Martin’s lips were trembling now, and he could only nod.
“Well, I had a chat the other day with a man who was on the case, and he told me that another thing, not that creese, was missed and has never been seen since. It was a sort of image, carved in jade.”
“I never heard of that, sir,” stammered Martin thickly.
“Yes, and apparently it had been picked up by Mr. Millicent in the East years before.”
Martin made a convulsive gesture. “Please, sir,” he begged, “don’t talk like that here.”
Simultaneously his gaze was drawn to the cottage window as though by mesmeric power. It seemed that now he had ceased to feel anything except a mounting fear that struck to his very heart. Little tremors ran through his massive frame, and he began to sway with a slow, rhythmic motion as if endeavoring to maintain his balance. His face was a changing mask in which there was not so much of guilt as of a deadly recognition that he was being overtaken by some remorseless destiny from which there was no escape. No longer a gardener, a pruner of rose-trees, or a traveler from far countries. He became in that moment a man under a curse.
Again Derrick felt a fleeting pang of pity for such torture, but remembered the triangle of death, with Martin standing at one corner. At the same time he sensed the strangeness of the situation, in which he, a dweller in a quiet country-side, should be inextricably involved in a problem so grim and unexpected. Might it be some period of fantasy or subconscious phase from which he would presently awaken? To this there were two apparent answers. One, the faint tingle that seemed to spread from the thing hidden in his clenched hand. The other, the picture of a girl waiting, waiting. At that, all thought of compassion vanished from his mind. It was real, all real, and destiny was at work in Beech Lodge. Then in a flash the next move became clear.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if this was the sort of thing that was missed from the desk?” He took the image from his pocket and balanced it openly in the palm of his hand. “Of course,” he added, fixing Martin with a steady eye, “you can’t tell me, because you say you never saw it.”
The gardener’s figure seemed to shrink visibly, and his eyes protruded. He made a choking sound, the blood rushed in a mottled flood to his cheeks, and the big hands clasped and unclasped mechanically. Derrick, staring at him, felt a throb of triumph and slid the image out of sight.
“God!” said Martin chokingly. “Oh, God! Where did you get that?”