Valentine - Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927

“So did I. That was why, last night, I shut the door of my bedroom at The Black Tower, and turned on the gas. But for the fact that Ninon came to my room at the last moment, the matter would have been settled — for good and all.”

Her tones were casual, but they wrought a startling effect on her companion. He sprang to his feet, and stood in front of her with whitening cheeks.

“My God, no! It is not true!”

“It is true.”

He controlled himself with a strong effort.

“And then she gave you her dope!”

“She gave me a dose of medicine which she takes herself sometimes.”

Barrington flung his cigarette into the fireplace.

“Horrible, horrible,” he cried, in accents of consternation. Suddenly, a flush of anger mounted to his cheeks.

“Did you actually think that if you killed yourself Lovelace would be safe?” he demanded. He added: “Let me warn you that you were wrong. There is only one way in which you can make him safe, and that is by marrying me.”

“Or killing you.”

The man started. Again his cheeks blanched.

“It is Ninon’s dope,” he declared, “which has made you crazy. Her dope burns in the brain like fire.” He took a step toward her. “So we begin again at the point where we left off. Either you marry me, or your Dick Lovelace pays the penalty.”

Sacha did not flinch before this onslaught. Her pale loveliness, as he gazed on it, maddened him. The fear and dismay which he read in her eyes added, somehow, to her attractiveness. He promised himself that, in spite of anything which Ninon Darelli might do, he would possess that shrinking form which was so much more ravishing than all the Italian girl’s passion.

“Cannot I appeal to you as a gentleman?”

“No.”

She hesitated a moment. To his surprise, a look of defiance appeared on her face.

“Very well, then,” she said, “you can do your worst. I am not going to marry you.”

Barrington extracted his cigarette case as though his feelings demanded relief in some material action. He lit a cigarette.

“The facts,” he declared, “are these: Your husband was found dead in a field near The Black Tower, and his horse was found, saddled and bridled, wandering in the field beside him. The coroner’s jury came to the conclusion to which those who carried the body to the field intended they should come. When a man is thrown from his horse, his head is often severely bruised.”

He stopped. Sacha had advanced a few steps nearer to him. The fear which he had expected to see in her eyes was absent.

“Go on,” she commanded.

“I saw Dick Lovelace carry your husband’s body across the drawbridge of The Black Tower on his shoulder. I followed him and saw him deposit it in the field and then lead the horse into the field beside it.” He added: “ Because I loved you, and meant to possess you, I remained silent about what I had seen.”

“ Who is going to believe such a story?”

The girl’s tones vibrated with her defiance of him. He rose to his feet.

“Those who examine the wounds on your husband’s head will believe it,” he declared. “Medical science nowadays does not hesitate to wrest its secrets even from the grave, and it is well able to distinguish between one kind of injury and another.”

At last he had achieved his object. Sacha’s coolness deserted her. She shrank away from him and clutched at the mantelpiece. She sank down, helplessly, on her knees on the hearthrug. He saw her cover her face with one of her hands.

He stood, with his lighted cigarette between his fingers, watching her. But, nevertheless, he failed to see that her other hand was clutching at one of the fire irons. His cruel smile played freely now about his lips.

“I forbid you,” he declared, “to go back to Brook Street, to Ninon Darelli, or to have any further dealings with that woman.”

He turned from her and moved toward the door. Halfway across the room he slopped, and once again faced her.

“On my next visit,” he remarked, “you will, I hope, receive me a trifle more graciously.”

He resumed his walk.

Sacha measured, with frenzied eyes, the distance which separated her from him. Her grasp tightened on the fire iron at her side.

The next instant she had overtaken him with that terrible weapon raised in both her hands.

Barrington swung round, warned, by some uncharted sense, of his danger. He faced the girl with a stifled cry of horror on his lips.

With a swift movement, he wrenched the poker from her hands, and sent it clattering against the wainscoting.

“You little devil!”

His eyes were glaring. Sacha felt her strength ebb away from her. She tottered, and would have fallen, had he not caught her in his arms.

He carried her to the couch, and laid her down on it. Her eyes were closed, and her face was so pale that her skin seemed to have been turned to wax. He bent over her, and could only just detect the sound of her breathing. He dipped his handkerchief in a rose bowl which stood on a small table, and pressed it against her brow.

She opened her eyes. A look of bewilderment appeared in them. She sighed deeply, and then tears began to course down her cheeks.

“Oh dear,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

She sat up suddenly with wide horror in her expression. She seemed to be looking for some one. Barrington put his hand on her shoulders.

“It’s all right,” he said, “Don’t worry.”

His voice seemed to reassure her. She began to cry. She cried hysterically for many minutes, during which he stood looking at her, with great uneasiness in his face. At last, when she had grown a little calmer, he said:

“It’s that dope which Ninon Darelli gave you this afternoon.”

His tones proclaimed the fear which still clutched at his heart. The girl ceased her weeping, and looked up at him.

“No,” she said, deliberately, “I really meant to kill you. If you hadn’t turned, I would have killed you.”

“Because you are under the influence of some hellish poison — hashish probably. And also because you are under the influence of that woman—” He bent closer to her, and lowered his voice. “Was it this — that she showed you in her crystal?”

“No.”

He caught his breath in a gasp.

“Ninon Darelli is the most accomplished dope fiend in London,” he declared. “She is also a hypnotist. A girl such as you are is mere wax in her cunning hands.”

Sacha sighed again. She passed her hand wearily over her brow.

“Do, please, leave me now,” she begged him piteously.

Her eyes were almost expressionless, as though, still, her thoughts were wandering in another world.

“I can’t leave you. It is too horrible. If I leave you, you will go back to her. That is what always happens. That is what she is counting on.”

He hesitated a moment, hoping evidently, that she would answer him, but she remained motionless and silent.

“Let me take you back to Redden — to your own house, if you do not wish to go to The Black Tower.”

“No — no — no!”

“ Sacha, for God’s sake, think what has happened. Think what may happen in the future.”

Suddenly she sprang to her feet. Her eyes blazed with repudiation of him.

“What can possibly happen in the future which will be worse than that which has happened already?” she challenged.

“Many things. The loss of your reason, for example.”

“That would be a blessing — the greatest possible blessing—”

He controlled himself with an effort.

“Ninon Darelli,” he said, “has reasons for trying to get you into her power. I warn you that she is without mercy to her victims—”