small. Janet, and a few juniors at the office. It galled him to think that, up till now, he had himself had to do what his employer wanted. Up till now! Money was a precious thing, to be carefully hoarded. There was only one way in which a rational man was justified in spending it. The purchase of freedom for himself, and of servitude for others.
Still, he would have to make up his mind about Janet. He might make her an allowance, and tell her to go to the devil. But the prospect of parting with any of the fortune now within his grasp was repugnant to him. Why should he make Janet an allowance? Why part with one who was, after all, an efficient and inexpensive servant? He would only have to replace her, and the money spent on the allowance would be utterly thrown away, bringing him no benefit. Yes, that was the plan. He would stay here, in this house which was his own and suited him. But he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life earning money for other people. He would enjoy himself, and Janet should continue to look after him. But she must never be allowed to guess at his sudden access of fortune. That was a secret to be hugged to his own breast.
As for her temper, that had never troubled him yet, and it was not likely to now. She was too dependent upon him to let her ill-nature go to extremes. Dependent upon him for every mouthful she ate, every shred she wore. It was a delicious thought. He could dispose of her as he pleased. And it pleased him that she should remain and keep house for him. Victor Harleston poured himself out a cup of tea, added milk and sugar, and left it to cool.
He resumed his interrupted train of thought. No need to take seriously her threat of the previous evening. She would leave him, and go and stay with Philip until she found a job for herself! Not she! She knew too well which side her bread was buttered to do a silly thing like that. Jobs that would suit her couldn’t be had just for the picking up. There was only one job she was fitted for, that of a domestic servant. And what would Philip, with his high-flown ideas, say to that? It was all very well for the young puppy to encourage her. He wasn’t earning enough to keep her, that was quite certain. And he had a perfect right to forbid Philip the house, if he wanted to.
Victor Harleston drank his tea, and got out of bed. His first action was to draw the curtains. A sinful waste to use electric light if he could see to dress without it. Yes, it was a bright morning, clear and frosty. He switched off the light. Then he took a cigarette from a box which stood on his chest of drawers, and put the end of it in his mouth. He found the box of matches which he always kept hidden in a drawer, underneath his handkerchiefs. He struck a match, turned on the gas-fire, and lighted it. With the same match he lit his cigarette. No sense in using two matches when one would serve. Then he put the box back in its accustomed place.
As he did so, a sheet of paper which he had placed on the dressing table the previous evening caught his eye. It was a business letter. He read it over again, and smiled. All right. He had not the slightest objection to receiving something for nothing. He would try the experiment, right away.
Standing in front of the gas-fire, warming himself, his thoughts reverted to his impending fortune. He picked up a pencil from the mantelpiece, and with it made a few calculations on the back of the letter. The resulting figures seemed to please him, for he nodded contentedly. Quite a lot of money, if carefully husbanded.
He folded the letter in half, and tore it across. Then put the two halves together, folded them as before, and once more tore them across. With each of the four scraps of paper thus produced he made a spill. These he added to a bundle of similar spills which stood in a vase. No sense in wasting matches, when with one of these one could light a cigarette from the gas-fire.
He took his dressing-gown from a hook behind the door, put it on, and went along to the bathroom.
1
Doctor Mortimer Oldland, though no longer young, was still full of energy. He would tell his patients, sometimes rather acidly, that hard work had never killed anybody yet. It certainly showed no signs of killing him. His extensive practice in Kensington left him very little leisure. But he always seemed ready at any moment to tackle a fresh case or to persevere with an old one.
He believed in early rising, summer or winter. By half-past eight on the morning of January 21st he had finished his breakfast, and was sitting over the fire consulting his case-book. As the clock struck the half hour, the door opened, and the parlourmaid appeared. ‘There’s a lady called to see you. sir. She says it’s urgent.’
‘It’s always urgent when ladies call at this hour,’ replied Oldland calmly. ‘I suppose she has brought the usual small boy, suspected of swallowing a sixpence?’
‘No, sir. She’s alone, and seems in a terrible state. She was too upset to tell me her name. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her here before, sir.’
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do for her.’ Oldland put down his case-book, and walked into his surgery.
He was confronted by a distraught woman, a perfect stranger to him. ‘Oh, Doctor!’ she exclaimed, as soon as he appeared. ‘Can you come round at once? My brother has been taken very ill, and I don’t know what to do for him.’
Oldland’s experience had made him a pretty fair judge of character. She did not seem to him the sort of woman who would fly into a panic over nothing. ‘I’ll come,’ he replied shortly. ‘Where is your brother?’
‘At home, 8 Matfield Street. It’s quite close …’
‘So close that it will be quicker to walk there than ring up for a taxi. And you can tell me the details as you go.’
He picked up his emergency bag, and they set off, Oldland walking at his usual smart pace, the girl, for it was evident that she was quite young, half running to keep up with him. In broken words she described the symptoms. Her brother had come down to breakfast as usual, but complaining of not feeling very well. He had drunk a cup of coffee, but had been almost immediately sick. He had complained of being terribly giddy, and had seemed unable to walk. On leaving the dining-room, he had collapsed on the floor of the hall, where he lay, unable to speak or move.
‘I see,’ said Oldland. ‘We’ll see what we can do for him. By the way, I don’t think I caught the name?’
‘Harleston. I’m Janet Harleston, and my brother’s name is Victor. He’s only my half-brother, and he’s a good deal older than I am. I keep house for him. I’ve never known him like this before. He’s always perfectly well.’
Oldland asked no more questions, and they covered the remainder of the distance in silence. The front door of number eight Matfield Street was standing ajar. Janet Harleston ran up the half-dozen steps which led to it, and pushed it open.
Oldland followed her into a narrow, linoleum-laid hall. He had no need to inquire the whereabouts of his patient. Victor Harleston lay huddled on the floor. At a first glance Oldland saw that he was completely unconscious. He examined the patient rapidly, then took a syringe from his bag and administered an injection. ‘Is there a sofa handy?’ he asked sharply.
Janet was standing by, watching him anxiously. ‘Yes, in the sitting room,’ she replied. ‘Just through this door.’
‘Is there a maid in the house?’
‘No, my brother and I live alone. We have a charwoman, but she doesn’t come until the afternoon.’
‘That’ll be too late. He’s a heavy man, and I hardly think we could manage him between us. Will you run out, please Miss Harleston, and fetch a policeman. There’s one at the corner of the Fulham Road, I noticed him as we passed. Tell him I sent you. He’s sure to know my name.’
She ran out obediently, and Oldland resumed his examination of the patient. Victor Harleston, his toilet completed, was more presentable than he had appeared in bed. His hair