Witness to the Deed

by George Manville Fenn

For it was quite plain; so long as the man had gone on in his quiet, regular track, with his nurse in attendance, and his invalid-chair waiting to take him a short distance every morning, his mind had remained blank; but though he had made no sign—though he had apparently not been in any way impressed by Stratton’s company—beneath the calm, dreamy surface the old man had been evoked, the thoughts lying dormant had suddenly been awakened; and with the last scene of which he was conscious, before the shot had prostrated body and mind at one blow, once more vividly before his mind, he had risen from his seat during his nurse’s absence, and made straight for the chambers, bent upon finishing the task upon which he had set his mind.

As he mounted the stairs, nearly everything was as clear as on the day when he had presented himself. Only one matter was confused, and, strangely enough, that was the point upon which, during his imbecile condition, he had been able to dwell—to wit, his wound. One set of ideas swept away the other, and he could only go back to the moment when he had presented that revolver at Stratton.

And now, as he entered the room and spoke, it was to him the same day and the continuation of his interview with Stratton. It puzzled him a little that he should have had to come through the streets to continue that scene, but not much, for his mind had been gradually opening out from the time he left Queen Charlotte Road, and it was only when he reached Stratton’s door that he had gained its full expansion. He was a little surprised, too, at seeing Brettison there. The latter had come in suddenly like one in a dream, but he did not let it trouble him. If Stratton was willing to let a third person share the secret, that was his lookout. Brettison was evidently not connected with the police, and he felt that the power he held made him more than a match for both.

He smiled as he saw the effect his arrival had produced on the occupants of the chambers, and looked sharply from one to the other before turning, and turning the bolt of the inner door into its socket. Then his hand went suspiciously to his pocket and then to his breast. Not finding what he sought, he looked at the table and the floor in search of it.

He shook his head then as if to clear his mind, and turned to Brettison.

“Who are you?” he said sharply. “Friend of his—a friend of the lady? Why have you come? Don’t matter. If he doesn’t mind, it’s nothing to me. Get the old man and the aunt, and my wife too, if you like, for she is my wife, mind. You can’t get out of that—my wife, Mrs James Barron. Do you hear, Stratton?—Mrs James Barron.”

Stratton uttered a peculiar sound, between a groan and a cry of rage, and he took a step toward the man, who drew himself up threateningly.

“No nonsense,” he said, with a fierce snarl.

“No games, or you’ll repent it. I’m playing high, and I’ll stand no humbug. Look here, old man,” he continued, turning to Brettison, “you sit down there, whoever you are. I don’t want to hurt you. I warn you, for I may turn rusty. What you’ve got to do is to take a sensible view of the case, and advise him to do the same. Sit down.”

He spoke as fiercely as if it were to an obstinate dog, and Brettison sank back in an easy-chair, looking stunned.