A Duel

On the afternoon of the same day, an hour after the departure of Inspector Fay, Mrs. Astley-Rolfe had sped herself to Richmond, in a luxurious motor car, which was her's through the instrumentality of Mr. Gluckstein.

She had found the house of George Copplestone plunged into the darkness of a house of mourning. Every blind was drawn. Every particle of color had been removed or draped. Black reigned supreme.

Copplestone was not pleased to see her, and made no attempt to assume the contrary. He was sitting in his library, moody and melancholy, still in the half-dazed condition into which the death of Christine Manderson had cast him. His face was drawn, haggard, and sickly; his eyes were bloodshot. He looked up at her with a forbidding frown, and did not move from his chair.

"Well?" he said curtly.

She waved a hand round the black room.

"Isn't this ... a trifle theatrical?" she asked coolly.

He said nothing. She sat down opposite to him uninvited. She was perfectly self-possessed.

"Inspector Fay was kind enough to call on me this morning," she remarked pleasantly.

Again there was no reply.

"He may not be an example of dagger-like intelligence," she continued, looking at him steadily—"but he is just a little too sharp to play with."

He scowled at her.

"Have you come to tell me that?" he asked rudely.

"That—and other things," she returned unruffled.

"I don't want to hear them," he retorted.

"They concern you," she said—"rather closely."

"I don't want to hear them," he repeated. Her lips tightened.

"It is scarcely pleasant to be such an obviously unwelcome visitor," she said evenly. "But I am afraid you must listen."

"I am not in the humor to talk to you," he declared roughly. "I don't want to talk to any one. I want to be left alone. Isn't it enough to be pestered by the police and the papers, and all the damnable business for the inquest? Don't you see that my house is in mourning? Can't you let me be—even for a few days?"

"If I had let you be," she replied easily, "Inspector Fay would probably be here in my place—with much less pleasant intentions."

His glance sharpened.

"What do you mean?" he growled.

"You were not wise," she proceeded tranquilly, "to treat his mental capabilities with quite so much contempt. They are possibly not startlingly brilliant, and he is perfectly easy to deceive. But even an official detective can see through a clumsy lie."

Uneasiness flashed across his face. She smiled slightly. "And I am afraid, my friend, that you are a clumsy liar."

"I don't know what you are talking about," he snapped.

"Come," she said quietly—"however freely we may trifle with the very much overrated Arm of the Law, at least let us be honest with each other. For some reason or other, you did not tell Inspector Fay the truth."

He sat upright with a jerk, flamed with passion.

"What the devil is it to do with you?" he demanded fiercely.

"I will tell you in a moment," she returned smoothly. "When you accounted for your time to the inspector, you told him that you went into the house to refill your cigarette case?"

His lethargy had disappeared. He leant forward, staring at her, his hands clutching the arms of his chair.

"But, unfortunately, you did not take the elementary precaution of having a full case to support the story. In nine times out of ten you would have got away with it. This was the tenth."

There was silence for a moment. She sat in an easy attitude, meeting his gaze with complete confidence. No trace of his previous dullness remained. He was alert and taut.

She went on, with delightful smoothness.

"With an unpardonable lack of respect for the statement of a gentleman, it occurred to the inspector to test the truth of that account. He did not want to smoke—but he asked you for a cigarette. It was a gentle trap. There were only two in your case."

He ground out an oath under his breath.

"Obviously you had not gone into the house to refill your case. Perhaps you went in for some other reason. Perhaps you didn't go in at all. Anyway, you lied—and when people deliberately lie in such serious cases as these, it may safely be imagined that they have some object to serve in doing so. The inspector was concerned to discover what your object was. So he came to me."

"To you...." he muttered. "I told you," she returned, "that he is a little too sharp to play with—clumsily. He suspected, from what had been told him, that we might have had a stormy scene together, and had wished to keep it to ourselves. He was quite ready to believe that the time you had failed so lamentably to account for had really been passed with me in 'une petite scÈne de jalousie.' Fortunately, I had given him a true account of myself, which was that I had been alone. So after the necessary hesitation, and with just the right amount of annoyance, I was able to confess that we had both lied, and that we had in fact been together—and he went away satisfied. I am a better liar than you."

She regarded him serenely. His expression was ugly. There was that in the look of him that might have daunted any woman, but Phyllis Astley-Rolfe had lived chiefly by her wits for a sufficient time to be quite impervious where another would have been silenced. She was as completely without fear as she was without scruple. Her objects were objects to be gained, by the most convenient and speedy means, and quite irrespective of considerations which might have withheld another from attempting to fulfill them. In furtherance of her present object, she gave Copplestone look for look.

"I return good for evil," she said. "It is not a habit of mine. It is really quite contrary to my usual practice. I told a lie to save you from further suspicion. Considering the circumstances, you must admit that it was exceedingly generous of me. And I expect you to be grateful."

Anything but an expression of gratitude confronted her. He remained silent, making a strong effort to mask his agitation. But his fingers twitched spasmodically, and there was unmistakable fear in his eyes. She watched him intently, losing no point of the effect she had created.

"Well...?" she said steadily.

There was no answer. She bent towards him.

"I said you were with me. You were not with me. Where were you?"

The man breathed heavily, his baleful gaze fixed on her. She met it with unassailable composure.

"Listen," she said slowly—"there are strange things in this house. I know it. I've known it for some time. Things that the light of day never shines on. What are they?"

He sprang up, and stood over her with clenched hands, his face torn with fury.

"Damn you!" he cried hoarsely. "What is my house, or what happens in it, to you?"

"Sit down," she said firmly. "You are not frightening me. To threaten a woman is merely to increase her tenacity, and mine requires no fortification. Please move away from me."

He obeyed, muttering. Her calmness disarmed him.

"I am not sure," she continued, "that I wanted you to answer my question—anyway at present. Perhaps your secrets might be too much, even for my conscience—and that is saying a great deal."

He had resumed his chair. There was a moment's pause.

"You were foolish to mock me," she went on. "Mockery is the one thing a woman cannot accept, or forgive. She can stand any amount of ill-treatment and cruelty, in a sufficient cause. But she cannot be mocked in any cause whatever. You made me certain promises, which honor bound you to fulfil—and then flung your renunciation of them in my face, before strangers who understood. It was a very mean and low-down thing to do."

A faint, sneering smile passed over his face. Her voice hardened.

"I am not a woman to defy—and I am still less a woman to mock. You are going to keep your promises."

"I'll see you in hell first!" he retorted brutally.

She laughed. "You will not see me in hell first," she said calmly. "You may quite possibly see me in hell after—because if there is a hell we shall certainly meet there. But in the meantime—you are going to redeem your word."

He made a slow gesture round the black room. "You come to me now ... within a few hours...."

"Why not?" she returned hardly.

"Almost before her body is cold...."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Christine Manderson was an incident," she said indifferently. "A disagreeable episode. She merely infatuated you, as she might have infatuated any man. She has passed."

"Passed," he muttered. "Passed...."

"I do not profess to equal her in appearance," she admitted. "But I am not repulsive. I am considered to be extremely good-looking, and I am much more interesting to talk to than she was. Also, I am well-bred. Most people would find the balance in my favor. But, even if you do not, the difference can only be very small. You will have to make the best of it."

"Or else?" he snarled.

"Or else, if you prefer it, I will exchange your promises for the secrets of this house—with no undertaking to keep them."

He sat biting his nails in the suppression of his rage. She languidly corrected the folds of her dress, leant back in a charming attitude, and waited with unassailable self-possession. The silence was long.

"How much do you want?" he demanded, at last.

"I am not asking you for money," she replied coldly.

"I am offering it unasked," he retorted. "How much do you want?"

"If you had offered to buy back your promises a week ago," she said, "I might have sold them to you. I do not know that I particularly looked forward to their fulfilment. But you flaunted another woman in my face."

"Put it all in the bill," he said coarsely.

"Therefore I will give you nothing back. You shall have only your bond."

"Why waste your breath on heroics to me?" he sneered. "You would sell your soul for money. You have often boasted it."

"I would sell my soul for money any day," she agreed frankly—"but not my pride. I am too much of a sinner already to scruple over the disposal of my soul. But it would not profit me to gain the whole world, and lose my pride."

"Bosh!" he said contemptuously. "Pride pays no bills—and you owe too many to let it deprive you of the pleasure of getting rid of a few."

"That is as it may be," she returned. "I have told you the only exchange I will make."

He sprang up again. This time his anger was scornful.

"Fool!" he cried harshly. "Take your warning! Do you think my secrets—if I have any—are for you? Or that I, myself, am for you? Why do you try to force yourself on to dangerous ground? There are things in the world into which it is not good to pry."

"Plenty," she said, unmoved.

"I may have made you careless promises," he admitted. "I have made many women promises. It is a bad habit. I cannot keep them. I cannot, and will not, marry you, or any other woman. The only one I might have married ... is dead."

"Again you throw her in my face," she murmured, through closed teeth.

"I daresay I used you meanly," he acknowledged. "I did use you meanly. It was not the game to do what I did that night. I freely admit it. And I offer you reparation—the only reparation I can make. It would be the wisest act of your life to take it."

"You have heard my conditions," she replied. "I shall not change them. Unlike most women, I have been gifted with the faculty of being able to make up my mind. The time for compromise has passed."

"You don't care for me," he persisted. "You couldn't care for any man. You're not capable of it. It's not in you."

"Whether or not I care for you does not enter into the matter at all," she rejoined calmly. "My capability for affection has no bearing on the present question."

"You were relying on marrying me to pay your debts," he declared. "You could not have built a more forlorn hope. I should not pay your debts if I did marry you. I will give you five thousand pounds for your lie this morning."

She was very angry. The insult dashed all the color from her face, leaving it white and set in lines that made her look almost old. Her eyes glittered menacingly. "You dare," she said slowly, "to offer me five thousand pounds?"

"And consider yourself damned lucky!" he retorted.

He took out his case, and lit a cigarette with a show of indifference.

"I am not bound to offer you anything," he said carelessly. "That small point seems to have escaped you. You have no claim on me. I consider my suggestion an exceedingly generous one. You can take it or leave it. It's all you'll get."

She rose.

"You insult me again," she said, in measured tones. "You are not wise."

He laughed easily.

"My dear Phyllis," he said, "you are adorable in a rage—but I am afraid I must steel myself against your gentle exactions. Let me convince you that I am really treating you in a highly preferential manner. During my career three women have attempted to blackmail me. They were all ugly—so they got nothing. You are charming—so you get five thousand pounds. That is the most I have ever paid for my smaller indiscretions. And I take the liberty of thinking it more than sufficient compensation for the few erroneous impressions I may have allowed you to contract."

"You are making the mistake," she said, in the same controlled tones, "of imagining that you are buying back your promises to me, which I can quite understand that you value lightly. But I have told you that those promises are not for sale. You have wandered from the real issue. You are not buying the promises of your heart—you are buying the secrets of your house. Are they not on a different scale of values?"

"You know nothing of my house," he returned. "You do not know whether there are secrets in it or not."

"I don't know," she confessed candidly. "Possibly there are not. But I am prepared to take a sporting chance that there are. And if I am wrong—so much the better for you."

He was silent, looking at her thoughtfully, as if carefully weighing his course of action.

"You were under the suspicion of Scotland Yard," she reminded him, "until I told my lie. You will be under it again if I admit my lie. Inspector Fay would certainly not rest until he had thoroughly investigated your reasons for giving a false account of yourself. He is by no means a fool—and I very much doubt that he is to be bought, anyway so reasonably as I am."

Copplestone's face wore a strange expression. There was now no animosity in it, but rather a mild resignation, in strange contrast to his previous anger.

"So," he said, after a pause, "you would put them on to me again...?"

"I need not have taken them off you," she replied.

"I have offered you five thousand pounds for that," he said slowly.

"I have refused them."

"Think over it well," he advised her impressively.

"I do not need to," she returned.

For a moment they faced each other steadily.

"You mean that—finally?" he asked.

"Finally," she answered. He moved to a door at the further end of the room, and opened it.

"Come," he said quietly. "You have gone too far to draw back. You shall see the secrets of my house. Follow me."