The Green Rust | Page 4

plantation. But there was something in the
haste of the shabby man, a hint of terror in the wide-thrown arms, that
made the lawyer forget his tragic environment.
"Where has he been?" he asked.
"Who is he?"

The doctor's face was white and drawn as though he, too, sensed some
horror in that frantic flight.
Kitson walked back to the room where the dying man lay, but was
frozen stiff upon the threshold.
"Doctor--doctor!"
The doctor followed the eyes of the other. Something was dripping
from the bed to the floor--something red and horrible. Kitson set his
teeth and, stepping to the bedside, pulled down the covers.
He stepped back with a cry, for from the side of John Millinborn
protruded the ivory handle of a knife.
Chapter II.
- The Drunken Mr. Beale
Dr. Van Heerden's surgery occupied one of the four shops which
formed the ground floor of the Krooman Chambers. This edifice had
been erected by a wealthy philanthropist to provide small model flats
for the professional classes who needed limited accommodation and a
good address (they were in the vicinity of Oxford Street) at a moderate
rental. Like many philanthropists, the owner had wearied of his hobby
and had sold the block to a syndicate, whose management on more
occasions than one had been the subject of police inquiry.
They had then fallen into the hands of an intelligent woman, who had
turned out the undesirable tenants, furnished the flats plainly, but
comfortably, and had let them to tenants who might be described as
solvent, but honest. Krooman Chambers had gradually rehabilitated
itself in the eyes of the neighbourhood.
Dr. van Heerden had had his surgery in the building for six years.
During the war he was temporarily under suspicion for sympathies with
the enemy, but no proof was adduced of his enmity and, though he had
undoubtedly been born on the wrong side of the Border at Cranenburg,

which is the Prussian frontier station on the Rotterdam-Cologne line,
his name was undoubtedly van Heerden, which was Dutch. Change the
"van" to "von," said the carping critics, and he was a Hun, and
undoubtedly Germany was full of von Heerens and von Heerdens.
The doctor lived down criticism, lived down suspicion, and got
together a remunerative practice. He had the largest flat in the building,
one room of which was fitted up as a laboratory, for he had a passion
for research. The mysterious murder of John Millinborn had given him
a certain advertisement which had not been without its advantages. The
fact that he had been in attendance on the millionaire had brought him a
larger fame.
His theories as to how the murder had been committed by some one
who had got through the open window whilst the two men were out of
the room had been generally accepted, for the police had found
footmarks on the flowerbeds, over which the murderer must have
passed. They had not, however, traced the seedy-looking personage
whom Mr. Kitson had seen. This person had disappeared as
mysteriously as he had arrived.
Three months after the murder the doctor stood on the steps of the
broad entrance-hall which led to the flats, watching the stream of
pedestrians passing. It was six o'clock in the evening and the streets
were alive with shopgirls and workers on their way home from
business.
He smoked a cigarette and his interest was, perhaps, more apparent
than real. He had attended his last surgery case and the door of the
"shop," with its sage-green windows, had been locked for the night.
His eyes wandered idly to the Oxford Street end of the thoroughfare,
and suddenly he started. A girl was walking toward him. At this hour
there was very little wheeled traffic, for Lattice Street is almost a
cul-de-sac, and she had taken the middle of the road. She was dressed
with that effective neatness which brings the wealthy and the work-girl
to a baffling level, in a blue serge costume of severe cut; a plain white
linen coat-collar and a small hat, which covered, but did not hide, a

mass of hair which, against the slanting sunlight at her back, lent the
illusion of a golden nimbus about her head.
The eyes were deep-set and wise with the wisdom which is found alike
in those who have suffered and those who have watched suffering. The
nose was straight, the lips scarlet and full. You might catalogue every
feature of Oliva Cresswell and yet arrive at no satisfactory explanation
for her charm.
Not in the clear ivory pallor of complexion did her charm lie. Nor in
the trim figure with its promising lines, nor in the poise of head nor
pride of carriage, nor in the ready laughter that came to those quiet eyes.
In no