E. Nesbit

“ But something in the muddle and maze, among the gaps and blanks, said NO to that. It was not a doubt of Templar—she told herself that it was not that. What she said was: “I can’t be left alone, not here—with that. . .”
And at the word, the horror that had lifted a little fell on her suddenly like a heavy pall thrown over her from behind, so that she cowered and her hands fluttered in his like captive moths.
“No, no,” she said: “in the morning, when it is light—I can do anything when it is light. Oh! it is moving inside the cabinet—I heard it move. ”

“ He opened the door, and stood listening to the silence.
Then again, from the silence of the empty house, the sigh.
“Ah!—be wise—stay here,” the chauffeur said. “I’ll see what it is. It’s burglars, probably, Il ne manquait que cela.”
But “No,” she said, and “No” again. And she held his arm tightly. The touch of something that was alive and friendly seemed to be the best thing in the world—the only thing. ”

“ She turned with a rush almost winged to the cabinet, unlocked it, took out the head, and set it on the table.
“There!” she said, “it’s nothing to me. Less than nothing. I’d sit and hold it in my lap all night, if it would do him any good.”
“How you love him!” said the chauffeur in a low voice. “Let me put that thing away. Yes—I’ll go.”
He replaced the horror in the cabinet, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.
“You’ll not stay here?”
“No—I shall be with him. Give me the brandy—that little goldy decanter. Now go. Oh, thank God I’ve a man to help me tonight. Go—go—go! ”

“ Will you go back and wait for me at the bottom of the stairs?”
“You’re asking a very hard thing,” he said. “No—nonsense, I can’t let you go alone.”
“You must,” she said. “You think because I’ve been so frightened to-night that I’m not brave—but I am. When there’s anything to be done I never break down—never. It’s only when one can’t do anything.” ”

“ They went up like lovers, the chauffeur’s arm round her, and both her hands in one of his. He got the letters, she standing holding on to the wooden rail of the bed.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You see there’s nothing here—it’s all right.”
“How horrible roses smell,” she said. And he got her down again.
“When you have read your letter,” he said, “you will let me send for the police. The person who played this trick on you must be caught and punished.”
He would not use the ugly words crime or murderer—but she used them.
“It’s not murder,” she said: “he died of pneumonia. Oh! ”

“ You know the head seems to come to me from nowhere while I’m dancing. And Denny must have put it on the brougham with the. . . the presents, you know.”
“You were married to. . . to him?”
“Not really—oh! what does all this matter? But who sent it? He died of pneumonia last Wednesday—and I was engaged to be married to someone else. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”
“You will sit down on this sofa,” said the chauffeur, “and drink some wine.” ”

“ They don’t blab.”
“The police,” said the chauffeur for the twentieth time that night; and yet he was not at all a stupid man.
“Ah!” cried Sandra in a note of indescribable anguish, “don’t you desert me—don’t you try to do ‘the proper thing.’ You can have as many police as you like presently. Oh! I know he won’t live long—my dear, my poor! He did it for me. . . Oh, it’s not fair—it’s not fair. Will you go for the doctor or must I go?” She stamped her foot.
“Can you trust the doctor?”
“He’s Uncle Mosenthal’s slave. Uncle Mosenthal saved him in some trouble or other. ”

“ When he had gone she flew up the stairs and into an attic room. On the bed lay a man, in shirt and trousers. The white of the shirt was brownly stained, and through the sash that she had tied round it five minutes before, fresh red was already oozing. ”