"My dear sir," Laurence resumed, after a short pause, "you are well aware that your remarks are idle ones. I have no cause for complaint on any such grounds as those you mention. As a neighbour you are the most desirable that man could have, except——"
"Except what?"
"Except in one particular—the cause, as you very well know, of my presence here to-night."
"I am quite at a loss to understand what you mean, Mr.——." He hesitated for the other to supply the name.
"Carrington, as you are also well aware."
"Carrington! Oh, indeed! No relation, I suppose, to Major Harold Carrington, who was formerly stationed at Madras?"
"No; I have not heard of any relative who was an Indian officer. Curiously enough, though, my father is Harold Carrington. But pray let us put an end to all this twaddle. I was forgetting that you know as well as I do all about my unfortunate father."
"Really, Mr. Carrington, you amaze me. I can't imagine what you mean when you speak as you do. I was formerly intimately acquainted with a Major Carrington (who, as I have already stated, was an Indian officer of repute) when I was living at Madras, but since you say that your father is not that Harold Carrington, I regret that I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance, though you so persistently declare that I have."
Laurence did not reply for a moment. He was more than astonished at the convincing manner in which the Major spoke. Was he a marvellous actor, or was it possible that he had no connection with the Squire's would-be assassin? The latter idea was impossible. Had not he proved—and Lena, too—that there could be no doubt of the Major's close connection with the person whose headquarters seemed to be the Manse barn?
No, the man must be acting a part, as he might naturally be expected to do. And he was acting it so cleverly that Laurence was almost inclined to believe him to be ignorant of the terrible plot that was thickening round the unhappy Squire.
The man had already confessed—or had practically done so—that his name was not Major Jones-Farnell. He had been visibly concerned at the mention of the dog-whip. What did it mean?The first discovery clearly proved that the man was playing a part. The second surely pointed to the fact that he was not speaking sincerely.
"Well, Major," said Carrington, after a pause, which he had occupied in deliberating thus, "let us then, for the moment, drop the question of how much or how little you know about my father, and revert to the cause of your invitation so strangely delivered to me this morning."
"Ah, now we are talking sense," replied Laurence's companion; "you mean you wish to know why I requested you not to go to the police? But first, pray tell me on what grounds you intend—or shall we say intended?—applying for a warrant to search this house. A retiring disposition is no crime—at least, so my knowledge of legal subjects leads me to believe."
"Of course not," responded Laurence angrily; "kindly do not prevaricate. But, by the way, how did you send me that message this morning?"
"As to that, my servant is the best person for you to apply to for an answer. I presume, though, that he delivered the note by means of his catapult, a weapon and instrument in the use of which he is extremely proficient. You must excuse the mode of delivery. I am short-handed—my establishment consists of myself and my man."
"Indeed! and I am under the impression that the 'man' affects clothing that one does not usually see upon men!"
"For various reasons, I confess, my servant walks abroad in a harmless disguise."
"And attacks pedestrians in the high road!" muttered Laurence.
"Certainly not, unless they threaten him with pains and penalties that he does not deserve!" was the reply.
"Again let me impress upon you that the cause of my visit has not yet so much as been explained by you," exclaimed Carrington, enraged at the Major's repeated parrying of the question.
"I think you promised that you would first explain your reason for suspecting us, as you seem to, of crimes the nature of which you insist on refraining from mentioning."
"You know very well that I have good cause for suspicion. Tell me, what is the meaning of this darkened house; this secrecy; the necessity for disguise; and lastly, what is your connection with the person who stole my bicycle for a terrible purpose?"
Once again, as he made this last remark, did the visitor perceive noticeable tokens of concern on the face of his host. There was a look of dread—dreadof exposure—in his eyes. He puffed rapidly at his cigar—a sure sign of discomfort—and shifted two or three times in his seat before replying.
"You are pressing me very hard, Mr. Carrington," he said at length, "and I see no reason why I should answer your questions, which, you will pardon me for saying so, incline towards impertinence."
"I am entirely in the right when I request you to explain these mysteries to me. My father's position will enable me to obtain a search-warrant without much difficulty, and——"
"Very well, very well, I will tell you all," cried the Major, flinging his cigar stump into the empty fireplace, "though I must ask you to consider all I tell you as strictly private and confidential. Is that not so?"
"It depends entirely upon the nature of your confession," responded Laurence drily.
"Confession! You use hard-sounding words, Mr. Carrington. But here goes! First, my name is not Jones-Farnell. And, need I say, I am not an invalid."
"I knew that," Laurence interjected.
"In reality, I am one Orlando Meadows. Second, I am not of a military calling, my profession being that of medicine. Third, I am an authority on diseases of the brain, and particularly lunacy and itstreatment; and, finally, I have in my charge downstairs a very savage lunatic."
Laurence gasped with amazement. If this were the case—that is, if a maniac were really imprisoned in the house—was it not more than possible that he it was who had made the savage attack on the Squire, and who had been hiding since the night of the attack in the Manse barn?
"Tell me, what is he like?" he asked eagerly.
The "Major," or rather, Doctor Meadows, as he really was, looked at him with a puzzled expression on his well-formed features.
"He is gigantic," was his answer, after a moment's pause; "terribly powerful and repulsively ugly, but pray have no fear on that account. I have him under the strongest lock and key that London can supply."
But Laurence's hopes had been dashed to the ground. The description of Meadows' patient was as dissimilar to that of the person in the barn as it was possible for it to be, and the lunatic was safely locked up downstairs!
The confidence with which the visitor had accepted the doctor's confession was destroyed. Meadows was lying to him, that was quite certain, and yet his story had a complexion of probability about it that deserved attention.
"Doctor!" cried Laurence sternly, "will you take your oath that you are telling me the truth?"
"This is an unpardonable insult," exclaimed Meadows in reply, rising to his feet and clenching his fists in the air. "How dare you insinuate that I am telling lies?"
"Keep calm, if you please, Doctor Meadows," said Carrington. "Prove your assertion by showing me this gigantic patient of yours."
Instantly there was a change in the doctor's behaviour. He collapsed into his seat with a groan of despair.
"That is impossible," he muttered.
"Why so?"
"It would be unsafe; in fact, positively dangerous to both you and myself," he stammered.
"As a doctor you should be able to tackle your patient," said Laurence. "As a fairly strong and athletic man I can assist you. If necessary, there is also your servant. That is, we are three to one. No, Doctor, I can't take such excuses. You must prove your words by at least giving me certain evidence that you have a maniac in your charge downstairs."
"I cannot and I will not," replied the other.
"Then I shall go down and explore the place myself."
"For Heaven's sake, don't," shrieked Meadows, starting up again; "it will be all the worse for you if you do. I forbid you to leave the room until I give you permission, and then my servant will accompany you to the door."
Laurence was puzzled beyond description by the doctor's behaviour. Why was he so anxious that his guest should not explore the house? Was it that he really feared his patient might break loose and attack him? For the matter of that, had he a maniac patient at all? Might not the story be entirely fictitious? Could it be that the black creature (if he or she were really black) who was waging such active warfare against the Squire was in lurking in Durley Dene?
This would account for Meadows' consternation when the idea of Laurence visiting the other rooms in the house was suggested to him. At any rate, the probability of such being the case was worthy of consideration.
"You have someone hiding downstairs—don't deny it!" cried Laurence suddenly.
Meadows' face became deadly pale.
"Yes," he replied hesitatingly. "I told you I had a lunatic—a fierce maniac—whom I am taking charge of downstairs, when I know that by rights he should be in the padded cell of an asylum."
Again did the young man perceive that his companion was lying. His manner was that of a man who is telling a falsehood on which much depends.
"I tell you——" he began, but at that moment an interruption occurred.
The door was thrown open roughly, and a man entered. Laurence recognised him as the person who had played the double part of janitor and market-woman. He was a man of an unprepossessing, not to say criminal, type, and spoke in a surly tone.
"This bit o' paper were 'anded in by an old man a few minutes ago. To be given to Mr. Laurence at once," the man said.
"Then give it to this gentleman," the doctor replied, and the servant did so.
Laurence seized the roughly twisted note with a trembling hand. What was the meaning of a letter coming to him at the Dene? No one but Lena knew where he was. A glance told him that the words hastily scrawled in pencil on a half-sheet of paper were in Miss Scott's usually distinct handwriting.
And this was the terrible message the note contained:—
"Come at once. The Squire has been murdered!"
"You must excuse me, Doctor," shouted Laurence, when he learned the terrible tidings contained on the slip of paper; "my father has been murdered! I must go this moment." And he rose, so saying, and darted towards the door.
"Stop him, for Heaven's sake!" shrieked Meadows to the dark-faced servant who stood in the doorway. And so it was that young Carrington found his passage blocked, and himself flung violently back with such force as one would hardly expect from a medium-sized man like the mysterious doctor's servant.
"Escort Mr. Carrington to the door," ordered Meadows, adding to Laurence, "Forgive me for such treatment. Go at once with Horn—er—Smith; I heartily sympathise with you—that is," was his strange remark, "if you are not deceiving me with an idle story."
But the young man hardly heard the other's muttered words and farewell. In an agony of dismayand horror at the awful intelligence, he dragged the man-servant from the room.
"Guide me to the door," he cried hoarsely, "and quick."
In the weird darkness outside the well-lighted room in which the interview had taken place he was more than helpless in his anxious haste. He charged headlong against the walls and balustrades, the man swearing angrily at him as he clung to his arm.
"Steady, you fool," the guide shouted, "or I shall leave you to yourself, and then——"
But Laurence knew only too well that without the man's guidance he could not hope to find his way out of the house of gloom, for he had made the alarming discovery that he had used his last vesta to light his pipe after dinner. So he calmed himself as best he could, and permitted the man to lead him downstairs.
In the hall Carrington found himself stopped short.
"Come on, let me out, quick!" he exclaimed, horrified to find that the janitor had gripped his shoulders with the strength of a vice.
"All in good time, my pretty," replied the other, and in the darkness, which corresponded to the biblical description of that which "could befelt," the young man thought he had never heard words pronounced in such a diabolical tone. "What would you say if I refused to let you go, my son? Ha, ha, you're in my power. Struggle as you may, I have got you as safe as if you were in Dartmoor, and, what's more, I shan't let you go until you make it worth my while."
He laughed coarsely and brutally. In the black gloom, and judging by his voice, he might have been some fiend from the nether world. Was there ever such a strange house and such strange inhabitants, thought Laurence, as he struggled to free his hand for one moment, so that he might seize the pistol with which to silence the man's demands and to assist his own departure to the home where he was so greatly needed.
There was no denying that Laurence Carrington was a fairly strong man, yet in the hands of this strange guide he seemed as helpless as a rat.
With anything but good grace he offered the servant half a sovereign if he would instantly open the front door for him and offer no further molestation.
"Make it a thick 'un," whispered the man, with something like a leer; "make it a sov., mister, and you shall go free."
"You scoundrel!" cried Laurence, "I shall report your conduct to your master."
"Ha, ha! D'yer think I care?" replied the rascal; "he's no more to me than that." He snapped his fingers loudly.
"All right, let me out of the door, and I'll give you a sovereign."
"That I won't, unless you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you don't produce any firearms," replied the man, with a dig at Laurence's ribs which caused the latter to lounge out with his knee at where he imagined the other to be.
"All right, I promise."
"There you are, then. Fork out the gold boy."
Laurence fumbled in his pocket on his arms being released, and produced a coin from his pocket—the first he laid hands on—and passed it to Smith. As he did so, a sound broke upon the grave-like stillness of this house of mystery—a sound that seemed to rise from the basement or cellars, a long-drawn, terrible cry—the unnatural, nay, fiendish shriek of a person in the agonies of death.
And simultaneously the door opened, and Laurence found himself thrust hurriedly out into the night.
Before he could turn, or could realise the meaning of that awful sound, the door clanged upon him.
Then once more there was silence, unbroken save by the sudden hoot of an owl in a distant tree.
At last he was free from the horrors of that strange house—Durley Dene—and Laurence Carrington felt that for the moment he could breathe again. Then he remembered the cause of his hasty departure from Doctor Meadows' handsome sitting-room.
Running like mad down the dark drive and up the avenue that led to his home, he at length reached the front door of the Manse, opened it with his latch-key, and passed through at the height of his speed.
No one was about. The passages were deserted. But from upstairs came the sound of loud weeping. He leaped up the staircase, never stopping until he reached the Squire's bedroom, the door of which was open.
On the floor just inside the room sat Mrs. Knox crying loudly. A female servant stood by her in an equally hysterical state.
Laurence brushed past them, entered the room, and approached the old-fashioned bed, round which stood the butler, the housekeeper, and Lena.
On the bed, fully dressed, lay the body of his father, the Squire, stretched out in death. The face was a ghastly colour—a slaty shade of blue. The veins in it stood out like strips of whalebone. The chest protruded in an unnatural manner. The eyes were yet half opened. The fingers clutched tightly at the bedclothes. There was no sign that any breath remained in the old gentleman's body.
"Have you sent for Bathurst?" Laurence asked hoarsely, addressing the butler.
"Yes, sir, I sent Head for the doctor and expect him every moment, but I'm afeard it's all up with the master. He was dead when I found him."
"Silence! He is not dead—he cannot be dead." And Laurence threw himself on his knees beside the bed, and laid his hand gently over his father's heart. But there was no perceptible movement.
The doctor, a big, powerful-looking man in a tweed suit, entered the room a moment later.
"This is indeed terrible," he said to Laurence as he made his way to the bedside. Then he leant down and ripped open the Squire's shirt at the neck, and in his turn felt for any movement of the heart. He shook his head ominously as he drew his hand away, and searching in his pocket produced a small mirror, which he held for a moment before the prostrate man's mouth.
"No, he's not dead," he said quietly, after a short pause, "but in a very bad way indeed." Next he commenced giving his orders in an imperative tone to the servants who were waiting in the doorway. One of the first was that Mrs. Knox and the hysterical housemaid should be at once removed. Laurence whispered to Lena to take her aunt away, for the poor woman was incapable of understanding what was said to her.
The girl seized his hand and pressed it as she went to do as he had asked her. "Thank God," she murmured, "that you are safe," and the young man knew that this was something of an answer to the question he had put a few brief hours before.
Dr. Bathurst was an able physician. He had all his wits about him and did not lose them at the critical moment. Silently the butler and housekeeper, as well as Laurence, carried out his instructions. In a few moments the Squire's evening clothes had been removed and he had been placed between the sheets. Then the struggle between death and medical skill began, and so bravely did the doctor fight for the life of his patient that after two long hours of watching and unceasing attendance he was able to turn to Laurence, who had stood by his side throughout the vigil, and say, "He will live."
Then, at Bathurst's request, young Carrington left the sick-room to inform those who were waiting outside that the crisis was past.
"What had happened?" Laurence had asked himself time after time as he stood by the bedside. It must surely be that the second attempt on the helpless old man's life had been made by his terrible foe—the attempt that he had been dreading since that night on the moor.
Lena met him in the passage. She had prevailed upon her aunt to go to bed, and now was returning for news.
"Oh, isn't it awful to think of the fiend who has done this!" she cried, after learning that the Squire might yet live. "To think that your father is encompassed by a fearful, lurking danger, more horrible than that of the battle-field. What has he done? What does it all mean?"
But Laurence could not answer the question any better than she was able to. Had he not been striving ever since the attack on the carriage to discover what his father's secret was and why he stood in such mortal danger? But he had failed. He was no nearer the solution of the mystery after his visit to Durley Dene than he had been before.
"How did it happen? Do you know?" he asked. They had moved along the unlighted corridoruntil an open landing window, looking upon the lawn at the rear of the house, was reached.
"I know practically nothing at all about the sad event. The Squire went up to bed about an hour after you left, complaining of a headache. He had not been gone long when Kingsford appeared in a great state of alarm, excitedly exclaiming that he had entered Mr. Carrington's bedroom to assist him in undressing and had found what he believed to be your father's murdered corpse lying on the floor."
"On the floor! Then we might have known he was not dead, for he was clutching the sheets of the bed."
"Yes, he was laid on the bed directly I could get the butler to help me. Then I scribbled that note to you and sent Kingsford with it, much to his surprise on learning where you were. The rest you know. But you—you escaped, then?"
"Yes, indeed, but I know no more than I did before I started."
"And Major Farnell?"
"Is a gentleman—a man of mystery. His real name is Meadows, or at least he says it is. He has a villain of a servant, who tried to frighten me, and, lastly, he has a secret. But whether he is the real enemy of my poor father I do not know. His certainly was not the hand that was raised against theSquire to-day, for I was with him when this second attack must have been made."
"And the servant, was he in the room the whole time?" asked Lena, breathlessly.
"Great goodness, no! Why, who knows but that he is the man who wages such warfare against my father? And Meadows' secret is his knowledge of his man's mysterious connection with poor old dad! You're right; it must be so, Miss Scott. But," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "I have returned from Durley Dene, and once again I ask you the question to which you postponed your answer this morning."
"Hush!" replied the girl. "I cannot answer now, when death has come so near to the house, and this dreadful mystery is yet unsolved. But——"
His hand stole softly to hers, which lay upon the window-sill.
"But the fact that you have not said 'no' shows me that my chance is not quite hopeless, is that it?" he asked tenderly.
"Yes," she replied in so low a whisper that had he been any farther from her he would not have caught the welcome sound.
For a few moments neither spoke, then the girl withdrew her hand gently and whispered, "You must go back now and see how the dear old man is."
Suddenly she stopped short as she gazed out of the window upon the shadowy little panorama below. Laurence felt her fingers clutch his arm as she exclaimed, under her breath—
"Look! there's a man creeping along the side of the yard. There, beyond the lawn, just a few feet from the wall."
Laurence stared out into the semi-darkness in the direction towards which his companion was pointing.
She was right. There was somebody moving along towards the palisade on the boundary between the Manse and Durley Dene. It was a man, groping and crouching in the shadows, evidently fearing lest he should be seen from the house. At first it was too dark for the young man to recognise who the midnight prowler was. But after a time, either when his eyes became accustomed to the dark or because the moon peeped out for a moment from behind her curtain of black clouds, he was able to see more plainly, and as the doubled-up figure paused before disappearing through the bushes into the grounds of Durley Dene, Laurence had been able to catch a glimpse of the features of the nocturnal visitor.
To his amazement he saw that the trespasser was none other than Doctor Meadows, alias Major Jones-Farnell!
When Laurence visited his father's room at daybreak next morning he found that the doctor had not left the bedside since he had first been called in. The Squire was progressing as favourably as could be expected, Bathurst said, but it had been such a near squeak that the utmost care was necessary. To explain the nature of the attack on the old gentleman was, strange to say, more than the doctor could do with much accuracy. All he knew was that the patient's neck had almost been broken, the peculiar attitude of the body when found being the result of a powerful attempt by some person unknown to actually kill the victim by breaking his neck!
The doctor went on to recommend that a nurse should be sent down from town, suggesting that one of Burton's "private assistants" would be of peculiar value. It may be as well to mention that these "assistants" were men who were able to act very skilfully in their capacity of nurse, and were also reputable unofficial detectives.
The idea of working with a detective had suggested itself to Laurence before now, but, as has been said, he had feared to call in professional aid lest his father, who was so anxious to retain the secret which he undoubtedly shared with his desperate enemy, might object to the man's presence.
Now, however, things were in a different state. The Squire was unconscious, and, according to Bathurst, might possibly be so for days. At the best he would have to keep his bed for several weeks. During that time, with the assistance of a trained investigator, it seemed probable that the deep mystery which enshadowed Mr. Carrington might be cleared up.
Laurence accordingly despatched a telegram to Burton, the founder of the Private Assistance Bureau, requesting him to "kindly send down an able assistant at once," and then, after remaining a short time with Mrs. Featherston (the housekeeper), who had taken charge of the patient on the doctor's departure, he went downstairs to find the two ladies waiting for breakfast. Mrs. Knox was quite well again and inclined to abuse herself for the loss of her head on the previous night. Her indisposition had not, moreover, seriously affected her appetite. Lena looked pale and tired. She had hardly slept during the night, and no wonder. She alone, with theexception, of course, of Laurence, knew all the details of the mystery, and with the knowledge of the weird attacks on her host and of the unfathomable secrets of the Dene and the Manse barn, sleep was quite impossible. How numerous had the events of yesterday been! First, the message from the Major, then Laurence's proposal, afterwards her anxiety for the safety of the man with whom in the short time she had known him she had fallen desperately in love. Next, the attempted murder of Mr. Carrington, and, finally, the discovery that the master of Durley Dene had visited the grounds of the Manse at midnight for some mysterious purpose as yet unknown. Mrs. Knox, though she plainly demonstrated the unwelcomeness of the idea, was compelled to suggest that she and her niece should no longer trespass upon the kindness of their young host, when so much extra work would necessarily be the result of the Squire's serious illness. However, Laurence would not hear of their going, and Mrs. Knox did not take the trouble to make any further suggestions on the subject.
As soon as they could leave the dining-room without raising Mrs. Knox's suspicion that her niece knew more than she seemed to do, Laurence and Lena went out together into the garden, when the former told Miss Scott that a nurse-detective wascoming from London to assist in the solution of the mystery. The fact that he was anything but an ordinary male nurse was to be kept a secret—even from Mrs. Knox herself, for such Laurence knew to be one of the particular requests made to all employing Burton's assistants.
"Well, Laurence," said the girl after a pause in the conversation (she had taken to calling him by his Christian name since his departure to Durley Dene), "well, and have you thought of any more clues?"
"Alas, no. I spent the night thinking, but am no nearer the solution than before. This secret seems inviolable, but perhaps Burton's man will be able to help us. One or two things, though, have impressed me as worthy of consideration.
"First, as I have already told you, it seemed to me at the commencement of my interview that Meadows (we will call him by that name, though I doubt his right to it) was a wonderful actor. If he was playing a part he played it well. Not only did he pretend not to know me, but seemed both surprised at and interested in my carefully guarded assertions of his connection with my father. Yet, later on, when I mentioned the dog-whip (on which alone hangs a secret, I am sure), and afterwards signified my intention of exploring the house, hedid not in the least degree disguise his concern. This leads one to think him a very poor actor, for had he some secret to keep he need not fear, since, as to the latter remark of mine, I could not have explored far in the darkness, particularly when I was one man against at least two others; while, as to the other matter, if he could bravado my assertion that he and the Squire had some secret, why did he turn pale and grow nervous when I reminded him of the purchase of the dog-whip? It was in no way a remarkable article to buy, nor one I would be likely to connect with a deep, unsolvable problem.
"A second matter worth noticing is this, that the servant, whom his master had addressed as Smith (though that is probably not his name), and the doctor himself apparently are not on the best of terms with one another. The servant certainly does not respect his master. Why? Because, if your idea is a correct one, Meadows knows that Smith is slowly sealing my father's doom (as the Squire himself said). He may really be a harmless man, though I doubt it, and Smith may know something about his past, for instance, which prohibits him from discharging the servant, though he knows exactly what is going on. But then, if this were the case, what was Meadows doing in the yard at midnight, after his interview with me last evening?No, clearly he is one of the gang who are at such enmity with father.
"When the detective comes he will start from the assault last night, interview all the servants, and start his inquiry, so that it is of no use for us to do that now, but I am thinking that examination of the room may reveal some traces or clues. At any rate, now that we have called in the man, we must play second fiddle to him. It will be as well, too, to tell him all we know, and then do our best to run the poor old man's enemies to earth.
"Let us now, if there is nothing better to do, stroll down to the place where we saw the man Meadows last night, and see if he has left any clue behind him."
Together they crossed the lawn, and entered the courtyard in which stood the barn.
"That's where he was, that's where he went through the bushes and climbed over the palisade," said Lena, pointing in the direction of the Dene.
"Where did he start, though?" asked Laurence.
"Probably in the barn, or——" She ran forward, as though spurred by a sudden impulse. Carrington followed her in amazement to the little cycle shed, which she had entered.
"Look," cried the girl, and she pointed towards a corner in which stood the missing bicycle, cakedwith mud, and having the saddle lowered as though for some short rider.
"Gracious me! What made you think that the bicycle would be returned?" asked Laurence, when he had recovered from his surprise, caused by the return of the machine.
"Common sense," replied the girl, with a light laugh. "It suddenly occurred to me that it was just as likely the Major would go out at midnight to the cycle shed as to the barn, for we know that he could have no reason for visiting the latter——"
"Wait," Laurence interrupted. "You are wrong there. He might wish to see the mysterious creature who displayed gymnastic tricks for my sole benefit the night before last."
"My dear Mr. Carrington," replied Lena (and she used that title only because she wished to see his look of regret), "your memory is failing you. Why, you told me yourself that the monkey-like creature—or presumably it—was now within the walls of Durley Dene."
"You astound me, Miss Scott," replied Laurence; "really, I have no recollection of making such a statement."
"You silly boy," answered Lena, with ill-disguised mirth, "what about the strange cry thatdisturbed your interview with Smith as you were leaving the house last night?"
"Ah! Then you think that cry proceeded from the mouth of the person whom I encountered on the moor and again in the barn?"
"Well, it certainly appears to me that there is something similar in your description of the two sounds. But you yourself can judge better of that than I can."
"Yes; but why should this horrible creature scream as I was leaving the Dene, and if Smith is my father's would-be murderer, who is the person that used the barn as its headquarters?"
"If you knew that, Laurence, there would probably be no mystery at all. It is as to these points we have yet to decide."
"Then, do you mean that, in your opinion, the creature in the barn was not the attempted assassin?"
"We practically decided that last night when we noted the possibility of Smith having crept through the palisade and attacked your father in his room. From what you tell me about the man, I think it more than probable that we are at last on the right track. In brief, we have now come to the following conclusion—or, rather, supposition, for there is just the chance that we are wrong.
"Smith has some long-standing and, undoubtedly,fierce grudge against your father, which can only be paid off by death. He also has some control—powerful control—over this man Meadows. He compels the latter to take Durley Dene, and lets out through the house agent some ridiculous story about an invalid military gentleman of retiring disposition having taken the house. Learning the Squire's movements, he follows him to the Marquis's on your bicycle, which he kindly takes without asking your leave. Being shorter than you, he has to lower the saddle. After the attempt to murder the Squire by setting light to the house, he learns somehow or other that you have left, overtakes and shadows the carriage, and eventually attacks it. On being repulsed, he makes for home, concealing his tracks, as you are aware, by taking off his boots and carrying the bicycle into the Dene. He afterwards compels Meadows to return the cycle to the shed. Knowing who you are, he naturally objects to your having an interview with the sham Major, and is hardly polite when you apply for one.
"However, wishing to make a second attempt on the Squire's life, and to carry out his vile design, he conceives the plan of getting you out of the way."
"Good heavens! I believe you are right."
"He knows you to be energetic and suspicious,and arranges an interview for you with the 'Major,' during the course of which he manages to get into the house and attack the Squire, whom he presumably thinks he has killed. He gets back in time to take up my message, delivered by the butler, to you. Why he induced you to give him money I do not know. Possibly he would have done more—would have enticed you into some room—yes, and murdered you—had it not been for that shrill cry that suddenly disturbed him."
"Lena!" (the pet name slipped out unnoticed by both in Laurence's astonishment)—"Lena, you are a genius. You have solved the mystery."
"On the contrary, I am more in the dark than ever, for in addition to the secret of the man's enmity against your father, we have now to discover who is the strange creature of the shrill voice and ape-like agility, what his connection is with the people of the Dene, and, lastly, why, as I am firmly convinced, he is imprisoned in the basement of the house you visited last night."
Doctor Bathurst visited the house a second time on the day following that when the Squire met with his injury. He reported that all was going on as well as could be expected, though the patient still remained in an unconscious state.
A telegram had reached Laurence early in the afternoon, informing him that "Nurse arrives nine to-night," and at precisely the hour specified in the message a cab drew up at the outside gate of the Manse, and presently a tall cadaverous individual in sombre garments, that somehow suggested the undertaker, was ushered into the dining-room, where supper and Laurence awaited him.
"The—ahem—gentleman from Burton's!" said the young man as the nurse-detective stepped briskly into the room.
"Between yourself and me, yes; to others simply Potter, a qualified nurse," was the new-comer's reply.
"Ah, then your name is Potter?"
"Yes, Oliver Potter, formerly of New Scotland Yard. And the matter requiring my help?"
Laurence proceeded to explain, first motioning to the man to seat himself and try his hand at the viands. Not only did he describe the attempts on his father's life, but detailed his visit to the Dene, his adventure in the barn, and the incidents of the bicycle, which had been taken and eventually returned, and of the appearance of Meadows in the yard on the previous night.
"Ha! quite a nice little mystery," the detective remarked, with his mouth full, when Laurence had finished his narration of the events that seemed to have any bearing on the case in point; "a nice little mystery, apparently somewhat tangled, but no doubt quite superficial."
"I warrant that you will find it anything but superficial," responded Carrington, somewhat nettled at the remark, which seemed a reflection upon the efforts of Lena and himself to obtain some clue that might lead to the detection of the would-be murderer of the Squire. He went on to sketch briefly Miss Scott's undoubtedly ingenious manner of accounting for the various mysterious circumstances.
The detective smiled sarcastically.
"Ingenious, as you say, but most improbable.There must certainly be a simpler solution," he said. "But what of the patient—is he progressing as could be expected? Yes. That is good. It will leave me more time to work in my investigating capacity. By the way, Mr. Carrington, I suppose you don't know if your father belongs to any societies—of an unusual kind, I mean? Nihilistic, for instance, or of a secret nature?"
"No, I am not aware of his connection with any illegal institutions," replied Laurence coldly. "I may as well mention that my father is a gentleman and a magistrate."
"Quite so. I ascertained that such was the case before I left London—reference books, you know. I should have discovered by this time, though, that he was a gentleman by your boots."
"My boots!"
"Exactly. I can always tell a gentleman by his boots and a lady by her fingers—rings, you know. If you are a gentleman presumably your father is also."
It was Laurence's turn to smile. He perceived that Mr. Potter was trying to impress him, but he was not impressed in the least.
"You're going to treat this case too lightly," he said; "it's something out of the common. There are none of your cheap-fictional secret societies inthis mystery. There's something much deeper in it than that. A plot it is, and a well-laid one, too, that will take even you a fair amount of skill to bring to light."
There was a marked emphasis on the word "you" that did not escape Mr. Oliver Potter's notice.
"Then you think we can, in your father's case, exclude any idea of a secret connection with some society, such as that I refer to? Take that useful word 'jar,' then, and remove the centre letter."
"Really, Mr. Potter, I fail to understand you. Is this professional jargon necessary? Personally, I am a plain-spoken person." Laurence had taken an almost immediate dislike to the man from Burton's, whom he perceived to be as full of the sense of his own importance as the proverbial egg is full of meat.
The imperturbable detective, however, seemed accustomed to what he no doubt considered the amateur jealousy of his employers, and merely explained that he was forgetting Laurence's presence.
"You see," he said, "I always classify my notes in a simple form—invented by myself—my own idea, sir. In such a case as this I start from the commencement. There must be some cause of these repeated attacks on Mr. Carrington's life.What is it? The possible ones are jealousy, anarchy, robbery—J. A. R., see? Rather novel, isn't it? You can't forget things when you select a word to remember them by. Well, then, you say anarchy is out of the question. This leaves us with jealousy and robbery. Are you aware of anything having been stolen on the occasion of last night's attempt at murder? No. Well, perhaps you haven't had time to find out whether any valuable has disappeared. Are you aware, then, of anyone who is jealous of your father? Any woman with whom there was some engagement or arrangement in byegone days? Any fellow-magistrate with a grudge? Anyone of that kind? No. Then the problem is harder than I anticipated. J. A. R., it must be one of those. My selection of the words is almost infallible. Stay! There's still the robbery possibility undecided. Perhaps your father possessed something, of the existence of which you were not aware. Yes, it must be a case of robbery. At any rate, we will start with that idea. Squire attacked twice. On first occasion out-of-doors. Presumably, the article the attacking party wants is something the Squire carries about on his person, incriminating letter, or what not. On the second attempt he evidently captures the 'something,' and decamps, leaving the Squire half dead—or, letme see, it was three-quarters dead, wasn't it?" (This without the ghost of a smile.) "Problem, find the desperate party, and restore Squire to health. Yes, a nice little job. Thanks for sending for me. I don't often fail; never, I might say, except, of course, in very knotty cases. Well, good-night, Mr. Carrington, or perhaps you won't mind taking me to the sick-room? I've my bag here containing everything—nothing like a bag, you know, for holding things—and I'll take night duty to-day. Your good housekeeper'll want a little rest, no doubt. Upstairs, then."
Laurence opened the door and led the way to the Squire's bedroom. Horrified is the only word that will adequately express his impression of the man from Burton's. He had heard so much of the adroitness and ability of the nurse-detectives that he was at a loss to understand Potter's behaviour, which was almost that of a lunatic. The thin, garrulous specimen of humanity, with his absurd "ingenious words" and his nonsensical hypotheses, seemed more like a mummer than an investigator of crime. But no sooner had he entered the sick-room than the young man saw that whatever his very evident shortcomings as a detective might be, he was an experienced nurse. Every action pointed to that fact, and when Laurence, accompanied byMrs. Featherston, left the sick-room with the intention of retiring to bed, he was quite satisfied that his unconscious parent was in safe hands. But he felt instinctively that, as an assistant in solving the mystery, Lena was worth a dozen such as Oliver Potter.
Possibly young Mr. Carrington would have been surprised had he seen the change that came over the features of the man from Burton's when left alone with his insensible patient.
The stupid, grinning expression on his face gave place to one of cunning and delight.
"Aha, young man," he muttered to himself, "you've put me down as a fool, as I intended that you should. We'll see who is the fool before long. It was very necessary," he went on, "that he should think me a fool, too, for otherwise he would be eternally suspicious. As it is, he will consider me a mere child in the investigating line, which will give me the opportunities I want.
"As if I couldn't see through the whole thing! Green's 'Landed Gentry' told me how much Laurence would gain by his father's death. No doubt the youth has got into hot water. Creditors pressing. Bills much overdue. I know the sort of thing. I only wonder he wasn't more artful in making his plans. He looked a smart fellow, but then, appearancesare deceitful. At any rate, he seems a duffer to have failed to murder the old chap both times.
"I wonder nobody has seen through his game before. I must find the accomplice who played the part of the cycling highwayman on the heath. The idea of his being on a cycle is novel.
"I presume, when he found that the accomplice hadn't polished the old chap off, he decided to do the job himself. In order to avoid the possible suspicion of the women staying in the house he invents the story of the interview with the imaginary Major Jones-Farnell, and goes off to this Durley Dene, or pretends to. No sooner does he find that the old man has retired to bed than he goes in and makes a desperate attempt to kill him. He knows that he must kill the Squire outright, or he will be exposed immediately, should the old man live and be able to tell the tale. Unfortunately for him he is interrupted in some way, and leaves his father only half dead. The doctor compels him to send for me, otherwise he would not probably have done so. So long as the Squire remains unconscious Laurence is safe. If he recovers, then his assailant is done for. Therefore, the chances are that a final attempt to do for the poor old man will be made, if there is any probability of his recovering consciousness. I must be on the alert."
But he was not as good as his word, and evidently made but a feeble defence against the onslaught of Morpheus, for within a very few minutes of settling down in the cosy arm-chair by the bedside he was fast asleep.
And while he slept that which he anticipated came to pass.
The man from Burton's was a light sleeper—at least, so he believed himself to be. He woke from his arm-chair doze very suddenly—noticing by the clock on the mantelpiece that he had slept for nearly two hours. He was conscious of having been awakened by some sound. Yet there was no one in the room. He started up from the chair. Was it fancy that, as he did so, he heard the closing of a door, as though someone had quietly left the room?
He glanced at the bed. Yes, someone had entered the sick-room, and for the hideous purpose that he had conceived to be possible. Only one thing assured him of this fact, but it was quite enough. It told him all.
A pillow which had reposed at the foot of the great bed when he had first entered the room was no longer in that place. It had been shifted to the other end, and now lay firmly pressed down upon the unconscious patient's face. Here was yet another attempt to murder the unhappy Squire. It had been placed there to suffocate him.
Hastily, yet gently, the detective raised it from its position, and flung it into a corner. So recently had it been placed upon the patient's upturned face that no harm had been done. But Mr. Potter shuddered to think what would have happened had he not awakened in time to avert the catastrophe.
His first duty had been that of "nurse," now his detective instincts asserted themselves. While he had waited to learn whether the Squire yet lived, he had allowed the would-be murderer time to make good his escape. But he hurriedly opened the door of the sick-room and peered out into the dark passage. Not a sound disturbed the silence of night. Mr. Potter muttered something of the nature of an oath as he realised how he had been caught napping in both senses of the word. The heartless son, Laurence, of whose guilt he was so confident, had nearly got the better of him. He made up for his shortcoming by keeping awake and alert during the remaining hours of his watch. But nothing happened—no one came, and when Mrs. Featherston arrived at half-past seven to relieve him for a short period he threw up for the time the rôle of nurse, and walked out of the sick-room in his investigator's capacity to learn what he could about the true facts of the attack on the moor.
His night had not been wasted. He had carefully examined the Squire's body, and convinced himself that a very remarkable, but unsuccessful, attempt to kill the old gentleman had been made. Yet a tiny, ragged cut on the front of the neck, almost upon the throat, was the only visible clue to the manner of that attempt.
He had further made a careful examination of the room and of the clothes that the Squire had worn. Yet he obtained but a slight clue that seemed likely to lead to anything. This was a yellow hair—or rather, yellow wisp of silk—that he found upon the patient's cravat. It was of a peculiar colour, but hardly likely, Potter thought, to prove of any assistance. Yet he carefully gummed it by means of a strip of court plaster to a page of his note-book, and proceeded to investigate the furniture in the room. Nothing in the way of a possible clue came to light. One thing alone caused him surprise.
This was the discovery of the body of an ordinary bat found lying in a dark corner of the room. The creature was dead—it had apparently been crushed when some furniture had been moved, possibly by the doctor's direction.
Mr. Potter carefully picked up his curious find, and placed it in a cardboard box on which his eye chanced. The box he placed on a high shelf in aconvenient cupboard. It might, he thought, prove useful in the future.
Confident though he was of Laurence's guilt, he determined not to be rash. To start from the beginning was his intention. And so his first move was to interview Moggin, the coachman, to whom he introduced himself as the "nurse." Cautiously guiding the conversation on to the subject of highwaymen of the present time, he was rewarded by a confidential description of the attack on the carriage, that had happened a few days before. Moggin had, of course, learned of the injury that had befallen his master, and confessed that he connected the two attacks with one another, as having been made by the same man.
Mr. Potter was annoyed. The coachman was certainly telling the truth. He had deemed it possible that Moggin might have been an accomplice in the so-called attack, and that no "highwayman"—not even another accomplice in disguise—had existed. This was evidently not the case. Ergo, there must be some other man in league with Laurence. This other accomplice was a very important person. He had, according to the detective, not only played the highwayman, but also the market-woman whom Miss Scott had decided was a man disguised.
Oliver Potter was at a loss to know what step totake next. Strange to say, it never entered his head to visit Durley Dene. In his confidence that he was on the right track, he evidently had little doubt but that the neighbouring mansion was uninhabited. For who knew anything about the persons that lived there? Only Laurence! Of course, the message that had been sent by means of a catapult from the grounds of the Dene had been despatched by the accomplice on whom Potter was so anxious to lay his hand.
Then a brilliant idea struck the man from Burton's. Was Selene Scott that accomplice? Might not she have attacked the carriage on the moor? Might not the story of the market-woman in disguise, and the letter from Durley Dene, be false? When he came to think of it, Mr. Potter marvelled that he had not discovered this probability before. Why were Laurence Carrington and Miss Scott so apparently intimate? Was it not possible that they might be engaged—or even married? In which case it would be to their mutual advantage were the Squire dead, since then his money would naturally come to them.
"Eureka," cried the man from Burton's, who was proud of his knowledge of half a dozen Greek and Latin words, "I hold in my hand the key to the mystery!"
"Very well," said Lena, when she had learned the young man's impressions of Mr. Oliver Potter's capabilities, "we must do without him. We must work by ourselves. I have a suggestion to make. Let me visit Major Jones-Farnell, alias Meadows. It is somewhat irregular, I have no doubt, but in such a case as this we must not be too particular."
"Excuse me, but you must do nothing of the kind," was the reply.
"Then let me go with you, and see what the two of us can do towards discovering the secret of Durley Dene. I am sure that if once we can discover who this Meadows is, what his relations are with the man Smith, and who the creature that is held in restraint in the basement or cellar of the house is—then, and not before, shall we be able to solve the mystery."
"I don't at all like the idea of you coming with me. The ordeal was quite bad enough for me; what would it be to you?"
"Sir!" Lena cried, with pretended severity, "I am able to stand any ordeal that you can. You see, I am not afraid, or why should I have suggested going alone?"
"Then shall we go together?"
"Yes, and as soon as possible. It is now eleven o'clock. Auntie will not reappear until lunch. The detective is surely capable of looking after your father's safety. What is to prevent us from going at once? You agree? Then wait one moment while I put on my hat."
She hurried off, returning a minute later, prepared for the morning visit.
Laurence, during her short absence, had filled his vesta case, and once again placed the little pistol in his pocket.
"Now we can come," said Lena. And without delay they started off, presently reaching the dark porch of the house of secrets.
Smith, as before, appeared in answer to their ring, but he was far from ready to admit the pair. Finally he said he would consult the Major, and banging the door in their faces, disappeared, to return in a few minutes with a sour grin and a summons to follow upstairs.
This time Laurence struck a match on entering the house. The servant did not object, but hekept very close to the visitors, eyeing the lady as though coveting the bracelets she wore. The faint light of the match revealed little, for the passages were unfurnished, and green mildew clung to the stone walls. It was, however, a considerable aid to their progress towards Mr. Meadows' sanctum. Anything was better, thought Laurence, than the grim, impenetrable darkness of the previous visit.
As on the former occasion, the porter ushered them into the Oriental chamber in which sat the owner of the house, withdrawing immediately when they were once inside.
The doctor sprang to his feet immediately and held out his hand—which Laurence appeared not to notice.
"Good-morning to you," he said politely. "Madam, I am more than honoured by your visit. My only regret is the inefficiency of my establishment. I think, though, you will find this chair comfortable, and trust the smell of tobacco smoke does not inconvenience you. Unfortunately I have no drawing-room, as your brother—I believe he is your brother—no?—then your friend—will have told you."
He spoke fast, as though fearing that Laurence would commence by asking unpleasant questions.
"Doctor Meadows," said Carrington, "this ladyand I have come to you to-day to endeavour to learn the reason of your remarkable behaviour of late. I am aware that you would do anything rather than receive a visit from the police, but that is one of the two alternatives I offer you now. The other is that you explain fully your relations with my father, Squire Carrington, of Northden Manse."
"Mr. Carrington," replied the doctor, "I told you the night before last you are making some great mistake in connecting me in any way with your father. Must I tell you so again now?"
"Then, answer me this. What were you doing in the grounds of our house at midnight, shortly after my visit here and the attempt to murder my father in his room? What were you doing, I ask, on that occasion; and how comes it that on the following morning the stolen bicycle, by the rider of which a former attack on the Squire was made, is found in the shed from which it was taken?"
As Laurence spoke in a sharp, determined tone, both Lena and he noticed that the colour died away from Doctor Meadows' cheeks. For a moment he could not reply. His concern was very apparent. At last he answered.
"Mr. Carrington," he said, "I see that it is no use for me to withhold anything from you. You have been too sharp for me. What if I were to tellyou that my secret has nothing whatever to do with your father or the strange attempts to murder him in cold blood, and that it is only by unfortunate circumstances I come to be suspected by you of connection with the plot against the Squire?"
"I shouldn't believe it," replied Laurence, frankly and deliberately; "however, I pray you to tell me your story. Do not forget, by the way, that you have confessed to telling a pack of lies on different occasions before now—about the Persian cat and the whip, the lunatic in the cellar, your invalid Major, and so on. By the way, let me advise you, if you wish to keep your secret from me, not to allow the creature imprisoned downstairs to shriek while I am in the house."
So great was the effect of these words on Doctor Meadows that at first Lena feared he was going to faint. He sank down into his chair, sweat standing out on his forehead; then he sprang up and darted towards Laurence as though about to attack him with his fists.
"Good God!" he cried. "How much do you know? Are you bent on ruining me? Tell me, quickly, exactly, how much you know?"
Laurence was more than astounded at this outburst. Acting on a suggestion of Lena, he had sprung upon the other a remark about the creaturewhom he had seen in the barn, and who, according to Miss Scott's mode of accounting for the various mysterious circumstances of the case, was being held in restraint by the inhabitants of Durley Dene. That the chance shot had gone home was surely proved by the excited behaviour of Doctor Meadows.
For a moment Laurence hesitated. Should he play a game of "bluff" and pretend that he knew all? He felt inclined to do this, but reflected that he might be placing Lena in a position of danger were he to do so. For, once Meadows believed his closely guarded secret was known, what steps might not he take to compel those who had learned that secret to keep silence? Consequently, he replied, "That is surely my own business?"
But Doctor Meadows was not satisfied.
"That's no answer," he cried. "I must have an answer. How much do you know? Tell me!"
"All I know is," responded Laurence, "that one of the members of your household is moving heaven and earth to do away with my unhappy father, and I shrewdly suspect which of you it is. I know better than to believe that you and your servant alone occupy this house of dark deeds."
"There you are, bringing up that absurd notion that I (or, in your own words, one of my household) am the author of the attempts on your father's life.If you won't take my word for it that no one living in this house is in any way responsible for the Squire's terrible position, will it satisfy you if I swear upon the Book that such is the case?"
"You dare not," said Laurence positively.
"Not only do I dare to, but I will do so," answered Meadows; "but first, tell me what you know about the person whom you allege is imprisoned in this house."
"In the first place," Laurence replied, "I know that, for some reason or other, he has been hiding in the Manse barn. Secondly, that he possesses the activity of an ape; and, thirdly, that he is black, and that his voice is the strangest I have ever heard."
"Thank Heaven!" muttered Meadows, not too low for the two visitors to hear it. He sat down once again, and the colour returned to his cheeks.
"Are you satisfied that I know something about him?" asked Laurence, none too pleased with the way in which the doctor had taken his information.
"I am quite satisfied that you know nothing whatever about that which you are pleased to call the mystery of this house. I confess that I have a secret. Who has not? Mine is one that I am very anxious to keep. Again, I say, who is not desirous of keeping secrets as such? Further, I confess thatyou have had good grounds for mistrust. That bicycle business was enough to lay me open to suspicion. What I am now going to say I will repeat afterwards upon oath, if you so please, but, as a gentleman, I hope my word will not be doubted. That bicycle was found by my servant standing in the rear of this house the morning after what was evidently the first attempt on your father's life. Whose it was, and whence it came, was for the time a mystery. Then you honoured me with a visit, and I learned in what an uncomfortable position circumstances had placed me. As I say, I have no desire to emerge from the darkness of my retirement. I did not wish you to know that I had found the bicycle, for fear that you, doubting my word, would carry out your threat of communicating with the police, and having the house searched. Therefore, I secretly returned you the bicycle which evil destiny had given into my hands.
"This I can safely say—and swear, if it please you—that there neither has been, nor is, anything illegal or wrong going on in this house. Does that satisfy you?"
No one answered. Laurence was inclined to doubt the man's word. He had heard some equally astounding falsehoods from him before. Lena, also, knew not whether to believe the statement or not.
"Then," said the doctor, "I will fetch a volume of the Testament. But before going any further, tell me if you know any man who would answer to this description—Medium height, iron-grey moustache, possibly a grey beard, but I doubt it; age about sixty; peculiarly courteous and old-fashioned as to speech; an abhorrer of tobacco in any form."
"That is the Squire—do you know him?" asked Lena and Laurence excitedly, and almost in one breath.
"Ah!" responded Doctor Meadows. But his pronunciation of the monosyllable was pregnant with meaning.