The House Opposite: A Mystery

“Well, not much, I confess. I was in such a hurry to hear whether anything had been heard of Mrs. Atkins or not that I only gulped down a cup of coffee before coming here.”

“You must have something at once,” I urged. “Here’s some beefsteak and I’ll ring for the boy to–”

“Hold on a moment. Are you very sure the hatchet is buried?” he inquired, with a quizzical smile.

“For the time being, certainly,” I laughed. “But I reserve the right of digging it up again unless things turn out as I wish them to.”

A sad look came over his face.

“Ah, Doctor, things so rarely do turn out just as one wishes them to!”

“And now, Merritt,” I demanded, when, breakfast being over, we had lighted our cigars, “will you kindly tell me what made you talk as you did yesterday to Miss Derwent?”

“I had a purpose.”

“What possible good could it do to remind Miss Derwent of an incident which all her friends are most anxious to have her forget?”

“It may do no good.”

“Do you think you have the right to harrow a delicate girl unnecessarily?”

“Have a little patience, Doctor; I am not a brute!”

“And to talk of Mrs. Atkins as you did! Don’t you know that her husband especially wishes to keep her flight secret?”

“I know. But Miss Derwent is no gossip.”

“How do you know?”

“Hold on, Doctor; I’m not in the witness box yet. Can’t you wait a day or two?”

A commotion in the hall put an end to our conversation. Merritt and I looked at each other. Could that be Atkins’s voice which we heard? Indeed it was; and the next minute the man himself appeared, beaming with happiness, and tenderly supporting his wife. Pale and dishevelled, staggering slightly as she walked, she was but the wreck of her former self. Her husband laid her on a divan and, kneeling down beside her, murmured indistinguishable words of remorse and love. She lay quite still, her eyes closed, her breath coming in short gasps. I rushed off for some brandy, which I forced down her throat. That revived her, and she looked about her. When her eyes fell on the detective, she cried aloud and tried to struggle to her feet, but her husband put his arm around her and pulled her down again.

“Don’t be afraid of him. He’s all right.”

“Really?”

She seemed but half reassured.

“You can trust me, I promise you,” said the detective. “We are all quite sure you had nothing to do with the man’s death. Only we must find out who he was, and when and how he left you. If you will tell us all that occurred, it may help us to discover the criminal.”

“Did you know, Larrie, that the man came to the building to see me?”

Atkins nodded.

“And you are not angry?”

“No, indeed! Tell us all about it.”

“Oh, I will, I will! I could never be real happy with a secret between us.” She paused a moment. “Well, his name was Allan Brown, and years and years ago, when I was nothing but a silly girl, I fancied myself in love with him, and—and—I married him.”

Atkins started back, and I feared for a moment that he would say or do something which neither of them would ever be able to forget. But the past two days had taught him a lesson; the agony he had been through was still fresh in his mind; so, after a short struggle with himself, he took his wife’s hand in his, and gently pressed it. The pretty blush, the happy smile, the evident relief with which she looked at him must have amply repaid him for his self-control.

“He treated me just shamefully,” she continued, “and after three weeks of perfect misery, I left him. Pa at once began proceedings for a divorce, and, as Allan didn’t contest it, it was granted me very shortly. I resumed my maiden name, and went back to live with my father. My experience of married life had been so terrible that I couldn’t bear ever to think or speak of it. Years went by without anything occurring to remind me of my former husband, and I had almost succeeded in forgetting that there was such a person, when I met you, Larrie. The idea of marrying again had always been so abhorrent to me that I did not at first realise where we were drifting to, and you were such an impetuous wooer that I found myself engaged to you without having had any previous intention of becoming so. Of course, I ought then to have told you that I had been married before; there was nothing disgraceful in the fact, and you had a right to know it. Only, somehow, I just couldn’t bear to let the memory of that hateful experience sully my new happiness, even for a moment; so I kept putting off telling you from day to day till the time went by when I could have done so, easily and naturally. At last, I said to myself: Why need Larrie ever know? Only a few of my old friends heard of my unfortunate marriage, and they were little likely ever to refer to the fact before you. It was even doubtful if you ever would meet any of them, as we were to live in New York. So I decided to hold my tongue. And all went well till one morning, a little over a fortnight ago. I was walking carelessly down Broadway, stopping occasionally to look in at some shop window, when a man suddenly halted in front of me. It was Allan Brown. I knew him at once, although he had altered very much for the worse. I remembered him a tall, athletic young man with fine, clear-cut features and a ruddy brown complexion. He was always so fussy about his clothes, that we used to call him ‘Wales.’ And now his coat was unbrushed, his boots were unblackened. He had grown fat; his features had become bloated, and his skin had a pasty, unhealthy look. I was so taken aback at his suddenly appearing like a ghost from my dead past, that I stood perfectly still for a minute. Then, as I realised the full extent of his impudence in daring to stop me, I tried to brush past him.

“‘Not so fast, my dear, not so fast; surely a husband and wife, meeting after such a long separation, should at least exchange a few words before drifting apart again.’

“‘You are no husband of mine,’ I cried.

“‘Really,’ he exclaimed, lifting his eyebrows carelessly; ‘since when have I ceased to be your husband, I should like to know?’

“That just took my breath away.

“‘For ten years, thank God,’ said I.

“‘Well, it’s always good to thank God,’ and his wicked eyes smiled maliciously at me; ‘only in this case he is receiving what he has not earned.’

“‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

“‘That I have never ceased to be your husband, my dear.’

“‘It’s a lie, it’s a lie!’ I cried, but my knees began to tremble; ‘I’ve been divorced from you for the last ten years, and don’t you dare to pretend you don’t know it.’

“‘I needn’t pretend at all, as it happens, for this is the first I ever have heard of it; and so, my dear wife, be very careful not to make another man happy on the strength of that divorce, for if you do, you may find yourself in a very awkward position, to say the least of it.’

“I looked at him. His manner had all the quiet assurance I remembered so well. Could what he said be true? Was it possible that my divorce was not legal? Father had said it was all right, but he might be mistaken, and, in that case, what should I do? My perturbation must have been written very plainly on my face, for, after watching me a minute in silence, he continued. ‘Ah, I see that is what you have done—and who is my unlucky successor, if I may ask?’

“Now, I knew that he was capable of any deviltry, and, if he found out that I had married again, it would be just like him to go to you, and make a scene, just for the pleasure of annoying us. Besides, as I had not told you of my first marriage, it would be dreadful if you should hear of it from Allan Brown, of all people. You would never forgive me in that case, I felt sure. So I lifted my head; ‘I have no husband,’ said I.

“But he only smiled sarcastically at me, as he calmly lit a cigarette.

“‘Prevarication, my dear lady, is evidently not your forte. Out with it. What is the name of the unhappy man? I only call him unhappy (bien entendu) because he is about to lose you.’

“‘I’m not married,’ I repeated.

“‘I know you are married, and I mean to find out who to, if I have to follow you all day.’

“I had been walking rapidly along, hoping to shake him off, but he had persistently kept pace with me. Now I stopped. A policeman was coming towards us. In my desperation, I decided to ask him to arrest Allan for annoying me. The latter guessed my intention, and said: ‘Oh, no; I wouldn’t do that; I should inform him of the fact that you are my wife—an honour you seem hardly to appreciate, by the way—and you would have to accompany me to the police station, where our conflicting stories would no doubt arouse much interest, and probably be considered worthy of head-lines in the evening papers. Do you think the man you are now living with would enjoy your acquiring notoriety in such a way? Eh?’

“‘Well,’ I cried, ‘what is it you want?’

“‘The opportunity of seeing you again, that is all; you must acknowledge that I am very moderate in my demands. I do not brutally insist on my rights.’

“‘But why—why do you wish to see me again?’ I asked.

“‘You are surprised that I should want to see my wife again? Really, you are so—so modern.’

“‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ I said (for all this fooling made me mad). ‘What do you want? Tell me at once.’