With shaking hands he laid it close against that hideous, gaping mouth, for five long dragging minutes. The glass remained clear, untarnished.
Putting a great constraint on himself, he forced himself to move her head. And the truth came to him! In that strange short fall Kitty had broken her neck. For the second time he was free. But this time her death, instead of cutting a knot, bound him as with cords of twisted steel to shame, and yes, to deadly peril.
Slowly he got up from his knees. Unless he went and jumped over the parapet of the Embankment into the river—a possibility which he grimly envisaged for a few moments—he knew that the only thing to do was to go off at once for the police, and make, as the saying is, a clean breast of it. After all he was innocent—innocent of even a secret desire of encompassing Kitty's death. But would it be possible to make even the indifferent, when aware of all the circumstances, believe that? Yes, there was one such human being—and as he thought of her his heart glowed with gratitude to God for having made her known to him. Helen would believe him, Helen would understand everything—and nothing else really mattered. It was curious how the thought of Helen, which had been agony an hour ago, now filled him with a kind of steadfast comfort.
As Sherston turned to go down the staircase, there came the distant sound of the bursting of a motor tire, and the unhappy man started violently. His nerves were now in pieces, but he remembered, as he went down the stone steps, to feel in one of his pockets, to be sure he had what he so seldom used, a card-case on him.
On reaching the front door he was surprised to find it open, and to see just within the hall, their white caps and pale faces dimly illumined by the little light that glimmered in from outside, two trained nurses with bags in their hands. They were talking eagerly, and took no notice of him as he passed.
For a moment Sherston wondered whether he ought to tell them of the terrible accident which had just happened upstairs—but after a momentary hesitation he decided that it would be better to go straight off to the Police Station. Already his excited brain saw a nurse standing in the witness-box at a trial where he himself stood in the dock on a charge of murder. So, past the two whispering women, he hurried out into the darkness.
Even in the grievous state of mental distress in which he now found himself, Sherston noticed that the street lamps were turned so low that there only shone out, under their green shades, pallid spots of light. And as he stumbled across the curb of the pavement, he told himself, with irritation, that that was really rather absurd! More accidents proceeded from the absence of light than were ever likely to be caused by the Zeppelins.
Perforce walking warily, he hastened towards the Strand. There was less traffic than usual, fewer people, too, on the pavement, but it was just after nine o'clock, the quietest time of the evening.
Suddenly a huge column of flame shot up some thirty yards in front of him, and then (it seemed to all to happen in a moment) a line of men, police, and special constables, spread across the thoroughfare in which he now was, barring off the Strand.
Sherston quickened his footsteps. For a moment his own disturbed and fearsome thoughts were banished by the extraordinary and exciting sight before him. Higher and higher mounted the pillar of fire, throwing a sinister glare on the buildings, high and low, new and old, round about it. "Good Heavens!" he exclaimed involuntarily. "Is that the Lyceum on fire?" A policeman near whom he was now standing, turned round and said shortly, "Can't say, I'm sure, sir."