The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
no, not that,” she said, and laid her hand on his shoulder, her distressed face looking into his, “surely not that. Mr. Milburgh could not have done it, he could not be so great a scoundrel.”
“Who sent the wire to your mother saying you were not coming down?”
“Milburgh,” replied the girl.
“Did he send two wires, do you remember?” said Tarling.
She hesitated.
“Yes, he did,” she said, “I don’t know who the other was to.”
“It was the same writing anyway,” he said.
“But—”
“Dear,” he said, “you must not worry any more about it. There is a trying time ahead of you, but you must be brave, both for your own sake and for your mother’s, and for mine,” he added.
Despite her unhappiness she smiled faintly.
“You take something for granted, don’t you?” she asked.
“Am I doing that?” he said in surprise.
“You mean—” she went redder than ever— “that I care enough for you — that I would make an effort for your sake?”
“I suppose I do,” said Tarling slowly, “it’s vanity, I suppose?”
“Perhaps it is instinct,” she said, and squeezed his arm.
“I must take you back to your mother’s place,” he said.
The walk from the house to the station had been a long and tedious one. The way back was surprisingly short, even though they walked at snail’s pace. There never was a courting such as Tarling’s, and it seemed unreal as a dream. The girl had a key of the outer gate and they passed through together.
“Does your mother know that you are in Hertford?” asked Tarling suddenly.
“Yes,” replied the girl. “I saw her before I came after you.”
“Does she know—”
He did not care to finish the sentence.
“No,” said the girl, “she does not know. Poor woman, it will break her heart. She is — very fond of Milburgh. Sometimes he is most kind to mother. She loves him so much that she accepted his mysterious comings and goings and all the explanations which he offered, without suspicion.”
They had reached the place where he had picked up the wallet, and above him gloomed the dark bulk of the portico with its glass-house atop. The house was in darkness, no lights shone anywhere.
“I will take you in through the door under the portico. It is the way Mr. Milburgh always comes. Have you a light?”
He had his electric lamp in his pocket and he put a beam upon the keyhole. She inserted the key and uttered a note of exclamation, for the door yielded under her pressure and opened.
“It is unlocked,” she said. “I am sure I fastened it.”
Tarling put his lamp upon the lock and made a little grimace. The catch had been wedged back into the lock so that it could not spring out again.
“How long were you in the house?” he asked quickly.
“Only a few minutes,” said the girl. “I went in just to tell mother, and I came out immediately.”
“Did you close the door behind you when you went in?”
The girl thought a moment.
“Perhaps I didn’t,” she said. “No, of course not — I didn’t come back this way; mother let me out by the front door.”
Tarling put his light into the hall and saw the carpeted stairs half-a-dozen feet away. He guessed what had happened. Somebody had seen the door ajar, and guessing from the fact that she had left it open that she was returning immediately, had slipped a piece of wood, which looked to be and was in fact the stalk of a match, between the catch of the spring lock and its sheath.
“What has happened?” asked the girl in a troubled voice.
“Nothing,” said Tarling airily. “It was probably your disreputable stepfather did this. He may have lost his key.”
“He could have gone in the front door,” said the girl uneasily.
“Well, I’ll go first,” said Tarling with a cheerfulness which he was far from feeling.
He went upstairs, his lamp in one hand, an automatic pistol in the other. The stairs ended in a balustraded landing from which two doors opened.
“That is mother’s room,” said the girl, pointing to the nearest.
A sense of impending trouble made her shiver. Tarling put his arms about her encouragingly. He walked to the door of the room, turned the handle and opened it. There was something behind the door which held it close, and exerting all his strength he pushed the door open sufficiently far to allow of his squeezing through.
On the desk a table-lamp was burning, the light of which was hidden from the outside by the heavily-curtained windows, but it was neither at the window nor at the desk that he was looking.
Mrs. Rider lay behind the door, a little smile on her face, the haft of a dagger standing out with hideous distinctness beneath her heart.
XXVII. The Laugh in the Night
Tarling gave one glance before he turned to the girl, who was endeavouring to push past him, and catching her by the arm gently thrust her back into the passage.
“What is wrong? What is wrong?” she asked in a terrified whisper. “Oh, let me go to mother.”
She struggled to escape from his grip, but he held her firmly.
“You must be brave, for your own sake — for everybody’s sake,” he entreated her.
Still holding her arm, he forced her to the door of the second inner room. His hand felt for the electric switch and found it.
He was in what appeared to be a spare bedroom, plainly furnished, and from this a door led, apparently into the main building.
“Where does that door lead?” he asked, but she did not appear to hear him.
“Mother, mother!” she was moaning, “what has happened to my mother?”
“Where does that door lead?” he asked again, and for answer she slipped her trembling hand into her pocket and produced a key.
He opened the door and found himself in a rectangular gallery overlooking the hall.
She slipped past him, but he caught her and pushed her back.
“I tell you, you must be calm, Odette,” he said firmly, “you must not give way. Everything depends upon your courage. Where are the servants?”
Then, unexpectedly, she broke away from him and raced back through the door into the wing they had left. He followed in swift pursuit.
“For God’s sake, Odette, don’t, don’t,” he cried, as she flung herself against the door and burst into her mother’s room.
One glance she gave, then she fell on the floor by the side of her dead mother, and flinging her arms about the form kissed the cold lips.
Tarling pulled her gently away, and half-carried, half-supported her back to the gallery. A dishevelled man in shirt and trousers whom Tarling thought might be the butler was hurrying along the corridor.
“Arouse any women who are in the