THE MAN WITH THE DARK BEARD (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes
I can help you—money?"
Bastow shook his head.
"A woman, then?" Skrine questioned sharply. "Whatever it may be, John, let me help you. What is the good of having friends if you do not make use of them?"
"Because—perhaps you can't," Bastow said moodily, stooping forward and picking up the poker.
Felix Skrine shot a penetrating glance at his bent head.
"A trouble shared is a trouble halved," he quoted. "Some people have thought my advice worth having, John."
"Yes, I know." Bastow made a savage attack on the fire with his poker. "But—well, suppose I put the case to you, Felix—what ought a man to do under these circumstances—supposing he had discovered—something—"
He broke off and thrust his poker in again.
Felix Skrine waited, his deep eyes watching his friend sympathetically. At last he said:
"Yes, John? Supposing a man discovered something—what sort of discovery do you mean?"
Bastow raised himself and sat up in his chair, balancing the poker in his hands.
"Suppose that in the course of a man's professional career he found that a crime had been committed, had never been discovered, never even suspected, what would you say such a man ought to do?"
He waited, his eyes fixed upon Skrine's face.
Skrine looked back at him for a minute, in silence, then he said in a quick, decided tone:
"Your hypothetical man should speak out and get the criminal punished. Heavens, man, we are not parsons either of us! You don't need me to tell you where your duty lies."
After another look at his friend's face, Bastow's eyes dropped again.
"Suppose the man—the man had kept silence—at the time, and the—criminal had made good, what then? Supposing such a case had come within your knowledge in the ordinary course of your professional career, what would you do?"
"What I have said!"
The words came out with uncompromising severity from the thin-lipped mouth; the blue eyes maintained their unrelaxing watch on John Bastow's face.
"I can't understand you, John. You must know your duty to the community."
"And what about the guilty man?" John Bastow questioned.
"He must look after himself," Skrine said tersely. "Probably he may be able to do so, and it's quite on the cards that he may be able to clear himself."
"I wish to God he could!" Bastow said with sudden emphasis.
As the last word left his lips the surgery bell rang loudly, with dramatic suddenness.
Bastow sprang to his feet.
"That is somebody I must see myself. An old patient with an appointment."
"All right, old fellow, I will make myself scarce. But one word before I go. You have said 'a man.' Have you changed the sex to prevent my guessing the criminal's identity? Because there is a member of your household about whom I have wondered sometimes. If it is so—and I can help you if you have found out—"
"Nothing of the kind. I don't know what you have got hold of," Bastow said sharply. "But, at any rate, I shall take no steps until I have seen you again. Perhaps we can discuss the matter at greater length later on."
"All right, old chap," Sir Felix said with his hand on the door knob. "Think over what I have said. I am sure it is the only thing to be done."
As he crossed the hall, the sound of voices coming from a room on the opposite side caught his ear. He went quickly across and pushed open the half-closed door.
"May I come in, Hilary?"
"Oh, of course, Sir Felix," a quick, girlish voice answered him.
The morning-room at Dr. John Bastow's was the general sitting-room of the family. Two of its windows opened on to the garden; the third, a big bay, was on the side of the street, and though a strip of turf and a low hedge ran between a good view could be obtained of the passers-by.
An invalid couch usually stood in this window, and Felix Bastow, the doctor's only son, and Skrine's godson and namesake, lay on it, supported by cushions and mechanical contrivances. Fee, as he was generally called, had been a cripple from birth, and this window, with its outlook on the street, was his favourite resting-place. People often wondered he did not prefer the windows on the garden side, but Fee always persisted that he had had enough of grass and flowers, and liked to see such life as his glimpse from the window afforded. He got to know many of the passers-by, and often, on a summer's day, some one would stop and hold quite a long conversation with the white-faced, eager-looking boy.
But Fee was not there this afternoon. It had been one of his bad days, and he had retired to his room early.
The voices that Sir Felix Skrine had heard came from a couple of young people standing on the hearthrug. Skrine caught one glimpse of them, and his brows contracted. The girl's head was bent over a bunch of roses. The man, tall and rather noticeably good-looking, was watching her with an expression that could not be misunderstood in his grey eyes.
The girl, Hilary Bastow, came forward to meet him quickly.
"Have you seen Dad, Sir Felix? He has been expecting you."
"I have just left him," Sir Felix said briefly. "I have only one minute to spare, Hilary, and I came to offer you my birthday wishes and to beg your acceptance of this."
There was something of an old-time courtesy in his manner as, very deliberately, he drew the roses from her clasp and laid them on the table beside her, placing a worn jewel-case in her hand.
The colour flashed swiftly over the girl's face.
"Oh, Sir Felix!"
After a momentary hesitation that did not escape Skrine's notice, she opened the case. Inside, on its bed of blue velvet, lay a string of magnificent pearls.
"O—h!" Hilary drew a deep breath, then the bright colour in her cheeks faded.
"Oh, Sir Felix! They are Lady Skrine's pearls."
The great lawyer bent his head. "She would have liked you to have them, Hilary," he said briefly. "Wear them for her sake—and mine."
He did not wait to hear her somewhat incoherent thanks; but, with a pat on her arm and a slight bow in the direction of the young man who was standing surlily aloof, he went out of the room.
The two he had left were silent for a minute, Hilary's head still bent over the pearls, the roses lying on the table beside her. At last the man came a step nearer.
"So he gives you his wife's pearls, Hilary. And—takes my roses from you."
As he spoke he snatched up the flowers, and as if moved by some uncontrollable influence, flung them through the open window. With a sharp cry Hilary caught at his arm—too late.
"Basil! Basil! My roses!"
A disagreeable smile curved Wilton's lips.
"You have the pearls."
"I—I would rather have the roses," the girl said with a little catch in her voice. "Oh, Basil, how could you—how could you be so silly?"
"Hilary! Hilary!" he said hoarsely. "Tell me you don't care for him."
"For him—for Sir Felix Skrine!" Hilary laughed. "Well, really, Basil, you are—Why, he is my godfather! Does a girl ever care for her godfather? At least, I mean, as—" She stopped suddenly.
In spite of his anger, Wilton could not help smiling.
"As what?" he questioned.
"Oh, I don't know what I meant, I am sure. I must be in a particularly idiotic mood this morning," Hilary returned confusedly. "My birthday has gone to my head, I think. It is a good thing a person only has a birthday