Considering the amount of brandy that I had consumed, I awoke next morning feeling remarkably well. The first thing that met my eyes was the canopy of the bed. I stared at it in a kind of vague surprise, wondering how on earth it had got there. Then, with a sudden shock, the events of the previous evening came racing back into my mind. I realised that I was in Northcote's bedroom, and that someone was knocking gently but persistently at the door.
Jumping out, I thrust my feet into a pair of slippers that lay on the white sheepskin rug, and, crossing the room, unlocked the door. I expected to find Milford, but in place of that obliging retainer I was confronted by a pleasant-looking girl, neatly dressed in a print costume and cap. She was carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some letters on it.
"Oh, come in," I said, seeing that she was hesitating. Then, kicking off my slippers, I clambered back into bed.
She came across and laid the tray down on the table beside me.
"I have brought you up your tea, sir," she said. "Mr. Milford is not at all well this morning."
"Oh!" I replied. "I'm sorry for that. What's the matter with him? He was all right last night."
She shook her head. "I don't know, sir; but he seems very poorly."
"Is he in pain?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. He seems to be suffering a great deal."
"Well, you'd better send for the doctor at once," I said, pouring myself out some tea.
This was distinctly awkward. I certainly didn't want to be deprived of the services of the one person Northcote had told me I could trust.
"Shall I send for Dr. Ritchie, sir?" asked the maid.
I nodded. "Ask him to come round as soon as he can. I'll look in and see Milford after breakfast."
The girl finished her various duties in the room, and then withdrew. When she had gone I sat up in bed and began to examine the small pile of letters which lay on the tray. Most of them were obviously bills and circulars, but one which bore a crest on the back of the envelope seemed of more importance. I tore it open.
"105 BELGRAVE SQUARE, S.W.
"MY DEAR NORTHCOTE,—I had an interview yesterday with Rosedale, and as far as I can see, everything is plain sailing. Rosedale suggests the first week in October for launching the Company. There are one or two matters still I should like to discuss with you, but we shall have an opportunity on Wednesday night.
"By the way, I've taken your advice and bought theSeagull. Morton wanted a devilish stiff price for her, but he was ready to take something on account. He'll have to wait for the rest till the Company's out!—Yours sincerely, SANGATTE."
When I came to the ill-written, sprawling signature, I whistled gently to myself. Stranger as I was to England, I knew Lord Sangatte very well indeed by reputation. And a pretty unsavoury reputation it was, too.
I reached out for Northcote's notebook, which I had taken out of my pocket the night before, and turned up his engagements for Wednesday. There were two or three cryptic references to appointments in the morning and afternoon, and then, scribbled in at the end in pencil, "Sangatte's dance."
"I shall certainly be there," I said to myself complacently.
That Sangatte and Northcote were promoting a Company was an interesting bit of information. As a commercial undertaking it should be out of the common. If rumour was correct, Sangatte was about as ripe a scoundrel as the English Peerage could show; while such knowledge of Northcote as I possessed scarcely led me to believe that over-scrupulousness was one of his besetting virtues. On the whole, Wednesday night promised to be quite entertaining.
I got up leisurely, feeling very well satisfied with myself. In the sunshine, which was streaming pleasantly in through the open window, my adventure wore a much more cheerful and convincing aspect than it had done on the previous night. All my nervousness seemed to have vanished—in place of it I only felt a mischievous and highly enjoyable curiosity as to what would happen next.
Routing out Northcote's plan of the house, I discovered that the bathroom was three doors down, on the right-hand side of the passage. A proper full-length bath was a luxury to which I had not been introduced since my arrival in England, so with pleasurable anticipation I draped myself in Northcote's dressing-gown and set off along the corridor.
I found the bath already filled with warm water, while shaving materials of every kind were laid out on the table at the end of the room. With delightful deliberation I dallied over my toilet, smoking a cigarette and enjoying myself to the very limit of my ability. Then, refreshed and contented, I sauntered back to my bedroom, looking forward to the entertaining occupation of inspecting Northcote's wardrobe.
It proved to be on the same spacious scale as the rest of his belongings. After careful consideration, I selected a well-cut blue serge suit and a pair of Dobbie's brown boots, polished to a harmonious but unobtrusive richness that bore testimony to Milford's professional abilities.
Thus equipped, I strolled leisurely downstairs to the dining-room.
Breakfast was laid for me at the end of the big table, a pleasing combination of gleaming silver, fresh-cut flowers, and spotless napery. After the crude service of my lodgings, the sight of these unwonted accessories gave me a really enviable appetite.
I had just seated myself, when the girl who had called me came noiselessly into the room, carrying several dishes and a fragrant urn of coffee.
"Dr. Ritchie is coming round as soon as possible, sir," she said, putting down the tray and beginning to arrange its various contents in front of me.
"That's all right," I returned. "I'll look in and see Milford as soon as I've finished."
For an agreeable half-hour I lingered over a couple of kidneys, a delicious piece of omelette, some toast and marmalade, and a large slice of hot-house melon. Then, with a faint sigh, I extracted a Cabana from a box on the sideboard and moved myself into one of the big easy-chairs in the window looking out over the Park.
A breakfast such as I had eaten is particularly conducive to meditation, and it was scarcely surprising that my thought turned at once to the spirited events of the previous evening. Through the curling smoke of my cigar the beautiful, sorrowful face of my amazing visitor seemed to rise up again before my eyes. I repeated her name to myself with a kind of luxurious enjoyment. "Mercia Solano."
It fitted her admirably. A name of music and colour, shot through with a certain indefinite sadness.
Who could she be, and what red chapter in Northcote's past had led up to the events of last night? That he had not this girl only to fear was evident from her own words. Besides, I could not imagine Northcote running away from a woman, however foully he had wronged her.
I racked my memory for any clues which last evening's adventure might suggest. There was her reference to Guarez—whoever Guarez might be. I wondered again whether he was the gentleman who had been skulking under the trees opposite, and if so, why he had not taken such a favorable chance of putting a bullet into me? And what was that complimentary term she had called me? The Satyr of something or other—Culebra, if I remembered right.
Where the devil was Culebra? The name seemed to be familiar to me, but, think as I would, I was quite unable to place it. The only thing I felt certain about was that it was somewhere or other in South America.
I began to wonder if the key to the mystery lay there. The names Guarez and Solano certainly suggested that troubled continent, while the abrupt end of Mercia's father also seemed thoroughly in keeping with the same cheerful environment. I decided that I would hunt up Culebra on the map without any waste of time.
I had reached this point in my meditations when there came a knock at the door, and my nice-looking parlour-maid again entered.
"I wonder, sir," she began apologetically, "whether you would care to see Mr. Milford now. He seems a little better for the moment, so I thought, perhaps—"
"You were quite right," I interrupted, getting up from the chair and putting down my cigar. "I'll come with you at once."
I felt rather ashamed of myself, but for the time poor Milford's sudden illness had gone clean out of my head.
I followed her through the door at the back of the hall, and then down a big, winding stone staircase that led to the basement. Milford's room was in front, just under the dining-room.
When I entered I found him sitting propped up in bed. He was breathing with evident difficulty, and his face, which was a nasty grey colour, was covered with small beads of perspiration.
"Hullo, Milford," I said, "what have you been doing to yourself?"
He gave me a wan smile. "I don't know, sir," he answered feebly. "I felt rather queer last night, sir, and when I woke up this morning I was like this."
I felt his pulse, which was about as faint and irregular as a pulse could very well be.
"Dr. Ritchie's coming round to see you in a minute," I said, with assumed cheerfulness. "He'll tell us what's the matter. I don't suppose it's anything very serious. Do you think you ate something that upset you yesterday?"
He shook his head. "No, sir. I had my dinner here, and after that all I took was my usual glass of beer at the Granville, round the corner. I don't think it can be anything—" A sudden spasm of pain contracted his face, cutting short his words.
"Well, you must lie quite still," I said soothingly, "and not worry about anything. We can rub along all right; if necessary, I'll get someone else in to help. All you've got to think about is getting fit again."
He looked up, a flash of gratitude lighting his suffering face.
"Thank you, sir," he said faintly.
As he spoke, there came a sharp ring at the front-door bell.
"I expect this is Ritchie," I said. "Now we shall find out what the trouble is."
It was not the doctor, however, that the girl announced when she came into the room a minute later.
"If you please, sir," she said, "Mr. Furnivall has called. I have shown him into the dining-room."
For a moment I wondered who the deuce this new visitor might be; then I suddenly remembered that "Maurice Furnivall" was the name of Northcote's cousin, about whose good faith my double seemed to cherish certain dark suspicions.
"Very well," I said, "I'll come up. If Dr. Ritchie calls while Mr. Furnivall is here, ask him to look in before he goes."
I mounted the stairs again, feeling just a little apprehensive about the approaching interview. I was still too new to my position to have complete confidence in my likeness to Northcote, amazingly successful as it had been up to now; and, with the possible exception of Milford, Maurice Furnivall seemed the most likely person to detect any shade of difference. However, this feeling lent a spice to the situation, and when I entered the dining-room it was with a certain sense of amused elation.
I took an immediate dislike to Master Maurice the moment I set eyes on him. A tall, sleek, well-groomed young gentleman, with black hair carefully parted in the middle and plastered down on each side, he was lounging comfortably in the arm-chair which I had lately vacated.
"Hullo," he drawled, "you're uncommon early this morning. What's up?"
"Milford's seedy," I said a little curtly.
"What's the matter with the fellow?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I've just sent for Ritchie."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you're doing him in style. A Harley Street specialist for a butler sounds all right. I should have called in someone a bit cheaper."
"I've no doubt you would," I said.
Something in my tone must have warned him that I was not feeling particularly amiable, for a distinct change came over his manner.
"I was only joking," he said a little lamely. "I'm sorry the poor fellow's off colour. A beastly nuisance for you, too."
I felt a strong desire to kick him, but my promise to Northcote restrained me.
"Yes," I said, "it's rather a bother. Have a cigar?"
He helped himself from the box which I held out.
"Any news?" he inquired.
I don't know why—he said it quite naturally—but it suddenly flashed across my mind that under this apparently innocent question there lurked a considerable amount of meaning. Could it be possible, I reflected rapidly, that he knew something about Mercia's midnight visit? It seemed wildly unlikely, but I made up my mind to test him.
"Yes," I said coolly. "I had rather a curious experience last night."
I was watching him as I spoke, and I could have sworn I noticed a slight tightening of the muscles in his face.
"Really?" he drawled. "What was that?"
I laughed lightly. "On second thoughts," I said, "perhaps I ought to keep it to myself for the present."
If he was really disappointed, he concealed it admirably. "That's just like you," he said, with a yawn; "you're always so confoundedly mysterious. I suppose it's the result of living under a wrong name."
This was news indeed, but I flatter myself I received it with admirable composure.
"I expect it is," I answered, selecting another cigar in place of the one I had discarded.
There was a brief pause in the conversation.
"Well, what about coming down to Ashton?" said Maurice, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair.
I remembered Northcote's advice that I should refuse, but some obstinate streak at the back of my nature suddenly asserted itself. I think perhaps it was a feeling that Northcote's suspicions concerning the sleek young man in front of me were based on very good grounds that really decided me. I don't like running away from danger.
"When do you expect me?" I inquired carelessly.
Something very like a momentary flash of triumph leaped into his eyes.
"How about Thursday?" he suggested. "There's a good train from Liverpool Street at 2.30, and I'll meet you at Woodford."
"Thursday would do all right," I said.
"We shall have a pretty festive crowd," he went on, knocking some ash off his coat. "Sangatte and York have both promised to come, and I think George Vane will most likely turn up. And then, of course, there'll be the Baradells." He looked at me with a sort of sly half-grin as he mentioned the latter name. Evidently my acquaintance with the Baradells had some special significance.
"That sounds tolerable," I said.
"At all events," he finished, "we ought to have some decent shooting. Reece tells me that the partridges are good, and there are always plenty of duck about."
I nodded thoughtfully. It struck me that if there was going to be any shooting I should be devilish careful whom I stood next.
I had just arrived at this sound conclusion when, through the open window, I saw a beautifully appointed limousine car glide up to the door.
"Here's Ritchie," I said. "I'll just see what he's got to say."
Maurice made no attempt to rise. "Right you are," he answered languidly. "I'll wait and hear the verdict."
I again felt a rich desire to box his ears, but, consoling myself with the reflection that it was possibly only a pleasure delayed, I walked out of the room, closing the door behind me.
I met the doctor in the hall. A grey-haired, clean-shaven man of about fifty, with a pompous but rather kind face, he came forward at once and shook my hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Northcote," he said. "I'm sorry to hear your butler's ill. A most excellent fellow, I should think."
"Yes," I said; "Milford is by way of being rather a treasure. Come along down and have a look at him, doctor. I'm afraid he's really bad."
I led the way down the stone staircase, and we entered the room together.
If anything, Milford looked worse than when I had seen him before. There were mottled patches on his grey face and his lips were twisted with pain. When he saw us, however, he made a faint effort to raise himself in bed.
Ritchie stepped forward at once. "No, no," he said kindly; "you must lie quite still."
Then, pulling up a chair, he began to ask a few curt questions, at the same time taking a brief examination of his patient's eyes and pulse. His face was rather grave.
"I am afraid you have eaten something that has disagreed with you very badly," he said at last.
Milford lay back on the pillow, his lips twitching faintly.
"Am I going to die, sir?" he whispered.
"Oh, dear, no," said Ritchie, with an encouraging smile. "We shall have you perfectly well in a week or so. Just for the moment, however, you'll have to keep very still and do exactly what you're told. I shall send you round a nurse at once, and look you up again myself this afternoon."
Milford made a feeble motion as if to protest against this luxury.
"That's all right, Milford," I said. "You are to do just what the doctor tells you, and not bother your head about anything."
He thanked me with a faint smile, and after tucking him up in bed, we left the room.
As soon as we were in the passage, I turned to Ritchie.
"Well," I said, "what's the matter?"
There was a short silence.
"The matter," said Ritchie, very quietly, "is that the man has been poisoned."
I don't know whether I started, but the word gave me an unpleasant jar.
"Poisoned!" I repeated. "Do you mean poisoned purposely?"
Ritchie frowned. "I can't say. It's a curious case, but there's no doubt that he's suffering from some form of poisoning. It might be one of half a dozen."
"What are we to do?" I asked.
"At present," said Ritchie, "the only thing to do is to give him a strong emetic and keep him warm. I'll send you a nurse straight away, from St. George's, with full instructions. I shall come round again myself later in the morning."
I tried not to show it, but I was feeling horribly upset and very angry. Could it be possible that by accident Milford had fallen a victim to some delicate attention aimed at myself? Or had the mere fact of his loyalty to me been regarded as a sufficient reason for putting him out of the way? Whichever was the case, I took a very hearty resolve that, given the opportunity, I would make someone pay pretty badly for this mistaken effort.
I conducted Ritchie upstairs, and for some minutes we stood in the hall, talking about the case. I could see that the good man was considerably worried over its unusual features. Doctors see some curious things in their daily rounds, but to find a Park Lane butler suffering from apparent symptoms of wilful poisoning is enough to disturb even their unrivalled equanimity.
He refrained from asking me point-blank whether I had any suspicions in the matter, but I felt that the question was on the tip of his tongue. I suppose he thought it best, under the circumstances, to wait for further developments.
"I shall be round again about midday," he said finally, collecting his hat and coat.
"Very well," I said. "I shall probably be here, but if not, I'll ring you up and get your report."
Then I showed him out.
After the door had closed, I stood still in the hall for a moment in some doubt. I was wondering whether it would be advisable to tell Maurice what I had learned, or merely to let him know that Milford was seriously ill. My instinctive mistrust of the young gentleman eventually prevailed, and I decided that, for the present at all events, I would maintain a discreet silence. Under the circumstances, it could hardly be wondered at if I felt suspicious of everybody.
When I entered the dining-room, he greeted me with a languid "Well?"
"Unfortunately," I said, "that's just what it isn't. Milford's bad—damned bad."
"What's the trouble?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Ritchie doesn't know," I replied, with a coolness worthy of Ananias. "He thinks it will probably be a matter of some weeks, however. I'm getting a nurse to look after things."
Maurice yawned. "What a poisonous nuisance," he observed.
The epithet was happily chosen, if the remark was a trifle callous.
"Yes," I replied carelessly. "I suppose I shall have to engage someone else."
I had seen enough of Northcote to realise that if I wanted to preserve my identity, or rather his, I must guard myself against the grosser forms of sentimentalism.
"I tell you what it is," said Maurice, "you'd better stroll round to Seagrave's with me now. I've got to go to Hanover Square anyway, and we can drop in and fix things straight away. They're sure to have plenty of decent men on their books."
The suggestion seemed a sensible one; and although I fully shared Northcote's lack of confidence in his cousin, I had no wish to quarrel with the latter for the present. That was a luxury which I must postpone until I was a little more certain of my ground.
"Very good," I said. "I'll be ready in a minute. I must just go upstairs and get some papers."
"Right you are," he drawled. "Don't be too long."
I mounted the stairs feeling in anything but an amiable temper. Open danger one can face with calmness, but this back-door assassination business was beginning to get on my nerves. I understood why Northcote had been driven to such a desperate step, and I cursed my folly in not having insisted on a fuller explanation from him before tackling the business. The fact probably was that he wanted me to be killed; thus ridding himself for ever of the danger that threatened him. For all I knew, he might even have lied to me in what he did say.
However, there was no getting out of it now. Apart from going back on my word (a useful habit that has never particularly appealed to me), I was determined to see the thing through for my own satisfaction. I object to being murdered, even in mistake for someone else, and it was my ardent wish to bring that objection home very forcibly to my unknown friends. Besides, there was Mercia. What precisely she was doing in that galley I couldn't say, but, like the hero in a play, I felt certain that it was "no place for her." I pictured her in an altogether different environment, a pleasant phase of thought which restored me to a more harmonious frame of mind.
What I had really come upstairs for was Northcote's pocket-book. I had promised him to keep any engagements he had made for the first few days, and I wanted to see if I had a programme mapped out for that afternoon. When I turned up the page, I found two entries: one an appointment with his tailor in Sackville Street at 12.30, and the other a directors' meeting of the London General Traffic Company at the Cannon Street Hotel after lunch. Neither sounded particularly important, but for lack of anything better to do I decided to attend them both. I was becoming quite interested in Northcote's private affairs.
When I came downstairs I found Maurice waiting for me in the hall. It struck me again that there was a kind of suppressed satisfaction in his manner, but I put it down as being very probably due to my imagination. In my present state of mind, it was easy to discover suspicious symptoms in everyone.
"By the way," he said carelessly, as the door closed behind us, "do you want to get another man permanently, or just to fill Milford's place while he's seedy?"
"Oh, only for the time, of course," I said. "I couldn't part with Milford."
He nodded. "That will be quite easy. Seagrave's can always turn you in a temporary man. You'd better leave it to them."
I was about to observe that such was my intention, when a passing motor suddenly drew up with a jerk alongside of us, and a good-looking, elderly man in a grey top-hat put his head out of the window.
"Hullo, Northcote," he said; "you're the very man I wanted to see."
This was flattering; but as I hadn't the remotest idea who he was, I felt slightly embarrassed.
Maurice, however, unintentionally solved my difficulty. "Good morning, Lord Lammersfield," he remarked. "I hope Lady Lammersfield is better?"
His lordship paid no great attention to Maurice's kind inquiry. He nodded coldly, and observed that her ladyship was "about the same." I took a fancy to him at once.
"I can see you at any time you like," I said, truthfully enough.
"Are you going to Sangatte's to-morrow night?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"That will do," he answered. "I'll look out for you there. I only want to have a short chat."
With a careless wave of his hand, which was obviously not intended to include Maurice, he sat back in his seat, and the motor rolled on up Park Lane.
"Pleasant fellow, Lammersfield," I observed mischievously.
Maurice stared after the departing vehicle with anything but an amiable expression.
"They don't seem to find him particularly pleasant in the Cabinet," he retorted.
I was sufficiently ignorant of English politics for this to be news to me.
"Perhaps he is misunderstood," I suggested gently. "A great many of us are."
Maurice looked at me keenly. "You're in a devilish funny mood this morning," he said. "I'm sorry for the people you're going to do business with."
From what I had seen of Northcote, this argued a perspicacity with which I had hardly credited my adopted "cousin."
"One must be agreeable occasionally," I said, "if only for the sake of variety."
Maurice laughed shortly. "I expect you'll be agreeable enough to Lammersfield," he replied.
There was obviously some hidden meaning in his words, but it seemed a little too risky to angle for an explanation. So I contented myself with a noncommittal smile, storing away the remark in my memory for future reference.
We turned into Hanover Square, and crossed the roadway towards Regent Street. I had not the remotest notion where "Seagrave's" was, but Maurice pulled up at a small house just beyond the big flower shop, and I at once noticed the name on a brass plate:
MESSRS. SEAGRAVE AND CO.REGISTRY OFFICE.
We opened the door and walked in. It was a superior sort of office, more like a private room, with arm-chairs scattered about, and a table containing the latest weekly papers.
A rather pompous, elderly, grey-bearded man in a frock-coat at once stepped forward.
"Good morning," I said, by way of opening the conversation.
He bowed deferentially. "Good morning, gentlemen."
"I looked in to see if you can let me have a butler for a few days," I said. "My own man is on the sick list."
He raised his hands. "Dear me, sir, I am sorry to hear that. Mr. Northcote of Park Lane, is it not, sir? I believe we had the pleasure of supplying you with several of your present staff."
This also was information to me, but I received it with calmness.
"Perhaps you can continue the good work, then?" I suggested.
"Certainly, sir, of course. If you will take a chair a minute, I will just consult our books. I have no doubt that we have someone who would fill the vacancy."
Maurice and I seated ourselves, while he bustled off to the other end of the room and began to turn over the pages of a big ledger. I picked up a copy of Punch, but I had scarcely glanced at the first picture when our grey-bearded friend came hurrying back with the light of discovery in his face.
"Why, of course, sir, I have got the very man you want, sir. Stupid of me not to have remembered it; but, as a matter of fact, he was only entered on our books yesterday afternoon."
"And who is this paragon?" inquired Maurice.
"His name is Francis, sir. He is Sir Henry Tregattock's late butler. A most excellent servant, I believe."
"Why has he left?" I asked.
Mr. Seagrave shrugged his shoulders. "I should say he had saved up some money, and was tired of regular service. He has only entered himself on our books for temporary engagements. He is a Frenchman by birth, but speaks English perfectly, and his reference from Sir Henry is unimpeachable—unimpeachable."
"Have you had it confirmed?" asked Maurice.
"I rang up Sir Henry himself just after the man had been in, and he described him as the best servant he had ever had. Indeed, he seemed quite distressed at parting with him."
"That seems satisfactory enough," said Maurice, turning to me. "What do you think?"
I nodded. Curiously enough, I had met Sir Henry Tregattock about ten years before, when he had been the English Minister in Bolivia, and I remembered him as a level-headed man of the world, who was not in the least likely to give an excellent character to a servant unless the latter thoroughly deserved it.
"Well," I said, "if he likes to come to me, I'll engage him for a fortnight, at thirty shillings a week."
Mr. Seagrave beamed and rubbed his hands. "Very good, Mr. Northcote. Your terms are most generous, and I am sure he will be delighted to accept. I will telegraph for him at once, and he shall be round this afternoon."
"The only thing is," said I, "that I shall probably be out."
Mr. Seagrave pondered. "Perhaps you had better give me one of your cards, sir, with just a line in pencil to say that it is all right. I will take the man round to your house myself."
This certainly seemed the best arrangement, so, getting out one of Northcote's cards, I scribbled a few words across it to the effect that the bearer was the genuine article, and handed it to Mr. Seagrave.
With renewed protestations of his gratitude for my distinguished patronage, the latter bowed us out of his office.
"I've got to go to my tailor's now," I said to Maurice, when we found ourselves outside on the pavement.
"Right oh!" he drawled. "Don't forget it's the two-thirty on Thursday, if I don't see you before."
"I shan't forget," I said cheerfully. "I'm looking forward to coming down to you."
And with this truthful if somewhat misleading remark, I waved him farewell and walked off in the direction of Sackville Street.
My interview with the tailor passed off quite successfully. It appeared that Northcote had only arranged to call in order to inspect some stuffs for a new shooting suit. I decided on a kind of buff-coloured Burberry, which struck me as likely to be useful if I survived the next three weeks, and then, just to encourage trade, gave the good man a further order for a pair of riding-breeches. After that I strolled over to Thierry's in Regent Street and bought myself a couple of pairs of boots; for, although I could wear them, Northcote's were just a shade too small to be comfortable.
After my strict economy of the last few months, the spending of money in this fashion seemed to me a most attractive pastime. I therefore continued it by purchasing one or two other odds and ends at the Stores in Lower Regent Street, including a really admirable sword-stick, for which I paid nearly five pounds. Under the circumstances, it appeared to me cheap at the price.
I was in some doubt what to do with Northcote's cheque for eight thousand. No other bank except his own was likely to cash it without inquiries, and although so far my extraordinary likeness to him had emerged triumphantly through all tests, I still felt a little shy of facing the penetrating eyes of a cashier.
At last, however, I decided to risk it. The bank was the Piccadilly branch of the City and Provincial, so, walking back, I pushed open the swinging door and marched in with all the calm assurance that I could assume.
There were several people at the long counter, but the moment I appeared an elderly cashier stepped forward, with that polite haste that bankers only assume for their more important customers.
"Good morning, Mr. Northcote," he said, with some deference.
"Good morning," I returned. Then I paused. "I want to cash a cheque for eight thousand," I added. "Will my account stand it?"
He smiled. "As far as I know, Mr. Northcote. If you will excuse me, I will just consult the ledger and see how your balance stands. Of course it will be perfectly all right about the cheque in any case, but should you be overdrawing to any extent, perhaps you would prefer to see the Manager."
He departed to the back, returning a minute later with the gratifying information that there was precisely nine thousand one hundred and forty-eight pounds four shillings and sixpence to my credit.
I handed him Northcote's cheque, and without further discussion he opened a drawer and began to count out a pile of bank-notes.
"I am giving it to you in five-hundreds, Mr. Northcote," he observed. "Will that be convenient?"
"Quite," I said affably. It struck me as a most happy adjective to apply to five-hundred-pound banknotes.
As soon as I was outside again I took a deep breath. The sensation that one has the best part of ten thousand pounds in one's pocket is the most richly satisfying emotion I have ever experienced. A few days ago I had trod this very pavement with nothing but a fiver between me and bankruptcy, and now here I was a veritable, if somewhat precariously situated, Crœsus. I decided to celebrate my promotion by lunching at the Criterion.
Over an excellent grouse, followed by mushrooms on toast, and illuminated by a bottle of Chablis, I leisurely reviewed the situation. So far, about thirteen hours had elapsed since I had parted from Northcote at the Milan, and if they had contained one or two disconcerting experiences, I decided that I might certainly consider myself lucky to have emerged as successfully as I had. I was still alive; I had ten thousand pounds in my pocket; and so far I had apparently played my part without arousing the faintest suspicion.
There was a reverse side to this attractive picture, of course. In the first place, I now had ample evidence that Northcote's dread of assassination was neither a joke nor a delusion. My own animated interview with Mercia, and the present condition of the luckless Milford, made it very plain that during the next three weeks any Insurance Company which knew the facts of the case would politely but firmly decline to accept my life at less than a hundred per cent. Of Mercia herself I was no longer afraid, but the mysterious Guarez, and possibly other gentlemen with equally suggestive names, were apparently still hanging around, waiting to carry on the good work which she had so unsuccessfully attempted to inaugurate.
Then there was this visit to Maurice. Somehow or other, I felt very uneasy about my hospitable cousin. Even if Northcote had not warned me against him, his personality would have been quite enough to put me on my guard. All the time I had been with him I had had a curious feeling that underneath his easy manner there lurked a bitter and dangerous hostility. Why he should dislike me, or rather Northcote, I had no idea, and I was equally ignorant as to whether there was any possibility of his being connected with my other unknown friends.
Under the circumstances, it seemed like asking for trouble to have accepted his invitation. I haven't got that sort of nature, however, that can sit down patiently under a mystery—especially when my life is at stake—and I was determined to get to the bottom of things as rapidly and effectually as I could. A week at Maurice's country retreat appeared to offer considerable possibilities in this line, and I was cheerfully prepared to accept any extra risk which might be involved in the process.
If I had only had some pal in whom I could place absolute trust, I think I should have felt perfectly contented. It was more the loneliness of my situation than the prospect of being murdered at a moment's notice that disturbed my natural equanimity.
I was just pondering over this problem when suddenly, like a flash of light, a brilliant idea leaped into my mind. I brought my hand down on the arm of my chair with a bang that made a respectable old gentleman at the next table nearly jump out of his skin.
Billy Logan!
Of course! What a double-blanked idiot I had been. If he had not fixed up his business with Seatons, Billy was exactly the man for my purpose. True as steel, tough as whipcord, and game for any conceivable mischief that the world could offer, he would be a fitting partner for the mad business to which I had pledged myself.
I hastily ran through my pockets for the address which he had given me. A horrible doubt seized me that I might perhaps have left it in my blue suit, but just as I was giving up hope, I found it securely tucked away in the flap of my pocket-book:
W. G. LOGAN,34 VAUXHALL ROAD, S. W.
I looked at it affectionately. With Billy to back me up, I felt equal to tackling half a dozen Maurices, with a Guarez or two chucked in to keep them company.
It was true that by confiding in Billy I should, in word at least, be breaking my promise to Northcote, but this didn't weigh very heavily on my mind. All that eminent financier was really concerned about was my keeping up appearances before the world in general and his would-be assassins in particular. This I fully intended to do and if he didn't like my bringing in Billy to assist me, he would most decidedly have to lump it.
I made up my mind that I would drive down to Vauxhall Road directly my meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel was over. Meantime, I would wire to Billy telling him to be there to meet me.
Thoroughly cheered up by this happy inspiration, I paid my bill and told the waiter to order me a taxi. I was just leaving the restaurant when it suddenly occurred to me that I ought to telephone to Ritchie and find out how the unfortunate Milford was getting on.
There was a box in the hall, so I entered it and hunted up the doctor's number.
"Is that you, Ritchie?" I asked, in response to a curt "Hullo!"
"Yes," came the answer. "Who's speaking?"
"I'm Northcote," I said. "I wanted to know how Milford is."
"Oh, I'm glad you rang up. I'm happy to say he's much better. We've managed to get rid of the poison."
"Is he out of danger?" I asked.
"Practically, I think. It's rather difficult to say for certain, because we don't know what the poison was until we've analysed it. However, he's sleeping now, and his pulse is regular if a bit weak. The only bad symptom is a curious sort of mental torpor he seems to be suffering from. It's probably the result of weakness, but we shall have to watch him carefully. I've told the nurse to ring up and let me know how he is when he wakes."
"Well, that seems fairly satisfying, on the whole," I said. "I've sent in a new man from Seagrave's to look after things, so Milford will be able to get away for a bit as soon as he's better."
"The best thing he could do," returned the doctor. "A couple of days at Brighton will pick him up better than any medicine. I'll let you know about the poison as soon as I've got the analyst's report."
"Yes, do," I said; and then, thinking that the conversation was taking a rather delicate turn, I added: "I must go now. I've got a meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel at three o'clock. See you to-morrow morning."
"Right you are. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," I echoed, and hung up the receiver.
The knowledge that Milford was out of danger was a considerable relief. I liked the man, and shared Northcote's opinion as to his trustworthiness; while, apart from that, if he had died I should certainly have been placed in a devilish awkward situation. A police inquiry into the private doings of Mr. Stuart Northcote'sménagewas a form of excitement which I felt that I could very well dispense with.
Getting into my taxi, I started off down Coventry Street, stopping at the Post Office in Leicester Square to send off my wire to Billy.
I arrived at the Cannon Street Hotel just as a quarter past three was striking. I was a little late on purpose, as befitted the dignity of a King of Finance. A waiter who was standing in the hall evidently recognised me as Northcote, for he bowed profusely, and without comment conducted me upstairs to a large room where a number of prosperous-looking gentlemen in frock-coats were sitting round a long table.
They one and all greeted me with a respectful courtesy that still further heightened my opinion of Northcote's abilities.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I said, seating myself in a vacant chair at the head of the table.
There was a chorus of "Good afternoon, Mr. Northcote," and then a solemn-looking old buffer at my right hand took up a printed paper and began ingratiatingly to explain to me how far the proceedings had gone.
I need hardly say that my ignorance of business is about as profound as it could possibly be. Sitting there with all these eminent exponents of the art regarding me with evident respect and apprehension appealed so forcibly to my sense of humour that it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into a shout of laughter. However, with a great effort, I managed to retain a befitting gravity, and listened with a sombre frown to my neighbour's exposition. Finally, I nodded my head as though satisfied, and the business of the meeting again proceeded on its normal course.
What that "normal course" precisely was I have neither the ability nor desire to describe. A great deal of it was necessarily double Dutch to me, but I played my part with an impressive air of understanding that seemed to go down most successfully with my colleagues. Of course I spoke as little as possible, and then only when I was appealed to on some point of dispute. On such occasions I gave my decision with curt firmness, and I found that it was almost invariably accepted without further comment. I began to think the profession of a Financial Magnate was one in which I was peculiarly adapted to shine.
It must have been getting on for half-past five when the proceedings at length terminated. As we left the room, a bald-headed little man who had been exceedingly talkative all through came up to me and inquired whether I would do him the honour of joining him in a glass of champagne. I replied graciously that I had no particular objection, and with evident pride he led the way downstairs to the saloon bar of the hotel.
"Your good health, Mr. Northcote," he said looking at me respectfully over his bubbling glass.
"That same to you," I replied, not to be outdone in politeness.
"A most satisfactory meeting," he went on, setting down his glass; "most satisfactory! Pensford gave a little trouble about those Debentures, but you soon settled him."
"One has to put one's foot down sometimes," I observed firmly.
"Yes, yes. Quite so, Mr. Northcote; quite so!" Then he paused. "I was wondering," he added, a little nervously, "whether you could possibly give me a tip of any kind about those new South American Goldfields."
I suppose I looked at him rather sharply, for he at once put up an apologetic hand.
"Please don't think me intrusive, Mr. Northcote," he added hurriedly. "Your name has been mentioned very freely in the City in connection with them; but if you would rather not say anything at present, of course I shall understand."
His words had naturally given me a bit of a start. I had no idea that, with the exception of my own discoveries in Bolivia, anyone had so much as smelt a fresh goldfield in South America. Could this, I wondered, be the mysterious "Company" alluded to in Sangatte's letter? I lit a cigarette to give myself time to think.
"At the present moment," I said gravely, "I am not in a position to impart any information on the matter." (God knows this was true enough!) "But," I added, seeing his evident disappointment, "a little later on I might perhaps be able to give you a useful hint or two."
His greedy and rather pasty face brightened at once. "I should be extremely grateful if you could, Mr. Northcote," he said, "extremely grateful."
"Oh, that's all right," I returned, finishing up the rest of the champagne. "Now I'm afraid I must be off. I've got an appointment at six."
He followed me to the door of the hotel, protesting his appreciation of my kindness, and respectfully waved a podgy hand as a convenient taxi bore me away down Holborn. It must be a good long way from the Cannon Street Hotel to Vauxhall Road, but my memories of the meeting were sufficiently entertaining to prevent my noticing it. Indeed, I was still smiling thoughtfully to myself over the bald-headed gentleman's anticipations when the driver pulled up with a jerk outside a row of depressed-looking three-storey houses, fronted in dirty stucco.
"'Ere you are, sir," he said, leaning back and opening the door. "Number 34."
I got out and told the man to wait. In case Billy was not at home, it would be just as well, I thought, to have a cab in readiness. For all I knew, I might have been followed; and if that were the case, from what I could see of my surroundings it was not at all the sort of neighbourhood for an unattended stroll.
Mounting a dilapidated flight of steps, I gave a pull at the bell, which tinkled vehemently down in the basement. It was answered after a long wait by a round-shouldered elderly woman, who put her head round the doorway and peered at me suspiciously.
"Is Mr. Logan in?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"When will he be back?" I asked.
She shook her head again. "I dunno," she observed.
I repressed a strong inclination to swear. "I am a friend of his," I explained patiently. "I sent him a telegram this afternoon to say I was coming. Didn't he get it?"
"No," she replied; "'e didn't get no telergram."
"But it must have come," I objected. "I sent it off."
"Oh, it come all right," she said. "The telergram come all right, sir. I put it in 'is lookin'-glass. Only 'e ain't bin back not since yesterday."
"That's a nuisance," I observed. "Can I come in and write him a letter?"
She blinked doubtfully. "I dunno as 'ow 'e'd like it."
"Oh, he'd like it right enough," I assured her. "I don't want to go into his room; I'll scribble it in the hall if you'll let me have a sheet of paper and an envelope."
Something in my sporting offer seemed to reassure the old girl, for she cautiously pulled back the door just wide enough for me to come in.
"I shan't be long," I called out to the cabman, and then, crossing the threshold, entered the house.
The landlady opened the door on the left-hand side of the passage.
"I s'pose it's all right," she said grudgingly. "This 'ere's Mr. Logan's room."
I followed her into Billy's sanctum, which proved to be the ordinary cheaply-furnished front parlour of a London lodging-house.
"I'll get yer a bit o' paiper," she added, moving ponderously across it to a small desk against the wall. "'E gen'rally keeps some in 'is blottin'-book."
I seated myself at the small table in the centre, which was covered with a hideous rep cloth, and patiently awaited her investigations. It pleased me to think that I could soon transfer Billy to more congenial surroundings.
After fumbling about for a minute she produced the required articles and laid them on the table in front of me.
"Yer want some ink?" she asked.
"No, thanks," I said. "I've got a pencil. That will do quite well."
I turned back the cloth, and began to write, while the good lady, breathing heavily, stood and watched me.
"DEAR BILLY,"—I began,—"I'm writing this in your room, as your landlady will no doubt tell you when you come home. I wired you this afternoon, saying I was going to look you up; but thanks to your disgraceful habit of staying out all night, the wire is sitting up, unopened, in your looking-glass.
"If you haven't fixed your business with Seatons, chuck it at once. I've got something for you much more in your line. I can't explain now, but there's plenty of money in it, and I want you bad, Billy, very bad.
"Come along and see me directly you get this. I'm staying at 46A Park Lane. It's in the telephone book under the name of Stuart Northcote, so if you like you can ring me up first. If you do, ask for Mr. Northcote,not for me, and the same thing if you come to the house. Don't make any mistake about this. In case I'm out, the servants will have instructions to ask you to wait, but you're not to mention my name, under any circumstances. Just ask for Mr. Northcote.
"I suppose this sounds mysterious, but I'll explain as soon as I see you.
"Don't fail me, Billy. It's the real goods all round."
I signed this "Jack Burton," and then folded it up and put it in the envelope, which I carefully fastened. I was not in the least anxious for Billy's landlady to read it, so, in order to give the gum a chance to dry, I felt in my pocket and produced a handful of money, from which I slowly counted out five shillings. She watched me with absorbed interest.
"May I offer you this," I said, "for putting you to so much trouble?"
"It's a pleasure, sir," she murmured, eagerly accepting the coins. "Allus glad to oblige a gen'l'man."
"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind giving this to Mr. Logan as soon as he comes in," I added, putting the letter in the glass alongside the telegram.
"I'll be sure to call 'is notice to it, sir. You can count on that, sir. I'm only sorry as 'e was out, sir."
She opened the door for me with almost painful subservience and stood on the steps blinking and bowing while I walked down and got into the cab.
"Where to, sir?" inquired the driver.
I reflected rapidly. Knowing that Milford was better, I had no particular desire to go back to Park Lane, even if the new butler had arrived. The thought of a solitary dinner in that big dining-room distinctly failed to appeal to me.
"Oh, drive me to the Café Royal," I said.
The cooking at that delightful establishment is good enough by itself to induce a certain satisfaction with the world. Backed as it was, in the present case, by my feelings of joy in the prospect of Billy's company, it lifted me into a state of serene optimism such as I had not known since my first fortnight in England.
I dined deliberately, choosing my wines after consultation with the head waiter, and also accepting the latter's excellent advice in the matter of a cigar. Then for the best part of an hour I sat and smoked, gently contemplating my fellow-diners through the haze, and finally deciding that not even the lady with the emeralds, who was undoubtedly the prettiest woman in the room, could hold a candle to Mercia Solano.
Having arrived at this conclusion, I paid my bill and strolled out to walk back to Park Lane. I had not forgotten the possible dangers of solitary pedestrian exercise, but the evening was fine, I had my trusty sword-stick with me, and I felt that I would be damned if M. Guarez or any other infernal Dago should compel me to spend the remainder of my life in cabs.
Nevertheless, despite this defiant mood, I took particular care to keep my eyes open. The old rhyme, "Thrice blest is he who hath his quarrel just, but ten times he who gets his blow in fust," has always struck me as a peculiarly sound piece of philosophy, and I scanned each harmless passer-by who approached with a wary eye for any symptom of trouble.
Unless anyone took a pot-shot at me from the Park railings, I felt that I was fairly safe, and my sense of security was increased by seeing a comfortable-looking Bobby standing right under the big electric light just opposite my home.
He saluted me as I came up.
"Good evening, Constable," I said.
"Good evenin', sir," he returned. "No more trouble with any of them beggars, I hope?"
It was just on the tip of my tongue to ask, "What beggars?" when I suddenly recollected myself.
"No, thanks," I said, wondering what on earth he meant.
"Since you complained to me, sir, I've been keeping a good look-out, and I reckon they've spotted it and cleared off."
In a flash I realised that Northcote must have taken these ingenious means of rendering any vigil on the part of M. Guarez and his friends a somewhat trying affair.
"I'm much obliged to you," I said. "I don't want to complain officially, but you might keep your eyes open a bit longer. It's a nuisance to have people hanging round the house."
As I spoke, I handed him half a sovereign, which he accepted without a quiver.
"Thank you very much, sir," he said. "I'll see you're not bothered again, sir. Don't you worry about that."
Bidding him good-night, I mounted the steps of my house, and was just getting out my latch-key when a telegraph-boy suddenly rode up on a bicycle and jumped off in the gutter outside.
He came up the steps, pulling out a wire from his bag.
"Is that for me?" I asked. "Mr. Stuart Northcote?"
"Yes, sir."
I took it from him, and, tearing open the envelope, held up the message to the light of the street lamp. It consisted of seven words:
"Get rid of your new butler immediately."
I stared at it for a moment, and then laughed.
"Thanks," I said; "there's no answer."
I rather like surprises; but, as my old friend Jack Costello used to say, "You can have too dern much of a good thing."
With the telegram in my hand I went inside the house, shutting the door behind me. The light was full on in the hall, and sitting on the edge of the table I again read through the curt message:
"Get rid of your new butler immediately."
It had been sent off from Charing Cross at 9.58, and the sender, whoever he might be, was evidently a person of direct and frugal mind. The whole wire came to exactly twelve words, while for crispness of style its phrasing certainly left little to be desired.
I stared at it with mingled feelings of doubt, annoyance, and amusement. If the warning was genuine, and my new butler was really lurking behind the coal-scuttle with a dagger in his coat-tail pocket, who the dickens had taken the trouble to put me on my guard? It must have been someone acquainted with my movements that morning; but, so far as I knew, Maurice was the only person who answered that description. I couldn't exactly see Maurice wading in with a kindly caution; and in any case, if he had wanted to give me the tip, why couldn't he have done so when he had been with me?
On the whole, I was more inclined to think that the wire was an attempt at bluff. It might be that my prompt engagement of another trustworthy servant in place of Milford had interfered with my friends' plans, and that they were hoping to frighten me into clearing him out.
Anyhow, there was obviously only one course to pursue, and that was to interview the gentleman myself without delay, and see what I thought of him. So, crossing to the fireplace, I rang the bell, and took up a dignified but alert attitude on the hearth-rug.
As far as promptness was concerned, Francis left nothing to be desired. Thirty seconds could hardly have elapsed before he had entered the hall, and was standing before me with a deferential bow of greeting.
I looked at him keenly. He was a tall, slim fellow of about thirty-five, with thick black hair and a rather sallow face.
"Well, I see you've arrived all right, Francis," I observed.
He again inclined his head.
"Yes, sir. I came round with Mr. Seagrave about three o'clock. He gave the cook your card, sir."
"Have you seen Milford?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. I had a short conversation with him."
"How is he?"
"He seems a little better, sir. He was anxious to go through the work with me, but I thought it best not to allow him to talk too much. I think I can manage quite satisfactorily, with what the cook has told me."
I nodded. "Quite right," I said. "There is really nothing to discuss. I only want you to look after me and carry out the ordinary duties of a butler. I'll tell you anything you want to know, if you come and ask."
He bowed a third time. "Yes, sir—thank you, sir."
"Well, I'm going to bed now," I said. "I shan't want anything else, except some hot water. You can call me at the usual time—eight o'clock."
I handed him my hat and stick, and, taking some letters from the table, sauntered slowly up the big stair-case, which led to the landing above. At the first bend I purposely dropped a letter, and then, as though suddenly discovering my loss, turned to pick it up. The strategy, though ingenious, seemed to be a trifle uncalled-for. Francis was at the other end of the hall, with his back towards me, apparently placing my stick in the hat-stand.
With memories of the previous evening in my mind, the first thing I did on reaching my sitting-room was to walk across to the recess and pull back the curtain that covered it. Of course I knew it would be empty, but at the back of my mind I somehow or other had a ridiculous hope that I should find Mercia standing there, pistol in hand, and that delicious half-sorrowful, half-scornful expression on her face. I believe I would willingly have risked ducking another bullet if by so doing I could have ensured her presence.
But the recess was void—quite undoubtedly and stupidly void; and with a feeling of disappointment I sat down in a chair and began to open Northcote's correspondence. It contained nothing of any particular importance to me, consisting for the most part of bills and circulars, with one or two business letters that I contented myself with just glancing through. I had had enough of business for one day.
As I was looking at the last of them, I heard Francis enter my bedroom. After moving about for several minutes, apparently putting things straight for the night, he tapped gently at the sitting-room door and then opened it.
"Your room is quite ready now, sir," he observed.
"Thank you, Francis," I said. "Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
He withdrew noiselessly and went out through the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
I waited until he had had time to reach the basement, and then, getting up from my chair, I began to take one or two simple steps towards securing my position. Although in my heart I believed the wire to be a false alarm, it seemed to me that there would be no harm in adopting a few obvious precautions.
So, after lighting a pipe, I proceeded to indulge in a thorough search both of the bedroom and the sitting-room. Having satisfied myself that there were no strangers or bombs lurking about, I locked both doors and carefully inspected the fastenings of the windows. These were quite secure; indeed, so far as I could see, there was no way, short of gunpowder or a false key, by which anyone could enter either room without my assistance. To make matters doubly safe, however, I collected all the fire-irons from the two grates (reserving only a poker for personal use in case of necessity) and deposited them in two heaps—one in front of each door. I am a light sleeper, and I reckoned that anyone making a forcible entrance from outside would do so to a musical accompaniment that would at once disturb my slumbers. Then, with a mind relieved, I leisurely undressed myself and got into bed.
There was an electric lamp on the table beside me, but by way of a reserve light I stuffed a box of matches beneath my pillow. My trusty poker I placed down the side of the bed under the top blanket, ready to my hand should I be unseasonably disturbed.
One last look round satisfied me that my preparations were distinctly efficient. As I flicked off the light and lay back on my pillow, I felt a kind of half-hope that there might really be something genuine in the warning I had received. It seemed a pity to have taken so much trouble for nothing.
Going to sleep is always a more or less instantaneous business with me, and, as far as I know, this night was no exception to the rule. At all events, I have no recollection of anything between the time I was fingering the handle of my poker in a kind of dreamy satisfaction and the moment when I started up suddenly in bed with the faint chink of fire-irons still sounding in my ears.
I woke with all my faculties keenly on the alert. Everything round me was in utter darkness, and my hand went out instinctively and closed upon the electric switch. I must have stayed like that for several seconds. My heart was beating rapidly, but I don't think I felt the least afraid.
Then I heard the door close very gently, and someone take a step forward into the room. Without making a sound, I reached under the clothes with my disengaged hand and stealthily withdrew my trusty poker. Having secured this, I wriggled over into such a position that I should be facing the intruder, and then, without further hesitation, I pressed down the switch.
My intention was either to hurl the poker directly the light went up, or else to take a flying jump from the bed and land my visitor a good swipe over the head before he could defend himself. It all depended upon whether he was carrying a revolver.
Unfortunately, neither of these excellent designs materialised. The switch went down with a sharp snap, but instead of a blaze of light flooding the room, everything remained in darkness.
I can tell you I didn't stop to wonder what had happened. The danger of my position struck me with a bang, and in less time than it takes to say I had hurled myself sideways off the bed in the opposite direction from the door.
I was only just in time.
Almost before I reached the floor I heard the crash of an overturning table, and then something came down on the pillow with a wicked thud that made the whole bedstead tremble.
I fell heavily full-length on the carpet, but it is extraordinary what activity danger will occasionally lend one. No cat could have recovered her feet more nimbly or leaped back into the darkness with such masterly swiftness. The wall of the room was only about a yard away, and I fetched up against it with a jar that nearly knocked the breath out of my body. There I stood, panting and shaken, but with the poker still gripped affectionately in my right hand.
It was not exactly an inspiriting situation—especially to a man in pyjamas and bare feet. The only bright spot about it was that my visitor, having bungled his first shot, was no better off than I was. Indeed, if, as I imagined, he was none other than my new retainer, I held the trump card of being a good way the heftier of the two. I couldn't picture myself being slaughtered by Francis, even in the dark.
Crouching down against the wall, I peered out into the blackness in front of me and listened intently. Since his first magnificent slap at the bed, my visitor had apparently rested on his laurels. I could hear him breathing quickly, but beyond that there was not the faintest sound. Not knowing what had happened to me, he was evidently waiting for inspiration.
I did some rapid but necessary thinking. If I called out for help, it was just possible that I should be sealing my fate; for should he be armed with a revolver as well as his other weapon, he would doubtless blaze away in the direction of my voice. Apart from this, I felt a very strong desire to settle the matter without assistance from anyone.
My best plan seemed to be to get to close quarters, trusting to Providence and the poker that I should get my slam in first. With this object in view, I began to creep noiselessly along the wainscoting, keeping my back against the wall. At the third step I ran against a small picture, which swung sideways and fell from its nail with a nerve-shaking crash. In a second I had dropped to the floor, where I crouched breathlessly, waiting the expected shot.
None came, however: only a slight movement from the direction of the bed told me that my visitor was on the alert. I stayed as I was, straining my ears to catch the smallest sound; and then, very faint but just audible to my excellent sense of hearing, came the stealthy tread of an advancing footstep.
During the next moment my mind worked pretty quickly. It was either a case of waiting where I was, or else rushing forward and lashing out blindly into the dark. Which I should have done I can't say, for it was at that crucial instant that my hand happened to touch the corner of the picture which had just fallen from the wall.
Never until then had Art properly appealed to me. I clutched that blessed frame with the gratitude of a starving man who has suddenly stumbled upon food, and changing the poker over to my left hand, rose swiftly and joyously to my feet.
At the slight noise which I made, the footsteps stopped. I knew, however, that my visitor must be desperately near, and for a tense second we both stood in absolute silence, each of us holding his breath for fear of betraying himself to the other.