The Cinema Murder | Page 4

the villas in which the tradespeople live,
and ask yourself where my friends were to come from? The clergyman, perhaps? He is
over seventy, a widower, and he never comes near the place. Why, I'd have been content
to have been patronized if there had been anyone here to do it, who wore the right sort of
clothes and said the right sort of thing in the right tone. But the others--well, that's done
with."
He remained curiously dumb. His eyes were fixed upon the fragments of the photograph
in the grate. In a corner of the room an old-fashioned clock ticked wheezily. A lump of
coal fell out on the hearth, which she replaced mechanically with her foot. His silence
seemed to irritate and perplex her. She looked away from him, drew her chair a little
closer to the fire, and sat with her head resting upon her hands. Her tone had become
almost meditative.
"I knew that this would come one day," she went on. "Why don't you speak and get it
over? Are you waiting to clothe your phrases? Are you afraid of the naked words? I'm not.
Let me hear them. Don't be more melodramatic than you can help because, as you know,
I am cursed with a sense of humour, but don't stand there saying nothing."
He raised his eyes and looked at her in silence, an alternative which she found it hard to
endure. Then, after a moment's shivering recoil into her chair, she sprang to her feet.
"Listen," she cried passionately, "I don't care what you think! I tell you that if you were
really a man, if you had a man's heart in your body, you'd have sinned yourself before
now--robbed some one, murdered them, torn the things that make life from the fate that
refuses to give them. What is it they pay you," she went on contemptuously, "at that
miserable art school of yours? Sixty pounds a year! How much do you get to eat and
drink out of that? What sort of clothes have you to wear? Are you content? Yet even you
have been better off than I. You have always your chance. Your play may be accepted or
your stories published. I haven't even had that forlorn hope. But even you, Philip, may
wait too long. There are too many laws, nowadays, for life to be lived naturally. If I were
a man, a man like you, I'd break them."
Her taunts apparently moved him no more than the inner tragedy which her words had
revealed. He did not for one moment give any sign of abandoning the unnatural calm
which seemed to have descended upon him. He took up his hat from the table, and thrust
the little brown paper parcel which he had been carrying, into his pocket. His eyes for a
single moment met the challenge of hers, and again she was conscious of some nameless,

inexplicable fear.
"Perhaps," he said, as he turned away, "I may do that."
His hand was upon the latch before she realized that he was actually going. She sprang to
her feet. Abuse, scorn, upbraidings, even violence--she had been prepared for all of these.
There was something about this self-restraint, however, this strange, brooding silence,
which terrified her more than anything she could have imagined.
"Philip!" she shrieked. "You're not going? You're not going like this? You haven't said
anything!"
He closed the door with firm fingers. Her knees trembled, she was conscious of an
unexpected weakness. She abandoned her first intention of following him, and stood
before the window, holding tightly to the sash. He had reached the gate now and paused
for a moment, looking up the long, windy street. Then he crossed to the other side of the
road, stepped over a stile and disappeared, walking without haste, with firm footsteps,
along a cindered path which bordered the sluggish-looking canal. He had come and gone,
and she knew what fear was!
CHAPTER II
The railway station at Detton Magna presented, if possible, an even more dreary
appearance than earlier in the day, as the time drew near that night for the departure of
the last train northwards. Its long strip of flinty platform was utterly deserted. Around the
three flickering gas-lamps the drizzling rain fell continuously. The weary porter came
yawning out of his lamp room into the booking office, where the station master sat alone,
his chair turned away from the open wicket window to the smouldering embers of the
smoky fire.
"No passengers to-night, seemingly," the latter remarked to his subordinate.
"Not a sign of one," was the reply. "That young chap who came down from London on a
one-day return excursion, hasn't gone back, either. That'll do his ticket in."
The outside door