Ross stood looking down at the very quiet figure in a sort of daze. He did not find this horrible, or shocking; it was simply impossible. Here, in this tranquil, cozy room—No, it was impossible!
Going down on one knee, he reached out and touched the nape of the man’s neck. But he did it mechanically; he had known, from the first glance, that the man was dead. No living thing could lie so still. Quite cold—
The sound of a slow footstep in the corridor startled him. He sprang to his feet, pulled down the linen cover, and was standing idly in the center of the room when a woman entered, a stout, elderly woman with calm brown eyes behind spectacles.
“Well?” said she.
“I came to see Mrs. Jones,” said Ross. “I had a note—”
He spoke in a tone as matter-of-fact as her own, for to save his life he could think of no rational manner in which to tell her what he had seen. Such a preposterous thing to tell a sensible, elderly woman! The very thought of it dismayed him. Of all things in the world, he hated the theatrical. He could not be, and he would not be, dramatic. He wished to be casual.
But, in this case, it would not be easy. The thing he had found was, in its very nature, dramatic, and was even now defying him to be casual and sensible. He would have to tell her, point-blank, and she probably would shriek or faint, or both.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Jones. A note?”
Her voice trailed away, and she stood regarding him in thoughtful silence. Ross was quite willing to be silent a little longer, while he tried to find a reassuring form for his statement; he looked back at her, his lean face quite impassive, his mind working furiously.
“Yes?” said Mrs. Jones. “Miss Solway did think, for a time, that she might need some one to—advise her. But everything’s quite all right now.” She paused a moment. “She’ll be sorry to hear you’ve made the journey for nothing. She’ll appreciate your kindness, I’m sure. But everything’s quite all right now.”
“Oh, is it?” murmured Ross.
He found difficulty in suppressing a grim smile. Everything was all right now, was it, and he could run away home? He did not agree with Mrs. Jones.
“Yes,” she replied. “It was very kind of you to come, but—”
“Wait!” cried Ross, for she had turned away toward the sofa.
Without so much as turning her head, she went on a few steps, took the knitted scarf from her shoulders, and threw it over the end of the sofa. And he saw then that just the tip of the man’s fingers had been visible, and that the trailing end of the scarf covered them now. She knew!
“Well?” she asked, looking inquiringly at him through her spectacles. No; it was impossible; the whole thing was utterly impossible!
This sedate, respectable, gray-haired woman, this housekeeper who looked as if she would not overlook the smallest trace of dust in a corner, certainly, surely would not leave a dead man under her sofa.
She was stroking the cat, and the animal had assumed an expression of idiotic delight, pink tongue protruding a little, eyes half open. Would even a cat be so monstrously indifferent if—if what he thought he had seen under the sofa were really there?
“Would you like me to telephone for a taxi to take you to the station?” asked Mrs. Jones, very civilly.
“Ha!” thought Ross. “You want to get rid of me, don’t you?”
And that aroused all his stiff-necked obstinacy. He would not go away now, after all his trouble, without any sort of explanation of the situation.
“There’s a good train—” Mrs. Jones began, with calm persistence, but Ross interrupted.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’d like to see Miss Solway first.”
His own words surprised him a little. After all, why on earth should he want to see this Miss Solway? A few hours ago he had been greatly annoyed at the thought of having to do so; he would have been only too glad never to see or to hear of her again.
“It’s because I don’t like being made such a fool of,” he thought.
For the first time since she had entered the room, Mrs. Jones’s calm was disturbed. She came nearer to him, and looked into his face with obvious anxiety, speaking very low, and far more respectfully.
“It would be much better not to!” she said. “Much better, sir, if you’ll just go away—”
“I want to see Miss Solway,” Ross repeated. “There’s been a mistake, and I want to explain.”
“I know that, sir!” she whispered. “Of course, as soon as I saw you, I knew you weren’t Mr. Ross. But—”
“Look here!” said Ross, bluntly. “What’s it all about, anyhow?”
“There was a little difficulty, sir,” said Mrs. Jones, still in a whisper. “But it’s all over now.”
All over now? A new thought came to Ross. Had the man under the sofa been Miss Solway’s “terrible trouble,” and had Cousin James been sent for to help—in doing what had already been done?
He had, at this moment, a most clear and definite warning from his brain. “Clear out!” it said. “Get out of this, now. Don’t wait; don’t ask questions; just go!” All through his body this warning signal ran, making his scalp prickle and his heart beat fast. “It is bad for you here. Go! Now!”
And his stubborn and indomitable spirit answered: “I won’t!”
“I want to see Miss Solway,” he said, aloud.
Mrs. Jones looked at him for a moment, and apparently the expression on his face filled her with despair.
“Oh, dear!” she said, with a tremulous sigh. “I knew; I told her it was a mistake to send. Oh, dear!”
Ross stood there and waited.
“If you’ll go away,” she said, “Miss Solway will write to you.”
Ross still stood there and waited.
“Very well, sir!” she said, with another sigh. “If you must, you must. This way, please!”
He followed her out of the room, and he noticed that she did not even glance back. She couldn’t know. It was impossible that any one who was aware of what lay under the sofa could simply walk out of the room like that, closing the door upon it.
They went down the corridor, which was evidently a wing of the house, and turned the corner into a wider hall. Mrs. Jones knocked upon a door.
“Miss Amy, my pet!” she called, softly.
The door opened a little.
“The gentleman,” said Mrs. Jones. “He will see you!”
“All right!” answered a voice he recognized; the door opened wider, and there was the girl he had seen before. Her body, in that soft gray dress, seemed almost incredibly fragile; her face, colorless, framed in misty black hair, with great, restless black eyes and delicate little features, was strange and lovely as a dream.
Too strange, thought Ross. For the first time he realized the significance of her presence in the housekeeper’s room. He remembered the wailing voice, her air of haste and terror as she had brushed past him. She had been in there, alone. What did she know? What had she seen?
“I had a note from you—” he began.
“Hush!” said Mrs. Jones. “If you please, sir! It’s a mistake, Miss Amy, my pet. This isn’t Mr. Ross. It’s quite a stranger.”
Obviously she was warning her pet to be careful what she said, and Ross decided that he, too, would be careful. He would have his own little mystery.
“Quite a stranger!” he repeated.
“But—how did you get my note?” asked the girl.
“It was given to me,” he answered.
He saw Mrs. Jones and the girl exchange a glance.
“If I hold my tongue and wait,” he thought, “they’ll surely have to tell me something.”
“But I don’t—” the girl began, when, to Ross’s amazement, Mrs. Jones gave him a vigorous push forward.
“You’re the new chauffeur!” she whispered, fiercely.
Then he heard footsteps in the hall. He stood well inside the room, now; a large room, furnished with quiet elegance. It was what people called a boudoir, he thought, as his quick eye took in the details; a dressing table with rose shaded electric lights and gleaming silver and glass; a little desk with rose and ivory fittings; a silver vase of white chrysanthemums on the table.
“I’m afraid we can’t take you,” said Mrs. Jones, in an altogether new sort of voice, brisk, and a little loud. “I’m sorry.”
Ross was very well aware that some one else had come to the door and was standing behind him. He was also aware of a sort of triumph in Mrs. Jones’s manner. She thought she was going to get rid of him. But she wasn’t.
“If it’s a question of wages,” he said, “I’ll take a little less.”
He saw how greatly this disconcerted her.
“No,” she said. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” demanded an impatient voice behind him. He turned, and saw a stout, middle-aged man of domineering aspect standing there and frowning heavily.
“The young man’s come to apply for the chauffeur’s position, sir,” Mrs. Jones explained. “But I’m afraid—”
“Well, what’s the matter with him?” cried the domineering man. “Can he drive a car? Has he got references, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Ross replied.
“Let’s see your references!”
“I left them at the agency,” said Ross, as if inspired.
“Agency sent you, eh? Well, they know their business, don’t they? Can you take a car to pieces and put it together again? Have you brains enough to keep your gasoline tank filled, and to remember that when you’re going round a corner some other fellow may be doing the same thing?”
“Yes, sir,” said Ross.
The domineering man stared hard, and Ross met his regard steadily.
“He’ll do,” said the man. “I like him. Looks you straight in the face. Level headed. Well set up. Good nerves. Doesn’t drink. We’ll give him a chance. Eddy!”
He went out into the hall.
“Eddy!” he shouted. “I want Eddy!”
Mrs. Jones came close to Ross.
“Go away!” she whispered. “You must go away!”
The domineering man had come back into the room.
“Now, then, what’s your name?” he demanded brusquely.
“Moss,” said Ross.
“Moss, eh? Very well! Ah, here’s Eddy! Eddy, take this young man over to the garage. See that he’s properly looked after. He’s our new chauffeur.”