I
was puzzled for a second then I reentered my room and hurried to my
balcony. I could make out the dim figure of a man running through
the garden at the rear--that garden of which I have so often spoken.
He did not try to open the gate; he climbed it, and so disappeared
from sight into the alley.
For a moment I considered. These were odd actions, surely; but was
it my place to interfere? I remembered the cold stare in the eyes
of Captain Fraser-Freer when I presented that letter. I saw him
standing motionless in his murky study, as amiable as a statue.
Would he welcome an intrusion from me now?
Finally I made up my mind to forget these things and went down to
find Walters. He and his wife were eating their dinner in the
basement. I told him what had happened. He said he had let no
visitor in to see the captain, and was inclined to view my
misgivings with a cold British eye. However, I persuaded him to
go with me to the captain's rooms.
The captain's door was open. Remembering that in England the way
of the intruder is hard, I ordered Walters to go first. He stepped
into the room, where the gas flickered feebly in an aged chandelier.
"My God, sir!" said Walters, a servant even now.
And at last I write that sentence: Captain Fraser-Freer of the
Indian Army lay dead on the floor, a smile that was almost a sneer
on his handsome English face!
The horror of it is strong with me now as I sit in the silent
morning in this room of mine which is so like the one in which the
captain died.
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