Well, I did stay as long as I could; and if ever a host made it clear to a guest that he wasn't wanted, Barton did that night. After about an hour of it he asked me point blank to go, as he had had a very tiring day.
I couldn't very well stay on after that, could I? I soothed my conscience by determining to find some pretext for coming round to the house the next morning, and got up to go. Barton helped me on with my coat himself, and while he was doing so I noticed an immensely heavy whip lying on an old oak chest in the hall.
"Sorry for your horses, Barton," said I, "if that's your idea of a riding-crop."
Barton laughed.
"It's a Russian executioner's knout," he said. "I got it as an interesting curiosity, and a pretty penny I had to pay for it. I thought it might interest my wife—she's a Russian, as you know."
"Rather a ghastly present," I said.
"Oh, horrors appeal to the Slavonic temperament," he answered; "she'll be glad to have that knout. Good-night."
I must admit that I left the house with a very strong presentiment of trouble to come, and cudgelling my brains in vain to discover a reason for Barton's amazing conduct at the drawing-room door. I did not like to ask him about it—the less said about his delusion the better, I thought—but I determined to come round in the morning; I could make the Russian knout an excuse for doing so—I could easily assume an interest in a curiosity like that.
So at ten o'clock next day I walked round to the Bartons'. As I turned the corner into Pont Street, I saw with a thrill of undefined dread that there was a small crowd gathered round the Bartons' house, and two policemen were engaged in pushing the people back from the door, which was open. I forced my way furiously through the crowd, and seeing the white face of the old butler in the hall, behind the policemen, I called to him. He came forward and I was admitted, after some delay, as a friend of the family.
"What is it, Parsons?" I asked.