The Hound of Death. Агата Кристи

we must all pity her.’

      Suddenly Dermot raised his head.

      ‘I don’t believe it.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I say I don’t believe it. Doctors make mistakes. Everyone knows that. And they’re always keen on their own speciality.’

      ‘My dear Dermot,’ cried Sir Alington angrily.

      ‘I tell you I don’t believe it—and anyway, even if it is so, I don’t care. I love Claire. If she will come with me, I shall take her away—far away—out of the reach of meddling physicians. I shall guard her, care for her, shelter her with my love.’

      ‘You will do nothing of the sort. Are you mad?’

      Dermot laughed scornfully.

      ‘You would say so, I dare say.’

      ‘Understand me, Dermot.’ Sir Alington’s face was red with suppressed passion. ‘If you do this thing—this shameful thing—it is the end. I shall withdraw the allowance I am now making you, and I shall make a new will leaving all I possess to various hospitals.’

      ‘Do as you please with your damned money,’ said Dermot in a low voice. ‘I shall have the woman I love.’

      ‘A woman who—’

      ‘Say a word against her, and, by God! I’ll kill you!’ cried Dermot.

      A slight clink of glasses made them both swing round. Unheard by them in the heat of their argument, Johnson had entered with a tray of glasses. His face was the imperturbable one of the good servant, but Dermot wondered how much he had overheard.

      ‘That’ll do, Johnson,’ said Sir Alington curtly. ‘You can go to bed.’

      ‘Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.’

      Johnson withdrew.

      The two men looked at each other. The momentary interruption had calmed the storm.

      ‘Uncle,’ said Dermot. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did. I can quite see that from your point of view you are perfectly right. But I have loved Claire Trent for a long time. The fact that Jack Trent is my best friend has hitherto stood in the way of my ever speaking of love to Claire herself. But in these circumstances that fact no longer counts. The idea that any monetary conditions can deter me is absurd. I think we’ve both said all there is to be said. Good night.’

      ‘Dermot—’

      ‘It is really no good arguing further. Good night, Uncle Alington. I’m sorry, but there it is.’

      He went out quickly, shutting the door behind him. The hall was in darkness. He passed through it, opened the front door and emerged into the street, banging the door behind him.

      A taxi had just deposited a fare at a house farther along the street and Dermot hailed it, and drove to the Grafton Galleries.

      In the door of the ballroom he stood for a minute bewildered, his head spinning. The raucous jazz music, the smiling women—it was as though he had stepped into another world.

      Had he dreamt it all? Impossible that that grim conversation with his uncle should have really taken place. There was Claire floating past, like a lily in her white and silver gown that fitted sheathlike to her slenderness. She smiled at him, her face calm and serene. Surely it was all a dream.

      The dance had stopped. Presently she was near him, smiling up into his face. As in a dream he asked her to dance. She was in his arms now, the raucous melodies had begun again.

      He felt her flag a little.

      ‘Tired? Do you want to stop?’

      ‘If you don’t mind. Can we go somewhere where we can talk? There is something I want to say to you.’

      Not a dream. He came back to earth with a bump. Could he ever have thought her face calm and serene? It was haunted with anxiety, with dread. How much did she know?

      He found a quiet corner, and they sat down side by side.

      ‘Well,’ he said, assuming a lightness he did not feel. ‘You said you had something you wanted to say to me?’

      ‘Yes.’ Her eyes were cast down. She was playing nervously with the tassel of her gown. ‘It’s difficult—rather.’

      ‘Tell me, Claire.’

      ‘It’s just this. I want you to—to go away for a time.’

      He was astonished. Whatever he had expected, it was not this.

      ‘You want me to go away? Why?’

      ‘It’s best to be honest, isn’t it? I—I know that you are a—a gentleman and my friend. I want you to go away because I—I have let myself get fond of you.’

      ‘Claire.’

      Her words left him dumb—tongue-tied.

      ‘Please do not think that I am conceited enough to fancy that you—that you would ever be likely to fall in love with me. It is only that—I am not very happy—and—oh! I would rather you went away.’

      ‘Claire, don’t you know that I have cared—cared damnably—ever since I met you?’

      She lifted startled eyes to his face.

      ‘You cared? You have cared a long time?’

      ‘Since the beginning.’

      ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Then? When I could have come to you! Why tell me now when it’s too late. No, I’m mad—I don’t know what I’m saying. I could never have come to you.’

      ‘Claire, what did you mean when you said “now that it’s too late?” Is it—is it because of my uncle? What he knows? What he thinks?’

      She nodded dumbly, the tears running down her face.

      ‘Listen, Claire, you’re not to believe all that. You’re not to think about it. Instead you will come away with me. We’ll go to the South Seas, to islands like green jewels. You will be happy there, and I will look after you—keep you safe for always.’

      His arms went round her. He drew her to him, felt her tremble at his touch. Then suddenly she wrenched herself free.

      ‘Oh, no, please. Can’t you see? I couldn’t now. It would be ugly—ugly—ugly. All along I’ve wanted to be good—and now—it would be ugly as well.’

      He hesitated, baffled by her words. She looked at him appealingly.

      ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I want to be good …’

      Without a word, Dermot got up and left her. For the moment he was touched and racked by her words beyond argument. He went for his hat and coat, running into Trent as he did so.

      ‘Hallo, Dermot, you’re off early.’

      ‘Yes, I’m not in the mood for dancing tonight.’

      ‘It’s a rotten night,’ said Trent gloomily. ‘But you haven’t got my worries.’

      Dermot had a sudden panic that Trent might be going to confide in him. Not that—anything but that!

      ‘Well, so long,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’m off home.’

      ‘Home, eh? What about the warning of the spirits?’

      ‘I’ll risk that. Good night, Jack.’

      Dermot’s flat was not far away. He walked there, feeling the need of the cool night air to calm his fevered brain.

      He let himself in with his key and switched on the light in the bedroom.

      And all at once, for the second time that night, the feeling that he had designated by the title of the Red Signal surged over him.