Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Sacha closed her eyes. Her strength was so little secure, that already she had almost lost it. And yet, she must not lose it, for if she faltered, he would make sacrifice of himself. She jumped up and faced him.

“Listen, Dick,” she cried, breathlessly. “I am not the good, kind, gentle, faithful girl you believe me to be. No girl could have been Orme Malone’s wife and remained — uncontaminated. There is a black streak in me now. Barrington, you see, reminds me of Orme.”

She broke off. Her eyes had not swerved before his eyes. She managed to smile.

“You are such a good man, Dick, and there are so many unspoiled girls in the world.”

“I don’t care what you may be.”

“Listen; I have been taking drugs for months. I can’t live now without them — nor without the sort of life to which they lead a woman, Orme’s life, Barrington’s life, my life.”

She came near him and held the top button of his waistcoat to make him her prisoner.

“Orme’s father died of drink, Barrington’s father died of dope. Orme died of drink. Barrington takes dope. I take dope. And so on — and so on.”

Her voice sailed away on a laugh, like small ripples on a wave.

“You see, I am a bad woman, really.”

“You are under the influence of drugs.” She shook her head.

“A little, perhaps. But I always am — a little.” She allowed her eyes to fall, but she retained possession of his waistcoat button.

“Do you know why I take drugs?” she asked him, in tones which made him shudder.

The button was plucked from her fingers. “Oh God, it is too horrible!”

Sacha held out her hand to him.

“Good-by, Dick dear.”

She knelt by the bed when he had gone, and thanked God because he had not taken her hand. And then she wept, and when she had wept, laughed softly just as if she were crying, and then she laughed and cried together.

She started to her feet.

“Oh, Ninon, what a fright you gave me. Ninon, I have sent him away. So now you will give me some more—”

She uttered a cry of dismay.

“Dick! Why, a moment ago you looked exactly like Ninon. Now isn’t that funny?”

Dick did not advance beyond the threshold of the room.

“Your uncle has ordered Mlle. Darelli to return at once to London,” he announced. “He has refused to see her before she goes.” He paused. His face was grim and drawn. “I should tell you perhaps, that she tried to poison him last night. Only Dr. Hailey’s promptness saved his reason, or his life.”

Sacha sank down on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

“Oh well, what does it matter anyhow,” she murmured. “Uncle Gerald has lived his life.”

She did not raise her eyes, but she heard his feet shuffle on the wooden floor.

“He wishes you to go back to Beech Croft as soon as possible.”

“Has Ninon gone?”

“No.”

Sacha looked up. “I shall take her with me to Beech Croft. I have arranged to go to the Hunt Ball to-night. My servants are coming from London to-day.”

Dick flung the door shut behind him and came to her side.

“Don’t, don’t,” he pleaded. “She is vile, unutterably vile. It will be worse than Orme, than Barrington.”

She raised her shoulders.

“She is a woman of the world, Dick; of my world.”

His hands clenched till the knuckles showed white. He turned and left her.

Chapter XXVI The Stain on the Floor

After breakfast, which he ate alone in the big, somber dining room, Dr. Hailey returned to the spot where he had found Orme Malone’s cigarette case. The case had been lying about a foot to the righthand side of the carriageway — exactly where it might be expected to fall if its owner’s body were carried flung over somebody’s right shoulder. The doctor knelt down and examined the grass in the neighborhood. He raised some of the yellow, dead tufts which the winter snows and rains had beaten down.

He continued this search for more than an hour without achieving any result. He abandoned it and walked back to the house.

The great hall was empty. He crossed it to the fireplace, and stood for a moment warming himself at the cheerful blaze. He stepped inside the high, old-fashioned fender in order to get nearer to the fire which was set in an immense iron basket standing in the center of the brick embrasure.

The embrasure was so large that there was room for him to stand behind the fire, and even to walk right round it. His eyes scanned the flagstones methodically, and then directed their gaze to the polished floor.

After a few moments, he left his position in the embrasure and drew aside one of the heavy Turkish mats which were spread on the floor. He cast his eyes quickly over the place which had been covered. He pulled the mat into position again and repeated the process with each of the others.

The floor, like the flagstones, was without the suspicion of a stain.