His irony baffled her. But her thoughts flew to his letter, in which he accused her of having killed something in him; he must be referring to that.
‘Darling Hal,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I’m sorry to have hurt you. What can I do to—to——’
There was a sound of voices calling, and her attention thus awakened caught the strains of music, muffled and remote.
‘They want us for the next figure. We must go,’ she cried, thankful that the difficult interview was nearly over. She was colder than ever, and could hardly keep her teeth from chattering audibly.
‘What is the next figure?’ he asked, without appearing to move.
‘Oh, you know—we’ve had it before—we give each other favours, then we unmask ourselves. Hal, we really ought to go! Listen! Isn’t that midnight beginning to strike?’
Unable to control her agitation, aggravated by the strain of the encounter, the deadly sensation of cold within her, and a presentiment of disaster for which she could not account, she rushed towards the door and her outstretched left hand, finding the switch, flooded the room with light. Mechanically she turned her head to the room; it was empty. Bewildered she looked back over her left shoulder, and there, within a foot of her, stood Harry Chichester, his arms stretched across the door.
‘Harry,’ she cried, ‘don’t be silly! Come out or let me out!’
‘You must give me a favour first,’ he said sombrely.
‘Of course I will, but I haven’t got one here.’
‘I thought you always had favours to give away.’
‘Harry, what do you mean?’
‘You came unprovided?’
She was silent.
‘I did not. I have something here to give you—a small token. Only I must have a quid pro quo.’
He’s mad, thought Marion. I must humour him as far as I can.
‘Very well,’ she said, looking around the room. Jenny would forgive her—it was an emergency. ‘May I give you this silver pencil?’
He shook his head.
‘Or this little vase?’
Still he refused.
‘Or this calendar?’
‘The flight of time doesn’t interest me.’
‘Then what can I tempt you with?’
‘Something that is really your own—a kiss.’
‘My dear,’ said Marion, trembling, ‘you needn’t have asked for.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And to prove I don’t want something for nothing, here is your favour.’
He felt in his pocket. Marion saw a dark silvery gleam; she held her hand out for the gift.
It was a revolver.
‘What am I to do with this?’ she asked.
‘You are the best judge of that,’ he replied. ‘Only one cartridge has been used.’
Without taking her eyes from his face she laid down the revolver among the bric-à-brac on the table by her side.
‘And now your gift to me.’
‘But what about our masks?’ said Marion.
‘Take yours off,’ he commanded.
‘Mine doesn’t matter,’ said Marion, removing as she spoke the silken visor. ‘But you are wearing an entirely false face.’
‘Do you know why?’ he asked, gazing at her fixedly through the slits in the mask.
She didn’t answer.
‘I was always an empty-headed fellow,’ he went on, tapping the waxed covering with his gloved forefinger, so that it gave out a wooden hollow sound—‘there’s nothing much behind this. No brains to speak of, I mean. Less than I used to have, in fact.’
Marion stared at him in horror.
‘Would you like to see? Would you like to look right into my mind?’
‘No! No!’ she cried wildly.
‘But I think you ought to,’ he said, coming a step nearer and raising his hands to his head.
‘Have you seen Marion?’ said Jane Manning to her husband. ‘I’ve a notion she hasn’t been enjoying herself. This was in a sense her party, you know. We made a mistake to give her Tommy Cardew as a partner; he doesn’t carry heavy enough guns for her.’
‘Why, does she want shooting?’ inquired her husband.
‘Idiot! But I could see they didn’t get on. I wonder where she’s got to—I’m afraid she may be bored.’
‘Perhaps she’s having a quiet talk with a howitzer,’ her husband suggested.
Jane ignored him. ‘Darling, it’s nearly twelve. Run into the ante-room and fetch her; I don’t want her to miss the final figure.’
In a few seconds he returned. ‘Not there,’ he said. ‘Not there, my child. Sunk by a twelve-inch shell, probably.’
‘She may be sitting out in the corridor.’
‘Hardly, after a direct hit.’
‘Well, look.’
They went away and returned with blank faces. The guests were standing about talking; the members of the band, their hands ready on their instruments, looked up inquiringly.
‘We shall have to begin without her,’ Mrs. Manning reluctantly decided. ‘We shan’t have time to finish as it is.’
The hands of the clock showed five minutes to twelve.
The band played as though inspired, and many said afterwards that the cotillon never got really going, properly warmed up, till those last five minutes. All the fun of the evening seemed to come to a head, as though the spirit of the dance, mistrustful of its latter-day devotees, had withheld its benison till the final moments. Everyone was too excited to notice, as they whirled past that the butler was standing in one of the doorways with a white and anxious face. Even Mrs. Manning, when at last she saw him, called out cheerfully, almost without pausing for an answer:
‘Well, Jackson, everything all right, I hope?’
‘Can I speak to you a moment, Madam?’ he said. ‘Or perhaps Mr. Manning would be better.’
Mrs. Manning’s heart sank. Did he want to leave?
‘Oh, I expect I shall do, shan’t I? I hope it’s nothing serious.’
‘I’m afraid it is, Madam, very serious.’
‘All right, I’ll come.’ She followed him on to the landing.
A minute later her husband saw her threading her way towards him.
‘Jack! Just a moment.’
He was dancing and affected not to hear. His partner’s eyes looked surprised and almost resentful, Mrs. Manning thought; but she persisted none the less.
‘I know I’m a bore and I’m sorry, but I really can’t help myself.’
This brought them to a stand.
‘Why, Jane, has the boiler burst?’
‘No, it’s more serious than that, Jack,’ she said, as he disengaged himself from his partner with an apology. ‘There’s been a dreadful accident or something at the Chillingworths’. That guest of theirs, do you remember, whom they were to have brought and didn’t——’
‘Yes, he stayed behind with a headache—rotten excuse—’
‘Well, he’s shot himself.’
‘Good God! When?’
‘They found him half an hour ago, apparently, but they couldn’t telephone because the machine was out of order, and had to send.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes, he blew his brains out.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
‘The man told me. He was called Chichester.’
They were standing at the side of the room, partly to avoid the dancers, partly to be out of earshot. The latter consideration need not have troubled them, however. The band, which for some time past had been playing nineteenth-century waltzes, now burst into the strains of John Peel. There was a tremendous sense of excitement and climax. The dancers galloped by at break-neck speed; the band played fortissimo; the volume of sound was terrific. But above the din—the music, the laughter and the thud of feet—they could just hear the clock striking twelve.
Jack Manning looked doubtfully at his wife.’Should I go and tell Chillingworth now? What do you think?’
‘Perhaps you’d better—it seems so heartless not to. Break it to him as gently as you can, and don’t let the others know if you can help it.’
Jack Manning’s task was neither easy nor agreeable, and he was a born bungler. Despairing of making himself heard, he raised his hand and cried out, ‘Wait a moment!’ Some of the company stood still and, imagining it was a signal to take off their masks, began to do so; others went on dancing; others stopped and stared. He was the centre of attention; and before he had got his message fairly delivered, it had reached other ears than those for which it was intended. An excited whispering went round the room: ‘What is it? What is it?’ Men and women stood about with their masks in their hands, and faces blanker than before they were uncovered. Others looked terrified and incredulous. A woman came up to Jane Manning and said: