The Sundial

by Fred M. White

"He is a queer man," Grey said, as he turned the letter over in his hand, "but not to blame. However, I'll let you know what happens."

Half an hour later Grey was walking up the drive to the deserted house. Lights were burning in one of the windows, and behind the curtainless casement Grey could see two candles standing on a table. There was a litter of papers on the table and a chair on each side. As Grey rang the bell the clang of the metal sounded hollow in the empty house. Charlock came to the door.

"I am glad you have come," he said. "I take it very kindly of you. I daresay you wonder why I am here and why I wrote to you. Perhaps this letter from my wife will explain matters. Yes, I want you to read it. There is no reason why you shouldn't."

With some reluctance, Grey took the letter and read it. It was from Mrs. Charlock, in her own neat handwriting, written as carefully and regularly as if it had been a serious business communication. There was no sign that it had been written in a hurry, or that it had been inspired in a moment of anxiety and emotion. There was no heading to it and nothing at the foot but the writer's signature. As to the body of the letter, it might have been read by anybody. It pointed out that there had been a difference between husband and wife, and that perhaps there had been faults on both sides. The writer regretted that in a rash moment she had been so foolish as to take a step which might have compromised her in the eyes of the world. But she pleaded in extenuation that her husband's harsh conduct had driven her to retaliate. On thinking the matter over, she had decided it to be her duty to return home and place herself in her husband's hands, only stipulating that residence in the cottage should be restricted to a definite period. The writer concluded by asking an interview and stating that she had returned to the neighbourhood for that purpose. Grey laid the letter down with a murmur to the effect that it seemed to him to be right and proper.

"You think so?" Charlock said, with a hoarse laugh. "You are more confiding than I am. Do you know what has happened? That woman bewitched Rent. For the time she made him forget his own selfish schemes. She wanted to pose as an injured woman, though that was not a new rôle. She wanted to get rid of me. She wanted to force me to some crowning folly, so that the law might release her, and then she would have every claim to marry Arnold Rent. Doubtless it struck her as a fine thing to become a county lady of unlimited income. But, then, you see, she reckoned without another woman in the person of Rent's mother. Mrs. Rent displayed a firmness which upset her calculations altogether. And Mrs. Rent played exactly the right card. She told these two platonic fools that her son had nothing to expect from her. Perhaps in five years' time she might hold out her hand to help them. But they were to understand that meanwhile Arnold Rent was no better off than any other penniless man of good education. I know all about it, because I was on the spot. The irony of circumstances took me to the house. And when those people fully realised what was to happen, their common sense came back to them. Mind you, I am going on supposition now. But I don't think events will prove me to be far wrong. Otherwise, why is my wife here again? Why has she asked me for an interview? And why has she agreed to listen to my terms? It suited my mood to grant that interview at this hour of night. It was my whim to ask you to be present. You will see for yourself that what I have said is literally correct. And now, will you be good enough to open the front door for me? She may be here at any moment."

Grey went off obedient to Charlock's request. He stood outside for a moment in the stillness of the evening until Charlock joined him. They were quiet for a little while. Then Charlock began to speak in the bitterness of his heart. But Grey did not appear to be listening. He raised his hand as if to impose silence.

"Hush," he said. "Didn't I hear a cry?"

Charlock shook his head. He had heard nothing. A moment later the cry was repeated, so far as Grey could judge, from the bottom of the garden. It was not a loud cry. It sounded as if from someone in dire pain. Grey moved hastily forward.

"It is nothing," Charlock said, "nothing but mere fancy. One's nerves get out of order sometimes."

But Grey was not to be moved. He knew that his imagination had not played him false. He could hear a stifled moan again. Almost like an inspiration he traced the sound to its source and raced across the lawn.