(THE FACTS OF THE CASE ACCORDING TO EMILY PURVIS.)
Talkabout romance! I never could have believed that after wishing for a thing your whole life long you could have had enough of it in so short a space of time. In the morning Pollie Blyth heard, for the very first time, that a fortune and a house had been left to her, and, before the night of that same day was over, she wished that it had not. And here had I been looking, ever since I was a teeny-weeny little thing, for a touch of romance to give existence a real live flavour, and then, when I got it, the best I could do was to wonder how I had been so silly as ever to have wanted it.
Poor Pollie! That first night in Camford Street she would go out. She said she must go and see her Tom. That he would be waiting, wondering what had become of her, and that nothing should keep her from him. Nothing did. I could not. And when I suggested that it might be as well for her to be a little careful what she did that very first night, she actually proposed that I should stop in that awful house by myself, and wait in it alone till she returned.
I would not have done such a thing for worlds, and she knew it. As a matter of fact I could not have said if I was more unwilling to leave the place, or to stay in it, even with her. The extraordinary conditions of her dreadful old uncle’s horrible will weighed on me much more than they seemed to do on her. I felt sure that something frightful would happen if they were not strictly observed. Nothing could be clearer than his repeated injunction not to be out after nine, and her appointment with Mr. Cooper was for half-past eight.
Cardew and Slaughter are supposed to close at eight, but she knew as well as I did what that really meant. It was a wonder if one of the assistants got out before nine. Mr. Cooper was in the heavy, and the gentlemen in that department were always last. If he appeared till after nine I should be surprised, and, if we were at the other end of London at that hour, with the uncle’s will staring us in the face, what would become of us? Being locked out of Cardew and Slaughter’s was nothing to what that would mean.
But Pollie would not listen to a word. She is as obstinate as obstinate when she likes, though she may not think it.
“My dear,” she said, “I must see Tom. Mustn’t I see Tom? If you were in my place, and he was your Tom, wouldn’t you feel that you must see him?”
There was something in that I acknowledged. It was frightful that you should be cut off from intercourse with the man you loved simply because your hours would not fit his. But then there was so much to be said upon the other side.
“I’m sure he’ll be punctual to-night, he’ll be so anxious. And you know sometimes he can get off a little earlier if he makes an effort. You see if he isn’t there at half-past eight. I’ll just speak to him, then start off back at once. He’ll come with us, we shall be back here before nine, and then he’ll leave us at the door.”
That was how it was to turn out, according to her. I had my doubts. When you are with the man to whom you are engaged to be married half an hour is nothing. It’s gone before you know it’s begun.
It was eight o’clock when we left the house. I thought we should never have left it at all. We could not open the door. It had no regular handle; no regular anything. While we were trying to get it open the house was filled with the most extraordinary noises. If it was all rats, as Pollie declared, then rats have got more ways of expressing their feelings than I had imagined. It seemed to me as if the place was haunted by mysterious voices which were warning us to be careful of what we did.
“Of course if we’re prisoners it’s just as well that we should know it now as later on. How do you open this door?”
Just as she spoke the door opened.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She seemed surprised. “I was just pushing at the thing when—it came open. There’s a trick about it I expect; we’ll find out what it is to-morrow, there’s no time now. At present it’s enough that it’s open; out you go!”
When we were out in the street, and she pulled it to, it shut behind us with an ominous clang, like the iron gates used to do in the barons’ castle which we read about in the days of old. We took the tram in the Westminster Bridge Road, then walked the rest of the way. It was half-past eight when we arrived. As I expected, of course Mr. Cooper wasn’t there.
“Pollie, we ought not to stop. We ought to be in before nine this first night, at any rate. We don’t know what will happen if we’re not.”
“You can go back if you like, but I must and will see Tom.”
Nine o’clock came and still no Mr. Cooper. I was in such a state I was ready to drop. It was nearly a quarter-past before he turned up. Then they both began talking together at such a rate that it was impossible to get a word in edgeways. When I did succeed in bringing Pollie to some consciousness of the position we were in, and she asked Mr. Cooper to start back with us at once, he would not go. He said that he had had such a narrow escape the night before, and had had such difficulty in getting in—so far as I could make out he had had to climb up a pipe, or something, and had scraped a hole in both knees of his trousers against the wall—that he had determined that it should be some time before he ran such a risk again, and had therefore made up his mind that he would be in extra early as a sort of set-off. It was no good Pollie talking. For some cause or other he did not seem to be in the best of tempers. And then, when she found that, after all our waiting, he would not see us home, she got excited. They began saying things to each other which they never meant. So they quarrelled.
Finally Mr. Cooper marched off in a rage, declaring that now she had come into a fortune she looked upon him as a servant, and that though she had inherited £488 9s. 6d. a year, and a house, he would not be treated like a lackey. She was in such a fury that she was almost crying. She assured me that she would never speak to him again until she was compelled, and that they would both be grey before that time came. All I wanted to do was to keep outside the quarrel, because they had behaved like a couple of stupids, and to find myself in safe quarters for the night.
“I don’t know, my dear Pollie, if you’re aware that it’s past half-past ten. Do you propose to return to Camford Street?”
“Past half-past ten!” She started. Her thoughts flew off to Mr. Cooper. “Then he’ll be late again! Whatever will he do?”
“It’s not of what he’ll do I’m thinking, but of what we’re going to do. After what your uncle said, do you propose to return to Camford Street at this hour of the night?”
“We shall have to. There’s nowhere else to go. I wish I’d never come to see him now; it hasn’t been a very pleasant interview, I’m sure.” I cordially agreed with her—I wished she had not. But it was too late to shut the stable-door after the steed was stolen. “Let’s hurry. There’s one thing, I’ve got the back-door key in my pocket, if the worst does come to the worst.”
What she meant I do not think she quite knew herself. She was in a state of mind in which she was inclined to talk at random.
We had not gone fifty yards when a man, coming to us from across the street, took off his hat to Pollie. I had noticed him when she was having her argument with Mr. Cooper, and had felt sure that he was watching us. There was something about the way in which he kept walking up and down which I had not liked, and now that Mr. Cooper had gone I was not at all surprised that he accosted us. He looked about thirty; had a short light brown beard and whiskers, which were very nicely trimmed; a pair of those very pale blue eyes which are almost the colour of steel; and there was something about him which made one think that he had spent most of his life in open air. He wore what looked, in that light—he had stopped us almost immediately under a gas-lamp—like a navy blue serge suit and a black bowler hat.
“Miss Blyth, I believe, the niece of my old friend Batters. My name is Max Lander. Perhaps you have heard him speak of me.”
His manner could not have been more civil. Yet, under the circumstances, it was not singular that Pollie shrank from being addressed by a stranger. Putting her arm through mine, she looked him in the face.
“I don’t know you.”
“Have you never heard your uncle speak of me—Max Lander?”
“I never knew my uncle.”
“You never knew your uncle?” He spoke, in echoing her words, almost as if he doubted her. “Then where is your uncle now?”
“He is dead.”
“Dead?”
“If you knew my uncle, as you say you did, you must know that he is dead. Come, Emily, let us go. I think this gentleman has made a mistake.”
“Stop, Miss Blyth, I beg of you. Where did your uncle die?”
“I don’t know where exactly, it was somewhere in Australia.”
“In Australia!” I never saw surprise written more plainly on a person’s face. “But when?”
“If, as you say, you knew him, then you ought to know better than I, who never did.”
“When I last saw Mr. Batters he didn’t look as if he meant to die.”
He gave a short laugh, as if he were enjoying some curious little joke of his own.
“Where did you see him last?”
“On theFlying Scud.”
“TheFlying Scud? What’s that?”
“My ship. Or, rather, it was my ship. The devil knows whose it is now.”
“Mr. Lander, if that really is your name, I don’t know anything about my uncle, except that he is dead. Was he a sailor?”
“A sailor?” He seemed as if he could not make her out. I stood close to him, so that I saw him well; it struck me that he looked at her with suspicion in his eyes. “He was no sailor. At least, so far as I know. But he was the most remarkable man who ever drew breath. In saying that I’m saying little. You can’t know much of him if you don’t know so much. Then, if he’s dead, where’s Luke?”
He spoke with sudden heat, as if a thought had all at once occurred to him.
“Luke? What is Luke?—another ship?”
“Another ship? Great Cæsar!” Taking off his hat, he ran his fingers through his short brown hair. “Miss Blyth, either you’re a chip of the old block, in which case I’m sorry for you, and for myself too, or, somewhere, there’s something very queer. Hollo! Who are you?”
While we had been talking a man had been sidling towards us along the pavement. He had on a long black coat, and a hat crammed over his eyes. As he passed behind Mr. Lander he stopped. Mr. Lander spun round. On the instant he tore off as if for his life. Without a moment’s hesitation Mr. Lander rushed full speed after him. Pollie and I stood staring in the direction they had gone.
“Whatever is the matter now?” I asked. “What did the man do to Mr. Lander?”
“Emily, that’s the man who slipped the paper into my hand last night—you remember? There’s a cab across the road; let’s get into it and get away from here as fast as we can.”
We crossed and hailed the cabman. As he drew up beside the kerb, and we were about to enter, who should come tearing over the road to us again but Mr. Lander. He was panting for breath.
“Miss Blyth, I do beg that you will let me speak to you. If not here, then let me come with you and speak to you elsewhere.”
“I would rather you did not come with us, thank you, I would very much rather that you did not.”
He stood with his hand on the apron of the hansom in such a way that he prevented us from entering.
“Miss Blyth, you don’t look like your uncle—God forbid! You look honest and true. If you have a woman’s heart in your bosom I entreat you to hear me. Your uncle did me the greatest injury a man could have done. I implore you to help me to undo that injury, so far as, by the grace of God, it can be undone.”
He spoke in a strain of passion which I could see that Pollie did not altogether relish. I didn’t either.
“I will give you my solicitor’s name and address, then you can call on him, and tell him all you have to say.”
“Your solicitor! I don’t want to speak to your solicitor; he may be another rogue like your uncle. I want to speak to you.”
Before Pollie could answer, another man came up. He touched his hat to Mr. Lander.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but this is the young lady I told you about. Miss Blyth will remember me, because I was so fortunate as to do her a small service last night. May I hope, Miss Blyth, that you have not forgotten me?”
The man spoke in a small, squeaky voice, which was in ridiculous contrast to his enormous size. It was actually the creature who had paid the bill for us the night before at Firandolo’s—one shilling and threepence! My impulse was to take out my purse, give him this money, and be rid of him for good and all. But, before I had a chance of doing so, Mr. Lander turned upon him in quite a passion.
“What do you mean by thrusting in your oar? Get out of it, Ike Rudd!”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure, if I’m intruding, and the young lady’s; but, seeing that I was able to do her a little service, I thought that perhaps she might be willing——”
Mr. Lander cut him short with a positive roar.
“Don’t you hear me tell you to take yourself out of this, you blundering ass!”
In his anger with Mr. Rudd he moved away from the cab. Without a moment’s delay Pollie jumped into it, and dragged me after her.
“Drive off, and don’t stop for anyone!”
It was done so quickly that before Mr. Lander had an opportunity to realise what was happening the driver gave his horse a cut of the whip. The creature gave a bound which it was a wonder to me did not upset the hansom, and when his master struck him again he galloped off as if he were racing for the Derby.
After we had gone a little way—at full pelt!—the driver spoke to us through the trap-door overhead.
“Where to, miss?”
“Is he following us?”
“Not he. He tried a step or two, but when he saw at what a lick we were going he jerked it up. He went back and had a row with the other chap instead, the one who came up and spoke to him I mean. They’re at it now. Has he been bothering you, miss?”
“I don’t know anything at all about him. He’s a perfect stranger to me. I think he must be mad. Drive us to the Westminster Bridge Road, if you are sure that he’s not following.”
“I’ll see that that’s all right, you trust me.” He swung round a corner. “He’s out of sight now, I should think for good; but if he does come in sight again I’ll let you know. What part of the Westminster Bridge Road?”
Pollie hesitated.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Achurch clock struck as we rolled along.
“That sounds like nine—a quarter-past eleven. What shall you do if we can’t get in at all?”
“Not get into my own house? My dear, this is not a case of Cardew and Slaughter’s. What is going to keep me out of my own house—if I choose to enter it with the milk!—I should like to know.”
I did not know. I could not even guess. But all the same I had a sort of feeling that someone could—and might. “My own house” came glibly from her tongue. That morning there had been ten shillings between her and the workhouse; already she had become quite the woman of established means. I might have been the same had the case been mine. You never know. It must be so nice to have something of your very own.
We were nearing the Westminster Bridge Road. Again the driver spoke to us from above; he had hardly slackened pace the whole of the way.
“Coast clear, miss; not had a sight of the party since we lost him. Where shall I put you down?”
“I’ll stop you in a minute; keep on to the left.” Pollie spoke to me. “What did it say in the letter was the name of the street in which is the entrance to the back door?”
“Rosemary Street.”
“Of course! I couldn’t remember its stupid name.”
“But I shouldn’t tell him to put us down just there. You don’t know who may be waiting for us.”
I was leaning over the front of the cab, keeping a sharp look-out. There were the crowded trams and omnibuses, and many people on the pavements; but I noticed nothing in any way suspicious.
“Who should be waiting for us? Haven’t we shaken Mr. Lander off? Didn’t the cabman say so?”
“Yes. But—you never know.”
“What do you mean? What are you driving at?”
“Nothing. Only it’s past nine. The letter said that it was the time your greatest peril began.”
“What nonsense you do talk! Do you think I pay attention to such stuff? Lucky I’m not nervous, or you’d give me the fidgets. The sooner everybody understands that I intend to go in and out of my own house at any time I please the less trouble there is likely to be. I’m not a child, to be told at what time I’m to come home.”
I was silent. She spoke boldly enough; a trifle too boldly I thought. There was an unnecessary amount of vigour in her tone, as if she wished to impress the whole world with the fact that she was not in the least concerned. But she acted on the hint all the same—she stopped the cab before we reached our destination.
“It’s all right now, miss,” said the driver. It was rather a novel sensation for us to be riding in cabs, and the fare we paid him did make a hole in one’s purse. It was lucky there was that four hundred and eighty-eight pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence to fall back upon. “You’ve seen the last of that fine gentleman, for to-night at any rate. Good-night, miss, and thank you.”
I was not so sure that it was all right. We might have seen the last of “that fine gentleman,” as the cabman called Mr. Lander, though there was nothing particularly “fine” about him that I could see; but there might be other gentlemen, still less “fine,” who had yet to be interviewed. When the hansom had driven off, as we walked along the pavement, I felt more and more uncomfortable, though I would not have hinted at anything of the kind to Pollie for worlds.
“Have we passed Camford Street?” she wondered. “I don’t know which side of it is Rosemary Street.”
“I’m sure I don’t. You had better ask.”
We were standing at the corner of a narrow street, a pretty dark and deserted one it seemed. Pollie turned to make enquiries of some passer-by. A man came towards us.
“Can you tell me which is Rosemary Street?” she said.
“This way! this way!”
He took her by the arm and led her into a gloomy-looking street, as if he were showing her the way. She must have been purblind, or completely off her guard, to have been tricked by him so easily, because directly he spoke I recognised him as the person in the long black coat who had fled from Mr. Lander. I myself was taken by surprise, or I would have called out and warned her. But I suppose that I was bewildered by his sudden and wholly unexpected appearance, because, instead of bidding her look out, I went after her into the narrow lane, for really it seemed to be no more.
The moment we were round the corner two other figures appeared out of the darkness as if by magic. But by now Pollie had taken the alarm.
“Let me go!” she cried to her conductor. “Take your hand away from my arm!”
He showed no inclination to do anything of the kind.
“This way! this way!” he kept repeating, as if he were a parrot. He spoke with a strong foreign accent—as if his stock of English was not a large one.
But Pollie was not to be so easily persuaded. She stood stock still, evincing every disposition to shake herself free from his grasp.
“Let me go! let me go!”
The taller of the two newcomers uttered some words in a language which I had never heard before. Giving Pollie no time to guess what he was about to do he produced a cloth and threw it over her head. The other man sprang at her like a wild animal. Between them they began to bear her to the ground. I was not going to stand quietly by and see that kind of thing go on. I may not be big, and I do not pretend to be brave, but I am not an absolute coward all the same.
The smaller of the newcomers had taken me by the arm. I did my best to make him wish that he had not. I flew at him.
“You villain! Let me go, or I’ll scratch your eyes out!”
The little wretch—he was little; I do not believe he was any bigger than I was, or perhaps I should not be alive to tell this tale—actually tried to throw a cloth over my head. When I put up my arms, and stopped his doing that, he began to dab it against my mouth, as if to prevent my screaming. There was a nasty smell about that cloth. It was damp. All of a sudden it struck me that he was trying to take away my senses with chloroform, or some awful stuff of that kind. And then didn’t I start shrieking; I should think they might have heard me on the other side of the bridge.
In less than no time—or so it seemed to me—a policeman came round the corner. Apparently he was the only one who had heard; but he was quite enough.
“What’s the matter here?” How I could have kissed him for his dear official voice. “What’s the meaning of all this?”
Those three cowards did not wait to explain. Really before the words were out of his lips they were off down the lane like streaks of lightning. All my man left behind him was the smell of his horrid cloth. Beyond disarranging my hat and my hair, and that kind of thing, I knew that he had not damaged me almost before, so to speak, I examined myself to see.
“Has he hurt you?” asked the constable. “What was he trying to do?”
“He has not hurt me, thanks to you; but in another half second I’m quite sure he would have done. He was trying to chloroform me, or something frightful, I smelt it on his cloth.”
“Who’s this on the ground?”
It was Pollie. In my excitement I had quite forgotten to notice what had become of her. She lay all of a heap. Down I plumped on my knees beside her.
“Pollie!” I cried. “Has he killed you?”
“No fear,” said the policeman. “She’s only a bit queer. I shouldn’t be surprised if they’ve played the same sort of trick on her they tried to play on you.”
It was so. That policeman was a most intelligent man, and quite good-looking, with a fair moustache which turned up a little at the ends. They had endeavoured to stupefy her with some drug; the policemen said he didn’t think it was chloroform, it didn’t smell like it. I didn’t know—to my knowledge I have never smelt chloroform in my life, nor do I ever want to. They had so far succeeded that she had nearly lost her senses, but not entirely. When I lifted her head she gave several convulsive twitches, so that it was all I could do to retain my hold. Then she opened her eyes and she asked where she was.
“It’s all right,” I told her. “They’ve gone. I hope they haven’t hurt you.”
She sat up, and she looked about her. She saw me, and she saw the constable, which fact she at once made plain.
“Oh, you’re a policeman, are you? It’s as well that there are such things as policemen after all.” Her meaning was not precisely clear, but I hardly think it was altogether flattering to the force, which was ungrateful on her part. “I don’t think they’ve hurt me. I believe it was the keys they were after, though they’ve left them both behind. Perhaps that was because they hadn’t time to properly search for them.” She was feeling in her pocket. “But they have taken Uncle Benjamin’s letter—the one in which he told us how to get in at the back door.”
There was a pause. I realised all that the abstraction might mean. If it had told us how to enter, it would tell them too. It was lucky they had had to go without the key.
“Do you know the men?” inquired the officer. “You had better charge them.”
“Charge them?” She put her hand up to her head, as if she were dazed. I rather fancied she was making as much of her feelings as she could. Unless I was mistaken she was endeavouring to gain time to consider the policeman’s words. Under the circumstances it might not be altogether convenient to charge them, even though they had proved themselves to be such utter scoundrels. “But I don’t know what men they were.”
“That doesn’t matter; I daresay we know. You mustn’t allow an outrage like this to pass unnoticed; they might have murdered you. I’ll take the charge.”
“Thank you.” She stood up. He had produced his notebook. “I don’t think I’ll trouble you. There are circumstances connected with the matter which render it necessary that I should think it over.”
“What’s there to think about? It was an attempt to rob with violence, that’s what it was; as clear a case as ever I knew. Come, give me your name, miss, then I’ll have the particulars. What name?”
“I’m afraid you must excuse me. When I’ve thought the matter over you shall hear from me again, but I cannot act without consideration. Thank you all the same.”
She carried it off with an air which took the constable aback. He was not best pleased. He eyed her for a second or two, then he closed his notebook with a snap.
“Very good. Of course, if you won’t make a charge I can’t take it. All I can say is, that if you find yourself in the same hole again, it’ll about serve you right if no one comes to help you. It’s because people won’t go into court that there’s so much of this sort of thing about. What’s the good of having laws if you won’t let them protect you.”
Off he strode in a huff. I stared after him a little blankly.
“I don’t think, Pollie, that you need have been quite so short with him. What he says is true; we might have been murdered if it hadn’t been for him.”
“I wasn’t short with him; I didn’t mean to be. But I couldn’t charge them—could I? Besides, I want to get in. I didn’t want to have him hanging about, for I don’t know how long, watching us.”
“Someone else may be watching us.”
“No fear of that; they’ve had enough of it for to-night.”
“So you said before, and hardly had you said there was nothing to fear when they had us at their mercy. It’s my belief that what your uncle said in that letter—which now they’ve got—is true, and that we are in peril, dreadful peril, and that though we mayn’t know it someone is watching us all the time. For my part I should like that policeman to have kept his eye upon us until we were safe indoors.”
“After what my uncle said about allowing no one to see us enter?”
“It’s a pity you are not equally particular about everything your uncle said, my dear.”
Off we started down the lane, or street, or whatever it was. If I had had my way, after all that had happened, I would not have attempted to enter the house until at any rate next morning; I would rather have wandered about the streets all night. But I could see that she was set on at least trying to get in. I did not wish to quarrel, or to be accused of a wish to desert her after promising to be her companion. So I stuck to her side. Presently she spoke.
“Do you know, Emily, I believe I haven’t got the very clearest recollection of the directions in uncle’s letter. Didn’t he say something about a passage?”
“He said that there was one between 13 and 14 Rosemary Street. The question is, is this Rosemary Street? We don’t know.”
“We’ll soon find out. Which are 13 and 14? It’s so dark it’s hard to tell.”
It was dark; which fact lent an additional charm to the situation. On one side were the backs of what seemed like mews; all they presented to us was a high dead wall. On the other was a row of cottages. If they were occupied all the inhabitants were in bed. There was not a light to be seen at any of the windows. Pollie began to peer at the numbers on the doors.
“This is 26.” She passed on. “And this is 25; so 13 and 14 must be this way.” We went farther along the street. “Here is 14—and here’s the passage.”
There was a passage, between two of the mean little houses. But so narrow an one that, if we had not been on the look-out for it, we should have passed it by unnoticed. Such was the darkness that we could not see six feet down it, so that it was impossible to tell where it led to, or what was at the end. I did not like the idea of venturing into it at all. I would have given almost anything to have flown down the street and sought the protection of that nice policeman. My heart was going pitter patter; I could feel it knocking against my corsets. I did not know if Pollie really was nervous, though I do not believe that it was in feminine human nature to have been anything else; but she behaved as though she wasn’t. I could not have made believe so well. She apparently did not hesitate about what was the best, and proper, and only thing to do. There was not even a tremor in her voice.
“What did uncle say—at the end there is a wall?”
“I—I think he did.”
“Then now for the wall.”
She dashed into the passage. I was afraid to do anything else—and she did not give me a chance to remonstrate—so I went after her. I am thankful to say that nothing happened to us as we went, though I seemed to see and hear all sorts of things. After we had gone what appeared to be a mile Pollie suddenly stopped.
“Here is the wall. Now to climb it. Didn’t uncle say we should find two stanchions? Was it on the right or on the left? Here they are, on the right; at least, I suppose they’re stanchions. They feel like two pieces of iron driven into the brickwork. Now for a climb. One good thing—the wall isn’t high.”
Since I could only perceive her dim outline, and didn’t wish to have her vanish altogether in the darkness, I had kept my hand on her. I could feel, rather than see, her going through the motions of climbing. I was conscious she had reached the top.
“Now, Emily, you come. It’s easy; give me your hand.”
I gave her my hand. In a second or two I was beside her, on the crest of the wall.
“Now let’s go together, it’s nothing of a drop.”
As she said, it was nothing of a drop, and we went together. I suppose the wall was not much, if at all, over five feet in height. We landed on what felt like a pavement of bricks.
“It’s a pity it’s so dark. Here it’s worse than ever. I can’t see my hand before my face, can you?”
I could not. I told her so.
“Well, we’ll have to feel, that’s all; and we’ll hope that we’re in the right backyard. It would be something more than a joke if we weren’t; they might take us for burglars. Come on; give me your hand again; we’ll feel our way—tread carefully whatever you do. Hollo! here is a door. And—Emily, there’s the spot of light! Do you see it there upon the door? As uncle says, it shines at us. Whether it’s luminous paint, or whether it’s something much more wonderful, truly, it lightens our darkness. Doesn’t it, my dear? Where is that key?”
I could see, straight in front of us, a round spot of something which gleamed. It was not bigger than a threepenny piece. It might have been a monster glow-worm. Or, as Polly said, a dab of luminous paint. But there was no time to ascertain what it was, because, almost as soon as I saw it, I heard something too.
“Pollie, there’s someone coming along the passage.”
In the silence, there was what was obviously the sound of feet, feet which were apparently moving as if they did not wish to be heard.
I heardher fumbling with her pocket.
“I can’t find the thing; I had it just now; I can’t have dropped it.”
“Oh, Pollie! Quick! they’re at the wall!”
There was a scraping noise from behind; a muffled whispering. It sounded as if someone was endeavouring to negotiate the obstacle we had just surmounted. Still Pollie was continuing her researches.
“Where can I have put the thing?”
“Can’t you find it? Oh, Pollie!”
Someone was on the wall; had dropped softly to the ground. The sound of his alighting feet was distinctly audible. There was a pause, as if for someone to follow. It was the pause which saved us. As I waited, with my heart actually banging against my ribs, my legs giving way at the knees, expecting every second that someone would come darting at us through the darkness, just in time to save me from toppling in a heap on to the ground Pollie found the key.
“I’ve got it! What did uncle say I was to do with it? Push it against the spot of light—and then? I’ve got it into the keyhole; can’t you remember what uncle said I was to do with it then? It turns round and round.”
“Pollie!—they’re coming!”
They were. There was the sound of advancing footsteps. Approaching forms loomed dimly through the darkness. That same instant Pollie caught the trick of it; the door opened.
“Inside!” she gasped.
I was inside, moving faster than I had ever done in my life before. And Pollie was after me. The door shut behind us, seemingly of its own accord, with a kind of groan.
“That was a near thing!”
It could hardly have been nearer. Whoever was upon our heels had almost effected a simultaneous entrance with ourselves.
“He made a grab at my skirt; I felt his hand!”
But the door had closed so quickly that whoever was there had had no time to make an attempt to keep it open. It was pitch dark within, darker almost than it had been without. Pollie pressed close to my side. The fingers of one of her hands interlaced themselves with mine; she gripped me tighter than she perhaps thought. Her lips were near my ear; she spoke as if she were short of breath.
“There’s a good spring upon that door; it moved a bit too fast for them; it shuts like a rat-trap. Listen!”
There was no need to bid me to do that; already my sense of hearing was on the strain. Someone, apparently, was trying the door; to see if it was really shut; or if it could not be induced to open again.
There were voices in whispered consultation.
“There’s more than one; I wondered if there was more than one.”
“There are three,” I said.
Presently someone struck the door lightly, with the palm of the hand, or with the fist. Then, more forcibly, a rain of blows. Unless I was mistaken, the assault came from more than one pair of hands; it was like an attack made in the impotence of childish passion. The voices were raised, as if they called to us. They were like none which either of us had ever heard before; there was a curious squeakiness about them, as if their natural tone was a falsetto. What they said was gibberish to us; it was uttered in an unknown tongue. The voices ceased. After an interval, during which, one suspected, their owners had withdrawn a step or two to consider the situation, one was raised alone. It had in it a threatening quality, as if it warned us of the pains and penalties we were incurring. The fact that we were being addressed in a language which was, to us, completely strange, seemed at that moment to have about it something dreadful. Audibly, we paid no heed. Only I felt Pollie’s grip growing tighter and tighter. I wondered if she knew that she would crush my fingers if she did not take care.
The single speaker ceased to hurl at us his imprecations. I felt sure it was bad language he was using. All was still.
“What are they doing?”
So close were Pollie’s lips her whispered words tickled my ear. We had not long to wait before the answer came—in the shape of a smashing blow directed against the door.
“They’re trying to break it down; they’ll soon wake up the neighbourhood if they make that noise. Let’s get farther into the house. Why—whatever’s that?”
She had turned. In doing so she had pulled me half round with her. Her words caused me to glance about in the darkness, searching for some new terror. Nor was I long in learning what had caused her exclamation. There, glaring at us through the inky blackness in flaming letters, a foot in length, were the words “TOO LATE!” Beneath them was some hideous creature’s head.
For a second or two, in the first shock of surprise, I imagined it to be the head of some actual man, or, rather, monster. As it gleamed there, with its wide open jaws, huge teeth and flashing eyes, it was like the vivid realisation of some dreadful nightmare. It was as if something of horror, which had haunted us in sleep, had suddenly taken on itself some tangible shape and form. So irresistible was this impression, so unexpected was the shock of discovering it, that I believe, if Pollie had not caught hold of me with both her hands, and held me up, I should have fallen to the floor. As it was I reeled and staggered, so that I daresay it needed all her strength to keep me perpendicular. It was her voice, addressing me in earnest, half angry, expostulation which reassured me—at least in part.
“You goose! Don’t you see that it’s a picture drawn with phosphorus, or luminous paint, or something, on the wall. It won’t bite you; you’re not afraid of a picture, child.”
It was a picture; and, when you came to look into it, not a particularly well-drawn one either. Though I could not understand how we had missed seeing it so soon as we had entered—unless the explanation was that it had only just been put there. And, if that was the case, by whom? and how? A brief inspection was enough to show that the thing was more like one of those masks which boys wear on Guy Fawkes’ day than anything else. It was just as ridiculous, and just as much like anything in heaven or earth.
“Let’s get out of this; let’s go into the house; why do you stop in this horrid place? Where’s the door?”
“That’s the question—Where is it? Uncle Benjamin’s ideas of the proper way of getting in and out of a house are a little too ingenious for me; we seem to be in a sort of entry with nothing but walls all round us. Haven’t you a match? Didn’t you take a box out with you? For goodness sake don’t say you’ve lost it.”
I had not lost it, fortunately for us. I gave it to her. She struck a light. As she did so, the face and the writing on the wall grew dimmer. They were only visible when, standing before the flame, she cast them into shadow.
“Well, this is a pretty state of things, upon my word! There doesn’t seem to be a door!”
There did not. The flickering match served to show that we were in what looked uncommonly like an ingenious trap. We were in what seemed to be a sort of vault, or cell, which was just large enough to enable us to turn about with a tolerable amount of freedom, and that was all. Semblance of a door there was none, not even of that by which we had entered. So far as could be judged by that imperfect light on all four sides were dirty, discoloured, bare walls, in not one of which was there a crack or crevice which suggested a means of going out or in. As Pollie had said, it was indeed a pretty state of things. It seemed that we were prisoners, and in a prison from which there was no way out. Our situation reminded me of terrible stories which I had read about the Spanish Inquisition; of the sufferings of men and women, and even girls, who had spent weeks, and months, and years, in hidden dungeons out of which they had never come alive again.
Just as I had begun to really realise the fact that there did not seem to be a door, Pollie’s match went out. That same moment there came a fresh crash from without. And, directly after, another sound, or, rather, sounds. Something was taking place outside which, to us, shut in there, sounded uncommonly like a scrimmage, or the beginning of one, at any rate. Someone else, apparently, had climbed over the wall, a weighty someone, for we heard him descend with a ponderous flop. Without a doubt, the first comers had heard him too, with misgivings. Something fell, with a clatter—perhaps the tool with which they had been assailing the door. There was a scurrying of feet, as of persons eager to seek safety in flight. An exclamation or two, it seemed to us in English; then a thud, as if some soft and heavy body had come in sudden contact with the ground. A momentary silence. Then what was unmistakably an official voice, a beautiful and a blessed voice it sounded to me just then.
“All right, my lads! A little tricky, aren’t you? I daresay you think you did that very neat. You wait a bit. Next time it’ll be my turn, then perhaps I’ll show you a dodge or two.”
“Pollie,” I exclaimed, “it’s that nice policeman!”
“Hush! What if it is?”
What if it is? Everything—to me. It meant the flight of mystery, and an opportunity to breathe again. If I could have had my way I would have rushed out into the back yard and hugged him. But Pollie was so cold, and—when she liked and her precious Tom wasn’t concerned—so self-contained. She froze me. I could hear his dear big feet stamping across the yard. He thumped against the door—and I perhaps within an inch of him and not allowed to say a word.
“Inside there! Is there anyone in there?” There was; there was me. I longed to tell him so, only Pollie’s grasp closed so tightly on my arm—I knew it would be black and blue in the morning—that I did not dare. “Isn’t there a bell or a knocker? This seems to be a queer sort of a house. There’s something fishy about the place, or I’m mistaken.”
I could have assured him that he was not mistaken, and would if it had not been for Pollie. I could picture him in my mind’s eyes flashing the rays of his bull’s-eye lantern in search of something by means of which he could acquaint the inhabitants within of his presence there without—in his innocence! As if we did not know that he was there. For some minutes—it seemed hours to me—he prowled about, patiently looking for what he could not find. Then, giving up the quest in despair, he strode across the yard, climbed heavily over the wall, stamped along the passage; we could hear his footsteps even in the street beyond.
Then I ventured to use my tongue.
“Pollie, why wouldn’t you let me speak to him? Why wouldn’t you let me tell him we were here?”
“And a nice fuss there’d have been. No, thanks, my dear. Before I call in the assistance of the police I should like to turn the matter over in my mind. It begins to strike me that where my Uncle Benjamin had reasons for concealment, I may have reasons too, at any rate until I know just what there is to conceal.”
“In the meanwhile, how are we to get out of here? We’re trapped.”
“It’s the ingenuity with which Uncle Ben, or somebody, has guarded the approach to his, or, rather, my, premises which makes it clear to me that there may be something about the place on which it may be as well not to be in too great a hurry to turn the searchlight of a policeman’s eye. As to getting out of this—we’ll see.”
She struck another match, and saw. Either we had been the victims of an ocular delusion, or something curious had taken place since she had struck the first, for where, just now, there was a blank wall, in which was no sign of any opening, a door stood wide open. I could not credit the evidence of my own eyes.
“I declare,” I cried, “it wasn’t there just now.”
“It was not visible, at any rate. I tell you what, my dear, we mayn’t be the only occupants of this establishment, that’s about the truth of it. It’s possible that there’s someone behind the scenes who’s pulling the strings.”
I did not like the ideas which her words conjured up at all.
“But—who can it be?”
“That’s for us to discover.”
There was a grimness about her tone which suggested what was, to me, a new side of Pollie’s character. My impulse was to get away from the place as fast as ever I could and never return to it again. She spoke as if she were not only resolved to remain, and defied anyone to turn her out who could, but as if she had a positive appetite for any—to put it mildly—disagreeable experiences which her remaining might involve. The first horror she encountered then and there. If she did not mind it—I only wish that I could say the same of myself!
“You left the candle in the hall; let’s go and fetch it.”
As soon as we set foot outside that entry there was a pandemonium of sounds, as of a legion rushing, scrambling, squeaking. It was rats—myriads. The whole house swarmed with them; they were everywhere. They were about our feet; I felt them rushing over my boots, whirling against my skirts. One rat is bad enough, in the light, but in the dark—that multitude! I had to scream; to stumble blindfold among those writhing creatures, and keep still, was altogether too much for my capacity.
“Pollie!—light a match!—quick!—they’re all over me!—Pollie!”
She struck a match. I do not know that it was any better now that we could see them. The light only seemed to make them more excited. In fact, their squeaking increased so much that, thinking that it angered them, I had half a mind to tell Pollie to put it out again. But she never gave me a chance. Taking me by the arm she dragged me along the passage so that we were at the front door before I knew it. When we went out we had left a candle on the floor in the passage so that it might be ready for us when we came back. Pollie stooped to pick it up. But, instead of doing so at once, she remained in the same position for a second or two, as if she were staring at something. Then she broke into a laugh.
“Well, that beats anything. That was a new candle when we went out; look at it now.”
I looked; the candle had vanished. In its place what seemed to be a greasy piece of twine trailed over the side of the candlestick. The candle itself had been consumed by the rats; they had presented us with an object lesson, by way of showing us what they could do if they had a chance. I shuddered. I had heard of their fondness for fat. I am not thin. I thought of them picking the plumpness off my bones as I lay sleeping.
“Let’s get out of this awful house. Do, Pollie, do! The rats will eat us if we stay in it.”
“Let ’em try. They’ll find us tougher morsels than you think. If a rat once has a taste of me he won’t want another, I promise you that, my dear.”
It was a frightful thing to say. It made my blood run cold to hear her. I felt absolutely convinced that if rats once started nibbling at me they would never rest content till they had had all of me that they could eat. I was sure that there was not enough that was tough about me. In that hour of trial I almost wished that there had been.
Wewent upstairs to get another candle. A pound had been left on the parlour mantelpiece wrapped up in a stout brown paper. The rats had climbed up on to the shelf, they alone knew how, torn the paper to shreds, and made a meal off the contents. Pieces of candle were left, but not one whole one. Other things had been on that mantelpiece—tea, butter, bread, sugar, bacon, eggs, all the food we had. Practically the whole of it was gone. More of the tea was left than anything; possibly they had not found it altogether to their palates. But the butter had been entirely consumed; of the bacon, only the rind remained, and of the eggs the shells. I had heard, and I had read, a good deal about the voracity of rats, but never had I seen an example of it before. Pollie seemed to look on it as quite a joke. She only hoped, she said, that the quality of the provisions was good, so that they would not give them indigestion. But I could not see the fun at all. If that was a sample of their appetite, who could doubt that they would at any rate try to make a meal of us. I had been told of their devouring people’s toes as if they were toothsome dainties. I did not want them to stay their stomachs with mine if I could help it. With such calmness as I could command I did my best to explain my views upon the matter. But Pollie only laughed. She would not be sensible. So I then and there made up my mind that, sleep or no sleep, I would not take off my clothes that night. If I was to be devoured they should eat their way through my garments before they could get at me.
Pollie lit one of the stumps of the candles. The rest she slipped into her pocket. If we left them there again, she remarked, they would probably vanish completely directly our backs were turned, and candles were precious, which was true enough; but there were other things which were precious as well as candles. I asked her what she was going to do.
“Investigate, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to find out what’s behind those two closed doors. If it’s something alive I’d like to know. Also, in that case, I’d like to know just what it is. I’m not partial to rats, but I’m still less partial to strangers, who may be up to all kinds of tricks for all that I can tell, roaming about my house while I’m wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, so if anyone’s going to roam I should like to make their acquaintance before they’re starting.”
There was something callous in her demeanour, a sort of bravado, which made me momentarily more uncomfortable. This was quite a new Pollie to me. She spoke as if we were enjoying ourselves, with an apparently entire unconsciousness of the frightful situation we actually were in. I was positively beginning to be afraid of her.
“Do let us go upstairs to the bedroom, Pollie, and lock ourselves in till the morning comes.”
She glanced at her watch.
“It’s morning now; the midnight chimes have sounded long ago. Would you like to have your throat cut in the silence of the night?”
“Pollie!”
“It wouldn’t be nice to wake up and find it slit from ear to ear, would it? So don’t be a goose. There’s a door locked downstairs and another up. Before I rest I’m going to do my best to find out why those two rooms are not open to me, their rightful owner. If it’s because they harbour cut-throats, it’s just as well that we should know as soon as we conveniently can. So I’m off on a voyage of discovery. You can go to bed if you like.”
Of course I went with her. It was a choice of two evils—frightful evils—but, under the circumstances, nothing would have induced me to go to bed by myself. I would far rather have had my throat cut with her than be eaten by rats alone. She began to hunt about the room.
“I’m looking for some useful little trifle which might come in handy in breaking down a solidly-constructed door or two. Here’s a poker, heavy make—there’s some smashing capacity in that; a pair of tongs; a fender—there’s a business end to a fender; furniture—I have heard of chairs being used as battering-rams before to-day. My mother used to tell of how once, when his landlady locked him out because he wouldn’t pay the rent of his rooms, my Uncle Benjamin burst his way into the house with the aid of a chair, snatched off a passing cart which was laden with somebody else’s goods, so I can’t see how he could object to my trying the same kind of thing in the house which was once his own. But I won’t—not yet. To begin with I’ll give the poker a trial, and you might take the tongs.”
I took the tongs, though the only thing against which I should be likely to use them would be rats, even if I ventured to touch them. Indeed, the mere idea of squelching a wriggling, writhing, squeaking rat between a pair of tongs made an icy shiver go all down my spine. Pollie whirled the poker round her head with a regular whoop. What had come to her I could not imagine. Her eyes flamed; her cheeks were flushed; she was transformed. I verily believe that if half-a-dozen men had rushed in at the door that very second, she would have flown at them with a shriek of triumph. I had always known that one of her worst faults was a fondness for what she called “a bit of a scrimmage,” and that in an argument very few people got the better of her; but I had never dreamed that she would go so far as she was going then. She seemed as if she were perfectly burning for someone to attack her.
Down the staircase she went, brandishing the poker over her head. I could not keep so close to her as I should have liked for fear of it. She stamped so as she descended that near the bottom she put her foot clean through one of the steps. No doubt the wood was rotten, but still she need not have insisted on treading as heavily as she possibly could. And as soon as she reached the passage, without giving me an opportunity to say a word, she dashed at the door of the room, which was locked, and hit it with all her might with the end of the poker. I expected to see her go right through it, but, instead of that, she gave a sort of groan, and down fell the poker with a clatter to the floor.
“Pollie, what is the matter? What have you done?”
The expression of her countenance had changed all in an instant. A startled look, a look almost of pain, had come upon her features. She was rubbing her arms and feeling her shoulder-blades.
“More than I intended. If you had exerted all your strength to drive a poker through what seemed a panel of ordinary wood, and discovered that it was sheet iron instead, you’d find that you’d done more than you intended—it sort of jars.”
She picked up the poker again, and tapped it, much more gingerly, against the door. It gave forth a metallic ring.
“Iron, real iron! Not a shadow of a doubt of it. Pity I was not aware of the fact before I dislocated both my arms. Inside there! Do you hear me calling? If anyone is inside there, perhaps you’ll be so good as to let me know. I’m Pollie! Pollie Blyth!”
Not a sound came from within, for which, personally, I was grateful. She hammered and hammered, but not the slightest notice was taken of the noise she made, except by the rats, who sounded to me as if they had gone stark mad. What we should have done if anyone had replied to her summons from within is more than I can tell. We certainly should have been no better off than before. We never could have got at them. Pollie tried all she could to get that door to open, without, so far as we could judge, producing the least impression of any sort or kind. She thought of forcing the lock, but when she endeavoured to insert the end of the poker into the keyhole, it turned out that it was such a tiny one that nothing very much thicker than a hatpin could be induced to enter.
“There’s a mystery behind that door. Mark my words, Emily Purvis! It may take the form of decaying corpses, with their brains dashed out, and their throats all cut, and their bones all broken, in which case they’ll haunt us while we slumber, pointing at us spectral fingers as we lie on our unquiet beds——”
“Pollie!”
“What’s the matter, my dear? They’ll be quite as cheerful anyhow as rats, and they won’t take bites at us. At least, it’s to be hoped they won’t. Ugh! Fancy murdered spectres making their teeth meet in your flesh!”
“Pollie, if you talk like that I shall be ill; I know I shall. It isn’t fair of you. I wish you wouldn’t. Don’t!”
“Very well, my love, I won’t. I’ve only this remark to make—if the mystery doesn’t take that form, it takes another, and probably a worse one. And let me tell you this. My Uncle Benjamin was a curiosity while he lived—my mother used to say that there never was such a devil’s limb as he was, and she was his only sister, and disposed to look upon his eccentricities—and they were eccentricities—with a lenient eye; and it’s my belief that he was quite as big a curiosity when he died. There were spots in his eventful life—uncommonly queer ones—which he would not wish revealed to the public eye. Unless I’m wrong, some of them are inside there; we’re almost standing in their presence now, and I wish that we were quite.”
She rattled the poker against the panels as a kind of parting salute. I had rather she had not. Every time she made a noise—and she kept on making one—it set my nerves all tingling. What with the things she said, and the way that she went on, and everything altogether, I was getting into such a state that I was beginning to hardly know whether I was standing on my head or heels. As for Pollie, she seemed in the highest possible spirits. It was incomprehensible to me how she dared. And the way she kept on talking!
“Before I’m very much older I will get the other side of you, or I’ll know the reason why; the idea of not being allowed the free run of my own premises is a trifle more than I can stand. If I have to blow you down, I’ll get you open.”
Bang, bang, she went at it again.
“It sounds hollow, doesn’t it? Perhaps that’s meant by way of a suggestion, and is intended to let us understand that it’s only a hollow mystery after all. Well, we shall see—and you shall see too, if you have curiosity enough.”
I doubted if I had. I certainly had not just then. I wished, with all my heart, that she would come away from the horrid door, which presently she did, though not at all in the spirit I should have preferred, nor with the intentions I desired.
“There’s a second Bluebeard’s chamber upstairs. I may have better luck with that; perhaps it’s not guarded with sheet iron. Uncle Benjamin must have spent a fortune at the ironmonger’s if it is, which fortune should have been mine. We’ll go and see.”
I endeavoured to expostulate.
“Pollie, let’s leave it till to-morrow. What’s the use of making any more fuss to-night. I’m dying for want of sleep.”
“Are you?” She looked at me with what struck me as being suspicious eyes; though what there was to be suspicious about is more than I can pretend to say. “But don’t you see, my dear, that if you were to have that sleep for which you’re dying, before you wake from it you may be dead. That second Bluebeard’s chamber is next our bedroom. Suppose someone were to come out of it, while we were sunk in innocent repose, and——” She drew her thumb across her throat with a gesture which made me shudder. “That wouldn’t be nice, you know.”
“Pollie, if you keep on talking like that I’ll walk straight out of the house, I don’t care what time of the night it is, and whether you’ll come with me or whether you won’t.”
“I shouldn’t if I were you. It would seem so irregular for a young lady to be taking her solitary walks abroad during the small hours, don’t you know. Now up you go—up those stairs. We’ll continue this conversation at the top. You vowed to be my companion to the death, and my companion to the death you’re going to be.”
I had never done anything of the kind, as she was perfectly well aware. But she did not give me a chance to contradict her. She bundled me up the staircase as if I were a child, with such impetuosity that I was breathless when we reached the landing. She was laughing. We might have been enjoying a romp. As if that were the place or season for anything of the sort!
“I trod upon a rat. Did you hear it squeal? I think it was its tail. I believe the little beast turned and flew at me, it felt as if it did. I hope I scrunched its silly little tail. What is one rat’s tail among so many? Now for Bluebeard’s Chamber No. 2. This time we’ll beware of iron.”
She made a preliminary sounding, luckily for her. Even a slight tap with the poker produced the ring of metal.
“Iron again, so that’s all right. Now what shall we do? Shall we confess ourselves baffled after all, and leave a formal attack until the morning, or shall we try the effect of a little more poker smashing? What ho, within! Is anyone inside there, living or dead? If so, would you be so very obliging as to just step forth, and let us see what kind of gentleman you are.”
There was no response, thank goodness. I took her by the arm.
“Pollie, do let’s leave it to the morning, and do let’s go to bed!”
“We’ll go to bed!”
We went; at least we went into the bedroom. I did not feel much happier when we were there. To begin with, after the way in which she had been talking, my first thought was to do as much as possible to keep anyone out who might try to enter. But there was no key in the lock, the handle was loose, the hasp a bad one, so that the door would not even keep closed without our propping something up against it. I wanted Pollie to help me pile up a sort of barricade, consisting of chairs, the washhand stand, chest of drawers, and everything, as I had read of people doing in books. She only laughed at me.
“What good will it do? Who do you suppose it will keep out? Spectres? My dear, spectres will walk through stone walls. They pay no heed to trivial obstacles. Creatures of flesh and blood? You may take my word for it that if there are any of that sort alive and kicking in this house to-night, and they mean to come in here, they’ll come in just when and how they choose, and they’ll treat your ingenious barricade as if it wasn’t there.”
“Do you really think that there’s anyone in the house beside ourselves?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I tell you what I do think, that if I’d known as much before as I do now, I’d have treated myself to a revolver, and you should have had one too.”
“A revolver! Whatever should I have done with a revolver?”
“I can’t say what you’d have done. I know what I’d have tried to do. I only wish that I had something loaded handy at this moment, there’s more persuasive power in bullets than in your barricade, my dear. If the worst does come to the worst, and we have to protect ourselves against goodness alone knows what, if I could only have had my grip upon a pistol I don’t fancy that all the scoring would have been upon the other side.”
Whether she talked like that simply to make my hair stand up on end, or whether she was really in earnest, was more than I was able to determine. But as I looked at her I felt a curious something creep all over me. There was an expression on her face, a smile on her lips, a light in her eyes, which made me think of her Uncle Benjamin, to whose peculiarities we owed our presence there, and wonder if not only his blood, but something of his spirit too, was in her veins. I was persuaded that she perceived something actually agreeable in a situation in which I saw nothing but horror. And it was I who had supposed myself to be romantic!
She began to bustle about the room.
“I thought you were dying for want of sleep. Aren’t you going to get between the sheets? There is a bed, and there are sheets, though I should hardly like to swear that they have been washed since someone slept between them last. When are you going to begin to undress?”
“Undress? Do you imagine that I intend to remove so much as a stitch of clothing while I remain beneath this roof?”
“Do you propose to sleep in your boots then?”
“If I am to sleep at all, and I am more than half disposed to hope that sleep may not visit my eyelids till I am out of this dreadful place, I propose to do so in what I stand up in. Pollie, have you ever heard of people’s hair turning white in the course of a single night? I shouldn’t be at all surprised if mine did. It feels as if it were changing colour now.”
She stared as if she could not make me out. I wondered if she was noting the transformation which was taking place in my hair; if it had already become so obvious. Then she broke into peal after peal of laughter. The tears started to my eyes. Just as I was about to really cry there came a crash which shook the house.
It sounded as if someone had opened a door in the passage and shut it with a bang.