II
But while she dallied, Tragedy was stalking in the Wynrod gardens, where only Comedy was meant to play.
Good, after those restless efforts to behave as a gentleman should behave, which Judith had noted, had betaken himself with his musings to the peaceful solitude of the garden. What was a commonplace to the others still bore a singular charm for him. He was content to smoke and dream and watch the shadows at their endless dance. He was vaguely tired, and it was very quiet.
But his peace was short. The sound of whispering voices came to him through the trees. At first he thought it only the rustling of the leaves. Then the sudden, strangled cry of a woman brought him to his feet, his heart pounding. For a moment he stood listening, every muscle in a tremble. The voices could be heard more clearly now, and they seemed to come from a small summer-house just behind him. He moved slowly toward it.
"I think we'll end this right here." He recognised the voice as Baker's, though unbelievably changed. The words seemed to come through clenched teeth. Another voice—a man's—made some reply, but the chatter of the crickets and the plashing of a fountain prevented him from catching what it was. He relaxed and was about to turn around, when that same agonised choking call smote his ears again. He hesitated no longer.
As he plunged into the little building a branch swayed in the breeze and the moonlight broke through. It revealed two men facing each other. One was Baker. His fist was raised and clenched. The other he could not place for a moment. Then it flashed upon him. He had seen him once before. It was Faxon.
"Now then—" Good's lean wrist shot forward. "Wait a bit." Baker struggled momentarily but futilely. Good was a powerful man when he chose to exert himself.
"Fine business, this," said Good as coolly as if he were inspecting a company on dress parade. "What's the excitement?" As he spoke he was conscious that there was a third person in the shelter, beside the two men—a woman. Then a gleam of light entered momentarily and he realised that it was Baker's wife. With a low whistle he turned to Faxon.
"I guess you'd better scoot," he said calmly, more as an order than as a suggestion. With a not very successful effort at nonchalance Faxon shrugged his shoulders and went out. As he passed Baker the latter moved convulsively, but Good's hand tightened on his arm. When Faxon had gone and was out of earshot, Good released his hold and sat down. Baker stood staring stonily at the figure disappearing in the hydrangeas. His wife, looking very frail and pitiful, had collapsed on the bench, her face buried in her arms. There was complete silence, save for her slow, painful sobbing.
"Well—" began Good hesitatingly. The other man turned sharply at the sound, his face a curious compound of wrath and weariness.
"Right on the job, aren't you?" he said, quietly enough, though his manner was coldly insulting. And when Good made no reply, he added, with a brutal sneer, "You ought to make a hit with this. Scandal in high life—with all the details. I suppose it'll be what you call a 'scoop,' won't it?"
"You think I'm that sort, do you?"
"Why shouldn't you? It's your business. I suppose you'd like my photograph and a signed statement?"
"Let it go at that," sighed Good. "That's my business. But to-night I'm off duty. I'm one of your fellow guests. I'm playing gentleman. Give me credit for being a good actor. I'll stay in the part."
"Have you anything else to say?" The question was put icily.
"Oh, cut the tragedy," said Good with a wave of his long hand. "I'm told you're a scrapper, my friend. Well, you're not going to show the yellow now, are you? It looks to me as if you had a first-class scrap on your hands now. What are you going to do—snivel—or get sore—or lie down—or ... what?"
When Baker made no answer, Good rose and stood looking thoughtfully at the pair, almost obliterated in the shadows, only the high-lights showing.
"I guess I'll go now," he said quietly. "This doesn't seem to be my party."
Then he laughed cheerfully. "Lucky my being here, wasn't it? You were staging great drama when I came in."
He turned from the doorway and looked back. A smile crept over his craggy features, tender, a little wistful. With a shrug he straightened his shoulders, and he was whistling as he walked away, his jerky movements casting grotesque shadows on the grass.