"Who is hurt?" Melville asked.
"Lady Holt," the man replied.
"Lady Holt?" said Melville; "and she sent for me?"
"Yes, sir; the cabman's killed and the lady's dying, they say. Will you come back with me? I have a cab at the door."
"Is it as bad as that?" said Melville.
"They're waiting to take her depositions, if they can," the messenger said. "It was an awful sight."
"Go back and say I'll come in half a minute," Melville said. "I shall be there as soon as you, if not sooner."
He controlled his agitation until the door closed upon the man, and then, turning the key in the lock, threw his cape upon the couch. In an instant he realised to the full what this meant. With incredible swiftness he slipped off his dress clothes and changed into a dark mourning suit, crammed some linen and a couple of suits into a Gladstone bag, tipped the contents of his despatch box into it, and took the banknotes from his writing-table drawer. In a wonderfully short time his preparations were complete, and, grasping the bag, he ran lightly down the staircase, and getting into the crowd in Piccadilly Circus took a cab and drove to Charing Cross. Finding that he still had some time to wait before the express left, he went into one of the many small restaurants near the station and took a hasty dinner, which he washed down with a plentiful supply of spirits. Before suspicion at the hospital had definitely been turned upon him, he was lying back against the cushions of an otherwise empty carriage and speeding through Kent upon his way to Dover.
He did his utmost to concentrate his thoughts upon what was next to be done, but, despite his endeavours, they would wander to the hospital where Lavender was lying. If he had any sure information of what was going on there, what the nature of the accident was, and who was with her, the possible danger would have had less terror for him; but it was still too early for any particulars to appear in the papers, and he could only allow his overwrought imagination to supply the details for him. The commissionaire had said that Lady Holt was dying, and used the ill-omened word "depositions." That meant that Lavender had acknowledged her identity either by accident or of design, and was about to make a full statement of her knowledge of the events which culminated in Sir Geoffrey's death. Doubtless, she was being influenced by some smooth-cheeked, smooth-spoken parson to confess her sins before passing away, and in the hysterical, neurotic state in which she had been these last few weeks—to say nothing of the state to which the accident might have reduced her—that task of professional persuasion might be only too easy to fulfil. She had tied the label of conviction round his neck by asking for him by name, and while his flight would possibly only be regarded as corroboration of her story, the alternative course of staying was attended by too grave risks for any sane man to contemplate. No good purpose could be served now by hoping for the best or by trying to look upon the bright side of things. It was wiser to look the probabilities squarely in the face, and they spelled hanging by the neck for Melville Ashley.
As he sat there, rigid and impassive, he might have been taken for a financier working out some vast calculation involving millions of money, a statesman debating a point in international policy involving issues of peace or war, a physician considering a new development of disease involving life or death to his patient; no one would have taken him for what he was, a murderer flying from the Nemesis that was trailing close after him. But his cold face masked a heart aflame already. As on his way home from Monte Carlo he cursed what he called his luck, so now on his way from London to—he knew not where—he cursed the greater thing he called his destiny.