“Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” said Lionel. “My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it to you.” So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.
Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now, as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. “Come!” was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his heart there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to him; a dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating on some far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know that he was there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable bitterness, how utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human being anywhere who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret him—not one single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his grave.—But such thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away somehow. He rose and went to the table, poured himself out half a tumbler of brandy, and drank it off without water. “It puts fresh life into me as it goes down,” he muttered to himself.
He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness. Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel—or, as most there took it to be, the voice of Richard—but Lionel himself was unseen.
“Gentlemen,” said the voice, “you all know what day this is. It is the eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered. About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you.”
The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open. The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed canvas, on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel Dering’s Dream.
The scene was Percy Osmond’s bedroom, and the moment selected by the artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent’s heart. Peeping from behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses takable.
Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely accused was one of themselves.
“Now you see how the murder really happened—now you know who the murderer really was,” said Lionel, speaking from some place in the farther room where he could not be seen. “This is no dream but a most dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs—ample proofs—of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!”
At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face; his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one face to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to speak, but could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy. Tom interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it greedily and then he spoke.
“What you have just been told,” he said, “is nothing but a cruel, cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar—because he dare not face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer—we all know that Lionel Dering——”