Chapter IIThe group of Rollo Dangerfield’s followers diminished as it passed along the corridor. At the main entrance, Douglas and Cynthia slipped aside and went off by themselves down the broad steps into the gardens. Further on, beyond the great staircase, Mrs. Brent bade her companions good-night and turned into her room. Only five of his guests were left to follow the old man to the end of the corridor, where he threw open an unlocked door.“This is what we call the Corinthian’s Room,” he explained as he ushered them into it. “It was my grandfather’s favourite spot in the house, and it got its name from him. He was one of the Regency bucks—no worse than the rest of them, perhaps, but a hard liver and a hard gambler in his day. An eccentric, too, like most of them. I can show you one of his eccentricities in a moment, if you care to see it.”The room was about forty feet square, with a huge stone fireplace. A great cupboard of oak occupied part of one wall. Another wall was hung with an aged tapestry representing Diana pursuing a stag. The floor was of marble slabs, mainly white; but in the centre, black squares of marble had been introduced so as to make a gigantic chess-board pattern. Opposite the fireplace was a narrow and shallow niche filled with a glass case.Rollo Dangerfield switched on the electric lights and led the visitors towards the recess. As they came near it, they saw within the case a bell of faintly tinted glass, under which lay, on a velvet bed, an ancient ornament.“That is the Dangerfield Talisman,” said old Rollo, pointing to the case. “You can see what it is: one of those golden armlets which were worn in the olden times. It’s too heavy for our modern tastes, I’m afraid. You would hardly care to carry that, Miss Cressage.”He turned to Eileen with a faint smile.“It’s very heavy for an ornament—something over a pound, I believe,” he went on, as his guests drew nearer to look closely at the jewel. “Of course, the value of the gold is nothing to speak of, perhaps under a hundred pounds. The stones are of more interest in some people’s eyes. There are eight of them in all—you can see the others reflected in the mirror at the back, if you look closely.”Mrs. Caistor Scorton examined the Talisman with an appraising eye.“I agree with you. It’s too heavy in the design.”Eileen Cressage bent forward and seemed to compare the size of the ornament with her own white arm.“If a girl wore that,” she said, “she must have been splendid. It’s not a bit clumsy. She must have been slim, if anything, with small hands, or she couldn’t have got it over them.”“Let’s try it on Miss Cressage,” said Morchard, suddenly, and he moved forward as he spoke. The case had a plain sheet of glass immediately in front of the jewel, through which it could be examined, whilst at either side was a glass door kept secured by a tiny handle. As Morchard put out his hand, Rollo Dangerfield stopped him with a gesture.“I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s one of our family customs never to take the Talisman out of its case—never even to lift the shade from it.”He smiled, faintly apologetic, but evidently unbending in defence of his traditions.“These ideas grow up somehow, in ways that are difficult to trace back to their births; but as time goes on, they gain a sort of sanctity from tradition, and speaking for myself, I should be sorry if I were the first of us to break this particular custom. There are so few of the old things left in this twentieth century world, and perhaps you young people won’t grudge me this one, if I keep it.”The touch of wistfulness had come back into his voice, robbing his refusal of the faintest trace of offence. Eileen, afraid that some of the others might embarrass the old man by pressing him to let them handle the jewel, hastened to put in a word before Morchard could open his mouth.“I’d love to try it on; but what Mr. Dangerfield says is quite right. And now, I’d like to hear its story—the legend, I mean.”Rollo Dangerfield silently invited them to seat themselves. Then, leaning against the case containing the Talisman, he turned to face his audience and began to speak. At first he seemed nervous of his effect; but as the tale went on, his voice changed into a monotone, as though he were reciting some well-remembered ritual.“You must bear in mind that this is a very old tale, far older than any written document that we have. True enough, it fits the geography of Friocksheim; but for all we know, the legend may be far older than Friocksheim and may deal with some Pool which none of us has ever seen. You know that we Dangerfields came into England from the North, away back in the troubled days before the Conquest. Friocksheim, I’m told, is a corruption of Fricca’s Heim, Frea’s Heim, the dwelling of Frea, the wife of Odin. There is no doubt about us as a race.”He lifted his old head proudly, and the Viking resemblance stood out undeniably in his features. Then, with a smile that showed the strong white teeth, he added:“I needn’t emphasise the final stage in the corruption of the name as you find it in the village: our Friocksheim has changed to Frogsholme, on the lips of these godless aborigines.”He paused for a moment and shifted his position slightly, so that he could see the Talisman as it lay under his arm.“You must understand, then,” he went on, “that this legend comes down to us from days when Valhalla still opened its gates to the heroes; and the spirits of winds, and woods, and streams, moved among men in their visible forms. It may be mere allegory; possibly it is the transmutation of some quite normal happening, a love tale magnified and distorted in the telling.“One summer’s night, the legend runs, Ulric, the Lord of Friocksheim, went out into the moonlight, seeking coolness after the heat of his castle walls. And, so wandering, he came by the Pool and sat beside the water, watching the rising of the mist from the surface of the mere. As he sat thus, lost in thought, the moonlight sparkled upon something before him, and, bending forward, he grasped the Talisman. So he sat, with the armlet in his hand; and as he watched, the mists of the lake grew denser and drew closer; and there stepped at last from among their folds a maiden.”Old Rollo bent towards the Talisman, so that his face was partly hidden from his audience.“Very little has come down to us—only a few words in a tale. Yet even these halting words conjure up for me a wonder; a being, young, and proud, and fair, a form and grace surpassing all the beauty of women; a flash of divinity passing across the screen of the flesh.”He let his voice drop into silence for a moment before he continued:“The legend tells that she was betrothed to the Spirit of the Pool, the Frog King. But Ulric won her. She gave him the Talisman which she had come back to seek; and, when he desired her, he had but to dip it in the Pool and she came to him—for so long as that moon still shone. And she charged him, when she was with him, to keep the Talisman and to hand it down; for it would be the Luck of Friocksheim. And so, night after night, the Lord of Friocksheim went down to the Pool and washed the Talisman in its waters and wandered with his love in the wood beside the mere—until the moon came no more over the trees. But the next night, when he dipped the Talisman in the waters, there came swimming to him a loathsome little shape which laughed and jeered at him, saying: ‘The Frog King has her for his bride.’ ”Old Rollo turned back towards his audience again.“So the Dangerfield Talisman is only a reminder of an old lie. Even at the best, it’s a memorial of lying and deceit—and punishment.”His voice sounded bitter for a moment, but he went back at once to his ordinary tone:“There it is: the Dangerfield Luck. I don’t say I believe the legend; I won’t say I doubt it. However the thing came to us, it’s our oldest possession and experts tell me that the workmanship is extraordinarily old. And now, I think I can show you something less romantic, though it’s not without its interest.”He moved forward and pushed aside some rugs with his foot, so that the black and white marble squares in the centre of the floor were cleared.“I told you, I think, that this was the room mainly used by my grandfather, the Corinthian. It was, in fact, the very last room he ever entered. Possibly some of you remember something about the Regency times, the gambling, the prize-fighting, the duelling that went on. Eccentricity was often the pass-key to notoriety in those days; some of the bucks cultivated it wilfully. I believe that my grandfather was genuinely eccentric in this particular affair. He was a fanatic for chess playing and this was his chess board. You see the marble squares on the floor.”He stooped down and lifted a metal plug from the centre of a square.“Each of these squares has a plug like this at its centre. They’re really put in to keep dirt out of the holes when no game is being played. When they wanted to set the pieces, all the plugs were taken out; and then the board was ready.”He stepped across the room and threw open the oaken cupboard on the wall.“These are the chess-men. You see they are on a scale to match the board, each of them about a foot and a half high. Mr. Westenhanger, would you mind lifting one of them out—a pawn will do. They’re too heavy for me, nowadays.”Westenhanger came forward and gripped one of the iron pieces.“Lift it up off the shelf before you pull it forward,” said old Dangerfield. “There’s a spike on the foot of each piece, fitting into a hole in the shelf—the spike that goes into the hole in the chess-board, so that the piece can’t be accidentally knocked over. They’re top-heavy things. The Staunton pattern wasn’t invented in those days.”It took more effort than Westenhanger had expected to lift the thing from its place and carry it over to the chess-board. He dropped it into position on one of the squares, the iron rod slipping easily into the hole and fixing the piece firmly.“Rather like a railway chess-board, isn’t it?” he said, as he went back to his seat, “but a good deal of trouble to play a game with pieces of that weight, I should think.”Old Rollo’s eyes twinkled.“I doubt if they’d have played much if they’d been left to their own exertions. As a matter of fact, each player had a lackey to shift his pieces for him while he sat comfortably in his chair.”He came forward and sat down as he spoke.“This chess-board looks innocent enough; but it brought the death of my grandfather. You know what it was like in those days: men would quarrel about the tint of a snuff-box and fight a fatal duel over the fit of a cravat. My grandfather was as much of a fire-eater as his friends. Some miserable squabble took place in this room while they were actually playing on that board; probably a mere drunken difference of opinion about some absurd trifle or other. They went out with pistols in the dawn; and the other man was the luckier of the two. Perhaps he deserved to be. No one knows now what they fought about. My grandfather was shot in the head—killed instantly.”Rollo Dangerfield rose, and drawing from his pocket a bunch of keys, he opened a small safe buried in the wall of the room beside the fireplace. From one of the divisions of the safe he extracted a worn-looking paper and a peculiar disc-like object.“Here are two other relics. We preserve most things; and as this was the last document my grandfather put on paper, we’ve kept it in safety. You may as well see it.”He handed the paper to Wraxall, who studied it intently before passing it to his neighbour. At the top of the sheet were two lines of handwriting:Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam.Matt VI. 21; Luke XII. 34.Below this was a rough diagram of a chess-board with certain pieces placed as in an end-game or a problem.A chess-board diagram. Black is down a bishop, both knights, and two pawns. White is down five pawns and the queen. Neither player is in check; however, the Black king cannot move, being surrounded by its own pieces as well as a White bishop.Wraxall turned the paper over in search of something further; but the back of the sheet was blank.The American passed the manuscript to Mrs. Caistor Scorton and held out his hand for the second object which Rollo Dangerfield had taken from the safe. It was a circular disc cut from a sheet of leather. Originally the sheet may have been the same thickness as a boot-sole, or rather thinner; but a century of atmospheric changes had warped and contorted its form. Evidently when new it had been about two and a half inches in diameter. Through the centre of the leather there passed a piece of twine secured on one side of the disc by a knot and looped on the other side into a fixed ringlet of a size which would just admit a hand. Wraxall turned the object over and over, but it suggested nothing to him. After a final inspection, he passed it also to his neighbour, and then turned inquiringly to Rollo Dangerfield.“It suggests nothing to you?” old Dangerfield demanded perfunctorily. He took back both objects after they had been examined by everyone, and held up the paper so that they could see it. “This first line, in Latin, is simply part of the second verse of the Nineteenth Psalm:Night unto night sheweth knowledge.The two references to the Gospels give you the verse:Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.I am afraid we can’t discover anything from that part of the document. The rest of it seems easier to account for, if I tell you a little more about the paper.”He put the sheet on his knee and leaned back in his chair as though tired.“You see the rough sketch of the chess-board,” he went on after a moment or two. “That gives the position in which the pieces were found on this board here after his death. Possibly it represents the end-position in that game during which the quarrel arose between him and his opponent. He must have attached some importance to it himself, for he came into this room just before going off to his duel, jotted the thing down, and left orders that it was to be given to his son if anything happened. That, I must admit, seems to suggest that he was not quite in a normal frame of mind when he put the thing on paper; for at that date my father was a boy of four or five years old. We Dangerfields are a very late-marrying family, for some reason or other. Obviously a child of that age could have no interest in chess-endings. Put that together with the three texts; and I believe the normal mind would say that my grandfather’s brain was still bemused with his night’s wine—he drank an enormous quantity of port, they say—and that in a muddled-headed way he scribbled down this end-game, added one or two of his favourite texts, and then, with some idea that the texts might be of service to his son, he left directions for the paper to be handed on.”He glanced amusedly round the circle to see if they shared this view.“Unfortunately,” he continued, “that explanation falls short of completeness on one matter. This little leather disc was also to be handed to my father. Was it a toy that he had made for the boy? Perhaps he had promised it to the child, and even at that dangerous moment he remembered his promise? I like to think that there was something of the kind in his mind. But if there had been any promise of the sort, my father had forgotten it. When they questioned him he knew nothing about it. Quite possibly it was a promised toy. You know what the memory of a four-year-old is like and how difficult it is to catch hold of something which he has once allowed to slip. Nothing came of it.”His fingers played almost affectionately with the wrinkled scrap of leather.“My grandfather’s death left my father an orphan; for his mother had died a year or two earlier. The paper was preserved and handed to my father, when he came of age, by the lawyer of our family who had impounded it shortly after its discovery. It meant nothing to anyone. Whatever meaning it carried had been lost. All that it meant to my father was the last link with his Corinthian ancestor; and I believed that he preserved it on that account. At any rate, it found its way into the Dangerfield archives, and there it is likely to remain.”“And you, yourself, haven’t any idea about it, Mr. Dangerfield?” asked Eileen. “Surely he must have had something in his mind when he wrote it. Tell us what you think of it, if you can.”“I can give you a guess,” said old Dangerfield, “but it’s a guess and nothing more. My own view is that the quarrel had arisen over some question of their play; and my grandfather wanted a permanent record left, so as to be able to prove his point in cold blood later on. In addition to being a gambler and one of the most remarkable spendthrifts of his day, he was an obstinate man. We know that to our cost. The Dangerfield jewels used to be a very fine collection; but after his death it was found that most of the good things had vanished—converted into cash and gambled away in backing that obstinate opinion of his. After a couple of generations we’re still suffering from the inroads he made into the estate.”“Is anything more known about him?” asked Westenhanger.“Not very much that’s creditable, I’m afraid. Oh, yes! I believe that he made himself rather ridiculous by an improvement of the hobby-horse.”“He must have been a rum bird!” commented Westenhanger.Rollo Dangerfield hastened to explain.“Not a rocking-horse. I mean that two-wheeled thing like a safety bicycle that some of the Corinthians used to amuse themselves with. One sat in the saddle and pushed the thing along with one’s feet on the ground—like running in a chair, rather. It had a vogue at one time. I’m told that he brought out a new pattern with treadles—something like the present child’s scooter in principle. At any rate, it was rather frowned on, and he was glad to let it drop. But you see that he was evidently akin to you on one side at least.”“Now there’s just one other thing I’d like to hear about, if you can tell us, Mr. Dangerfield.” Eileen Cressage looked rather doubtfully at the old man as she spoke. “Perhaps I’m indiscreet; and if I am, please say so at once. People talk about the Dangerfield Secret. They say it’s something like the one in that Scots family up in the north—you know, the thing the heir is told when he’s twenty-one. Is there really a Dangerfield secret?”Old Rollo Dangerfield’s face hardened perceptibly for a moment; and he looked at the girl with an inscrutable expression. Then, evidently reading in her face a fear that she had offended him, he relaxed his attitude slightly and tried to put her at her ease again. Nevertheless, the tone of his voice was sufficient to show that he disliked the subject.“There is something which people call the Dangerfield Secret. Helga doesn’t know it. She’ll be told when she’s twenty-five. My nephew Eric knows it, since he’s the next male heir. I can say no more about it.”Westenhanger relieved the slight strain that followed by getting up and stepping across to the Talisman’s case.“I suppose you put this in the safe each night, Mr. Dangerfield? It would hardly do to leave it exposed like this for anyone to pick up. It must be worth a small fortune.”Old Dangerfield looked across the room.“It was valued last in my grandfather’s time, and they put it down as being worth some £50,000 then. The diamonds were said to be very fine; and you can see the size of the stones for yourself.”“I don’t think I’d trust it in a small safe like that, if it were mine,” said Westenhanger, glancing at the little iron door from which Rollo Dangerfield had taken the document. “Any man with a pocket crowbar could open that thing and get away with the Talisman.”The old man laughed shortly.“Don’t trouble about the safe. The Talisman is never put into that. The fact is, you have come up against another of the Dangerfield superstitions. The Talisman is never moved from its place by day or night. It stands where you see it, always.”The American sat up suddenly.“You leave it there, sir? You take no precautions against crooks? You don’t mean to tell me anyone could step in here, lift that bell, and clear off with the goods?”He paused, as if struck by a thought. Then he continued in another tone.“I take it that you’re fully covered by insurance?”Rollo Dangerfield’s face took on a faintly sardonic expression. He seemed to enjoy surprising the American.“Not at all. The Talisman has never been insured. Why should we insure it? It always comes back. We have electric alarms on all the outer doors and the windows, of course; but they are merely put on because my wife is nervous. The Talisman can look after itself, I assure you.”Wraxall looked at his host in amazement.“Do you really mean that?”He thought for a moment, and then a fresh idea seemed to strike him.“Now I see! You’ve got some medieval mantrap or spring-gun attached to the thing, something that grips your burglar if he comes after your property?”Rollo Dangerfield’s laugh was quite free from sarcasm; he evidently enjoyed the jest which he alone could see.“No, Mr. Wraxall, nary a spring-gun, as I believe some of your compatriots might say. Not so much as a mantrap. You could lift the thing from its bed at any hour of the day or night without the slightest risk. My nephew Eric has rooms in the tower above us; but even if he heard you, I doubt if he would trouble to interrupt you. We know our Talisman. It always comes home.”The American was plainly astounded.“It seems to me, Mr. Dangerfield, that you’re presuming a good deal on your safety in the past. Crooks nowadays aren’t likely to be frightened off by talk. No, it would take more than a Castle Spectre to keep some of our smashers out of here if they only knew what you’ve told us.”Rollo Dangerfield’s white eyebrows contracted slightly. It was evident to them all that he was displeased at being doubted. He leaned forward and spoke directly to the American.“Now this is authentic, Mr. Wraxall. You can look up the accounts in the local papers of the time, if you care to go to the trouble. I shall be very pleased to give you the dates, if necessary. At least twice within the last half century an attempt has been made to rob us of the Talisman. Once a drunken tramp made his way in here during the night and took the armlet. He was afraid to get rid of it anywhere near here; and three days later he was arrested for some other crime; the Talisman was found on him and returned to us. The second case was a genuine burglary. One of the keepers saw the man leave the house and gave chase. The fellow dropped dead—heart failure, it was said to be—and the Talisman was found in his hand.”The American said nothing; but quite obviously he was not convinced. Old Dangerfield seemed to be nettled.“I am not trying to convince you, Mr. Wraxall. I suppose that would be quite impossible. But I tell you this frankly: If the Talisman disappeared to-night, the last thing I should think of doing would be to call in the police. The Talisman guards itself. Within seven days at the outside, it would be back there under the bell.”Eileen Cressage had been listening eagerly to the old man’s words; but at this last statement, her surprise broke out.“You wouldn’t call in the police, Mr. Dangerfield? You’d really trust to the Talisman finding its way home? It seems amazing.”“You may take me at my word, Miss Cressage. I mean exactly what I say in this matter. If the Talisman disappeared, either by day or by night, I should not trouble to call in police assistance. Why should I, when I know what I do know? Of course I mean what I say. Did you ever see anything like the Talisman guarded with so little care? If I did not believe implicitly that it would come back, wouldn’t I have it trenched round with all manner of protections? Of course! Let it go! What does that matter, since it is certain to be over there again before long.”Conway Westenhanger turned from the Talisman’s niche, but as he crossed the tessellated floor his eye was caught by something which he had not noticed before. He stooped for an instant and glanced keenly at the corners of one or two squares.“Something there that’s got plugged with dirt,” he reflected. “Holes a bit bigger than a large pin’s head, they seem to be. Nothing important, evidently, since they’re choked up in that fashion.”
The group of Rollo Dangerfield’s followers diminished as it passed along the corridor. At the main entrance, Douglas and Cynthia slipped aside and went off by themselves down the broad steps into the gardens. Further on, beyond the great staircase, Mrs. Brent bade her companions good-night and turned into her room. Only five of his guests were left to follow the old man to the end of the corridor, where he threw open an unlocked door.
“This is what we call the Corinthian’s Room,” he explained as he ushered them into it. “It was my grandfather’s favourite spot in the house, and it got its name from him. He was one of the Regency bucks—no worse than the rest of them, perhaps, but a hard liver and a hard gambler in his day. An eccentric, too, like most of them. I can show you one of his eccentricities in a moment, if you care to see it.”
The room was about forty feet square, with a huge stone fireplace. A great cupboard of oak occupied part of one wall. Another wall was hung with an aged tapestry representing Diana pursuing a stag. The floor was of marble slabs, mainly white; but in the centre, black squares of marble had been introduced so as to make a gigantic chess-board pattern. Opposite the fireplace was a narrow and shallow niche filled with a glass case.
Rollo Dangerfield switched on the electric lights and led the visitors towards the recess. As they came near it, they saw within the case a bell of faintly tinted glass, under which lay, on a velvet bed, an ancient ornament.
“That is the Dangerfield Talisman,” said old Rollo, pointing to the case. “You can see what it is: one of those golden armlets which were worn in the olden times. It’s too heavy for our modern tastes, I’m afraid. You would hardly care to carry that, Miss Cressage.”
He turned to Eileen with a faint smile.
“It’s very heavy for an ornament—something over a pound, I believe,” he went on, as his guests drew nearer to look closely at the jewel. “Of course, the value of the gold is nothing to speak of, perhaps under a hundred pounds. The stones are of more interest in some people’s eyes. There are eight of them in all—you can see the others reflected in the mirror at the back, if you look closely.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton examined the Talisman with an appraising eye.
“I agree with you. It’s too heavy in the design.”
Eileen Cressage bent forward and seemed to compare the size of the ornament with her own white arm.
“If a girl wore that,” she said, “she must have been splendid. It’s not a bit clumsy. She must have been slim, if anything, with small hands, or she couldn’t have got it over them.”
“Let’s try it on Miss Cressage,” said Morchard, suddenly, and he moved forward as he spoke. The case had a plain sheet of glass immediately in front of the jewel, through which it could be examined, whilst at either side was a glass door kept secured by a tiny handle. As Morchard put out his hand, Rollo Dangerfield stopped him with a gesture.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s one of our family customs never to take the Talisman out of its case—never even to lift the shade from it.”
He smiled, faintly apologetic, but evidently unbending in defence of his traditions.
“These ideas grow up somehow, in ways that are difficult to trace back to their births; but as time goes on, they gain a sort of sanctity from tradition, and speaking for myself, I should be sorry if I were the first of us to break this particular custom. There are so few of the old things left in this twentieth century world, and perhaps you young people won’t grudge me this one, if I keep it.”
The touch of wistfulness had come back into his voice, robbing his refusal of the faintest trace of offence. Eileen, afraid that some of the others might embarrass the old man by pressing him to let them handle the jewel, hastened to put in a word before Morchard could open his mouth.
“I’d love to try it on; but what Mr. Dangerfield says is quite right. And now, I’d like to hear its story—the legend, I mean.”
Rollo Dangerfield silently invited them to seat themselves. Then, leaning against the case containing the Talisman, he turned to face his audience and began to speak. At first he seemed nervous of his effect; but as the tale went on, his voice changed into a monotone, as though he were reciting some well-remembered ritual.
“You must bear in mind that this is a very old tale, far older than any written document that we have. True enough, it fits the geography of Friocksheim; but for all we know, the legend may be far older than Friocksheim and may deal with some Pool which none of us has ever seen. You know that we Dangerfields came into England from the North, away back in the troubled days before the Conquest. Friocksheim, I’m told, is a corruption of Fricca’s Heim, Frea’s Heim, the dwelling of Frea, the wife of Odin. There is no doubt about us as a race.”
He lifted his old head proudly, and the Viking resemblance stood out undeniably in his features. Then, with a smile that showed the strong white teeth, he added:
“I needn’t emphasise the final stage in the corruption of the name as you find it in the village: our Friocksheim has changed to Frogsholme, on the lips of these godless aborigines.”
He paused for a moment and shifted his position slightly, so that he could see the Talisman as it lay under his arm.
“You must understand, then,” he went on, “that this legend comes down to us from days when Valhalla still opened its gates to the heroes; and the spirits of winds, and woods, and streams, moved among men in their visible forms. It may be mere allegory; possibly it is the transmutation of some quite normal happening, a love tale magnified and distorted in the telling.
“One summer’s night, the legend runs, Ulric, the Lord of Friocksheim, went out into the moonlight, seeking coolness after the heat of his castle walls. And, so wandering, he came by the Pool and sat beside the water, watching the rising of the mist from the surface of the mere. As he sat thus, lost in thought, the moonlight sparkled upon something before him, and, bending forward, he grasped the Talisman. So he sat, with the armlet in his hand; and as he watched, the mists of the lake grew denser and drew closer; and there stepped at last from among their folds a maiden.”
Old Rollo bent towards the Talisman, so that his face was partly hidden from his audience.
“Very little has come down to us—only a few words in a tale. Yet even these halting words conjure up for me a wonder; a being, young, and proud, and fair, a form and grace surpassing all the beauty of women; a flash of divinity passing across the screen of the flesh.”
He let his voice drop into silence for a moment before he continued:
“The legend tells that she was betrothed to the Spirit of the Pool, the Frog King. But Ulric won her. She gave him the Talisman which she had come back to seek; and, when he desired her, he had but to dip it in the Pool and she came to him—for so long as that moon still shone. And she charged him, when she was with him, to keep the Talisman and to hand it down; for it would be the Luck of Friocksheim. And so, night after night, the Lord of Friocksheim went down to the Pool and washed the Talisman in its waters and wandered with his love in the wood beside the mere—until the moon came no more over the trees. But the next night, when he dipped the Talisman in the waters, there came swimming to him a loathsome little shape which laughed and jeered at him, saying: ‘The Frog King has her for his bride.’ ”
Old Rollo turned back towards his audience again.
“So the Dangerfield Talisman is only a reminder of an old lie. Even at the best, it’s a memorial of lying and deceit—and punishment.”
His voice sounded bitter for a moment, but he went back at once to his ordinary tone:
“There it is: the Dangerfield Luck. I don’t say I believe the legend; I won’t say I doubt it. However the thing came to us, it’s our oldest possession and experts tell me that the workmanship is extraordinarily old. And now, I think I can show you something less romantic, though it’s not without its interest.”
He moved forward and pushed aside some rugs with his foot, so that the black and white marble squares in the centre of the floor were cleared.
“I told you, I think, that this was the room mainly used by my grandfather, the Corinthian. It was, in fact, the very last room he ever entered. Possibly some of you remember something about the Regency times, the gambling, the prize-fighting, the duelling that went on. Eccentricity was often the pass-key to notoriety in those days; some of the bucks cultivated it wilfully. I believe that my grandfather was genuinely eccentric in this particular affair. He was a fanatic for chess playing and this was his chess board. You see the marble squares on the floor.”
He stooped down and lifted a metal plug from the centre of a square.
“Each of these squares has a plug like this at its centre. They’re really put in to keep dirt out of the holes when no game is being played. When they wanted to set the pieces, all the plugs were taken out; and then the board was ready.”
He stepped across the room and threw open the oaken cupboard on the wall.
“These are the chess-men. You see they are on a scale to match the board, each of them about a foot and a half high. Mr. Westenhanger, would you mind lifting one of them out—a pawn will do. They’re too heavy for me, nowadays.”
Westenhanger came forward and gripped one of the iron pieces.
“Lift it up off the shelf before you pull it forward,” said old Dangerfield. “There’s a spike on the foot of each piece, fitting into a hole in the shelf—the spike that goes into the hole in the chess-board, so that the piece can’t be accidentally knocked over. They’re top-heavy things. The Staunton pattern wasn’t invented in those days.”
It took more effort than Westenhanger had expected to lift the thing from its place and carry it over to the chess-board. He dropped it into position on one of the squares, the iron rod slipping easily into the hole and fixing the piece firmly.
“Rather like a railway chess-board, isn’t it?” he said, as he went back to his seat, “but a good deal of trouble to play a game with pieces of that weight, I should think.”
Old Rollo’s eyes twinkled.
“I doubt if they’d have played much if they’d been left to their own exertions. As a matter of fact, each player had a lackey to shift his pieces for him while he sat comfortably in his chair.”
He came forward and sat down as he spoke.
“This chess-board looks innocent enough; but it brought the death of my grandfather. You know what it was like in those days: men would quarrel about the tint of a snuff-box and fight a fatal duel over the fit of a cravat. My grandfather was as much of a fire-eater as his friends. Some miserable squabble took place in this room while they were actually playing on that board; probably a mere drunken difference of opinion about some absurd trifle or other. They went out with pistols in the dawn; and the other man was the luckier of the two. Perhaps he deserved to be. No one knows now what they fought about. My grandfather was shot in the head—killed instantly.”
Rollo Dangerfield rose, and drawing from his pocket a bunch of keys, he opened a small safe buried in the wall of the room beside the fireplace. From one of the divisions of the safe he extracted a worn-looking paper and a peculiar disc-like object.
“Here are two other relics. We preserve most things; and as this was the last document my grandfather put on paper, we’ve kept it in safety. You may as well see it.”
He handed the paper to Wraxall, who studied it intently before passing it to his neighbour. At the top of the sheet were two lines of handwriting:
Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam.Matt VI. 21; Luke XII. 34.
Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam.
Matt VI. 21; Luke XII. 34.
Below this was a rough diagram of a chess-board with certain pieces placed as in an end-game or a problem.
A chess-board diagram. Black is down a bishop, both knights, and two pawns. White is down five pawns and the queen. Neither player is in check; however, the Black king cannot move, being surrounded by its own pieces as well as a White bishop.
Wraxall turned the paper over in search of something further; but the back of the sheet was blank.
The American passed the manuscript to Mrs. Caistor Scorton and held out his hand for the second object which Rollo Dangerfield had taken from the safe. It was a circular disc cut from a sheet of leather. Originally the sheet may have been the same thickness as a boot-sole, or rather thinner; but a century of atmospheric changes had warped and contorted its form. Evidently when new it had been about two and a half inches in diameter. Through the centre of the leather there passed a piece of twine secured on one side of the disc by a knot and looped on the other side into a fixed ringlet of a size which would just admit a hand. Wraxall turned the object over and over, but it suggested nothing to him. After a final inspection, he passed it also to his neighbour, and then turned inquiringly to Rollo Dangerfield.
“It suggests nothing to you?” old Dangerfield demanded perfunctorily. He took back both objects after they had been examined by everyone, and held up the paper so that they could see it. “This first line, in Latin, is simply part of the second verse of the Nineteenth Psalm:Night unto night sheweth knowledge.The two references to the Gospels give you the verse:Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.I am afraid we can’t discover anything from that part of the document. The rest of it seems easier to account for, if I tell you a little more about the paper.”
He put the sheet on his knee and leaned back in his chair as though tired.
“You see the rough sketch of the chess-board,” he went on after a moment or two. “That gives the position in which the pieces were found on this board here after his death. Possibly it represents the end-position in that game during which the quarrel arose between him and his opponent. He must have attached some importance to it himself, for he came into this room just before going off to his duel, jotted the thing down, and left orders that it was to be given to his son if anything happened. That, I must admit, seems to suggest that he was not quite in a normal frame of mind when he put the thing on paper; for at that date my father was a boy of four or five years old. We Dangerfields are a very late-marrying family, for some reason or other. Obviously a child of that age could have no interest in chess-endings. Put that together with the three texts; and I believe the normal mind would say that my grandfather’s brain was still bemused with his night’s wine—he drank an enormous quantity of port, they say—and that in a muddled-headed way he scribbled down this end-game, added one or two of his favourite texts, and then, with some idea that the texts might be of service to his son, he left directions for the paper to be handed on.”
He glanced amusedly round the circle to see if they shared this view.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “that explanation falls short of completeness on one matter. This little leather disc was also to be handed to my father. Was it a toy that he had made for the boy? Perhaps he had promised it to the child, and even at that dangerous moment he remembered his promise? I like to think that there was something of the kind in his mind. But if there had been any promise of the sort, my father had forgotten it. When they questioned him he knew nothing about it. Quite possibly it was a promised toy. You know what the memory of a four-year-old is like and how difficult it is to catch hold of something which he has once allowed to slip. Nothing came of it.”
His fingers played almost affectionately with the wrinkled scrap of leather.
“My grandfather’s death left my father an orphan; for his mother had died a year or two earlier. The paper was preserved and handed to my father, when he came of age, by the lawyer of our family who had impounded it shortly after its discovery. It meant nothing to anyone. Whatever meaning it carried had been lost. All that it meant to my father was the last link with his Corinthian ancestor; and I believed that he preserved it on that account. At any rate, it found its way into the Dangerfield archives, and there it is likely to remain.”
“And you, yourself, haven’t any idea about it, Mr. Dangerfield?” asked Eileen. “Surely he must have had something in his mind when he wrote it. Tell us what you think of it, if you can.”
“I can give you a guess,” said old Dangerfield, “but it’s a guess and nothing more. My own view is that the quarrel had arisen over some question of their play; and my grandfather wanted a permanent record left, so as to be able to prove his point in cold blood later on. In addition to being a gambler and one of the most remarkable spendthrifts of his day, he was an obstinate man. We know that to our cost. The Dangerfield jewels used to be a very fine collection; but after his death it was found that most of the good things had vanished—converted into cash and gambled away in backing that obstinate opinion of his. After a couple of generations we’re still suffering from the inroads he made into the estate.”
“Is anything more known about him?” asked Westenhanger.
“Not very much that’s creditable, I’m afraid. Oh, yes! I believe that he made himself rather ridiculous by an improvement of the hobby-horse.”
“He must have been a rum bird!” commented Westenhanger.
Rollo Dangerfield hastened to explain.
“Not a rocking-horse. I mean that two-wheeled thing like a safety bicycle that some of the Corinthians used to amuse themselves with. One sat in the saddle and pushed the thing along with one’s feet on the ground—like running in a chair, rather. It had a vogue at one time. I’m told that he brought out a new pattern with treadles—something like the present child’s scooter in principle. At any rate, it was rather frowned on, and he was glad to let it drop. But you see that he was evidently akin to you on one side at least.”
“Now there’s just one other thing I’d like to hear about, if you can tell us, Mr. Dangerfield.” Eileen Cressage looked rather doubtfully at the old man as she spoke. “Perhaps I’m indiscreet; and if I am, please say so at once. People talk about the Dangerfield Secret. They say it’s something like the one in that Scots family up in the north—you know, the thing the heir is told when he’s twenty-one. Is there really a Dangerfield secret?”
Old Rollo Dangerfield’s face hardened perceptibly for a moment; and he looked at the girl with an inscrutable expression. Then, evidently reading in her face a fear that she had offended him, he relaxed his attitude slightly and tried to put her at her ease again. Nevertheless, the tone of his voice was sufficient to show that he disliked the subject.
“There is something which people call the Dangerfield Secret. Helga doesn’t know it. She’ll be told when she’s twenty-five. My nephew Eric knows it, since he’s the next male heir. I can say no more about it.”
Westenhanger relieved the slight strain that followed by getting up and stepping across to the Talisman’s case.
“I suppose you put this in the safe each night, Mr. Dangerfield? It would hardly do to leave it exposed like this for anyone to pick up. It must be worth a small fortune.”
Old Dangerfield looked across the room.
“It was valued last in my grandfather’s time, and they put it down as being worth some £50,000 then. The diamonds were said to be very fine; and you can see the size of the stones for yourself.”
“I don’t think I’d trust it in a small safe like that, if it were mine,” said Westenhanger, glancing at the little iron door from which Rollo Dangerfield had taken the document. “Any man with a pocket crowbar could open that thing and get away with the Talisman.”
The old man laughed shortly.
“Don’t trouble about the safe. The Talisman is never put into that. The fact is, you have come up against another of the Dangerfield superstitions. The Talisman is never moved from its place by day or night. It stands where you see it, always.”
The American sat up suddenly.
“You leave it there, sir? You take no precautions against crooks? You don’t mean to tell me anyone could step in here, lift that bell, and clear off with the goods?”
He paused, as if struck by a thought. Then he continued in another tone.
“I take it that you’re fully covered by insurance?”
Rollo Dangerfield’s face took on a faintly sardonic expression. He seemed to enjoy surprising the American.
“Not at all. The Talisman has never been insured. Why should we insure it? It always comes back. We have electric alarms on all the outer doors and the windows, of course; but they are merely put on because my wife is nervous. The Talisman can look after itself, I assure you.”
Wraxall looked at his host in amazement.
“Do you really mean that?”
He thought for a moment, and then a fresh idea seemed to strike him.
“Now I see! You’ve got some medieval mantrap or spring-gun attached to the thing, something that grips your burglar if he comes after your property?”
Rollo Dangerfield’s laugh was quite free from sarcasm; he evidently enjoyed the jest which he alone could see.
“No, Mr. Wraxall, nary a spring-gun, as I believe some of your compatriots might say. Not so much as a mantrap. You could lift the thing from its bed at any hour of the day or night without the slightest risk. My nephew Eric has rooms in the tower above us; but even if he heard you, I doubt if he would trouble to interrupt you. We know our Talisman. It always comes home.”
The American was plainly astounded.
“It seems to me, Mr. Dangerfield, that you’re presuming a good deal on your safety in the past. Crooks nowadays aren’t likely to be frightened off by talk. No, it would take more than a Castle Spectre to keep some of our smashers out of here if they only knew what you’ve told us.”
Rollo Dangerfield’s white eyebrows contracted slightly. It was evident to them all that he was displeased at being doubted. He leaned forward and spoke directly to the American.
“Now this is authentic, Mr. Wraxall. You can look up the accounts in the local papers of the time, if you care to go to the trouble. I shall be very pleased to give you the dates, if necessary. At least twice within the last half century an attempt has been made to rob us of the Talisman. Once a drunken tramp made his way in here during the night and took the armlet. He was afraid to get rid of it anywhere near here; and three days later he was arrested for some other crime; the Talisman was found on him and returned to us. The second case was a genuine burglary. One of the keepers saw the man leave the house and gave chase. The fellow dropped dead—heart failure, it was said to be—and the Talisman was found in his hand.”
The American said nothing; but quite obviously he was not convinced. Old Dangerfield seemed to be nettled.
“I am not trying to convince you, Mr. Wraxall. I suppose that would be quite impossible. But I tell you this frankly: If the Talisman disappeared to-night, the last thing I should think of doing would be to call in the police. The Talisman guards itself. Within seven days at the outside, it would be back there under the bell.”
Eileen Cressage had been listening eagerly to the old man’s words; but at this last statement, her surprise broke out.
“You wouldn’t call in the police, Mr. Dangerfield? You’d really trust to the Talisman finding its way home? It seems amazing.”
“You may take me at my word, Miss Cressage. I mean exactly what I say in this matter. If the Talisman disappeared, either by day or by night, I should not trouble to call in police assistance. Why should I, when I know what I do know? Of course I mean what I say. Did you ever see anything like the Talisman guarded with so little care? If I did not believe implicitly that it would come back, wouldn’t I have it trenched round with all manner of protections? Of course! Let it go! What does that matter, since it is certain to be over there again before long.”
Conway Westenhanger turned from the Talisman’s niche, but as he crossed the tessellated floor his eye was caught by something which he had not noticed before. He stooped for an instant and glanced keenly at the corners of one or two squares.
“Something there that’s got plugged with dirt,” he reflected. “Holes a bit bigger than a large pin’s head, they seem to be. Nothing important, evidently, since they’re choked up in that fashion.”