“But how can you do anything for a dead man you never knew?” She glanced keenly about the room. “Do you remember our last talk, the one we had just after we got here?”
“Yes, every word of it. And I’m not going to try you now.”
She put a hand on his arm. “It isn’t myself, Jack; it’s you. I’m all right, except that I blame myself for having been rather silly. But I know perfectly well that nothing has been natural since we came here, especially yourself. Things seem to be settled in the ordinary way; then you make me feel they’re not settled, and you, my dear brother, are drifting about as you never have before. What is it? If I knew, perhaps I might help. Really I don’t understand, and in a queer way we don’t seem to be living for ourselves any longer.”
“Well,” he countered, “I’m not altogether unpractical. For instance, I think I’ve got hold of a first-rate gardener.”
“To-night?”
“Yes, he has just gone. I took him on, and he starts to-morrow.”
She brightened at that and went off after begging him not to sit up too late. Derrick went back to his desk, feeling suddenly a little weary. The singing silence reasserted itself, and the fire was low. He endeavored to work.
Presently he looked up sharply and caught his breath. There was a distinct tapping at the French window. He had a novel sensation of fear. The sound continued with a sort of regular and tiny beat. He got up slowly, and drew aside the curtain. The window was not locked. Through the glass he saw the peaked cap, red face, and brass buttons of a gigantic policeman. The man made a reassuring salute, and Derrick opened the window.
“Come in,” he said.
“Beg pardon, sir, for not going to the front door, but I saw you were alone and didn’t want to wake the whole house. There’s no other light anywhere.”