Julian, in dressing gown and slippers, sank back in the deep arm-chair before the fire burning in his room, and gave himself up to being downright worried. The situation at Thorngate seemed to him bewildering, terrifying, and positively insane, by turns. Obviously there was far more real trouble in the wind than the immediate problem of his own predicament, though heaven knew that was bad enough, largely because of Joel. However he was in a sense relieved and glad that Joel was to know. He had never yet been able to figure out a way to tell her about himself, but now this came along to settle the matter for him: she was bound to know, willy-nilly.
Why, why had he ever told Bertrand Whittaker of all people? No one would have ever been any the wiser if he had kept his mouth shut that warm evening last summer when his conscience was eating him alive, together with the mosquitoes, and he had asked Whittaker what to do about it. Whittaker had said, “Oh, forget it, boy. It won’t do you, or Roger Dane, or Roger’s family any good to come out with it.” Then why was Whittaker so thoroughly airing it now? Or was he? Perhaps he considered Julian’s hot-headed crime of too light a weight to bother with in his gruesome Diary. But Julian felt that it was playing ostrich on his part to rely on such a hope. For a man is known by the company he keeps. And it began to be desperately certain that the house was full to the gables of murderers in one degree or another. Both Blake and Dorn had been too quick on the rise to speak well for themselves. Romany Monte Video and Neil Crawford had blown to bits under a little pressure. And the Diary had been of sufficient importance for someone to have already attempted murder for its sake. Murder to cover murder. What a weird and preposterous household it was proving to be. What was Bertrand Whittaker’s motive in assembling it unless he was playing a losing game with death? If Crawford were not so chicken-hearted he would have avenged tonight’s dreadful betrayal before now. He might get around to it yet. Some of the rankest cowards in an open fight have been known to be excellent stabbers-in-the-back. And if everyone else had a secret murder in his past, whoever got away with the Diary was getting a wonderful thrill—probably reading it now by flashlight in a cupboard or under the shrubbery (one of Julian’s most persistent fears was that Dorn, instead of having gone straight up to town, was haunting the grounds with murder in his heart), trembling at every creak of the floor or rustle of leaves.
Whittaker’s chances of seeing his scheme through appeared slim enough to Julian: but even should he fail to see a rewritten version of his Diary in print, he had already, by one evening’s work, made a rotten mess of at least six lives. Neil and Sydney and Romany could no longer ignore their situation; whatever was between them would from now on be an open wound. Belknap would have definite proof of at least one crime and the criminal behind it. Whether, in view of the preposterous and unfair circumstances, he would decently ignore Crawford’s guilt was a doubtful question. Romany had fainted dead away when the Diary was first mentioned, and later had lost her head and confused the names of Neil Crawford and that lover of hers, with the crazy name of Durian, who had been accidently killed in one of her plays—why, of course, he hadn’t been accidentally killed, that was just it. What a fool he was not to have thought of it before? So now he had three murderers accounted for: Crawford, Romany, and himself. As for Nadia, she looked the part of a poisoner to the letter. Dorn had clearly run away from something. With Blake it probably all depended on your definition of a duel.
But then there was Joel! Something must be wrong with his whole figuring, or Joel wouldn’t be where she was. Surely Whittaker wouldn’t include an innocent niece in a crime wave unless there were others as innocent to make it proper. Julian smiled at his own charming conceit. But it might be that Whittaker was so intent on crushing the alliance between himself and Joel that he was taking drastic measures to acquaint Joel with her lover’s villainy. He must see Joel. He must see her before things developed beyond anyone’s control, as they were rapidly doing.
He jumped to his feet and almost out of his skin at a tapping on an inner door of his room that led God knew where. Should he lie low and gaze hypnotized at the door knob, or shout boldly “Come in,” or open the door suddenly and take the intruder off his guard? Julian had by now strung himself up to such a pitch that his own murder wouldn’t in the least have surprised him. Before he could decide on a course of action the door quietly opened and Joel appeared in a flowing blue robe. All his breath deserted him at the vision of her in his room.
“Joel!” he whispered.
“Yes, dear, I’m on the other side of the door, with the key on my side. Must be more plot in that, don’t you think? If we fall any deeper into trouble than we have fallen already—I mean if it comes to calling the police or something—there’ll be a scandal about the connecting door between the rooms of Mr. Julian Prentice and his fiancée. Fiancée my eye, it will suggest! And if, hearing a shot, we should dash into the hall, it would add that we were seen emerging from the young gentleman’s room, in negligee, at—” she glanced at her wrist watch—“at 12:30 A.M. The fact that I am marking the time, with you as witness, may prove frightfully important. It is late, isn’t it?”
“Very, yes.” Julian’s over-emotion at Joel’s nearness showed itself in understatement and a boyish stiffness that made Joel love him beyond anything. “Come and sit here, won’t you? While I stir this fire. What are you doing out so late, dear heart?”
“I did a little listening and snooping in the halls and found everybody else doing likewise. So I naturally can’t sleep. The house is fairly creeping, Julian. I wish it would get to its feet and walk off. Perhaps in the sense of very strong cheese, it will eventually. Oh dear, I’m so tired, and therefore a little silly, as you see, darling.”
“I don’t wonder—that you’re tired I mean. Here, put your feet on this cushion and let me warm your hands that are so cold. Tell me, Joel, what do you think your uncle is up to; what is he doing to everybody, including himself?”