Part 7

“Who has been where?” I would ask, I am afraid not too patiently.

“You know perfectly well. And I think you ought to tell him.”

In spite of her vague pronouns, I understood, and in a more masculine way I shared her sense of outrage. Our street has never had a scandal on it, except the one when the Berringtons’ music teacher ran away with their coachman, in the days of carriages. And I am glad to say that that is almost forgotten.

Nevertheless, we had realized for some time that the dreaded triangle was threatening the repute of our quiet neighborhood, and as I stood by the telephone that night I saw that it had come. More than that, it seemed very probable that into this very triangle our peaceful Neighborhood Club had been suddenly thrust.

My wife accepted my excuse coldly. She dislikes intensely the occasional outside calls of my profession. She merely observed, however, that she would leave all the lights on until my return. “I should think you could arrange things better, Horace,” she added. “It’s perfectly idiotic the way people die at night. And tonight, of all nights!”

I shall have to confess that through all of the thirty years of our married life my wife has clung to the belief that I am a bit of a dog. Thirty years of exemplary living have not affected this conviction, nor had Herbert’s foolish remark earlier in the evening helped matters. But she watched me put on my overcoat without further comment. When I kissed her good-night, however, she turned her cheek.

The street, with its open spaces, was a relief after the dark hall. I started for Sperry’s house, my head bent against the wind, my mind on the news I had just heard. Was it, I wondered, just possible that we had for some reason been allowed behind the veil which covered poor Wells’ last moments? And, to admit that for a moment, where would what we had heard lead us? Sperry had said he had killed himself. But--suppose he had not?

I realize now, looking back, that my recollection of the other man in the triangle is largely colored by the fact that he fell in the great war. At that time I hardly knew him, except as a wealthy and self-made man in his late thirties; I saw him now and then, in the club playing billiards or going in and out of the Wells house, a large, fastidiously dressed man, strong featured and broad shouldered, with rather too much manner. I remember particularly how I hated the light spats he affected, and the glaring yellow gloves.

A man who would go straight for the thing he wanted, woman or power or money. And get it.

Sperry was waiting on his door-step, and we went on to the Wells house. What with the magnitude of the thing that had happened, and our mutual feeling that we were somehow involved in it, we were rather silent. Sperry asked one question, however, “Are you certain about the time when Miss Jeremy saw what looks like this thing?”

“Certainly. My watch fell at five minutes after nine. When it was all over, and I picked it up, it was still going, and it was 9:30.”

He was silent for a moment. Then:

“The Wellses’ nursery governess telephoned for me at 9:35. We keep a record of the time of all calls.”

Sperry is a heart specialist, I think I have said, with offices in his house.

And, a block or so farther on: “I suppose it was bound to come. To tell the truth, I didn’t think the boy had the courage.”

“Then you think he did it?”

“They say so,” he said grimly. And added,--irritably: “Good heavens, Horace, we must keep that other fool thing out of our minds.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “We must.”

Although the Wells house was brilliantly lighted when we reached it, we had difficulty in gaining admission. Whoever were in the house were up-stairs, and the bell evidently rang in the deserted kitchen or a neighboring pantry.

“We might try the servants’ entrance,” Sperry said. Then he laughed mirthlessly.

“We might see,” he said, “if there’s a key on the nail among the vines.”

I confess to a nervous tightening of my muscles as we made our way around the house. If the key was there, we were on the track of a revelation that might revolutionize much that we had held fundamental in science and in our knowledge of life itself. If, sitting in Mrs. Dane’s quiet room, a woman could tell us what was happening in a house a mile or so away, it opened up a new earth. Almost a new heaven.

I stopped and touched Sperry’s arm. “This Miss Jeremy--did she know Arthur Wells or Elinor? If she knew the house, and the situation between them, isn’t it barely possible that she anticipated this thing?”

“We knew them,” he said gruffly, “and whatever we anticipated, it wasn’t this.”

Sperry had a pocket flash, and when we found the door locked we proceeded with our search for the key. The porch had been covered with heavy vines, now dead of the November frosts, and showing, here and there, dead and dried leaves that crackled as we touched them. In the darkness something leaped against, me, and I almost cried out. It was, however, only a collie dog, eager for the warmth of his place by the kitchen fire.

“Here’s the key,” Sperry said, and held it out. The flash wavered in his hand, and his voice was strained.

“So far, so good,” I replied, and was conscious that my own voice rang strange in my ears.

We admitted ourselves, and the dog, bounding past us, gave a sharp yelp of gratitude and ran into the kitchen.