THE WORLD WAR COLLECTION OF H. C. MCNEILE (SAPPER). Sapper
I realise now that I've got to go through with it."
"Go through with what?" I cried a little irritably.
"My dream," he answered. "As surely as I am sitting here in this chair talking to you that woman will murder her husband, by stabbing him through the heart with a pointed stiletto. It will take place about half-past eleven one night in the house in Sussex Place, and I shall be in the room and be arrested for the murder. It won't be a dream next time."
"But," I cried angrily, "the remedy against that possibility lies in your own hands. Don't go near Sussex Place; or, if you do, don't break into any house where a window is open."
"That, I agree, is the only common-sense way of looking at it," he answered. "But there are other things in this world besides common sense. It is as surely ordained as the fact that one day both you and I will die. And when it happens, don't forget what I've told you this afternoon. You have taken notes: if you will, you can expand them a little. But I hold you to your promise to send them to your banker. I may need them."
And the next instant he was gone, leaving me in a state of complete bewilderment. Had I been listening to the ravings of a lunatic? Something inside me said No. Highly strung—obviously; but the man who had just left me was no madman. Then what did it mean?
For an hour or so I sat on wondering; then, with a smile at my own credulity, I amplified the notes I had jotted down more to humour him than anything else. I dated it and slipped it in an envelope. I sent the letter with a covering note to my bank. And—that, as I say, was nearly three years ago.
It was six months later that I left England. The strange interview had almost faded from my mind; I had seen no further trace of the dreamer. And when I heard that Mr. William and Lady Alice Scrotton had taken a large house in Berkeley Square, the small amount of interest that still remained in my mind evaporated. Evidently a crank and an impostor, I decided, who had for some reason only known to himself decided to interrupt the ceremony, and had then pitched me a fantastic yarn to save himself from being handed over to the police.
Well—you know who I am; you know that I went out with Perrin's Antarctic Expedition. You know that we were lost for months, and that we only returned two days ago. As far as the events of the world are concerned, I've been dead for over two years. And now you're beginning to understand my dilemma, aren't you? But I'll tell it to you in my own way. Since it happened a year ago, your own memory may be a little rusty.
I went to the club for luncheon the day after my return. And I fed with Sullington, the Gunner. We talked of men and matters, and it wasn't till we were in the smoking-room with cigars and a double old brandy—as befitted a returned wanderer—that he happened to mention Lady Alice Selby.
"And who the deuce is Lady Alice Selby?" I asked.
"Good heavens, man," he laughed. "I'd forgotten that there are no papers in the Antarctic. Scrotton's widow: Lakington's daughter."
"Scrotton's widow!" I gasped. "You mean Scrotton is dead?"
"Somewhat naturally, in order to possess a widow," he answered. "It's a year ago now. He was brutally murdered. Why—great Scott! man, what is the matter with you? You're as white as a sheet."
"Begin at the beginning," I said, "and tell me all about it."
"Well, there really isn't very much to tell," he answered. "And I wouldn't swear to remembering all the details. It seems that Scrotton was found dead on the floor of one of the downstairs rooms in his house one night. He'd been stabbed through the heart with some knife or other—"
"A pointed stiletto?" I remarked.
"Now you mention it, I think you're right," he said with a smile. "Been reading blood-and-thunder stuff down South to keep you warm, I suppose? However, it appears f that some down-at-heels fellow must have done it. Lady Alice practically caught him in the act. A ghastly thing for her—poor woman. Of course, I know that the marriage was hardly a love-match, but it's a bit over the odds to come suddenly into a room and find your husband lying dead in a pool of blood, with the murderer standing over him."
"She screamed—naturally?" I said.
"Oh yes! Like blazes. And the fellow made a dive through the window and landed straight in the arms of a policeman. Really rather fortunate that one happened to be there at that hour of the night."
"Yes," I agreed. "Sussex Place is a bit deserted round about midnight."
He nodded, and then he looked at me curiously. "But how the deuce did you know it happened in Sussex Place? Because, now I come to think of it, they had only just moved there from Berkeley Square."
"A lucky shot," I answered quietly. "Tell me, Sullington—who and what is Selby?"
"A fellow in the 10th Lancers." he said. "A very decent chap. And, strictly between ourselves, I don't think there was much doubt—even during the late Mr. Scrotton's lifetime—that he and Lady Alice were rather more than friendly. Of course, that must go no farther, and they're married now. But—well, you know."
"What happened to the man?" I said.
"They found him guilty and sentenced him to death," he answered. "And then he went mad or something—I forget exactly what it was. Anyway, I know he wasn't hanged, and I think he's in Broadmoor."
I finished my coffee, and a few minutes later I left the club. I felt I wanted to be alone to think things out. The whole affair was so utterly staggering; one had no previous experience to measure it by. And it was as I was fumbling with my latch-key that the final blow was dealt me. A woman darted across the street and, laying her hand on my arm, said: "Thank God! you've come back at last!"
I gazed at her dully. "Who are you?" I said, though I knew the answer before she spoke.
"I'm Mrs. Landon," she answered. "And now we can prove his innocence."
"So his name is Landon, is it?" I remarked. "You'd better come inside."
"If you knew how I've scanned the papers," she said, as she sat down. "Waiting, watching day by day for your return. You see, he didn't know your name; only the address. And then when it happened I came round here at once. He'd told me that he'd told a stranger of his dream, and I knew that if I could get at you it would be all right. And then I found you were in the Antarctic. Oh! I nearly went mad. But now it's going to be all right. He's not mad really; you and I know that. But they've put him in Broadmoor, because he went on talking about his dream. And he was queer. But I can nurse him all right; I know my Bill. And once that devil of a woman is found guilty and hanged, he'll get all right again. It's the feeling that he's innocent and that no one believes it that is doing all the trouble. Come; let's go now to the Home Secretary or someone and tell him everything."
"But look here, Mrs. Landon," I said desperately, "what reason did he give for entering the house at all?"
"Just that something stronger than himself took him there," she cried. "I've told you he's queer; you know it as well as I do. He's fey—at times. Why, look at the dream itself. It's come true in every detail. Oh I come," she went on in an agony; "come at once. Can't you see what every extra minute of a hell on earth like Broadmoor must mean to him— for it must be a hell on earth if you're not mad? I want to get him out; I shall go mad myself if I don't."
She had risen, and, as I still sat on in my chair, a dreadful suspicion dawned in her eyes. "You've got the paper, haven't you: the paper you promised to send to your bank?"
"I think so," I temporised. "Yes—I'm sure of it." I had to say it—poor soul, she was on the rack. "But it's too late to get it this afternoon," I went on. "Only, for Heaven's sake, Mrs. Landon, don't build too much on it. There are difficulties—well-nigh insurmountable difficulties."
I've seen scorn on a person's face before, but I've never withered under such a look as the one she gave me.
"Difficulties!" she almost gasped. "What do you mean— difficulties? Don't you realise that that foul woman murdered her husband to get his money and to be able to marry her lover? And she goes free while my Bill is in Broadmoor. Difficulties? You're mad."
She