THERE now remained for Helen the task of awaiting the arrival of Saul Hartz. Four o’clock was the hour that he was due.
The rather tiny drawing room in which she intended to receive him was quite a delight to the eye. It was choice, seductive, trim. Much care and taste had been lavished on the decorations, the hangings, the general scheme. A bright fire burned on a cosy hearth of blue and white Dutch tiles. Everything was a harmony of delicate blues and greens. No room could have been more civilized. It was really fantastic that a creature like herself, one whose mind was humane, creative, essentially modern, essentially sane, should have invited a man to such a room in order to murder him.
That aspect of the case didn’t bear thinking about. And with a courage that showed no sign of failing now the crisis was at hand she put it away from her. She went to the safe in the other room to procure the phial. But as she was in the act of unlocking its heavy door, a paralyzing thought flashed along her nerves.
Suppose ... suppose ... the phial was not there!
It was more than likely that John had now reached a state of mind when he could carry this deadly thing about with him for use upon himself. It was such a simple, convenient mode of exit from the world. As the door of the safe yielded to the key, she had a thrill of pure fright. This new hypothesis had a touch of inevitability that appalled her. But the fear instantly passed. There, in the place in which she had last seen it, was the gun-metal case.
A careful examination told her that as far as she could learn the apparatus was in working order. She took it accordingly to the drawing room and set it on the chimneypiece in a place easily accessible, behind a charming Wedgwood vase. Next it was a pretty little French clock which soon chimed half past three.
She then took up a piece of needlework and began with skilful fingers to weave a mosaic of colored silks. All too soon, however, she discovered that she was not quite superhuman. After five minutes or so she was compelled to put it down. Every nerve in her body was in a state of mutiny.
Several books from the circulating library were on a small table near her hand. The first she took up was entitled New Uses for the Will: a translation from the Chinese of Lien Weng. Involuntarily her glance strayed towards the chimneypiece and the Wedgwood vase. The coincidence made her shiver.
She set the book down as if it had been a live coal. Then she got up and began feverishly to pace the room. For one horrid moment she had the illusion again that its four walls were closing in upon her. But it was dispelled for the time being by the entrance of the parlor maid with a silver tray containing tea things.
The clock on the chimneypiece began melodiously to chime four.
“Is that clock right, Ferris?” The high thin voice, as heard by herself, sounded to Helen quite unlike her own.
“Yes, m’m, I believe so.”
“You needn’t draw the curtains. I’ll attend to those myself.”
“Thank you, m’m.”
The parlor maid went out of the room.