Bell followed Dr. Cross into the hospital with a sense of familiar pleasure. The cool, sweet smell of the place, the decorous silence, the order of it all appealed to him strongly. It was as the old war-horse who sniffs the battle from afar. And the battle with death was ever a joy to Bell.
"This is all contrary to regulations, of course," he suggested.
"Well, it is," Cross admitted. "But I am an enthusiast, and one doesn't often get a chance of chatting with a brilliant, erratic star like yourself. Besides, our man is not in the hospital proper. He is in a kind of annexe by my own quarters, and he scoffs the suggestion of being nursed."
Bell nodded, understanding perfectly. He came at length to a brilliantly-lighted room, where a dark man with an exceedingly high forehead and wonderfully piercing eyes was sitting up in bed. The dark eyes lighted with pleasure as they fell upon Bell's queer, shambling figure and white hair.
"The labour we delight in physics pain," he greeted with a laugh and a groan. "It's worth a badly twisted shoulder to have the pleasure of seeing Hatherly Bell again. My dear fellow, how are you?"
The voice was low and pleasant, there was no trace of insanity about the speaker. Bell shook the proffered hand. For some little time the conversation proceeded smoothly enough. The stranger was a good talker; his remarks were keen and to the point.
"I hope you will be comfortable here," Bell suggested.
A faint subtle change came over the other's face.
"All but one thing," he whispered. "Don't make a fuss about it, because Cross is very kind. But I can't stand the electric light. It reminds me of the great tragedy of my life. But for the electric light I should be a free man with a good practice to-day."
"So you are harping on that string again," Bell said, coldly. "I fancied that I had argued you out of that. You know perfectly well that it is all imagination, Heritage."
Heritage passed his left hand across his eyes in a confused kind of way.
"When you look at one like that I fancy so," he said. "When I was under your hands I was forgetting all about it. And now it has all come back again. Did I tell you all about it, Cross?"
Bell gave Cross a significant glance, and the latter shook his head.
"Well, it was this way," Heritage began, eagerly. His eyes were gleaming now, his whole aspect was changed. "I was poor and struggling, but I had a grand future before me. There was a patient of mine, a rich man, who had a deadly throat trouble. And he was going to leave me all his money if I cured him. He told me he had made a will to that effect, and he had done so. And I was in direst straits for some ready cash. When I came to operate I used an electric light, a powerful light—you know what I mean. The operation failed and my patient died. The operation failed because the electric light went out at a critical time.
"People said it was a great misfortune for me, because I was on the threshold of a new discovery which would have made my name. Nothing of the kind. I deliberately cut the positive wire of the electric light so that I should fail, and so that my patient might die and I might get all his money at once. And he did die, and nobody suspected me—nobody could possibly have found me out. Then I went mad and they put me under Bell's care. I should have got well, only he gave up his practice and drifted into the world again. My good, kind friend Reginald Henson heard of my case; he interested some people in me and placed me where I am at present."
"So Reginald Henson knows all about it?" Bell asked, drily.
"My dear fellow, he is the best friend I have in the world. He was most interested in my case. I have gone over it with him a hundred times. I showed him exactly how it was done. And now you know why I loathe the electric light. When it shines in my eyes it maddens me; it brings back to me the recollection of that dreadful time, it causes me to—"
"Heritage," Bell said, sternly, "close your eyes at once, and be silent."
The patient obeyed instantly. He had not forgotten the old habit of obedience. When he opened his eyes again at length he looked round him in a foolish, shamefaced manner.
"I—I am afraid I have been rambling," he muttered. "Pray don't notice me, Bell; if you are as good a fellow as you used to be, come and see me again. I'm tired now."
Bell gave the desired assurance, and he and Cross left the room together.
"Any sort of truth in what he has been saying?" asked the latter.
"Very little," Bell replied. "Heritage is an exceedingly clever fellow who has not yet recovered from a bad breakdown some years ago. I had nearly cured him at one time, but he seems to have lapsed into bad ways again. Some day, when I have time, I shall take up his case once more."
"Did he operate, or try some new throat cure?"
"Exactly. He was on the verge of discovering some way of operating for throat cases with complete success. You can imagine how excited he was over his discovery. Unfortunately the patient he experimented on died under the operation, not because the light went out or any nonsense of that kind, but from failure of the heart's action owing to excitement. Heritage had no sleep for a fortnight, and he broke down altogether. For months he was really mad, and when his senses came back to him he had that hallucination. Some day it will go, and some day Heritage will take up the dropped threads of his discovery and the world will be all the better for it. And now, will you do me a favour?"
"I will do anything that lies in my power."
"Then be good enough to let me have a peep at the man who was found half-murdered in my friend David Steel's conservatory. I'm interested in that case."
Cross hesitated for a moment.
"All right," he said. "There can't be any harm in that. Come this way."
Bell strolled along with the air of a man who is moved by no more than ordinary curiosity. But from the first he had made up his mind not to lose this opportunity. He had not the remotest idea what he expected to find, but he had a pretty good idea that he was on the verge of an important discovery. He came at length to the bedside of the mysterious stranger. The man was lying on his back in a state of coma, his breath came heavily between his parted lips.
Bell bent low partly to examine the patient, partly to hide his face from Cross. If Bell had made any discovery he kept the fact rigidly to himself.
"Looks very young," he muttered. "But then he is one of those men who never grow any hair on their faces. Young as he looks, I should judge him to be at least forty-five, and, if I am not mistaken, he is a man who has heard the chimes at midnight or later. I'm quite satisfied."
"It's more than I am," Cross said, when at length he and his visitor were standing outside together. "Look here, Bell, you're a great friend of Steel's, whom I believe to be a very good fellow. I don't want to get him into any harm, but a day or two ago I found this letter in a pocket-book in a belt worn by our queer patient. Steel says the fellow is a perfect stranger to him, and I believe that statement. But what about this letter? I ought to have sent it to the police, but I didn't. Read it."
And Cross proceeded to take a letter from his pocket. It was on thick paper; the stamped address given was "15, Downend Terrace." There was no heading, merely the words "Certainly, with pleasure, I shall be home; in fact, I am home every night till 12.30, and you may call any time up till then. If you knock quietly on the door I shall hear you.—D.S."
"What do you make of it?" Cross asked.
"It looks as if your patient had called at Steel's house by appointment," Bell admitted. "Here is the invitation undoubtedly in Steel's handwriting. Subsequently the poor fellow is found in Steel's house nearly murdered, and yet Steel declares solemnly that the man is a perfect stranger to him. It is a bad business, but I assure you that Steel is the soul of honour. Cross, would you be so good as to let me have that letter for two or three days?"
"Very well," Cross said, after a little hesitation. "Good-night."
Bell went on his way homeward with plenty of food for thought.
He stopped just for a moment to light a cigar.
"Getting towards the light," he muttered; "getting along. The light is not going to fail after all. I wonder what Reginald Henson would say if he only knew that I had been to the hospital and recognised our mutual friend Van Sneck there!"
The expression on Henson's usually benign countenance would have startled such of his friends and admirers as regarded him as a shining light and great example. The smug satisfaction, the unctuous sweetness of the expansive blue eyes were gone; a murderous gleam shone there instead. His lips were set and rigid, the strong hand seemed to be strangling the bedclothes. It wanted no effort of imagination to picture Henson as the murderer stooping over his prey. The man had discarded his mask altogether.
"Oh," he said, between his teeth, "you are a clever fellow. You would have made an excellent detective. And so you have found out where Van Sneck is?"
"I have already told you so," Littimer said, doggedly.
"How many days have you been hanging about Brighton?"
"Two or three. I came when I heard that Chris was ill. I didn't dare to come near the house, at least not too near, for fear of being seen. But I pumped the doctor. Then he told me that Chris was dead, and I risked it all to see the last of her."
"Yes, yes," Henson said, testily; "but what has this to do withVan Sneck?"
"I was looking for Van Sneck. I found that he had been here. I discovered that he had left his rooms and had not returned to them. Then it occurred to me to try the hospital. I pretended that I was in search of some missing relative, and they showed me three cases of bad accidents, the victims of which had not been identified. And the third was Van Sneck."
Littimer told his story with just the suggestion of triumph in his voice.Henson was watching him with the keenest possible interest.
"Do you know how Van Sneck got there?" he asked.
Littimer nodded. Evidently he had heard most of the story. Henson was silent for some little time. He was working out something in his mind. His smile was not a pleasant one; it was nothing like his bland platform smile, for instance.
"Give me that black book," he said. "Do you know how to work the telephone?"
"I daresay I could learn. It doesn't look hard."
"Well, that is an extension telephone on the table yonder worked in connection with the main instrument in the library. I like to have my own telephone, as it is of the greatest assistance to me. Turn that handle two or three times and put that receiver to your ear. When the Exchange answers tell them to put you on to O,017 Gerrard."
Littimer obeyed mechanically, but though he rang and rang again no answer came. With a snarling curse Henson dragged himself out of bed and crossed the room, with limbs that shook under him.
He twirled the handle round passionately.
"You always were a fool," he growled, "and you always will be."
Still no reply came. Henson whirled angrily, but he could elicit no response. He kicked the instrument over and danced round it impotently. Littimer had never seen him in such a raging fury before. The language of the man was an outrage, filthy, revolting, profane. No yelling, drunken Hooligan could have been more fluent, more luridly diffuse.
"Go on," Littimer said, bitterly. "I like to hear you. I like to hear the smug, plausible Pharisee, the friend of the good and pious, going on like this. I'd give fifty years of my life to have just a handful of your future constituents here for a moment."
Henson paused suddenly and requested that Littimer should help him into bed.
"I can afford to speak freely before you," he said. "Say a word against me and I'll crush you. Put out a hand to injure me and I'll wipe you off the face of the earth. It's absolutely imperative that I should send an important telephone message to London at once, and here the machine has broken down and no chance of its being repaired for a day or two. Curse the telephone."
He lay back on his bed utterly exhausted by his fit of passion. One of the white bandages about his throat had started, and a little thin stream of blood trickled down his chest. Littimer waited for the next move. He watched the crimson fluid trickle over Henson's sleeping-jacket. He could have watched the big scoundrel bleeding to death with the greatest possible pleasure.
"What was Van Sneck doing here?"
The voice came clear and sharp from the bed. Littimer responded to it as a cowed hound does to a sudden yet not quite unexpected lash from a huntsman's whip. His manliness was of small account where Henson was concerned. For years he had come to heel like this. Yet the question startled him and took him entirely by surprise.
"He was looking for the lost Rembrandt."
But Littimer's surprise was as nothing to Henson's amazement. He lay flat on his back so that his face could not be seen. From the expression of it he had obtained a totally unexpected reply to his question. He was so amazed that he had no words for the moment. But his quick intelligence and amazing cunning grasped the possibilities of the situation. Littimer was in possession of information to which he was a stranger. Except in a vague way he had not the remotest idea what Littimer was talking about. But the younger man must not know that.
"So Van Sneck told you so?" he asked. "What a fool he must have been! And why should he come seeking for the Rembrandt in Brighton?"
"Because he knows it was there, I suppose."
"It isn't here, because it doesn't exist. The thing was destroyed by accident by the police when they raided Van Sneck's lodgings years ago."
"Van Sneck told me that he had actually seen the picture in Brighton."
Henson chuckled. The noise was intended to convey amused contempt, and it had that effect, so far as Littimer was concerned. It was well for Henson that the latter could not see the strained anxiety of his face. The man was alert and quivering with excitement in every limb. Still he chuckled again as if the whole thing merely amused him.
"'The Crimson Blind' is Van Sneck's weak spot," he said. "It is King Charles's head to him. By good or bad luck—it is in your hands to say which—you know all about the way in which it became necessary to get Hatherly Bell on our side. All the same, the Rembrandt—theotherone—is destroyed."
"Van Sneck has seen the picture," Littimer said, doggedly.
"Oh, play the farce out to the end," Henson laughed, good-humouredly."Where did he see it?"
"He says he saw it at 218, Brunswick Square."
Henson's knees suddenly came up to his nose, then he lay quite flat again for a long time. His face had grown white once more, his lips utterly bloodless. Fear was written all over him. A more astute man than Littimer would have seen the beads standing out on his forehead. It was some little time before he dared trust himself to speak again.
"I know the house you mean," he said. "It is next door to the temporary residence of my esteemed friend, Gilead Gates. At the present moment the place is void—"
"And has been ever since your bogus 'Home' broke up. Years ago, before you used your power to rob and oppress us as you do now, you had a Home there. You collected subscriptions right and left in the name of the Reverend Felix Crosbie, and you put the money into your pocket. A certain weekly journal exposed you, and you had to leave suddenly or you would have found yourself in the hands of the police. You skipped so suddenly that you had no time even to think of your personal effects, which you understood were sold to defray expenses. But they were not sold, as nobody cared to throw good money after bad. Van Sneck got in with the agent under pretence of viewing the house, and he saw the picture there."
"Why didn't he take it with him?" Henson asked, with amused scorn. He was master of himself again and had his nerves well under control.
"Well, that was hardly like Van Sneck. Our friend is nothing if not diplomatic. But when he did manage to get into the house again the picture was gone."
"Excellent!" Henson cried. "How dramatic! There is only one thing required to make the story complete. The picture was taken away by Hatherly Bell. If you don't bring that in as thedénouementI shall be utterly disappointed."
"You needn't be," Littimer said, coolly. "That is exactly what did happen."
Henson chuckled again, quite a parody of a chuckle this time. He could detect the quiet suggestion of triumph in Littimer's voice.
"Did Van Sneck tell you all this?" he asked.
"Not the latter part of it," Littimer replied, "seeing that he was in the hospital when it happened. But I know it is true because I saw Bell and David Steel, the novelist, come away from the house, and Bell had the picture under his arm. And that's why Van Sneck's agent couldn't find it the second time he went. Check to you, my friend, at any rate. Bell will go to my father with Rembrandt number two, and compare it with number one. And then the fat will be in the fire."
Henson yawned affectedly. All the same he was terribly disturbed and shaken. All he wanted now was to be alone and to think. So far as he could tell nobody besides Littimer knew anything of the matter. And no starved, cowed, broken-hearted puppy was ever closer under the heel of his master than Littimer. He still held all the cards; he still controlled the fortunes of two ill-starred houses.
"You can leave me now," he said. "I'm tired. I have had a trying day, and I need sleep; and the sooner you are out of the house the better. For your own sake and for the sake of those about you, you need not say one word of this to Enid Henson."
Littimer promised meekly enough. With those eyes blazing upon him he would have promised anything. We shall see presently what a stupendous terror Henson had over the younger man, and in what way all the sweetness and savour of life was being crushed out of him.
He closed the door behind him, and immediately Henson sat up in bed. He reached for his handkerchief and wiped the big beads from his forehead.
"So the danger has come at last," he muttered. "I am face to face with it, and I knew I should be. Hatherly Bell is not the man to quietly lie down under a cloud like that. The man has brains, and patience, and indomitable courage. Now, does he suspect that I have any hand in the business? I must see him when my nerves are stronger and try and get at the truth. If he goes to Lord Littimer with that picture he shakes my power and my position perilously. What a fool I was not to get it away. But, then, I only escaped from the Brighton police in those days by the skin of my teeth. And they had followed me from Huddersfield like those cursed bloodhounds here. I wonder—"
He paused, as the brilliant outline of some cunning scheme occurred to him. A thin, cruel smile crept over his lips. Never had he been in a tight place yet without discovering a loophole of escape almost before he had seen the trap.
A fit of noiseless laughter shook him.
"Splendid," he whispered. "Worthy of Machiavelli himself! Provided always that I can get there first. If I could only see Bell's face afterwards, hear Littimer ordering him off the premises. The only question is, am I up to seeing the thing through?"
Reginald Hensen struggled out of bed and into his clothing as best he could. He was terribly weak and shaky, far more weak than he had imagined himself to be, but he was in danger now, and his indomitable will-power pulled him through. What a fool Littimer had been to tell him so much merely so that he might triumph over his powerful foe for a few minutes. But Henson was planning a little scheme by which he intended to repay the young man tenfold. He had no doubt as to the willingness of his tool.
He took a bottle of brandy from a drawer and helped himself to a liberal dose. Walker had expressly forbidden anything of the kind, but it was no time for nice medical obedience. The grateful stimulant had its immediate effect. Then Henson rang the bell, and after a time Williams appeared tardily.
"You are to go down to Barnes and ask him to send a cab here as soon as possible," Henson said. "I have to go to London by the first train in the morning."
Williams nodded, with his mouth wide open. He was astonished and not a little alarmed at the strength and vitality of this man. And only a few hours before Williams had learnt with deep satisfaction that Henson would be confined to his bed for some days.
Henson dressed at length and packed a small portmanteau. But he had to sit on his bed for some little time and sip a further dose of brandy before he could move farther. After all there was no hurry. A full hour was sure to elapse before the leisurely Barnes brought the cab to the lodge-gates.
Henson crept downstairs at length and trod his catlike way to the library. Once there he proceeded to make a minute inspection of the telephone. He turned the handle just the fragment of an inch and a queer smile came over his face. Then he crept as silently upstairs, opened the window of the bathroom quietly, and slipped on to the leads. There were a couple of insulators here, against the wire of one of which Henson tapped his knuckles gently. The wire gave back an answering twang. The other jangled limp and loose.
"One of the wires cut," Henson muttered. "I expected as much. Madame Enid is getting a deal too clever. I suppose this is some suggestion of her very astute friend David Steel. Well, I have given Mr. Steel one lesson in minding his own business, and if he interferes further I shall have to give him another. He will be in gaol before long charged with attempted murder and robbery with violence, and so exit Steel. After that the girl will be perhaps chary of seeking outside assistance. And this will be the third I have had to get rid of. Heavens! How feeble I feel, how weak I am. And yet I must go through this thing now."
He staggered into the house again and dropped into a chair. There was a loud buzzing in his ears, so that he could hardly hear the murmur of voices in the drawing-room below. This was annoying, because Henson liked to hear everything that other folks said. Then he dropped off into a kind of dreamy state, coming back presently to the consciousness that he had fainted.
Meanwhile Frank Littimer had joined Enid in the drawing-room. The house was perfectly quiet and still by this time; the dust-cloud hung on the air and caused the lamps to burn with a spitting blue flame. Enid's face looked deadly pale against her black dress.
"So you have been seeing Reginald," she said. "Why—why did you do it?"
"I didn't mean to," Frank muttered. "I never intended him to know that I had been in the house at all. But I was passing his room and he heard me. He seemed to know my footsteps. I believe if two mice ran by him twice in the darkness he could tell the difference between them."
"You had an interesting conversation. What did he want to use the telephone for?"
"I don't know. I tried to manipulate it for him, but the instrument was out of order."
"I know. I had a pretty shrewd idea what our cousin was going to do. You see, I was listening at the door. Not a very ladylike thing to do, but one must fight Henson with his own tools. When I heard him ask for the telephone directory I ran out and nipped one of the wires by the bathroom. Frank, it would have been far wiser if you hadn't come."
Littimer nodded gloomily. There was something like tears in his eyes.
"I know it," he said. "I hate the place and its dreadful associations. But I wanted to see Chris first. Did she say anything about me before—before—"
"My dear boy, she loved you always. She knew and understood, and was sorry. And she never, never forgot the last time that you were in the house."
Frank Littimer glanced across the room with a shudder. His eyes dwelt with fascination on the overturned table with its broken china and glass and wilted flowers in the corner.
"It is not the kind of thing to forget," he said, hoaresly. "I can see my father now—"
"Don't," Enid shuddered, "don't recall it. And your mother has never been the same since. I doubt if she will ever be the same again. From that day to this nothing has ever been touched in the house. And Henson comes here when he can and makes our lives hideous to us."
"I fancy I shook him up to-night," Littimer said, with subdued triumph."He seemed to shudder when I told him that I had found Van Sneck."
Enid started from her chair. Her eyes were shining with the sudden brilliancy of unveiled stars.
"You have found Van Sneck!" she whispered. "Where?"
"Why, in the Brighton Hospital. Do you mean to say that you don't know about it, that you don't know that the man found so mysteriously in Mr. David Steel's house and Van Sneck are one and the same person?"
Enid resumed her seat again. She was calm enough now.
"It had not occurred to me," she said. "Indeed, I don't know why it should have done. Sooner or later, of course, I should have suggested to Mr. Steel to try and identify the man, but—"
"My dear Enid, what on earth are you talking about?"
"Nonsense," Enid said, in some confusion. "Things you don't understand at present, and things you are not going to understand just yet. I read in the papers that the man was quite a stranger to Mr. Steel. But are you certain that itisVan Sneck?"
"Absolutely certain. I went to the hospital and identified him."
"Then there is no more to be said on that point. But you were foolish to tell Reginald."
"Not a bit of it. Why, Henson has known it all along. You needn't get excited. He is a deep fellow, and nobody knows better than he how to disguise his feelings. All the same, he was just mad to know what I had discovered, you could see it in his face. Reginald Henson—"
Littimer paused, open-mouthed, for Henson, dressed and wrapped ready for the journey, had come quietly into the drawing-room. The deadly pallor of his face, the white bandages about his throat, only served to render his appearance more emphatic and imposing. He stood there with the halo of dust about him, looking like the evil genius of the place.
"I fear I startled you," he said, with a sardonic smile. "And I fear that in the stillness of the place I have overheard a great part of your conversation. Frank, I must congratulate you on your discretion, so far. But seeing that you are young and impressionable, I am going to move temptation out of your way. Enid, I am going on a journey."
"I trust that it is a long one, and that it will detain you for a considerable period," Enid said, coldly.
"It is neither far, nor is it likely to keep me," Henson smiled. "Williams has just come in with the information that the cab awaits me at the gate. Now, then!"
The last words were flung at Littimer with contemptuous command. The hot blood flared into the young man's face. Enid's eyes flashed.
"If my cousin likes to stay here," she said, "why—"
"He is coming with me," Henson said, hoarsely. "Do you understand? With me! And if I like to drag him—oryou, my pretty lady—to the end of the world or the gates of perdition, you will have to come. Now, get along before I compel you."
Enid stood with fury in her eyes and clenched hands as Littimer slunk away out of the house, Henson following between his victim and Williams. He said no words till the lodge-gates were past and the growl of the dogs had died into the distance.
"We are going to Littimer Castle," said Henson.
"Not there," Littimer groaned—"not there, Henson! I couldn't—I couldn't go to that place!"
Henson pointed towards the cab.
"Littimer or perdition!" he said. "You don't want to go to the latter just yet? Jump in, then!"
If you had asked the first five people on the Littimer Estate what they thought of the lord of the soil you would have had a different answer from every one. One woman would have said that a kinder and better man never lived; her neighbour would have declared Lord Littimer to be as hard as the nether millstone. Farmer George would rate him a jolly good fellow, and tell how he would sit in the kitchen over a mug of ale; whilst Farmer John swore at his landlord as a hard-fisted, grasping miser devoid of the bowels of compassion.
At the end of an hour you would be utterly bewildered, not knowing what to believe, and prepared to set the whole village down as a lot of gossips who seemed to mind everything but its own business. And, perhaps, Lord Littimer might come riding through on his big black horse, small, lithe, brown as mahogany, and with an eye piercing as a diamond-drill. One day he looked almost boyishly young, there would be a smile on his tanned face. And then another day he would be bent in the saddle, huddled up, wizened, an old, old man, crushed with the weight of years and sorrow.
In sooth he was a man of moods and contradictions, changeable as an April sky, and none the less quick-tempered and hard because he knew that everybody was terribly afraid of him. And he had a tongue, too, a lashing, cutting tongue that burnt and blistered. Sometimes he would be quite meek and angry under the reproaches of the vicar, and yet the same day history records it that he got off his horse and administered a sound thrashing to the village poacher. Sometimes he got the best of the vicar, and sometimes that worthy man scored. They were good friends, these two, though the vicar never swerved in his fealty to Lady Littimer, whose cause he always championed. But nobody seemed to know anything about that dark scandal. They knew that there had been a dreadful scene at the castle seven years before, and that Lady Littimer and her son had left never to return. Lady Littimer was in a madhouse somewhere, they said, and the son was a wanderer on the face of the earth. And when Lord Littimer died every penny of the property, the castle included, would go to her ladyship's nephew, Mr. Reginald Henson.
In spite of the great cloud that hung over the family Lord Littimer did not seem to have changed. He was just a little more caustic than ever, his tongue a little sharper. The servants could have told a different story, a story of dark moods and days when the bitterness of the shadow of death lay on the face of their master. Few men could carry their grief better, and because Littimer carried his grief so well he suffered the more. We shall see what the sorrow was in time.
There are few more beautiful places in England than Littimer Castle. The house stood on a kind of natural plateau with many woods behind, a trout stream ran clean past the big flight of steps leading to the hall, below were terrace after terrace of hanging gardens, and to the left a sloping, ragged drop of 200ft into the sea. To the right lay a magnificently-timbered park, with a herd of real wild deer—perhaps the only herd of this kind in the country. When the sun shone on the grey walls they looked as if they had been painted by some cunning hand, so softly were the greys and reds and blues blended.
Inside the place was a veritable art gallery. There were hundreds of pictures and engravings there. All round the grand staircase ran a long, deep corridor, filled with pictures. There were alcoves here fitted up as sitting-rooms, and in most of them some gem or another was hung. When the full flood of electric light was turned on at night the effect was almost dazzling. There were few pictures in the gallery without a history.
Lord Littimer had many hobbies, but not one that interested him like this. There were hundreds of rare birds shot by him in different parts of the world; the corridors and floors were covered by skins, the spoil of his rifle; here and there a stuffed bear pranced startlingly; but the pictures and prints were the great amusement of his lordship's lonely life.
He passed along the corridor now towards the great oriel window at the end. A brilliant sunlight filled the place with shafts of golden and blue and purple as it came filtered through the stained glass. At a table in the window a girl sat working a typewriter. She might have passed for beautiful, only her hair was banded down in hideously Puritan fashion on each side of her delicate, oval face, her eyes were shielded by spectacles. But they were lovely, steady, courageous blue eyes, as Littimer did not fail to observe. Also he had not failed to note that his new secretary could do very well without the glasses.
The typewriter and secretary business was a new whim of Littimer's. He wanted an assistant to catalogue and classify his pictures and prints, and he had told the vicar so. He wanted a girl who wasn't a fool, a girl who could amuse him and wouldn't be afraid of him, and he thought he would have an American. To which the vicar responded that the whole thing was nonsense, but he had heard of a Boston girl in England who had a passion for that kind of thing and who was looking for a situation of the kind in a genuine old house for a year or so. The vicar added that he had not seen the young lady, but he could obtain her address. A reply came in due course, a reply that so pleased the impetuous Earl that he engaged the applicant on the spot. And now she had been just two hours in the house.
"Well," Littimer cried, "and how have you been getting on?"
Miss Christabel Lee looked up, smilingly.
"I am getting on very well indeed," she said. "You see, I have made a study of this kind of thing all my lifetime, and most of your pictures are like old friends to me. Do you know, I fancy that you and I are going to manage very well together?"
"Oh, do you? They say I am pretty formidable at times."
"I shan't mind that a bit. You see, my father was a man with a villainous temper. But a woman can always get the better of a bad-tempered man unless he happens to be one of the lower classes who uses his boots. If he is a gentleman you have him utterly at your mercy. Have you a sharp tongue?"
"I flatter myself I can be pretty blistering on occasions," Littimer said, grimly.
"How delightful! So can I. You and I will have some famous battles later on. Only I warn you that I never lose my temper, which gives me a tremendous advantage. I haven't been very well lately, so you must be nice to me for a week or two."
Littimer smiled and nodded. The grim lord of the castle was not accustomed to this kind of thing, and he was telling himself that he rather liked it.
"And now show me the Rembrandt," Miss Lee said, impatiently.
Littimer led the way to a distant alcove lighted from the side by a latticed window. There was only one picture in the excellent light there, and that was the famous Rembrandt engraving. Littimer's eyes lighted up quite lovingly as they rested upon it. The Florentine frame was hung so low that Miss Lee could bring her face on a level with it.
"This is the picture that was stolen from you?" she asked.
"Yes, that's the thing that there was all the fuss about. It made a great stir at the time. But I don't expect that it will happen again."
"Why not?" Miss Lee asked. "When an attempt of that sort is made it is usually followed by another, sometimes after the lapse of years. Anybody getting through that window could easily get the frame from its two nails and take out the paper."
"Do you think so?" Littimer asked, uneasily.
"I am certain of it. Take my advice and make it secure. The panels behind are hard wood—thick black oak. Lord Littimer, I am going to get four brass-headed stays and drive them through some of the open ornamental work into the panel so as to make the picture quite secure. It is an iron frame, I suppose."
"Wrought-iron, gilt," said Littimer. "Yes, one could easily drive four brass-headed stays through the open work and make the thing safe. I'll have it seen to."
But Miss Lee insisted that there was no time like the present. She had discovered that Littimer had an excellent carpenter's shop on the premises; indeed, she admitted to being no mean performer with the lathe herself. She flitted down the stairs light as thistledown.
"A charming girl!" Littimer said, cynically. "I wonder why she came to this dull hole? A quarrel with her young man, perhaps. If I were a young man myself I might—But women are all the same. I should be a happier man if I had never trusted one. If—"
The face darkened; a heavy scowl lined his brows as he paced up and down. Christabel came back presently with hammer and some brass-headed stays in her hand.
"Don't utterly destroy the frame," Littimer said, resignedly. "It is reputed to be Quentin Matsy's work, and I had it cut to its present fashion. I'll go to the end of the gallery till the execution's over."
"On the contrary," Miss Lee said, firmly, "you will stay where you are told."
A little to his own surprise Littimer remained. He saw the nails driven firmly in and finished off with a punch so that there might be no danger of hammering the exquisitely wrought frame. Miss Lee stood regarding her work with a suggestion of pride.
"There," she said, "I flatter myself a carpenter could have done no better."
"You don't know our typical carpenter," Littimer said. "Here is Tredwell with a telegram. For Miss Lee? I hope it isn't an intimation that some relative has died and left you a fortune. At least, if it is, you mustn't go until we've had one of those quarrels you promised me."
Christabel glanced at the telegram and slipped it into her pocket. There were just a few words in the telegram that would have been unintelligible to the ordinary understanding. The girl did not even comprehend, but Littimer's eyes were upon her, and the cipher had to keep for a time. Littimer walked away at an intimation that his steward desired to see him.
Instantly the girl's manner changed. She glanced at the Rembrandt with a shrewd smile that meant something beyond a mere act of prudence well done. Then she went down to the library and began an eager search for a certain book. She found it at length, the "David Copperfield" in the "Charles Dickens" edition of the great novelist's works. For the next hour or so she was flitting over the pages with the cipher telegram spread out before her. A little later and the few jumbled, meaningless words were coded out into a lengthy message. Christabel read them over a few times, then with the aid of a vesta she reduced the whole thing, telegram and all, to tinder, which she carefully crushed and flung out of the window.
She looked away down the terrace, she glanced at the dappled deer knee-deep in the bracken, she caught a glimpse of the smiling sea, and her face saddened for a moment.
"How lovely it all is," she murmured. "How exquisitely beautiful and how utterly sad! And to think that if I possessed the magician's wand for a moment I could make everything smile again. He is a good man—a better man than anybody takes him to be. Under his placid, cynical surface he conceals a deal of suffering. Well, we shall see."
She replaced the "Copperfield" on the shelf and turned to go again. In the hall she met Lord Littimer dressed for riding. He smiled as she passed.
"Au revoir till dinner-time," he said. "I've got to go and see a tenant.Oh, yes, I shall certainly expect the pleasure of your company to dinner.And now that the Rembrandt—"
"It is safe for the afternoon," Christabel laughed. "It is generally when the family are dining that the burglar has his busy time. A pleasant ride to you."
Lord Littimer returned, as he declared, with the spirits and appetite of a schoolboy. All the same, he did not for one moment abandon his usual critical analysis. He rattled on gaily, but he was studying his guest all the same. She might have been the typical American lady student; but he was not blind to the fact that the plain muslin and lace frock she wore was made in Paris or that her manners and style must have been picked up in the best society. She sat there under the shaded lights and behind the bank of flowers like as to the manner born, and her accent was only sufficiently American to render her conversation piquant.
"You have always been used to this class of life?" Littimer asked.
"There you are quite mistaken," Christabel said, coolly. "For the last few years my existence has been anything but a bed of roses. And your remark, my lord, savours slightly of impertinent curiosity. I might as well ask you why your family is not here."
"We agree to differ," Littimer responded. "I recollect it caused me a great deal of annoyance at the time. And my son chose to take his mother's part. You knew I had a son?"
"Yes," said Christabel, without looking up from the peach she was peeling. "I have met him."
"Indeed. And what opinion did you form of my son, may I ask?"
"Well, I rather liked him. He seemed to me to be suffering from some great trouble, and trouble I am sure that was not of his own creating."
"Which means to say you feel rather sorry for Frank. But when you say the trouble was not of his own creating you are entirely mistaken. It is not a nice thing to say, Miss Lee, but my son was an utter and most unmitigated young scoundrel. If he came here he would be ordered out of the house. So far as I am concerned, I have no son at all. He sides with his mother, and his mother has a considerable private fortune of her own. Where she is at the present moment I have no idea. Nor do I care. Seems odd, does it not, that I should have been very fond of that woman at one time, just as it seems odd to think that I should have once been fond of treacle tart?"
Littimer spoke evenly and quietly, with his eyes full upon the girl. He was deceiving himself, but he was not deceiving her for a moment. His callousness seemed to be all the more marked because the servants were in the room. But Christabel could see clearly what an effort it was.
"You love your wife still," she said, so low that only Littimer heard.His eyes flashed, his face flamed with a sudden spasm of passion.
"Are we to quarrel so early as this?" he whispered.
"I never quarrel," Christabel said, coolly; "I leave my antagonist to do that. But I have met your son, and I like him. He may be weak, but he is a gentleman. You have made a mistake, and some day you will be sorry for it. Do you grow those orchids yourself?"
Littimer laughed, with no sign of anger remaining. All the same, Christabel could see that his thin brown hand was shaking. She noticed the lines that pain had given under those shrewd black eyes.
"You must see my orchids," he said. "Most of the specimens I obtained myself. They tell me I have at least three unique kinds. And now, if you will permit me, I am going to smoke. The drawing-room is at your disposal, though I rarely enter it myself. I always retire at eleven, but that need not bind you in any way. It has been altogether a most delightful evening."
But Christabel did not dally long in the drawing-room. As she went upstairs and along the corridor she heard the snapping of the electric lights all over the house as the servants were preparing to retire. She paused just a moment in the alcove where the precious Rembrandt was and located carefully the position of the switch there. Then she retired to her own room, where she changed her dress for a simple black gown. A big clock somewhere was striking twelve as she finished. She looked out of her door. The whole house was in darkness, the silence seemed to cling like a curtain.
She paused for a moment as if afraid to take the next step. If it was fear, she shook it aside resolutely and crept into the corridor. She carried something shining in her hands—something that gleamed in the dim, uncertain light from the big window. She stood just for an instant with a feeling that somebody was climbing up the ivy outside the house. She felt her way along until she came to the alcove containing the Rembrandt and then she stopped. Her hand slid along the wall till her fingers touched the switch of the electric light.
She stood for a long time there perfectly motionless. It was a still night outside, and there was nothing to account for the rustling of the ivy leaves. The rattling came in jerks, spasmodically, stopping every now and then and resuming again. It was no longer a matter of imagination, it was a certainty. Somebody was climbing up the ivy to the window.
Leaning eagerly forward, Christabel could hear the sound of laboured breathing. She seemed to see the outline of an arm outside, she could catch the quick rattle of the sash, she could almost see a bent wire crooked through the beaded edges of the casement. Yes, she was right. The window swung noiselessly back and a figure stood poised on the ledge outside.
With a quick breath and a fluttering of her heart Christabel felt for the switch.
"It will be all right," she murmured; "the other one will fancy that the light is necessary. Courage, my dear courage, and the game is yours. Ah!"
The intruder dropped inside and pulled the window behind him. Evidently he was on familiar ground, though he seemed to be seeking an unfamiliar object. Christabel's hand stole along to the switch; there was a click, and the alcove was bathed in brilliant light. The intruder shrank back with a startled cry. He rubbed his dazed eyes.
"Why not come in through the front door, Mr. Littimer?" Christabel drawled, coolly.
Frank Littimer had no words for a moment. He was wondering who this woman was and what she was doing here. American, evidently, by her accent, and also by the revolver that she handled so assuredly.
"That is the way you used to enter," Christabel proceeded, "when you had been out contrary to parental instructions and the keepers expected to have a fracas with the poachers. Your bedroom being exactly opposite, detection was no easy matter. Your bedroom has never been touched since you left. The key is still outside the door. Will you kindly enter it?"
"But—" Frank stammered. "But I assure you that I cannot—"
"Take the Rembrandt away. You cannot. The frame is of iron, and it is fastened to the wall. It would take an experienced carpenter quite a long time to remove it. Therefore your mission has failed. It is very annoying, because it puts the other man in a very awkward position. The position is going to be still more awkward presently. Please go to your room."
"My dear lady, if my father knows that I am in the house—"
"He is not going to know that you are in the house, at least not for some little time. And when you see him it will be better not to say more than is necessary. Later on you will recognise what a friend I am to you."
"You are not showing it at present," Littimer said, desperately.
"The patient rarely sees any virtue in his medicine. Now, please, go to your room. I can hear the other man muttering and getting anxious down below. Now, if you approach that window again I am pretty certain that my revolver will go off. You see, I am an American, and we are so careless with such weapons. Please go to your room at once."
"And if I refuse your ridiculous request?"
"You will not find my request in the least ridiculous. If you refuse I shall hold you up with my weapon and alarm the whole house. But I don't want to do that, for the sake of the other man. He is so very respectable, you know, and anything unconventional may be so awkward for him. Yes, it is just as I expected. He is coming up the ivy to investigate himself. Go!"
The revolver covered Littimer quite steadily. He could see into the blue rim, and he was conscious of strange cold sensations down his spine. A revolver is not a pretty thing at the best of times; it is doubly hazardous in the hands of a woman.
"What do you want with me?" he asked.
"My dear man, I want to do nothing with you. Only do as you are told and—there! The other man is coming up the ivy. He can't understand the light and you not returning. He imagines that you are looking in the wrong place. Please go."
Littimer backed before the weapon, backed until he was in the doorway. Suddenly the girl gave him a push, shut the door to, and turned the key in the lock. Almost at the same instant another figure loomed large in the window-frame.
Something bulky was struggling to get through the window. Half hidden in the shadow, Christabel watched with the deepest interest. If she had been afraid at first that sensation had entirely departed by this time. From the expression of her face she might have been enjoying the novel situation. It was certainly not without a suggestion of the farcical.
The burly figure contrived to squeeze through the narrow casement at length and stood breathing loudly in the corridor. It was not a pleasant sight that met Christabel's gaze—a big man with a white, set face and rolling eyes and a stiff bandage about his throat. Evidently the intruder was utterly exhausted, for he dropped into a chair and nursed his head between his hands.
"Now what has become of that fool?" he muttered. "Ah!"
He looked round him uneasily, but his expression changed as his eyes fell on the Rembrandt. He had the furtive look of a starving man who picks up a purse whilst the owner is still in sight. He staggered towards the picture and endeavoured to take it gently from the support. He tried again and again, and then in a paroxysm of rage he tore at the frame-work.
"I guess that it can't be done," Christabel said, drawlingly. "See, stranger?"
Reginald Henson fairly gasped. As he turned round the ludicrous mixture of cunning and confusion, anger and vexatious alarm on his face caused the girl to smile.
"I—I beg your pardon," he stammered.
"I said it can't be done," the girl drawled, coolly. "Sandow couldn't do it. The frame is made of iron and it is fixed to the wall by four long stays. It's a neat job, though I say it myself; I persuaded Lord Littimer to have it done. And when I heard you two prowling about down there I was glad. I've got the other one safe."
"Oh, you've got the other one safe?" Henson said, blankly.
He would have liked to have burst out into a torrent of passion, only he recognised his position. The thing was shamefully funny. It was anything but nice for a man of his distinguished position to be detected in an act suspiciously like vulgar burglary. Still, there must be some plausible way out of the difficulty if he could only think of it. Only this girl with the quaint, pretty face and spectacles did not look in the least like a fool. He would have to try what blandishments would do.
"Are you aware who I am?" he asked, blandly.
"What does it matter? I've got the other one, and no doubt he will be identified by the police. If he doesn't say too much he may get off with a light sentence. It is quite easy to see that you are the greater scoundrel of the two."
"My dear young lady, do you actually take me for a burglar?"
There was a note of deep pain in Henson's voice. He had dropped into a chair again, with a feeling of utter weakness upon him. The girl's resolute mien and the familiar way in which she handled her revolver filled him with the deepest apprehension.
"I am a very old friend and relative of Lord Littimer's," he said.
"Oh, indeed. And is the other man a relative of Lord Littimer's also?"
"Oh, why, confound it, yes. The other man, as you call him, is LordLittimer's only son."
Christabel glanced at Henson, not without admiration.
"Well, you are certainly a cool hand," she said. "You are two clever thieves who have come here for the express purpose of robbing Lord Littimer of one of his art treasures. I happen to catch one, and he immediately becomes the son of the owner of the place. I am so fortunate as to bag the other bird, and he resolves himself into a relative of my host's. And you really expect me to believe a Hans Andersen fairy story like that!"
"I admit that appearances are against me," Henson said, humbly. "But I am speaking the truth."
"Oh, indeed. Then why didn't you come in through the front door? The violent exercise you were taking just now must be dangerous to a man of your build!"
"I am afraid I shall have to make a clean breast of it," Henson said, with what he fondly imagined to be an engaging smile. "You may, perhaps, be aware that yonder Rembrandt has a history. It was stolen from its present owner once, and I have always said that it will be stolen again. Many a time have I urged Lord Littimer to make it secure."
"How grateful you should be to me for having done so!"
"Ah, you are cynical still, which is a bad thing for one so young and—er—charming. I came down here to see my very noble relative, and his son accompanied me. I came to try and make peace between father and son. But that is a family matter which, forgive me, I cannot discuss with a stranger. Our train was late, or we should have been here long ago. On reaching the castle it struck me as a good idea to give Lord Littimer a lesson as to his carelessness. My idea was to climb through the window, abstract the Rembrandt, and slip quietly into my usual bedroom here. Then in the morning, after the picture has been missed, I was going to tell the whole story. That is why Mr. Littimer entered this way and why I followed when I found that he had failed to return. It was a foolish thing to do, and thedénouementhas been most humiliating. I assure you that is all."
"Not quite," Christabel drawled. "There is something else."
"And what may that be, my dear young lady?"
"To tell your story to Lord Littimer before you sleep. That kind of romance may do for Great Britain, but it wouldn't make good family reading in the States."
"But, my dear young lady, I beg of you, implore you—"
"Come off the grass! I'm to let you go quietly to bed and retire myself, so that when morning arrives you will be missing together with as much plunder as you can carry away. No, sir."
Henson advanced angrily. His prudence had gone for the time. As he came down upon Christabel she raised her revolver and fired two shots in quick succession over Henson's shoulder. The noise went echoing and reverberating along the corridor like a crackling of thunder. A door came open with a click, then a voice demanded to know what was wrong.
"Now I guess the fat is in the fire," Christabel said.
Henson dropped into a chair and groaned. Lord Littimer, elegantly attired in a suit of silk pyjamas and carrying a revolver in his hand, came coolly down the corridor. A curious servant or two would have followed, but he waved them back crisply.
"Miss Lee," he said, with a faint, sarcastic emphasis, "and my dear friend and relative, Reginald Henson—Reginald, the future owner of Littimer Castle!"
"So he told me, but I wouldn't believe him," said Christabel.
"It is a cynical age," Littimer remarked. "Reginald, what does this mean?"
Henson shook his head uneasily.
"The young lady persisted in taking me for a burglar," he groaned.
"And why not?" Christabel demanded. "I was just going to bed when I heard voices in the forecourt below and footsteps creeping along. I came into the corridor with my revolver. Presently one of the men climbed up the ivy and got into the corridor. I covered him with my revolver and fairly drove him into a bedroom and locked him in."
"So you killed with both barrels?" Littimer cried, with infinite enjoyment.
"Then the other one came. He came to steal the Rembrandt."
"Nothing of the kind," the wretched Henson cried. "I came to give you a lesson, Lord Littimer. My idea was to get in through the window, steal the Rembrandt, and, when you had missed it, confess the whole story. My character is safe."
"Giddy," Littimer said, reproachfully. "You are so young, so boyish, so buoyant, Reginald. What would your future constituents have said had they seen you creeping up the ivy? They are a grave people who take themselves seriously. Egad, this would be a lovely story for one of those prying society papers. 'The Philanthropist and the Picture.' I've a good mind to send it to the Press myself."
Littimer sat down and laughed with pure enjoyment.
"And where is the other partridge?" he asked, presently.
Christabel seemed to hesitate for a moment, her sense of humour of the situation had departed. Her hand shook as she turned the key in the door.
"I am afraid you are going to have an unpleasant surprise," Henson said.
Littimer glanced keenly at the speaker. All the laughter died out of his eyes; his face grew set and stern as Frank Littimer emerged into the light.
"And what are you doing here?" he asked, hoarsely. "What do you expect to gain by taking part in a fool's trick like this? Did I not tell you never to show your face here again?"
The young man said nothing. He stood there looking down, dogged, quiet, like one tongue-tied. Littimer thundered out his question again. He crossed over, laying his hands on his son's shoulders and shaking him as a terrier might shake a rat.
"Did you come for anything?" he demanded. "Did you expect any mercy from—"
Frank Littimer shook off his grasp gently. He looked up for the first time.
"I expected nothing," he said. "I—I did not come of my own free will. I am silent now for the sake of myself and others. But the time may come—God knows it has been long delayed. For the present, I am bound in honour to hold my tongue."
He flashed one little glance at Henson, a long, angry glance. Littimer looked from one to the other in hesitation for a moment. The hard lines between his brows softened.
"Perhaps I am wrong," he muttered. "Perhaps there has been a mistake somewhere. And if ever I find out I have—pshaw, I am talking like a sentimental schoolgirl. Have I not had evidence strong as proof of Holy Writ that … Get out of my sight, your presence angers me. Go, and never let me see you again. Reginald, you were a fool to bring that boy here to-night. See him off the premises and fasten the door again."
"Surely," Christabel interfered, "surely at this time of the night—"
"You should be in bed," Littimer said, tartly. "My dear young lady, ifyou and I are to remain friends I must ask you to mind your own business.It is a dreadfully difficult thing for a woman to do, but you must try.You understand?"
Christabel was evidently putting a strong constraint on her tongue, for she merely bowed and said nothing. She had her own good reasons for the diplomacy of silence. Henson and Frank Littimer were disappearing in the direction of the staircase.
"I say nothing," Christabel said. "But at the same time I don't fancy I shall care very much for your distinguished friend Reginald Henson."
Littimer smiled. All his good humour seemed to have returned to him. Only the dark lines under his eyes were more accentuated.
"A slimy, fawning hound," he whispered. "A mean fellow. And the best of it is that he imagines that I hold the highest regard for him. Good-night."