lamotte had slept.

The Marguerite was one of the best boats on the river, luxuriously fitted; the drawing-room in Chinese style with hanging lamps that tinkled musically, black satin divans and embroidered cushions. Many-coloured Chinese glass pictures were on the walls and fine kakemonos. The dining-room was Florentine, and the bedrooms merely comfortable. There was nothing on the boat to suggest tragedy.

The tender was also visited, and found to contain kitchen and servants' accommodation of the most commonplace description. Two of the three bedrooms in the Marguerite had been occupied by the ladies. The third, from the window of which the unfortunate French dramatist was supposed to have walked into the river, was nearest to the dining-room.

The first witness called after the adjournment was Kito, the Japanese manservant. He was intelligent and non-committal, short of stature and speech. He said he had heard nothing in the nature of a disagreement whilst waiting at dinner. When he had cleared away, placed the tantalus and glasses on the dining-room table, and put out the silver box filled with Sandorides Lucana Turkish cigarettes, his work for the evening was over. Mr. Wilbur never kept him up when he had guests. He knew nothing of what happened between ten o'clock that night, when he went to bed as usual, and nine o'clock the next morning when the police came, and he woke his master.

The two ladies who followed Kito into the witness-box added little to the story.

Madame Bosquet, a Frenchwoman, whose evidence had to be translated, was very voluble and a little incoherent, about thirty-five years of age, with white hair surmounting a young face, a little made-up, but still beautiful. Her eyes were soft and dark, and she was admirably dressed. She described a pleasant evening, charming company, and said vehemently that between such men as her eminent host and his no less eminent guest no possible cause of friction could have arisen. She added that anything of the nature of a struggle would have been impossible without herself or Miss Blaney becoming aware of it. The bedrooms were all quite close.

Here formal evidence was asked for and given as to whether Mr. Lamotte had occupied his room. The bed had certainly been slept in, was disarranged, and had not been made tidy when the police made their matutinal visit. The French windows, reaching to the floor, were wide open. There was no disorder in the room.

Ellaline Blaney, who was pale and fair and frightened, exquisitely pretty, and understood to be upon the stage, said "Yes" or "No" to every question put to her, and seemed not to understand the significance of any of them. The climax came when she was gently interrogated as to the length of her acquaintance with Mr. Wilbur, and the nature of it. She was understood to say he had been very kind to her, and paid for her singing lessons. She then burst into tears, became hysterical, and was allowed to step down.

The cook and the soiled little maid-of-all-work talked a great deal and said nothing. They had both heard noises in the night, and one of them had dreamt of calamity. They knew neither Mr. Wilbur nor any of the guests by sight, having been engaged by Kito.

"An' a very civil an' obligin' gentleman he is, although coloured, which I couldn't hev believed if I 'adn't seed it for meself. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to tell you how he mended the big fish-kettle"

The coroner did excuse her, and from the box, cutting her reminiscences short. Then he said:

"Gentlemen, have you heard enough, or do you wish to adjourn for the attendance of the visitor. Dr. Nicholson, who looked in for half an hour and listened to the music? I have a letter from him in which he asks to be excused if possible. He is on the panel, and has many poor patients in this district and in Hurley. I do not propose to bring him from his work unless you, gentlemen, think it necessary."

The jury of petty tradesmen, recruited from the neighbourhood, had already been two days away from business, and the rate of remuneration was low. They were unanimous in not wishing to adjourn for the attendance of Dr. Nicholson, and were then shepherded by the coroner into finding a verdict.

They found that Monsieur Pierre Lamotte had met his death by drowning, hut how he got into the river there was no evidence to show.

Mr. David Devenish had a trenchant leader the next day in the Daily Grail, commenting upon the inconclusiveness of this verdict and finding fault with the way the proceedings had been conducted.

The article went on, after saying that the matter could not end there:

"The only evidence that might have proved of value was the evidence that was not called. From Dr. Nicholson we might have learnt, for instance, whether he had observed any excitement in manner, any irregularity in the pupils, any cerebral or locomotor symptoms to account for the action of Pierre Lamotte that led to his death. Was he a sleep-walker? Was any illness looked for, or only abrasions? Why was there not a complete autopsy made instead of a partial one?"

The article aroused a certain amount of attention, and several people wrote letters. Others expressed their views in clubs and at suburban dinners. But nothing, of course, was done, and within a few weeks Pierre Lamotte's death ceased to have any interest for the general public.

The next incident that occured [sic] bearing in any way upon the tragedy was that Dr. Nicholson, the panel doctor who had visited the houseboat, was removed from his position owing to a bad mistake he made with a patient when himself under the influence of drink or some drug.

David Devenish, happening to meet Keightley Wilbur at the Savoy grill, heard that Dr. Nicholson had written to him asking for assistance, and was shown Keightley's reply, of which he was evidently rather proud:

"That you have not the smallest claim upon my benevolence makes it agreeable to me to bestow it. Herewith a cheque, which will be repeated monthly until you have your inevitable delirium tremens, or I receive the Nobel Prize for my contributions to English literature. The circumstances having no relation to each other, must be considered together. …"

When David Devenish left the restaurant he found himself wondering about this laboured letter, why it had been shown him, and why Wilbur should give Dr. Nicholson an allowance. Keightley Wilbur was very rich, and, of course, known to be liberal to his friends. But the last person in the world whom one would have thought could be counted among Keightley Wilbur's friends was a panel doctor. David's mind was naturally a suspicious one, and his paper was always on the outlook for sensational matter. Keightley Wilbur was still unclassified in the ordered pigeon-holes where dwelt the putative and premature obituaries of prominent men. David Devenish thought of him as something of a genius, if something of a charlatan; a cinematograph show of a youngster, coruscating fitfully and brilliantly. Nevertheless, he had a certain tolerant liking for him, accentuated by the knowledge that Keightley more than returned his feeling. It was in the Daily Grail, in an article written by David himself, that Keightley received his first Press recognition and "The Nut's Progress" the impetus that sped its sales into six figures. The two men frequented the same places—the Garrick Club and the Savoy grill-room, the Saville, and first nights at the theatres. Keightley was literary and David merely journalistic, but there was a certain community of interests between them. Therefore, although David was suspicious, and believed that Keightley knew more about Pierre Lamotte's death than he had told the coroner, he made no definite attempt to confirm his suspicions.

Eighteen months after the death of Pierre Lamotte, David Devenish met, for the first time. Miss Ellaline Blancy, lately returned from completing her musical education in Paris, and already engaged for the new musical comedy about which all the papers were full.

At nineteen, when seen in the coroner's court as a witness in the Lamotte case, Ellaline had been merely a pretty girl with fair hair, blue eyes, and lovely little teeth. At twenty-one, after the advantages of eighteen months in Paris and one or two at the Odeon, her outlines refined, grace added to her beauty, she had all the exotic charm of a super supper cat. David succumbed—succumbed utterly, to the great entertainment of his many friends and the undisguised and sympathetic amusement of Keightley Wilbur.

But David Devenish was not the man to take lightly even a love affair with a Gaiety girl. Within three weeks of the first meeting he asked Ellaline to marry him.

She told Keightley of this proposal on the following Sunday. He had come to fetch her for a motor drive, but the luxurious flat in Ashley Gardens was full of fog, and their intentions halted. It was after they had discussed the weather, last night's audience, and one or two other topical questions, that Ellaline came out with her astonishing news:

"David Devenish has asked me to marry him."

"No! Brave boy! And, of course, you said 'Yes'?"

Keightley flung himself on the sofa and seemed highly diverted. Ellaline was offended at the way he took her news.

"Why shouldn't I?" she said.

"Why, indeed?"

Between the fog and the red glow of the fire her fair hair shone like a will-o'-the-wisp in marsh land.

"I'd like to know what you'd do if I took you at your word."

"Try me!"

There was laughter in his eyes when he looked at her, and she broke into angry speech:

"You think you can do and say what you like with me! I've half a mind to show you"

"Half a mind! You think you have as much as that altogether?"

"I'm not going to be made fun of."

"But if you persist in being so amusing?"

"Perhaps you wouldn't care if I did say 'Yes'—if I did marry David Devenish?"

"Indeed I should. I should mind very much." He was emphatic, and she softened at once, would have spoken, but that he went on too quickly: "I am attached to David. I am under a very serious obligation to him. He explained me to a slow world. But for David I might be still published in special editions, calf bound, and paid for by myself. Certainly I should object to your marrying David."

"You are trying to insult me."

"Are you going to make a scene?" he asked politely, as if entertained by the idea, and curious.

She burst into tears and voluble, incoherent reproaches. He listened attentively, but soon became bored.

"You are saying exactly the things every woman has said from time immemorial. There isn't even 'copy' in it." His calmness and indifference enraged her, and she broke out:

"Well! I could say very different ones if I chose."

"Could you? Then I wish you would. You are very good-looking, and improving in your stage work, but I must point out to you that your conversation lacks originality."

"You know what I could talk about!" she said savagely.

"Cosmetics, and the necessity of distilled water for the complexion?"

"Of something you would not like anybody to know," she answered angrily, watching him, nevertheless, as if to see how he would take the blow.

"And what is that?" he asked imperturbably.

"Of what happened that night on board the Marguerite."

He looked at her, surprised, and then interested.

"Of course," he answered, "of course. The very thing. I had forgotten all about it. Yes, you must tell David. You or I must tell him. That will do the trick, I expect. I should make a better story of it than you"

"What do you mean? I needn't tell him if I don't choose."

"David is really a remarkable person, full of prejudices, yet with an underlying sentimentality that can rise and veil him as the fog veils this room."

He spoke as if to himself, as if he had no auditor, and was experimenting with phrases as he did in the solitude of his own library. "Yes, the story must be told," he went on thoughtfully.

She said rudely, but a little uneasily:

"That's what you call 'bluffing,' I suppose?"

He roused himself from his mood, and observing her uneasiness, began to tease her.

"That is it: you have guessed it, of course. One can always trust the quick wit of a chorus girl. What you must do now is to call my bluff. Send for David; ring him up on the telephone."

"I've half a mind to do it."

"I suppose you really are unaware that you have only half a mind altogether, or rather less? Tell me, now, have you been thinking all these months that you had a hold over me?"

He smiled at her and settled himself more comfortable on the sofa, nursing his leg and continuing to talk. "Did you think I sent you to Paris to get you out of the way, to keep you quiet? Go on: tell me all of your thoughts."

"You are a perfect devil. I don't believe you care about anything or anybody. Mr. Devenish is as different as possible."

"Of course I am different from anybody else. Haven't you found that out before? What a quaint, absurd little person you are; not real at all. If I had invented you I should have invented you just as you are."

She was half crying, and said chokingly:

"I believe you'd be glad to get rid of me."

"No. You are not in the least in my way. Sometimes you please me extremely."

"If I say 'Yes' to David I shall tell him everything. I couldn't marry and keep such a secret from him."

"Couldn't you? I didn't know."

"You do nothing but jeer at me."

"Don't you believe it. I am feeling very sympathetic to you, and a little grateful. You are showing me the mechanism of the transpontine melodrama mind in working order."

"I wish you were dead."

"Do you really care for me as much as that?"

"I hate you."

"I know—they always do. And because you love me and hate me, hardly knowing which, I shall have to intervene and save you from marrying that good fellow David Devenish."

"He won't think you a good fellow when I tell him what I know about you."

"Won't he? I am not sure."

"You won't laugh presently."

"Are you about to consign me to a cold and 'ke-ruel' jail? Shall I go forth from this warm and wicked flat with gyves upon my wrists. It is a wicked flat, by the way, and will be so described in the evening papers."

She did not understand him in the least, but he succeeded presently in goading her to the telephone.

"Westminster 4638! Are you there? Is that Mr. Devenish's flat? Oh, I didn't know it was you. I wish you'd come round here."

Obviously, David Devenish expressed himself overjoyed at the invitation.

"Now? Oh, yes! whenever you like. No, I don't know about lunch."

She hung up the receiver and said excitedly to Keightley:

"He'll be here in ten minutes. What are you going to do?"

"Do? What am I going to do? Why, stay and criticise your skill as a raconteuse, of course. What did you expect me to do? Little idiot! Come here." He smiled, making room for her on the sofa. She hesitated, and then, as if hyrpnotised, went over to him slowly. "That's right One gets a sense of purring pleasure out of you sometimes, after all." There was an interval, during which he kissed her, played with her a little. He was amazingly attractive to women, and this one was particularly easy. Afterwards he said: "But what have you, and such as you, to do with marriage? That's not your affair at all."

"David adores me." She pouted.

"David knows nothing about women."

"You are very unkind."

But she nestled against him, nevertheless, for she was of that easy type. And he went on caressing her carelessly.

"I thought you didn't care for me any more," she whispered.

"You are a harp upon which I no longer play, an exquisite eighteenth-century harpsichord. Tell me, do your strings still vibrate for me?"

"You were ever so much nicer before I went to Paris." She nestled closer.

"Was I? I don't think I could ever have been more tolerant. This coat will never be wearable again: the mixture of cream and powder you are depositing upon it defies even turpentine. Is it your  idea, by the way, that David Devenish should discover us in this attitude: that with your head upon my shoulder you will tell him your ger-r-uesome tale?"

"I forgot he was coming. I don't want to tell him anything. Can't I say I'm out; that I've changed my mind?"

But already the bell rang. The fog had thickened, and through it David Devenish's voice was heard in the hall.

He came in with both hands extended. But seemed surprised to see Keightley lounging familiarly on the sofa, and pulled himself up shortly.

Ellaline, who had risen before his entry, began quickly to talk about the fog, saying mendaciously and unnecessarily that Keightley had only just come in. David felt at once that there was something in the atmosphere, tense and unexpected, to which Keightley Wilbur's presence was the cue. Keightley was self-possessed and appeared amused.

"She sent for me to consult me as to your proposal. I stand in loco parentis to her, as you possibly know."

A faint colour showed in David's face, but he made no other sign of anger.

"I understand you have been helpful to her," he said stiffly, without any indication of feeling.

"The fact is," Keightley drawled—he seemed to be enjoying himself, which was certainly not the case with either of the others—"we are both of us a little uncertain as to whether, before answering 'Yes' or 'No' she ought not to tell you a certain story. …"

"I don't know what he is talking about," she interrupted, going over to the fireplace, speaking in nervous haste. "Don't listen to him, David: he is only gassing."

"My words are the words of wisdom. Listen, Devenish …"

"If it is Miss Blaney's pleasure?"

"Whether it is Miss Blaney's pleasure or not. But you like to hear me talk, don't you, Ellaline?"

"No, I don't," she answered shortly.

There was an interchange of uncomplimentary sentences between them. David felt irritated, and wished Keightley would be silent. He had not expected to meet him here to-day, and was embarrassed, as any man would be under the circumstances. But in a minute his ear caught the name of Pierre Lamotte, and then his attention was riveted. Since he had fallen so incongruously in love, he had forgotten his suspicions and all the details of the inquest. Now he remembered, and quite suddenly he feared what it was that Keightley insisted upon telling him.

After Ellaline had exhausted her attempts to prevent Keightley speaking, she relapsed into a sullen silence.

When Keightley began it was as if he were talking to himself again, as if neither of them were there. David remained standing all the time the story was being told, and Ellaline crouched before the fire. Keightley had the gift of arresting attention.

"Dusk, and the evening stars. Curious to recall them here in the fog. I always knew I should one day tell the story of how Pierre Lamotte came by his death. But I thought it would have been in verse. …"

He paused for a moment, sighed a little affectedly, and went on:

"The river that evening was a sheet of silver until the mist rose, and then everything became a little unreal and mystic, exquisitely beautiful. We sat in the dinghy, Pierre Lamotte and I, and talked about literature—literature and art. Pierre told me again, as he had told me so many times before, of visions he had seen under opium, of rivers to which this one was a mere muddy stream, of mists on mountain tops dissolving to show a glorious dawn, of the red sun rising on snow-clad peaks. We spoke of the experiment that was to be made after dinner.

"I had never taken opium, and neither had Ellaline. Claudine Bosquet was an expert. Nicholson was coming to show us two amateurs how it was done, and how we could obtain the greatest effect. Claudine talked to Ellaline about it in a  hushed voice in the drawing-room, whilst Pierre told me in the dinghy. Nicholson had lived in Paris, was known to Pierre, had once attended him when he had gone too far in his favourite pastime, and lay insensible for a day and a half.

"I was excited at the prospect. I talked well that night at dinner. Gad! how well I talked! Afterwards, whilst we were waiting for Nicholson, Claudine played the piano and Ellaline sang. The piano had been pushed into the dining-room. Kito meanwhile prepared the drawing-room for the coming séance.

"In the drawing-room the big black divans were heaped with cushions, there were no chairs: dull red matting was on the floor, no lights but one small lamp, modern, but of antique design; beside it lay a copper tray and four opium pipes. The women were in loose white gowns, Pierre and I in smoking suits. One side of the drawing-room was open to the river; the mist was still rising—a wet, white mist—and we heard Nicholson's boat without seeing it, a mysterious splash of oars and lapping of waters. Nicholson, when he came on board, would not let us talk. He arranged us in the opium attitude, so that our dreams should be of Paradise. Ellaline was to lie beside me, her head in the hollow of my hip; Madame Bosquet in the same way with Pierre.

"Ellaline was desperately nervous, and I could feel she was cold through her thin, loose clothes. Nicholson cooked over the lamp, like a strange Aladdin; the opium seethed and bubbled; he moulded it with his fingers into little balls, placing them in the pipes, handing them to us, one after the other, without saying a word.

"I had hardly taken my first whiff, and Ellaline, I believe, had made but a coughing pretence, when I saw Pierre get up. Then everything became rather hazy, and all I remember was the tangle of stars, and that the mist lifted. So I drifted into Nirvana. I loved my Ellaline and all the beautiful world; wonderful illuminating phrases came to me, and I saw into the heart of things. There were vases filled with exotic flowers, exquisite warm scents and sounds of music, shapes, half divine, of women and children floated before me …"

He paused for a moment as if remembering. Then in a sudden change of mood went on:

"Now, Ellaline, I have given you a start. Tell us what happened next. You had one whiff. …"

She took up the tale from him, but when she spoke it was as if she were speaking in her sleep—speaking through suggestion, and involuntarily.

"I did not really inhale it: I was frightened of the drug, and of the whole thing. I never wanted to do it, but you persuaded me. You could have persuaded me to anything then."

"And now," he put in, smiling lightly. David made an impatient gesture, and Ellaline went on as if she had noticed no interruption.

"I hated the smell of the pipes, and I was cold and uncomfortable. Then you fell asleep "

"Not quite."

"You seemed fast asleep, and I slid out of your arms and got up. Madame Bosquet was sleeping, too, but Mr. Lamotte was standing looking at the river. We watched Dr. Nicholson get into his boat and row off …" She stopped abruptly, and it was Keightley presently who continued the narrative.

"You stood a long time beside Pierre, and at first he talked poetry, but found you unresponsive. At dinner he had paid you compliments, and your bridling had led him to think you were open to his advances. They don't understand your methods in Paris, your insatiable vanity and desire for indiscriminate admiration, your fickle, futile flirtatiousness. David, here, does not understand, either. Nobody in England but I knows the soul of the dancer, of the light woman who is nevertheless virtuous, who will take everything but gives nothing: who never loves, but sometimes feebly desires. You liked Pierre's compliments: were proud to score off Claudine, off me, even, a little. Perhaps you thought of an engagement in the new play; of advancing in your profession. But most probably you never thought at all when you sat down in the deck-chair with Pierre beside you, whilst he told you how lovely you were, and that he had become madly enamoured of you, that you must go back to Paris with him. …

"Claudine slept on, I slept on, dreaming exquisitely. You and Pierre talked under the stars. The hour got late, and later. …"

Now the girl on the hearthrug covered her face with her hands—the fire had caught her cheeks. David saw the sudden scarlet.

"My pipe got cold and went out. I was conscious of my surroundings, a little dreamy still. But, of course, when I am half asleep I am wider awake than most people. Madame Bosquet roused herself, and said she would finish her sleep in bed. You came over and stood beside me, asked if it was as nice as I had anticipated. You were nervous and excited. Pierre's love-making had gone a little beyond what you intended or expected. As far as you were capable of caring for anyone, you cared for me, and your move towards me was for protection—protection against the danger you yourself had brought about. Pierre followed you; stood beside you looking down at me. He asked if I had had enough; said he could fill me another pipe, knew how to do it as well as Nicholson. I held out my hand—it was really for yours—but he put the pipe into it, went over to the tray, warmed a little pellet over the flame of the lamp, came back and dropped it into the pipe I held"

You went to sleep again," she interrupted hastily.

"No."

"He said we must leave you undisturbed—that it would be dangerous to wake you."

"You were frightened of Pierre by now—a little frightened, but flattered, flattered by the passion with which your beauty had inspired him; your beauty and your complaisance! Even then you could not tell him straightforwardly and definitely that you were playing with him, that you meant nothing. You relied upon—Heaven only knows upon what you relied.

"You moved away again, and now I only feigned to inhale my pipe. I had heard his amorous whispers, seen your moist, half-opened lips and shining, startled eyes. I think I must have slept again nevertheless. When I woke the stars were no longer in the heavens, and there was nothing but grey river mists and the water lip-lapping against the sides of the boat. It was then I heard your frightened cry."

Her head sunk lower. David had the inclination to lay his hand upon it, upon the soft yellow of its dishevelment.

"Need we have any more of this?" he said.

"Does it bore you?" Keightley asked, apparently surprised. "I bought I was telling the story rather well. It's new stuff, you will admit, won't you? Opium parties were very common in Paris that season—quite the rage amongst the intellectuals. I thought you would like to hear about this one: it was very picturesque and original—the boat and the river, and all that. I had a terrific headache the next day, I remember, and did not get rid of it until Kito mixed me some specific of his own. Kito is very near to being a physician. I never can understand how you do without a man," he said carelessly to Devenish, getting up from the sofa, stretching himself, and going to the window.

"The fog is worse than ever. I don't know how we are going to get to the Ritz. One can't see across the road now. It's a real Whistler nocturne. There's the reflection of a yellowish light from some window, and the gleam of the street lamp at the corner: the rest is almost opaque."

He appeared to expect they would come to him, join him in looking out.

David sat down on one of the easy-chairs by the fireside. As the girl crouched on the hearthrug it seemed as if she were at his knee. His impulse was to protect her, although he was chilled and repelled. He wished to condemn Keightley, but involuntarily he put himself in his place, and felt that the only difference between them was that in hot rage he might have killed the Frenchman who had abused his hospitality: put two hands upon his throat and throttled him. But Keightley, more coldly and deliberately, had flung him into the river, as any man would have flung him from out of a house, from under a roof where he had betrayed his host. He saw the scene that must have taken place between the two men, and how it had come about: thinking, too, of the good name of the girl at his feet, and how it would be imperilled if it were ever known how Pierre Lamotte came by his death. He remembered his newspaper, knowing full well that this news would never reach his readers.

Keightley, when he left the window, said shivering:

"It is brutally cold. You might stir the fire into a blaze, Ella."

"I don't know why you have told me this," David said heavily, after another pause.

"Don't you?" Ellaline had not moved. "Neither do I."

Then he looked from one to the other, shrugged his shoulders slightly, smiled:

"You won't think me rude if I leave you now, will you? I want to see how the light of St. Stephen's shows from the Embankment. I am sorry I bored you."

David rose and faced him.

"Why have you told me that story to-day, Wilbur?"

"I wonder," Keightley answered. His eyes met David's, and so they remained for the space of an instant. Then David sat down again, and Keightley went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

"What actually happened?" David found himself asking when he was alone with Ellaline after Keightley had gone.

"He threw him out."

"Out of the boat! Without knowing he could swim—whether he could swim or not?"

She answered a little sulkily, but watching him under her lowered lids:

"He had insulted me!"

David sat silent a moment.

"The death penalty!" he said under his breath, but looking at her beauty, appraising it, thinking the price men paid, feeling himself mean, perhaps. Then it was as if she coaxed, or pleaded:

"The tender was just behind: there was a boat moored to the side. We were not a yard from the shore."

"Neither of you looked to see what had become of him?"

"I was too frightened. I never thought that—that he—that he would be drowned. Keightley was so—so quiet—and—and so cool. Afterwards he said, in a sort of polite way, that he hoped I would be able to sleep now, and that he was sorry I had been disturbed. 'If Pierre returns it will be as young Henry,' he said, and quoted something about a ghost:

"I don't think he quite knew what he was doing: I did not know what he meant. You don't blame me, do you?" she asked anxiously.

"No, no: certainly not," replied David quickly, if without conviction.

David Devenish and Ellaline Blaney are not married. Rumour has it that she continues to refuse him because she does not wish to leave the stage. But rumour, of course, is a lying jade. They sup together frequently at the Savoy grill-room, and people talk about them. The Daily Grail has published nothing further about the Lamotte case, although it continues to criticise the findings of coroners' juries with some virulence.