The Spiral Staircase by Ethel Lina White Page A

Oates.”
    The doctor drew off his leather motoring coat and flung it on the chair.
    “Dirty weather,” he said. “It made me late. The roads are like broth. How is Lady Warren tonight?”
    “Just the same; she wants me to sleep with her.”
    “Well, if I know anything about you, you’ll enjoy doing that,” grinned the doctor. “Something new.” “But I’m dreading it,” wailed Helen. “I’m just. hanging on you to tell them I’m not—not competent.”
    “Jim-jams? Has the house got you, too? Are you finding it too lonely here?”
    “Oh, no, it’s not just nerves. I’ve got a reason for being afraid.”
    Contrary to her former experience, Helen held the doc tor’s attention, while she told him the story of the revolver.
    “It’s a rum yarn,” he said. “But I’d believe anything of that old surprise-packet. I’ll see if I can find out where she’s hidden it.”
    “And you’ll say I’m not to sleep with her?” insisted Helen.
    But things were not so simple as that, for Dr. Parry rubbed his chin doubtfully.
    “I can’t promise. I must see the nurse first. She may really need a good night, if she’s come straight off duty… . I’d better be going up.”
    He swung open the doors leading to the hall. As they crossed it, he spoke to her in an undertone.
    “Buck up, old lady. It won’t be loaded. In any case; her eye will be out, after all these years.”
    “She hit the nurse,” Helen reminded him.
    “Sheer fluke. Remember, she’s an old woman. Don’t bother to come up.”
    “No, I’d better introduce you formally to the nurse,” insisted Helen, who was anxious not to infringe professional etiquette.
    But the glare in Nurse Barker’s eye, when she opened the door, in answer to Helen’s knock, told her that she had blundered again.”
    “I’ve brought up Dr. ‘Parry,” said Helen.
    Nurse Barker .inclined her head in a stately bow.
    “How long have you been here, doctor?” she asked.
    “Oh, five minutes or so,” he replied.
    “In future, doctor, will you, please, come straight to the bedroom?” asked the nurse. “Lady Warren has been worried, because you were late.”
    “Certainly, nurse, if it’s like that,” said the doctor.
    Helen turned away with a sinking heart. The woman seemed to dominate the young doctor with her will even as she appeared to tower over him—an optical illusion, due to the white overall.
    Simone—in all the glory of her sensational gown—swept past her in the hall. Even in the midst of her own problem, Helen noticed that she was literally drenched with emotion. Her eyes sparkled with tears, her lips trembled, her hands were clenched.
    She was in the grip of frustrate desire, which converted her into a storm-centre of rage. She was angry with Newton—because he was an obstacle; angry with Stephen—because he was unresponsive; angry with herself—because she had lost her grip.
    And all these complex passions were slowly merging on one person whom she believed to be the other woman in the case. She was obsessed with the idea that Stephen was turning her down for the sake of the flaxen-haired barmaid at the Bull.
    The help, in spite of her new frock, might have been invisible, for she passed her without the slightest notice. And when Helen reached the kitchen, Mrs. Oates also received her with silent gloom.
    It seemed as though the mental atmosphere of the Summit was curdled with acidity.
    “You won’t have to hold back dinner much longer,” said Helen in the hope of cheering Mrs. Oates. “The doctor will soon be gone.”
    “It’s not that,” remarked Mrs. Oates glumly.
    “Then what’s the matter?”
    “Oates.”
    “What’s he done?”
    “Nothing. But he’s always here, night and day, so that, a woman can’t never be alone. Don’t you never get married, miss.”
    Helen stared at her. She had always admired the goodnature with which Mrs. Oates accepted her husband’s laziness and supplemented his efforts. Although he did not pull