CHAPTER XXII

“My dear child!” Valcour was genuinely concerned. “What a pity—this further shock!”

He placed an arm protectingly about Alice Tribeau’s shoulder and led her immediately out of Vera’s room, back through the terrifying hall and into the maid’s room, where he insisted upon her lying down again upon the bed. He had once seen a little white dog that had been struck by a motor. The dog had lain limply on the road with, at various intervals, the slightest tremble. Only the eyes had been bright and actively moving—too bright, and puzzled—uncomprehending—like Alice Tribeau’s eyes and Alice Tribeau’s body. Her lips showed blotchy remainders of geranium and were whitish where the cosmetic had been rubbed off. Her forehead, beneath damp ringlets of brown hair, was moist.

Dr. Harlan had followed them and was standing in the doorway. His own forehead was moist, and he was considerably unnerved. And just behind him, more dimly seen, was the patrician face of Mr. Sturm.

“I really ought to give her an injection,” Dr. Harlan was saying.

A “no” came with difficulty from Alice Tribeau’s lips, and her body went in for one of those extraordinary faint tremors that were all the more impressive because of their slightness.

Valcour stared sharply at her with deliberately searching eyes. His manner became brisk, wholesome, and friendly.

“Suppose you leave Miss Tribeau and me alone for a little while, Doctor,” he said. “I’ll sit here and try to talk her to sleep. You’ve no idea of the number of people I’ve successfully talked off to sleep. You’d never suspect it, but I’m really very soothing.”

Dr. Harlan managed a faint smile. “You must do nothing to alarm her further.”

“Why, there is nothing to be alarmed about, Doctor; nothing at all.”

Dr. Harlan turned and started away. As for the white and patrician features of Mr. Sturm, they had already gone.

Valcour pulled a chair up quite close to the bed and sat down. He took out a package of cigarettes.

“Will smoking bother you?” he said.

The question surprised her and tugged gently at her scattered interests. It was very novel to be bothered about, as to whether anything annoyed her or not, by an expensively dressed gentleman.

“No, it won’t,” she said.

Valcour lighted a cigarette.

“Whereabouts was this dance held which you went to tonight?” he said.

“Down to the Corners.”

“You got there early, didn’t you?”

“After the dishes.”

“After eight-thirty, say?”

“Yes, sir.”

Valcour smiled amiably. “I’ve always wanted to attend the dances up here,” he said. “Sometime I shall. I am very fond of dancing, and once won a prize for being the world’s worst dancer. Which orchestra was playing?”

“Harry Daylo’s.”

“Good?”

“Swell.”

“Who’s he got playing traps for him now—that dark-haired chap?”

“I guess you mean Buster Detton?”

“Yes. He’s very clever. I heard him at the school commencement.”

“He’s swell.”

“Who took you?”

“Harry Beaudrez. We’re going together.”

“Really! Well, well, is it too early to offer best wishes?”

She was feeling better. That tight sense of impending dread had loosened a bit of its grip. Somewhere, way back in her head, was a lifted sheet, and under it…she only flicked the picture with a mental glance and clung desperately to these soothing commonplaces. “Well, maybe not,” she said.

“Then permit me to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I shouldn’t wonder but that like all young engaged couples, you two have your quarrels.”

“I’ll say.”

“But they’re never very serious.”

“They’re fun.”

“The making-up part afterwards?”

“Yes.”

“Was the quarrel you had tonight a real good one?”

“Sort of.”

“It was about someone, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. They’re always about someone.”

“Always the same person?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“And tonight’s was about—?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say.”

“Well, you don’t have to. You see I’m something of a fortune teller. In fact, you’d be astonished at the things I can do with tea leaves. The quarrel was about Mrs. Sturm, wasn’t it? But of course Harry Beaudrez was only teasing.”

“He was just being hateful, and didn’t mean anything.”

Valcour flicked his line a little closer toward center. “He was saying, wasn’t he, how much better Mrs. Sturm looked in her own clothes than you did?”

“How did you know?” she said, and wondered whether he had been serious about the tea leaves and not kidding, whether he really could…“You wasn’t there.”

He smiled amiably and said, “I warned you I was occult. Of course you didn’t let him get away with anything like that?”

“I’ll say I didn’t. I asked him why he didn’t play around with her, then, instead of me. Can you imagine it?”

Valcour continued to smile. “And what did he say?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell.”

“Of course you can. We know he was only fooling.”

“Sure he was only fooling. He’d be crazy if he wasn’t.”

“He said?”

“He said he had.”

Valcour said nothing for almost a full minute. He stared at Alice Tribeau, but he wasn’t seeing Alice Tribeau; he was seeing Vera snatching at passion clandestinely, Vera and the young man who owned a dairy farm, who jumped, in his strength, over wagons to amuse the children.

“Tell me,” he said gently, “did young Beaudrez start home with you when you left?”

“No, he didn’t. I slipped out and left him to look for me. He’d feel foolish when he couldn’t find me.”

“Of course; the joke would then be on him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you got back to the house here, did you go right into the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a lucky thing you did, isn’t it?”

A little cunning suffused the fright in her eyes.

“Lucky?”

“Yes; it’s a lucky thing you stopped Mrs. Sturm from using the wrong bottle.”

“I didn’t say anything about a bottle.”

“I know you didn’t. But I know all about it. Mrs. Sturm told me all about it herself—about her fixing Mr. Sturm’s tonic and having accidentally got hold of the wrong bottle.”

“I didn’t say it.”

“And the bottle she had accidentally got hold of contained poison.”

“I didn’t say it. She told you.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve admitted it was she who told me.” Valcour was very soothing. “No one could question your loyalty to her a bit. Did she promise you money to keep quiet about it?”

“She’s given me money now and then.”

“I see; when you’d receive letters that were meant for her but were addressed to you?” Valcour knew from repeated observation that the mechanics of any intrigue were as stabilized and as easy to reel off as a roll on a pianola.

“She’d give me fifty cents apiece for them.”

“Well, when you stopped her from using the wrong bottle, didn’t she promise you anything if you’d say nothing about it?”

Her eyes grew frightened and he barely heard her say, “Five hundred dollars.”

His own eyes were a little stern as he said, “I see.”

“It made me think, because she offered me so much, that maybe…”

He echoed her “maybe” and said, “What did she do with the bottle that had poison in it?”

“She cleaned up the pieces.”

“It was smashed?”

“Yes. It fell right out of her fingers when I came into the kitchen. I guess I startled her. It fell right out of her fingers into the sink and broke.” Her voice was vague again, low again. “I saw the label and knew it was poison from the picture of the skull on it.”

“You liked Mrs. Sturm a lot, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, a whole lot.”

“Well, it’s a nasty thing to say, but I think that your having seen her like that with the bottle was why she shot you.”