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When he came out, his round, innocent-looking face was grave, but revealed nothing. "Has the Marquess recovered consciousness?" he asked. "Not yet, I am sorry to say," replied Heyton. "They are keeping the room very quiet, and my wife will tell me the moment my father comes to." "I should like to know, when he does so, my lord," said the detective.
It was evident to Derrick that Heyton had gone very much down since he had last seen him.
Heyton could not speak; his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth; he felt as if his spine were giving way, as if all his strength of mind and body were ebbing from him. "It's it's ridiculous!" he stammered. "No, my lord, it's quite simple, quite elementary. There were the finger-prints, on the safe, on the walls, on the poker.
I've met some bad 'uns in my time, Heyton; but, upon my word, I think you're the very worst of the lot. You're black rotten, through and through. And yet you've got a decent girl not only to believe in you, but to marry you a liar, a coward, and a scoundrel." The other man rose, his hands clenched. Dene jerked his head towards the chair.
One is reluctant to strike a discordant note, a note of squalid tragedy, in the harmony to which the lives of Celia and Derrick moved; but this record would not be complete without an account of the ending of the man who was known as Lord Heyton. Such an ending as his was inevitable. He died in a drunken brawl in a Chinese doss-house in Manchuria.
"I'll wear a tweed suit," said Heyton to his man; "I'll have the new one. And, look here, you tell the tailor to give me a little more room round the waist. I suppose I must be getting fat, eh, Simcox?" "Oh, not fat, my lord," murmured Simcox, remonstratingly. "More er comfortable."
She had seen the smile, and knew, without looking back, that he was standing in the hall and staring up at her. Instinctively, she felt that Lord Heyton was a man to be avoided. Somehow or other, Celia was relieved that she was not asked to dine with the family; for she had feared that she might have to do so.
"Yes," said the Marquess, with a deep sigh, and a look at his son which Heyton understood and quailed from. "My brother is not married; you are his heir after me." "I did not say I was not married, Talbot," said Mr. Clendon, almost inaudibly. "I said that I had no son. But we will not dwell on that. If I could have had my desire, the truth, my identity, would have been buried with me."
Heyton stole across the room, in his felt slippers, and looked down at the sleeping man for a moment; then his furtive, bloodshot eyes went towards the small table beside the bed. There was a carafe of water and a glass, the Marquess's ring and his watch and chain on the table.
As usual, Heyton did not refuse the butler's offer of wine, and, after awhile, a hectic flush rose to his cheek, and he began to talk with a strained and unnatural gaiety. Miriam, who had been watching him, presently stretched out her hand towards his glass with a significant frown; but her husband glared at her and, reaching for the decanter, helped himself.
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