The House Opposite: A Mystery

“Well, it was mostly luck,” I assured her, and then proceeded to give a long account of the whole affair.

“And now,” I said, warming to my topic under their evident interest, “I wonder if either of you, when you read over the description of the murdered man, or when you saw him, for the matter of that, noticed anything peculiar about him? I confess that it escaped me and my attention had to be called to it by Mr. Merritt.”

“Something peculiar,” she repeated. “What kind of a peculiarity do you mean?”

“Well, the lack of an important article of apparel,” I replied.

“No; I didn’t notice anything out of the way,” she answered, after considering the question for some minutes.

I turned towards her husband. He was leaning forward, so deeply absorbed in watching his wife as to be entirely unconscious of my presence, and on his ingenious countenance I was shocked to observe suspicion and love struggling for mastery. Struck by his silence, she, too, looked at him, and as her eyes encountered his I saw a look of fear creep into them, and the faint color fade from her cheeks. When he saw how his behaviour had affected her, he tried to pull himself together, and passed his hand swiftly over his face as if anxious to obliterate whatever might be written there.

“Well, what is this missing link?” he asked, with obviously enforced gaiety. He looked squarely at me, and, as he did so, I became convinced that he already knew the answer to that question. For a moment we stared at each other in silence. Were my looks tell-tale, I wondered, and could he see that I had discovered his secret?

“Say,” broke in Mrs. Atkins, “don’t go to sleep. What was this missing thing?”

I would have given anything not to have had to answer.

“No hat was found with the body,” I said. Atkins, I noticed, was again looking fixedly at his wife, who had grown deathly white, and sat staring at him, as if hypnotised. Both had, apparently, forgotten me, but yet I felt deeply embarrassed at being present, and dropped my eyes to my plate so as to give them a chance to regain their composure unobserved.

“Has the hat been found?” I heard her inquire, and her high soprano voice had again that peculiar grating quality I had noticed during her interview with the Coroner.

“Yes,” I answered, “it was found in Argot’s possession. He actually wore it, and laid it down under my nose. Insanity can go no further.”

“But how did you know it was the missing hat?” demanded Atkins, without taking his eyes off his wife.

What could I answer? I was appalled at the dilemma into which my vanity and stupidity had led me.

“I suspected it was the hat which was wanted,” I blundered on, “because Mr. Merritt had told me he was looking for an ordinary white straw containing the name of a Chicago hatter. Argot’s hat answered to this description, and, as the Frenchman had never been West, I concluded that he had not got it by fair means.”

“So the dead man hailed from Chicago, did he?” inquired Atkins.

“The detective thinks so,” I answered.

“Have the police discovered his name yet?”

“I—I am not sure!”

“You are discreet, I see.”

“Indeed, no,” I assured him. “The last time I saw Mr. Merritt he was still in doubt as to the man’s real name.”

“He only knew that the initials were A. B.,” said Atkins, quickly.

I glanced, rapidly, from the husband to the wife. They sat, facing each other, unflinchingly, like two antagonists of mettle, their faces drawn and set. But the strain proved too much for the woman, and, in another moment, she would have fallen to the floor if I had not managed to catch her. Instead of assisting me, her husband sat quite still, wiping great beads of perspiration from his forehead.

“Come here,” I said, “and help me to carry your wife to the window.”

He got up, as if dazed, and came slowly toward me, and, together, we carried her to a lounge in the drawing-room.

“Look here, you told me yourself that all mention of the murder made your wife extremely nervous, and yet you distinctly encouraged us to talk about it this evening. Do you think that right?”

He stared at me with unseeing eyes, and appeared not to understand what I was saying.

“I had to find out the truth,” he muttered.

“Look here, man,” I cried, shaking him by the arm, “pull yourself together. Don’t let your wife see that expression on your face when she comes to. This is not a simple faint; your wife’s heart is affected, and if you excite her still further you may kill her.”

That roused him, and he now joined to the best of his ability in my endeavors to restore her. She soon opened her eyes, and glanced timidly at her husband. He managed to smile affectionately at her, which seemed to reassure her.

“How stupid of me to faint!” she exclaimed, “but it was so very hot.”

“Yes, the heat is dreadful; you really should not overtax yourself during this weather,” said her husband, gently, laying his hand on hers. She beamed at him, while a lovely pink overspread her pale face.

“As a doctor, may I urge Mrs. Atkins to go to bed immediately?” I said.

“Oh, no, no,” she cried petulantly; “I’m all right.” But as she tried to stand up she staggered helplessly.

“I insist on your going to bed, Lulu; I shall carry you up-stairs at once.” And the big man picked her up without more ado. She smiled at me over his shoulder, dimpling like a pleased child.

“You see, Doctor, what a tyrant he is,” she cried, waving her small hand as she disappeared.

When Atkins returned, I rose to say good night, but he motioned me to return to my seat, and handing me a box of cigars, insisted on my taking one. Then, dragging a chair forward, he sat down facing me. We puffed away for several minutes, in silence. I was sure, from his manner, that he was trying to get up his courage to tell me something.

“You said just now that Mrs. Atkins has something the matter with her heart?”

“I’m afraid so; but I do not fancy it is anything very serious, and if it is taken in time, and she leads a quiet, happy life, there is no reason that she should not recover completely.”

He got up and paced the room.

“I love her,” he murmured.

I watched him with increasing perplexity.

“Well, if that is so, treat her differently. You sit and watch her in a way that is enough to make anyone nervous, let alone a delicate woman. Forgive my speaking so plainly, but I consider it my duty as a physician. I am convinced that the extreme nervousness you spoke of (and which, by the way, I have failed to observe) is not to be attributed to the murder at all, but to your behaviour. I don’t think you have any idea how strange that is.”

“Oh, but my wife has not been nervous since the Frenchman was arrested. We watched him being taken away from your house, and last night she slept quietly for the first time since the tragedy.” He paused and looked at me as if he longed to say more.

“Well, that is quite natural, I think. I can imagine nothing more alarming than to know that you are living under the same roof with an undetected criminal, who might at any time make use of his freedom to commit another murder. Till she knew who was guilty, she must have suspected and feared everybody. Now that she knows the fellow to be under lock and key, she can again sleep in peace.”

Atkins sat down.

“Doctor, men of your calling are the same as confessors, are they not?”

“If you mean as regards the sanctity of professional communications, yes.”

“Then I should like to confide a few things to you under the seal of that professional secrecy.”

“All right; go ahead.”