I don’tpretend to account for it; I am merely giving the plain unvarnished tale of what took place to my certain knowledge at Jack Drage’s house in Kent during the week-end which finished so disastrously. Doubtless there is an explanation: maybe there are several. The believers in spiritualism and things psychic will probably say that the tragedy was due to the action of a powerful influence which had remained intact throughout the centuries; the materialists will probably say it was due to indigestion. I hold no brief for either side: as the mere narrator, the facts are good enough for me. And, anyway, the extremists of both schools of thought are quite irreconcilable.
There were six of us there, counting Jack Drage and his wife. Bill Sibton in the Indian Civil, Armytage in the Gunners, and I—Staunton by name, and a scribbler of sorts—were the men: little Joan Neilson—Armytage’s fiancée—supported Phyllis Drage. Ostensibly we were there to shoot a few pheasants, but it was more than a mere shooting party. It was a reunion after long years of us four men who had been known at school as the Inseparables. Bill had been in India for twelve years, save for the inevitable gap in Mesopotamia; Dick Armytage had soldiered all over the place ever since he’d left the Shop. And though I’d seen Jack off and on since our school-days, I’d lost touch with him since he’d married. Wives play the deuce with bachelor friends though they indignantly deny it—God bless ’em. At least, mine always does.
It was the first time any of us had been inside Jack’s house, and undoubtedly he had the most delightful little property. The house itself was old, but comfortably modernised by an expert, so that the charm of it still remained. In fact, the only room which had been left absolutely intact was the dining-room. And to have touched that would have been sheer vandalism. The sole thing that had been done to it was to install central heating, and that had been carried out so skilfully that no trace of the work could be seen.
It was a room by itself, standing apart from the rest of the house, with a lofty vaulted roof in which one could just see the smoky old oak beams by the light of the candles on the dinner-table. A huge open fireplace jutted out from one of the longer walls; while on the opposite side a door led into the garden. And then, at one end, approached by the original staircase at least six centuries old, was the musicians’ gallery.
A wonderful room—a room in which it seemed almost sacrilege to eat and smoke and discuss present-day affairs—a room in which one felt that history had been made. Nothing softened the severe plainness of the walls save a few mediæval pikes and battleaxes. In fact, two old muskets of the Waterloo era were the most modern implements of the collection. Of pictures there was only one—a very fine painting of a man dressed in the fashion of the Tudor period—which hung facing the musicians’ gallery.
It was that that caught my eye as we sat down to dinner, and I turned to Jack.
“An early Drage?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact—no relation at all,” he answered. “But a strong relation to this room. That’s why I hang him there.”
“Any story attached thereto?”
“There is; though I can’t really do it justice. The parson here is the only man who knows the whole yarn.—By the way, old dear,” he spoke to his wife across the table, “the reverend bird takes tea with us to-morrow. But he is the only man who has the thing at his finger tips. The previous owner was a bit vague himself, but having a sense of the fitness of things, he gave me a chance of buying the picture. Apparently it’s a painting of one Sir James Wrothley who lived round about the time of Henry VIII. He was either a rabid Protestant or a rabid Roman Catholic—I told you I was a bit vague over details—and he used this identical room as a secret meeting-place for himself and his pals to hatch plots against his enemies.”
“Jackisso illuminating, isn’t he?” laughed his wife.
“Well, I bet you can’t tell it any better yourself,” he retorted with a grin. “I admit my history is weak. But anyway, about that time, if the jolly old Protestants weren’t burning the R.C.’s, the R.C.’s were burning the Protestants. A period calling for great tact, I’ve always thought. Well, at any rate, this Sir James Wrothley—when his party was being officially burned—came here and hatched dark schemes to reverse the procedure. And then, apparently, one day somebody blew the gaff, and the whole bunch of conspirators in here were absolutely caught in the act by the other crowd, who put ’em all to death on the spot. Which is all I can tell you about it.”
“I must ask the padre to-morrow,” I said to his wife. “I’d rather like to hear the whole story. I felt when I first came into this room there was history connected with it.”
She looked at me rather strangely for a moment; then she gave a little forced laugh.
“Do you know, Tom,” she said slowly, “at times I almost hate this room. All my friends gnash their teeth with envy over it—but sometimes, when Jack’s been away, and I’ve dined in here by myself—it’s terrified me. I feel as if—I wasn’t alone: as if—there were people all round me—watching me. Of course, it’s absurd, I know. But I can’t help it. And yet I’m not a nervy sort of person.”
“I don’t think it’s at all absurd,” I assured her. “I believe I should feel the same myself. A room of this size, which, of necessity, is dimly lighted in the corners, and which is full of historical associations, must cause an impression on the least imaginative person.”
“We used it once for a dance,” she laughed; “with a ragtime band in the gallery.”
“And a great show it was, too,” broke in her husband. “The trouble was that one of the musicians got gay with a bottle of whisky, and very nearly fell clean through that balustrade effect on to the floor below. I haven’t had that touched—and the wood is rotten.”
“I pray you be seated, gentlemen.” A sudden silence fell on the table, and everybody stared at Bill Sibton.
“Is it a game, Bill?” asked Jack Drage. “I rather thought we were. And what about the ladies?”
With a puzzled frown Bill Sibton looked at him. “Did I speak out loud, then?” he asked slowly.
“And so early in the evening too!” Joan Neilson laughed merrily.
“I must have been day-dreaming, I suppose. But that yarn of yours has rather got me, Jack; though in the course of a long and evil career I’ve never heard one told worse. I was thinking of that meeting—all of them sitting here. And then suddenly that door bursting open.” He was staring fixedly at the door, and again a silence fell on us all.
“The thunder of the butts of their muskets on the woodwork.” He swung round and faced the door leading to the garden. “And on that one, too. Can’t you hear them? No escape—none. Caught like rats in a trap.” His voice died away to a whisper, and Joan Neilson gave a little nervous laugh.
“You’re the most realistic person, Mr. Sibton. I think I prefer hearing about the dance.”
I glanced at my hostess—and it seemed to me that there was fear in her eyes as she looked at Bill. Sometimes now I wonder if she had some vague premonition of impending disaster: something too intangible to take hold of—something the more terrifying on that very account.
It was after dinner that Jack Drage switched on the solitary electric light of which the room boasted. It was so placed as to show up the painting of Sir James Wrothley, and in silence we all gathered round to look at it. A pair of piercing eyes set in a stern aquiline face stared down at us from under the brim of a hat adorned with sweeping plumes; his hand rested on the jewelled hilt of his sword. It was a fine picture in a splendid state of preservation, well worthy of its place of honour on the walls of such a room, and we joined in a general chorus of admiration. Only Bill Sibton was silent, and he seemed fascinated—unable to tear his eyes away from the painting.
“As a matter of fact, Bill,” said Dick Armytage, studying the portrait critically, “he might well be an ancestor of yours. Wash out your moustache, and give you a fancy-dress hat, and you’d look very much like the old bean.”
He was quite right: there was a distinct resemblance, and it rather surprised me that I had not noticed it myself. There were the same deep-set piercing eyes, the same strong, slightly hatchet face, the same broad forehead. Even the colouring was similar: a mere coincidence that, probably—but one which increased the likeness. In fact, the longer I looked the more pronounced did the resemblance become, till it was almost uncanny.
“Well, he can’t be, anyway,” said Bill abruptly. “I’ve never heard of any Wrothley in the family.” He looked away from the picture almost with an effort and lit a cigarette. “It’s a most extraordinary thing, Jack,” he went on after a moment, “but ever since we came into this room I’ve had a feeling that I’ve been here before.”
“Good Lord, man, that’s common enough in all conscience. One often gets that idea.”
“I know one does,” answered Bill. “I’ve had it before myself; but never one-tenth as strongly as I feel it here. Besides, that feeling generally dies—after a few minutes: it’s growing stronger and stronger with me every moment I stop in here.”
“Then let’s go into the drawing-room,” said our hostess. “I’ve had the card-table put in there.”
We followed her and Joan Neilson into the main part of the house; and since neither of the ladies played, for the next two hours we four men bridged. And then, seeing that it was a special occasion, we sat yarning over half-forgotten incidents till the room grew thick with smoke and the two women fled to bed before they died of asphyxiation.
Bill, I remember, waxed eloquent on the subject of politicians, with a six weeks’ experience of India, butting in on things they knew less than nothing about; Dick Armytage grew melancholy on the subject of the block in promotion. And then the reminiscences grew more personal, and the whisky sank lower and lower in the tantalus as one yarn succeeded another.
At last Jack Drage rose with a yawn and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
“Two o’clock, boys. What about bed?”
“Lord! is it really?” Dick Armytage stretched himself. “However, no shooting to-morrow, or, rather, to-day. We might spend the Sabbath dressing Bill up as his nibs in the next room.”
A shadow crossed Bill’s face.
“I’d forgotten that room,” he said, frowning. “Damn you, Dick!”
“My dear old boy,” laughed Armytage, “you surely don’t mind resembling the worthy Sir James! He’s a deuced sight better-looking fellow than you are.”
Bill shook his head irritably.
“It isn’t that at all,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking of the picture.” He seemed to be on the point of saying something else—then he changed his mind. “Well—bed for master.”
We all trooped upstairs, and Jack came round to each of us to see that we were all right.
“Breakfast provisionally nine,” he remarked. “Night-night, old boy.”
The door closed behind him, and his steps died away down the passage as he went to his own room.
· · · · ·
By all known rules I should have been asleep almost as my head touched the pillow. A day’s rough shooting, followed by bed at two in the morning should produce that result if anything can, but in my case that night it didn’t. Whether I had smoked too much, or what it was, I know not, but at half-past three I gave up the attempt and switched on my light. Then I went over, and pulling up an armchair, I sat down by the open window. There was no moon, and the night was warm for the time of year. Outlined against the sky the big dining-room stretched out from the house, and, as I lit a cigarette, Jack Drage’s vague story returned to my mind. The conspirators, meeting by stealth to hatch some sinister plot; the sudden alarm as they found themselves surrounded; the desperate fight against overwhelming odds—and then, the end. There should be a story in it, I reflected; I’d get the parson to tell me the whole thing accurately next day. The local colour seemed more appropriate when one looked at the room from the outside, with an occasional cloud scudding by over the big trees beyond. Savoured more of conspiracy and death than when dining inside, with reminiscences of a jazz band in the musicians’ gallery.
And at that moment a dim light suddenly filtered out through the windows. It was so dim that at first I thought I had imagined it; so dim that I switched off my own light in order to make sure. There was no doubt about it: faint but unmistakable the reflection showed up on the ground outside. A light had been lit in the old dining-room: therefore someone must be in there. At four o’clock in the morning!
For a moment or two I hesitated: should I go along and rouse Jack? Someone might have got in through the garden door, and I failed to see why I should fight another man’s burglar in his own house. And then it struck me it would only alarm his wife—I’d get Bill, whose room was opposite mine.
I put on some slippers and crossed the landing to rouse him. And then I stopped abruptly. His door was open; his room was empty. Surely it couldn’t be he who had turned on the light below?
As noiselessly as possible I went downstairs, and turned along the passage to the dining-room. Sure enough the door into the main part of the house was ajar, and the light was shining through the opening. I tiptoed up to it and looked through the crack by the hinges.
At first I could see nothing save the solitary electric light over the portrait of Sir James. And then in the gloom beyond I saw a tall figure standing motionless by the old oak dining-table. It was Bill—even in the dim light I recognised that clean-cut profile; Bill clad in his pyjamas only, with one hand stretched out in front of him, pointing. And then, suddenly, he spoke.
“You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!”
Nothing more—just that one remark; his hand still pointing inexorably across the table. Then after a moment he turned so that the light fell full on his face, and I realised what was the matter. Bill Sibton was walking in his sleep.
Slowly he came towards the door behind which I stood, and passed through it—so close that he almost touched me as I shrank back against the wall. Then he went up the stairs, and as soon as I heard him reach the landing above, I quickly turned out the light in the dining-room and followed him. His bedroom door was closed: there was no sound from inside.
There was nothing more for me to do: my burglar had developed into a harmless somnambulist. Moreover, it suddenly struck me that I had become most infernally sleepy myself. So I did not curse Bill mentally as much as I might have done. I turned in, and my nine o’clock next morning was very provisional.
So was Bill Sibton’s: we arrived together for breakfast at a quarter to ten. He looked haggard and ill, like a man who has not slept, and his first remark was to curse Dick Armytage.
“I had the most infernal dreams last night,” he grumbled. “Entirely through Dick reminding me of this room. I dreamed the whole show that took place in here in that old bird’s time.”
He pointed to the portrait of Sir James.
“Did you!” I remarked, pouring out some coffee. “Must have been quite interesting.”
“I know I wasn’t at all popular with the crowd,” he said. “I don’t set any store by dreams myself—but last night it was really extraordinarily vivid.” He stirred his tea thoughtfully.
“I can quite imagine that, Bill. Do you ever walk in your sleep?”
“Walk in my sleep? No.” He stared at me surprised. “Why?”
“You did last night. I found you down here at four o’clock in your pyjamas. You were standing just where I’m sitting now, pointing with your hand across the table. And as I stood outside the door you suddenly said, ‘You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!’ ”
“Part of my dream,” he muttered. “Sir Henry Brayton was the name of the man—and he was the leader. They were all furious with me about something. We quarrelled—and after that there seemed to be a closed door. It was opening slowly, and instinctively I knew there was something dreadful behind it. You know the terror of a dream; the primordial terror of the mind that cannot reason against something hideous—unknown——” I glanced at him: his forehead was wet with sweat. “And then the dream passed. The door didn’t open.”
“Undoubtedly, my lad,” I remarked lightly, “you had one whisky too many last night.”
“Don’t be an ass, Tom,” he said irritably. “I tell you—though you needn’t repeat it—I’m in a putrid funk of this room. Absurd, I know: ridiculous. But I can’t help it. And if there was a train on this branch line on Sunday, I’d leave to-day.”
“But, good Lord, Bill,” I began—and then I went on with my breakfast. There was a look on his face which it is not good to see on the face of a man. It was terror: an abject, dreadful terror.
He and Jack Drage were out for a long walk when the parson came to tea that afternoon—a walk of which Bill had been the instigator. He had dragged Jack forth, vigorously protesting, after lunch, and we had cheered them on their way. Bill had to get out of the house—I could see that. Then Dick and the girl had disappeared, in the way that people in their conditiondodisappear, just before Mr. Williams arrived. And so only Phyllis Drage was there, presiding at the tea-table, when I broached the subject of the history of the dining-room.
“He spoils paper, Mr. Williams,” laughed my hostess, “and he scents copy. Jack tried to tell the story last night, and got it hopelessly wrong.”
The clergyman smiled gravely.
“You’ll have to alter the setting, Mr. Staunton,” he remarked, “because the story is quite well known round here. In my library at the vicarage I have an old manuscript copy of the legend. And indeed, I have no reason to believe that it is a legend: certainly the main points have been historically authenticated. Sir James Wrothley, whose portrait hangs in the dining-room, lived in this house. He was a staunch Protestant—bigoted to a degree; and he fell very foul of Cardinal Wolsey, who you may remember was plotting for the Papacy at the time. So bitter did the animosity become, and so high did religious intoleration run in those days, that Sir James started counter-plotting against the Cardinal; which was a dangerous thing to do. Moreover, he and his friends used the dining-room here as their meeting-place.”
The reverend gentleman sipped his tea; if there was one thing he loved it was the telling of this story, which reflected so magnificently on the staunch no-Popery record of his parish.
“So much is historical certainty; the rest is not so indisputably authentic. The times of the meetings were, of course, kept secret—until the fatal night occurred. Then, apparently, someone turned traitor. And, why I cannot tell you, Sir James himself was accused by the others—especially Sir Henry Brayton. Did you say anything, Mr. Staunton?”
“Nothing,” I remarked quietly. “The name surprised me for a moment. Please go on.”
“Sir Henry Brayton was Sir James’s next-door neighbour, almost equally intolerant of anything savouring of Rome. And even while, so the story goes, Wolsey’s men were hammering on the doors, he and Sir Henry had this dreadful quarrel. Why Sir James should have been suspected, whether the suspicions were justified or not I cannot say. Certainly, in view of what we know of Sir James’s character, it seems hard to believe that he could have been guilty of such infamous treachery. But that the case must have appeared exceedingly black against him is certain from the last and most tragic part of the story.”
Once again Mr. Williams paused to sip his tea; he had now reached that point of the narrative where royalty itself would have failed to hurry him.
“In those days, Mrs. Drage, there was a door leading into the musicians’ gallery from one of the rooms of the house. It provided no avenue of escape if the house was surrounded—but its existence was unknown to the men before whose blows the other doors were already beginning to splinter. And suddenly through this door appeared Lady Wrothley. She had only recently married Sir James: in fact, her first baby was then on its way. Sir James saw her, and at once ceased his quarrel with Sir Henry. With dignity he mounted the stairs and approached his girl-wife—and in her horror-struck eyes he saw that she, too, suspected him of being the traitor. He raised her hand to his lips; and then as the doors burst open simultaneously and Wolsey’s men rushed in—he dived headforemost on to the floor below, breaking his neck and dying instantly.
“The story goes on to say,” continued Mr. Williams, with a diffident cough, “that even while the butchery began in the room below—for most of the Protestants were unarmed—the poor girl collapsed in the gallery, and shortly afterwards the child was born. A girl baby, who survived, though the mother died. One likes to think that if she had indeed misjudged her husband, it was a merciful act on the part of the Almighty to let her join him so soon. Thank you, I will have another cup of tea. One lump, please.”
“A most fascinating story, Mr. Williams,” said Phyllis. “Thank you so much for having told us. Can you make anything out of it, Tom?”
I laughed.
“The criminal reserves his defence. But it’s most interesting, Padre, most interesting, as Mrs. Drage says. If I may, I’d like to come and see that manuscript.”
“I shall be only too delighted,” he murmured with old-fashioned courtesy. “Whenever you like.”
And then the conversation turned on things parochial until he rose to go. The others had still not returned, and for a while we two sat on talking as the spirit moved us in the darkening room. At last the servants appeared to draw the curtains, and it was then that we heard Jack and Bill in the hall.
I don’t know what made me make the remark; it seemed to come without my volition.
“If I were you, Phyllis,” I said, “I don’t think I’d tell the story of the dining-room to Bill.”
She looked at me curiously.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know—but I wouldn’t.” In the brightly lit room his fears of the morning seemed ridiculous; yet, as I say, I don’t know what made me make the remark.
“All right; I won’t,” she said gravely. “Do you think——”
But further conversation was cut short by the entrance of Bill and her husband.
“Twelve miles if an inch,” growled Drage, throwing himself into a chair. “You awful fellow.”
Sibton laughed.
“Do you good, you lazy devil. He’s getting too fat, Phyllis, isn’t he?”
I glanced at him as he, too, sat down: in his eyes there remained no trace of the terror of the morning.
And now I come to that part of my story which I find most difficult to write. From the story-teller’s point of view pure and simple, it is the easiest; from the human point of view I have never tackled anything harder. Because, though the events I am describing took place months ago—and the first shock is long since past—I still cannot rid myself of a feeling that I was largely to blame. By the cold light of reason I can exonerate myself; but one does not habitually have one’s being in that exalted atmosphere. Jack blames himself; but in view of what happened the night before—in view of the look in Bill’s eyes that Sunday morning—I feel that I ought to have realised that there were influences at work which lay beyond my ken—influences which at present lie not within the light of reason. And then at other times I wonder if it was not just a strange coincidence and an—accident. God knows: frankly, I don’t.
We spent that evening just as we had spent the preceding one, save that in view of shooting on Monday morning we went to bed at midnight. This time I fell asleep at once—only to be roused by someone shaking my arm. I sat up blinking: it was Jack Drage.
“Wake up, Tom,” he whispered. “There’s a light in the dining-room, and we’re going down to investigate. Dick is getting Bill.”
In an instant I was out of bed.
“It’s probably Bill himself,” I said. “I found him down there last night walking in his sleep.”
“The devil you did!” muttered Jack, and at that moment Dick Armytage came in.
“Bill’s room is empty,” he announced; and I nodded.
“It’s Bill right enough,” I said. “He went back quite quietly last night. And, for Heaven’s sake, you fellows, don’t wake him. It’s very dangerous.”
Just as before the dining-room door was open, and the light filtered through into the passage as we tiptoed along it. Just as before we saw Bill standing by the table—his hand outstretched.
Then came the same words as I had heard last night.
“You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!”
“What the devil——” muttered Jack; but I held up my finger to ensure silence.
“He’ll come to bed now,” I whispered. “Keep quite still.”
But this time Bill Sibton did not come to bed; instead, he turned and stared into the shadows of the musicians’ gallery. Then, very slowly, he walked away from us and commenced to mount the stairs. And still the danger did not strike us.
Dimly we saw the tall figure reach the top and walk along the gallery, as if he saw someone at the end—and at that moment the peril came to the three of us.
To Dick and Jack the rottenness of the balustrade; to me—the end of the vicar’s story. What they thought I know not; but to my dying day I shall never forget my own agony of mind. In that corner of the musicians’ gallery—though we could see her not—stood Lady Wrothley; to the man walking slowly towards her the door was opening slowly—the door which had remained shut the night before—the door behind which lay the terror.
And then it all happened very quickly. In a frenzy we raced across the room, to get at him—but we weren’t in time. There was a rending of wood—a dreadful crash—a sprawling figure on the floor below. To me it seemed as if he had hurled himself against the balustrade, had literally dived downwards. The others did not notice it—so they told me later. But I did.
And then we were kneeling beside him on the floor.
“Dear God!” I heard Drage say in a hoarse whisper. “He’s dead; he’s broken his neck.”
· · · · ·
Such is my story. Jack Drage blames himself for the rottenness of the woodwork, but I feel it was my fault. Yes—it was my fault. I ought to have known, ought to have done something. Even if we’d only locked the dining-room door.
And the last link in the chain I haven’t mentioned yet. The vicar supplied that—though to him it was merely a strange coincidence.
The baby-girl—born in the gallery—a strange, imaginative child, so run the archives, subject to fits of awful depression and, at other times, hallucinations—married. She married in 1551, on the 30th day of October, Henry, only son of Frank Sibton and Mary his wife.
God knows: I don’t. It may have been an accident.
“But, Bill, I don’t understand. How much did you borrow from this man?”
Sybil Daventry looked at her brother, sitting huddled up in his chair, with a little frown.
“I borrowed a thousand,” he answered, sulkily. “And like a fool I didn’t read the thing he made me sign—at least, not carefully. Hang it, I’ve only had the money six months, and now he’s saying that I owe him over two. I saw something about twenty-five per cent., and now I find it was twenty-five per cent. a month. And the swine is pressing for payment unless——” He broke off and stared into the fire shamefacedly.
“Unless what?” demanded his sister.
“Well, you see, it’s this way.” The boy stammered a little, and refused to look at her. “I was jolly well up the spout when this blighter told me what I owed him, and I suppose I must have showed it pretty clearly. Anyway, I was propping up the bar at the Cri., getting a cocktail, when a fellow standing next me started gassing. Not a bad sort of cove at all; knows you very well by sight.”
“Knows me?” said the girl, bewildered. “Who was he?”
“I’m coming to that later,” went on her brother. “Well, we had a couple more and then he suggested tearing a chop together. And I don’t know—he seemed so decent and all that—that I told him I was in the soup. Told him the whole yarn and asked his advice sort of business. Well, as I say, he was bally sporting about it all, and finally asked me who the bird was who had tied up the boodle. I told him, and here’s the lucky part of the whole show—this fellow Perrison knew him. Perrison was the man I was lunching with.”
He paused and lit a cigarette, while the girl stared at him gravely.
“Well,” she said at length, “go on.”
“It was after lunch that he got busy. He said to me: ‘Look here, Daventry, you’ve made a bally fool of yourself, but you’re not the first. I’ll write a note to Messrs. Smith and Co.’—those are the warriors who gave me the money—‘and try and persuade them to give you more time, or even possibly reduce the rate of interest.’ Of course, I was all on this, and I arranged to lunch with him again next day, after Smith and Co. had had time to function. And sure enough they did. Wrote a letter in which they were all over me; any friend of Mr. Perrison’s was entitled to special treatment, and so on and so forth. Naturally I was as bucked as a dog with two tails, and asked Perrison if I couldn’t do something more material than just thank him. And—er—he—I mean it was then he told me he knew you by sight.”
He glanced at his sister, and then quickly looked away again.
“He suggested—er—that perhaps I could arrange to introduce him to you; that it would be an honour he would greatly appreciate, and all that sort of rot.”
The girl was sitting very still. “Yes,” she said, quietly, “and you—agreed.”
“Well, of course I did. Hang it, he’s quite a decent fellow. Bit Cityish to look at, and I shouldn’t think he knows which end of a horse goes first. But he’s got me out of the devil of a hole, Sybil, and the least you can do is to be moderately decent to the bird. I mean it’s not asking much, is it? I left the governor looking at him in the hall as if he was just going to tread on his face, and that long slab—your pal—is gazing at him through his eyeglasses as if he was mad.”
“He’s not my pal, Bill.” Sybil Daventry’s colour heightened a little.
“Well, you asked him here, anyway,” grunted the boy. Then with a sudden change of tone he turned to her appealingly. “Syb, old girl—for the Lord’s sake play the game. You know what the governor is, and if he hears about this show—especially as it’s—as it’s not the first time—there’ll be the deuce to pay. You know he said last time that if it happened again he’d turn me out of the house. And the old man is as stubborn as a mule. I only want you to be a bit decent to Perrison.”
She looked at him with a grave smile. “If Mr. Perrison is satisfied with my being decent to him, as you put it, I’m perfectly prepared to play the game. But——” She frowned and rose abruptly. “Come on, and I’ll have a look at him.”
In silence they went downstairs. Tea had just been brought in, and the house-party was slowly drifting into the hall. But Sybil barely noticed them; her eyes were fixed on the man talking to her father. Or rather, at the moment, her father was talking to the man, and his remark was painfully audible.
“There is a very good train back to London at seven-thirty, Mr.—ah—Mr.——”
Her brother stepped forward. “But I say, Dad,” he said, nervously, “I asked Perrison to stop the night. I’ve just asked Sybil, and she says she can fix him up somewhere.”
“How do you do, Mr. Perrison?” With a charming smile she held out her hand. “Of course you must stop the night.”
Then she moved away to the tea-table, feeling agreeably relieved; it was better than she had expected. The man was well-dressed; perhaps, to her critical eye, a little too well-dressed—but still quite presentable.
“You averted a catastrophe, Miss Daventry.” A lazy voice beside her interrupted her thoughts, and with a smile she turned to the speaker.
“Dad is most pestilentially rude at times, isn’t he? And Bill told me he leftyoustaring at the poor man as if he was an insect.”
Archie Longworth laughed.
“He’d just contradicted your father flatly as you came downstairs. And on a matter concerning horses. However—the breeze has passed. But, tell me,” he stared at her gravely, “why the sudden invasion?”
Her eyebrows went up a little. “May I ask why not?” she said, coldly. “Surely my brother can invite a friend to the house if he wishes.”
“I stand corrected,” answered Longworth, quietly. “Has he known him long?”
“I haven’t an idea,” said the girl. “And after all, Mr. Longworth, I hadn’t known you very long when I asked you.”
And then, because she realised that there was a possibility of construing rather more into her words than she had intended, she turned abruptly to speak to another guest. So she failed to see the sudden inscrutable look that came into Archie Longworth’s keen blue eyes—the quick clenching of his powerful fists. But when a few minutes later she again turned to him, he was just his usual lazy self.
“Do you think your logic is very good?” he demanded. “You might have made a mistake as well.”
“You mean that you think my brother has?” she said, quickly.
“It is visible on the surface to the expert eye,” he returned, gravely. “But, in addition, I happen to have inside information.”
“Do you know Mr. Perrison, then?”
He nodded. “Yes, I have—er—met him before.”
“But he doesn’t know you,” cried the girl.
“No—at least—er—we’ll leave it at that. And I would be obliged, Miss Daventry, in case you happen to be speaking to him, if you would refrain from mentioning the fact that I know him.” He stared at her gravely.
“You’re very mysterious, Mr. Longworth,” said the girl, with an attempt at lightness.
“And if I may I will prolong my visit until our friend departs,” continued Longworth.
“Why, of course,” she said, bending over the tea-tray. “You weren’t thinking of going—going yet, were you?”
“I was thinking after lunch that I should have to go to-morrow,” he said, putting down his tea-cup.
“But why so soon?” she asked, and her voice was low. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“In the course of a life that has taken me into every corner of the globe,” he answered, slowly, “I have never dreamed that I could be so utterly and perfectly happy as I have been here. It has opened my mind to a vista of the Things that Might Be—if the Things that Had Been were different. But as you grow older, Sybil, you will learn one bitter truth: no human being can ever be exactly what he seems. Masks? just masks! And underneath—God and that being alone know.”
He rose abruptly, and she watched him bending over Lady Granton with his habitual lazy grace. The indolent smile was round his lips—the irrepressible twinkle was in his eyes. But for the first time he had called her Sybil; for the first time—sheknew. The vague forebodings conjured up by his words were swamped by that one outstanding fact; sheknew. And nothing else mattered.
It was not until Perrison joined her in the conservatory after dinner that she found herself called on to play the part set her by her brother.
She had gone there—though nothing would have induced her to admit the fact—in the hope that someone else would follow: the man with the lazy blue eyes and the eyeglass. And then instead of him had come Perrison, with a shade too much deference in his manner, and a shade too little control of the smirk on his face. With a sudden sick feeling she realised at that moment exactly where she stood. Under a debt of obligation to this man—under the necessity of atête-à-têtewith him, one, moreover, when, if she was to help Bill, she must endeavour to be extra nice.
For a while the conversation was commonplace, while she feverishly longed for someone to come in and relieve the tension. But Bridge was in progress, and there was Snooker in the billiard-room, and at length she resigned herself to the inevitable. Presumably she would have to thank him for his kindness to Bill; after all he undoubtedly had been very good to her brother.
“Bill has told me, Mr. Perrison, how kind you’ve been in the way you’ve helped him in this—this unfortunate affair.” She plunged valiantly, and gave a sigh of relief as she cleared the first fence.
Perrison waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t mention it, Miss Daventry, don’t mention it. But—er—of course, something will have to be done, and—well, there’s no good mincing matters—done very soon.”
The girl’s face grew a little white, but her voice was quite steady.
“But he told me that you had arranged things with these people. Please smoke, if you want to.”
Perrison bowed his thanks and carefully selected a cigarette. The moment for which he had been playing had now arrived, in circumstances even more favourable than he had dared to hope.
“Up to a point that is quite true,” he remarked, quietly. “Messrs. Smith and Co. have many ramifications of business—money-lending being only one of the irons they have in the fire. And because I have had many dealings with the firm professionally—over the sale of precious stones, I may say, which is my own particular line of work—they were disposed to take a lenient view about the question of the loan. Not press for payment, and perhaps—though I can’t promise this—even be content with a little less interest. But—er—Miss Daventry, it’s the other thing where the trouble is going to occur.”
The girl stared at him with dilated eyes. “What other thing, Mr. Perrison?”
“Hasn’t your brother told you?” said Perrison, surprised. “Oh, well, perhaps I—er—shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Go on, please.” Her voice was low. “What is this other thing?”
For a moment he hesitated—a well-simulated hesitation. Then he shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Well—if you insist. As a matter of fact, your brother didn’t tell me about it, and I only found it out in the course of my conversation with one of the Smith partners. Apparently some weeks ago he bought some distinctly valuable jewellery—a pearl-necklace, to be exact—from a certain firm. At least, when I say he bought it—he did not pay for it. He gave your father’s name as a reference, and the firm considered it satisfactory. It was worth about eight hundred pounds, this necklace, and your very stupid brother, instead of giving it to the lady whom, presumably, he had got it for, became worse than stupid. He became criminal.”
“What do you mean?” The girl was looking at him terrified.
“He pawned this necklace which he hadn’t paid for, Miss Daventry, which is, I regret to say, a criminal offence. And the trouble of the situation is that the firm he bought the pearls from has just found it out. He pawned it at a place which is one of the ramifications of Smith and Co., who gave him, I believe, a very good price for it—over five hundred pounds. The firm, in the course of business, two or three days ago—and this is the incredibly unfortunate part of it—happened to show this self-same necklace, while they were selling other things, to the man it had originally come from. Of course, being pawned, it wasn’t for sale—but the man recognised it at once. And then the fat was in the fire.”
“Do you mean to say,” whispered the girl, “that—that they might send him to prison?”
“Unless something is done very quickly, Miss Daventry, the matter will certainly come into the law courts. Messrs. Gross and Sons”—a faint noise from the darkness at the end of the conservatory made him swing round suddenly, but everything was silent again—“Messrs. Gross and Sons are very difficult people in many ways. They are the people it came from originally, I may tell you. And firms, somewhat naturally, differ, like human beings. Some are disposed to be lenient—others are not. I’m sorry to say Gross and Sons are one of those who are not.”
“But couldn’t you see them, or something, and explain?”
“My dear Miss Daventry,” said Perrison, gently, “I must ask you to be reasonable. What can I explain? Your brother wanted money, and he adopted a criminal method of getting it. That I am afraid—ugly as it sounds—is all there is to it.”
“Then, Mr. Perrison—can nothing be done?” She bent forward eagerly, her hands clasped, her lips slightly parted; and once again came that faint noise from the end of the conservatory.
But Mr. Perrison was too engrossed to heed it this time; the nearness, the appeal of this girl, who from the time he had first seen her six months previously at a theatre had dominated his life, was making his senses swim. And with it the veneer began to drop; the hairy heel began to show, though he made a tremendous endeavour to keep himself in check.
“There is one thing,” he said, hoarsely. “And I hope you will understand that I should not have been so precipitate—except for the urgency of your brother’s case. If I go to Messrs. Gross and say to them that a prosecution by them would affect me personally, I think I could persuade them to take no further steps.”
Wonder was beginning to dawn in the girl’s eyes. “Affect you personally?” she repeated.
“If, for instance, I could tell them that for family reasons—urgent, strong family reasons—they would be doing me a great service by letting matters drop, I think they would do it.”
She rose suddenly—wonder replaced by horror. She had just realised his full meaning.
“What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Perrison?” she said, haughtily.
And then the heel appeared in all its hairiness. “If I may tell them,” he leered, “that I am going to marry into the family I’ll guarantee they will do nothing more.”
“Marry you?” The biting scorn in her tone changed the leer to a snarl.
“Yes—marry me, or see your brother jugged. Money won’t save him—so there’s no good going to your father. Money will square up the Smith show—it won’t square the other.” And then his tone changed. “Why not, little girl? I’m mad about you; have been ever since I saw you at a theatre six months ago. I’m pretty well off even for these days, and——” He came towards her, his arms outstretched, while she backed away from him, white as a sheet. Her hands were clenched, and it was just as she had retreated as far as she could, and the man was almost on her, that she saw red. One hand went up; hit him—hit the brute—was her only coherent thought. And the man, realising it, paused—an ugly look in his eyes.
Then occurred the interruption. A strangled snort, as of a sleeper awakening, came from behind some palms, followed by the creaking of a chair. With a stifled curse Perrison fell back and the girl’s hand dropped to her side as the branches parted and Archie Longworth, rubbing his eyes, stepped into the light.
“Lord save us, Miss Daventry, I’ve been asleep,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I knew I oughtn’t to have had a third glass of port. Deuced bad for the liver, but very pleasant for all that, isn’t it, Mr.—Mr. Perrison?”
He smiled engagingly at the scowling Perrison, and adjusted his eyeglass.
“You sleep very silently, Mr. Longworth,” snarled that worthy.
“Yes—used to win prizes for it at an infant school. Most valuable asset in class. If one snores it disconcerts the lecturer.”
Perrison swung round on his heel. “I would like an answer to my suggestion by to-morrow, Miss Daventry,” he said, softly. “Perhaps I might have the pleasure of a walk where people don’t sleep off the effects of dinner.”
With a slight bow he left the conservatory, and the girl sat down weakly.
“Pleasant type of bird, isn’t he?” drawled Longworth, watching Perrison’s retreating back.
“He’s a brute—an utter brute,” whispered the girl, shakily.
“I thought the interview would leave you with that impression,” agreed the man.
She sat up quickly. “Did you hear what was said?”
“Every word. That’s why I was there.” He smiled at her calmly.
“Then why didn’t you come out sooner?” she cried, indignantly.
“I wanted to hear what he had to say, and at the same time I didn’t want you to biff him on the jaw—which from your attitude I gathered you were on the point of doing.”
“Why not? I’d have given anything to have smacked his face.”
“I know. I’d have given anything to have seen you do it. But—not yet. In fact, to-morrow you’ve got to go for a walk with him.”
“I flatly refuse!” cried Sybil Daventry.
“More than that,” continued Longworth, calmly, “you’ve got to keep him on the hook. Play with him; let him think he’s got a chance.”
“But why?” she demanded. “I loathe him.”
“Because it is absolutely essential that he should remain here until the day after to-morrow at the earliest.”
“I don’t understand.” She looked at him with a puzzled frown.
“You will in good time.” It seemed to her his voice was just a little weary. “Just now it is better that you shouldn’t. Do you trust me enough to do that, Sybil?”
“I trust you absolutely,” and she saw him wince.
“Then keep him here till I come back.”
“Are you going away, Archie?” Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm.
“To-morrow, first thing. I shall come back as soon as possible.”
For a moment or two they stood in silence, then, with a gesture strangely foreign to one so typically British, he raised her hand to his lips. And the next instant she was alone.
A little later she saw him talking earnestly to her brother in a corner; then someone suggested billiard-fives. An admirable game, but not one in which it is wise to place one’s hand on the edge of the table with the fingers over the cushion. Especially if the owner of the hand is not paying attention to the game. It was Perrison’s hand, and the agony of being hit on the fingers by a full-sized billiard ball travelling fast must be experienced to be believed. Of course it was an accident: Longworth was most apologetic. But in the middle of the hideous scene that followed she caught his lazy blue eye and beat a hasty retreat to the hall. Unrestrained mirth in such circumstances is not regarded as the essence of tact.
It was about ten o’clock on the morning of the next day but one that a sharp-looking, flashily-dressed individual presented himself at the door of Messrs. Gross and Sons. He was of the type that may be seen by the score any day of the week propping up the West-end bars and discoursing on racing form in a hoarse whisper.
“Mornin’,” he remarked. “Mr. Johnson here yet?”
“What do you want to see him about?” demanded the assistant.
“To tell him that your hair wants cutting,” snapped the other. “Hop along, young fellah; as an ornament you’re a misfit. Tell Mr. Johnson that I’ve a message from Mr. Perrison.”
The youth faded away, to return in a minute or two with a request that the visitor would follow him.
“Message from Perrison? What’s up?” Mr. Johnson rose from his chair as the door closed behind the assistant.
The flashy individual laughed and pulled out his cigarette-case.
“He’s pulled it off,” he chuckled. “At the present moment our one and only Joe is clasping the beauteous girl to his bosom.”
“Strike me pink—he hasn’t, has he?” Mr. Johnson slapped his leg resoundingly and shook with merriment.
“That’s why I’ve come round,” continued the other. “From Smith, I am. Joe wants to give her a little present on account.” He grinned again, and felt in his pocket. “Here it is—and he wants a receipt signed by you—acknowledging the return of the necklace which was sent out—on approval.” He winked heavily. “He’s infernally deep, is Joe.” He watched the other man as he picked up the pearls, and for a moment his blue eyes seemed a little strained. “He wants to give that receipt to the girl—so as to clinch the bargain.”
“Why the dickens didn’t he ’phone me direct?” demanded Johnson, and once again the other grinned broadly.
“Strewth!” he said, “I laughed fit to burst this morning. The ’phone at his girl’s place is in the hall, as far as I could make out, and Joe was whispering down it like an old woman with lumbago. ‘Take ’em round to Johnson,’ he said. ‘Approval—approval—you fool.’ And then he turned away and I heard him say—‘Good morning, Lady Jemima.’ Then back he turns and starts whispering again. ‘Do you get me, Bob?’ ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘I get you. You want me to take round the pearls to Johnson and get a receipt from him. And what about the other thing—you know, the money the young boob borrowed?’ ‘Put it in an envelope and send it to me here, with the receipt,’ he says. ‘I’m going out walking this morning.’ Then he rings off, and that’s that. Lord! think of Joe walking.”
The grin developed into a cackling laugh, in which Mr. Johnson joined.
“He’s deep—you’re right,” he said, admiringly. “Uncommonly deep. I never thought he’d pull it off. Though personally, mark you, I think he’s a fool. They’ll fight like cat and dog.” He rang a bell on his desk then opening a drawer he dropped the necklace inside.
“Bring me a formal receipt form,” he said to the assistant. “Have you got the other paper?” he asked, as he affixed the firm’s signature to the receipt, and the flashy individual produced it from his pocket.
“Here it is,” he announced. “Put ’em both in an envelope together and address it to Joe. I’m going along; I’ll post it.”
“Will you have a small tiddley before you go?” Mr. Johnson opened a formidable-looking safe, disclosing all the necessary-looking ingredients for the manufacture of small tiddleys.
“I don’t mind if I do,” conceded the other. “Here’s the best—and to the future Mrs. Joe.”
A moment or two later he passed through the outer office and was swallowed up in the crowd. And it was not till after lunch that day that Mr. Johnson got the shock of his life—when he opened one of the early evening papers.