I gathered from the account that the case had excited very little interest and attention, and was soon over and forgotten.
This is all I learned from the report of Mr. Dickson and the account of the inquest.
The bare facts were clear enough to the ordinary mind, that is to say, to the mind that had no profound motive to urge it to look beneath the surface. They were clear enough to me, but not in any sense satisfactory. It appeared to my judgment that the inquest was hurried over, that statements had been accepted which should have been the subject of more searching examination, and that any person deeply interested in the case would have asked questions which did not seem to have occurred to coroner and jury. My own experience had led me to the conclusion that at these hasty inquests many important matters of detail which might have a vital bearing on the verdict are altogether overlooked. The coroners have too much to do, too many inquiries to make in the course of a few hours; the jury, dragged from their occupations without adequate remuneration, are only anxious to get the matter over and return to their businesses and homes. There should be some better method of procedure in these important investigations if it is desired that justice shall be properly served, and for my part I was stirred by an uneasy consciousness that in this instance justice had been hoodwinked. How, indeed, could I have felt differently with the specter cat lying at my feet, and looking up into my face?
The silent monitor was an irresistible force. Although the death of Beatrice Lockyer did not personally concern me, and I had no direct interest in discovering whether she died by fair means or foul, I was impelled onward by the conviction that I should never be freed from this supernatural visitation until the truth was brought to light.
It was evening when I received and read the report of the inquiry agent and the account of the inquest, and I had made no appointment to meet Bob. On the chance of finding him at home, I took the train to Canonbury, leaving a message with Maria that if he called during my absence he was to remain till I returned. Accompanied by my spectral companion, I mounted Bob's staircase, and he, hearing my footsteps, received me on the landing.
"I half expected you," he said, casting his eyes downward.
"It is with me, Bob," I said, answering the look. "Have you seen your nephew to-day?"
"No," he replied. "I should not be surprised if he pops in to-night. You have some news?"
"Mr. Dickson has sent me certain particulars relating to the death of the young lady, whose name, as you will see, is Beatrice Lockyer. I should like to go through them with you, and to hear what strikes you as having a suspicious bearing on the case."
I handed him the papers I had brought with me, and he read them carefully.
"I doubt," he said, when he had finished, "whether Ronald knows to this day that Beatrice was not Mr. Nisbet's daughter."
"Would he not have read the account of the inquest?" I inquired.
"He could not read it himself; he was blind at the time, recollect; and I know no one who would have inflicted upon him the pain of making him acquainted with the sorrowful details. I am convinced that these published particulars have not come to his knowledge."
"Point out weak and suspicious points, Bob."
"She was not his daughter," said Bob.
"Exactly. And therefore there was no reason why he should have had any strong affection for her."
"I suppose," said Bob, "that we had best take the worst view of anything that suggests itself."
"I don't intend to soften anything down," I replied. "At present we are doing no one an injustice, and I am inclined to accept the most terrible suggestion without shrinking. We need not give it a name, Bob. If it is in your mind as it is in mine, let it rest there till the time arrives to proclaim it aloud."
Bob nodded and said, "There was a large fortune. £60,000 is a tempting bait."
"Observe," I remarked, "that at the inquest no allusion is made to the fact that Mr. Nisbet would so largely benefit by the death of his stepdaughter."
"It is singular, Ned. Could it have been willfully suppressed?"
"If so it was suppressed by only one man--the man who has obtained possession of the fortune. Who else at the inquest could have known anything about it? Not the coroner, certainly, or it would have been mentioned; certainly not the jury, to whom the unfortunate young lady and her stepfather were absolute strangers. Mr. Nisbet, as it appears to me, had the game entirely in his hands, and could play it as served him best. There was no one to question him or his motives, not a soul to come forward to verify or falsify anything he cared to say. He and Beatrice were alone together in this great city, cut off, as it were, from all mankind. There is no mention of the name of a single friend. On the night of her death only he and she were in the house, in that lonely, wretched house which my stupid wife had set her heart upon."
"It must have been in a better state then than it is now."
"Granted; but there are large grounds attached to the house, and there was not even a fitful gardener employed to keep it in order, who could come forward and say, 'I will tell you what I know.'"
"Are you sure of that, Ned?" asked Bob.
"Ah! It is a suggestion that must not be lost sight of. There is the value of talking a thing over in an open way. At all events, no such man makes his appearance. Now, does it stand to reason that a lady and gentleman of ample means would willingly bury themselves in such a place? If the man had been straight minded and right minded, would he not have insisted on taking a young lady whom he calls his daughter into more comfortable quarters? He is her guardian, her protector, she has no one else to depend upon, she has no friend in whom she can confide. Although, as you say, the house must have been in a better condition then than it is now, is it at all likely that, without some sinister motive, Mr. Nisbet should have deliberately selected a residence in so cheerless a locality? He says she was averse to society. We have only his word for that. From the little concerning her which Ronald Elsdale has imparted to you it does not appear that she was disinclined to make pleasant acquaintances. Why did not her stepfather give her opportunities of doing so? On the contrary, he regards with aversion even the slight advances which a gentleman like Ronald, with everything in his favor, pays her on a legitimate occasion. Is that in his favor?"
"It tells against him distinctly."
"Your nephew describes her as a young lady of singular attractions. What does such a lady naturally look forward to? Would it not be to marriage, to a home of her own? But, that accomplished, all chance of Mr. Nisbet coming into a fortune of £60,000 would be lost? Here we find the motive spring of his actions. It was for this, probably, that he married the mother. So dark are the thoughts that keep cropping up in my mind that I ask myself, 'How did the mother meet her death?'"
I had worked myself into a state of great excitement, and I was now restlessly pacing Bob's little room.
"Even without this evidence," I continued, pointing to the apparition of the cat, "I should suspect his motives. With such evidence I am almost ready to condemn him unheard. The arguments I bring forward seem to me reasonable and conclusive, and so far as lies in my power I will bring the matter to its rightful issue."
"I cannot blame you," said Bob, "and, as I have already told you, I will assist you if I can. The difficulty is, where to commence. You have no starting point."
"I have. The house in Lamb's Terrace. I shall put your courage to the test before I leave you to-night; but I will speak of that presently. There is another circumstance I wish to refer to with respect to Mr. Nisbet's evidence at the inquest. He speaks of the one domestic who remained in their service after the others had left, or had been discharged."
"Why do you say discharged?"
"It has only at this moment occurred to me. Things suggest themselves as I ventilate the subject which I did not think of at first. We may be able to find one of these servants who left of their own accord, or were turned away. Keeping to this one domestic who remained faithful to them, the probability is that it was an English girl of humble origin. This being so, it is still more probable that she knew nothing of foreign countries and foreign travel; and that she could speak no language but her own."
"Well?"
"Mr. Nesbit says he sent her on to Lucerne before the day on which he intended to start with Beatrice, and that she was to proceed to Vitznau from Lucerne to attend to the rooms he had taken there. Was that not a curious thing to do, and was it likely that an ignorant London domestic could be expected to reach the place without mishap."
"It was a strange proceeding."
"It is more than strange. If we could lay hands upon that girl we might learn something useful. If we can find her people----" I paused; there were footsteps on the stairs, and I knew, from the care that was being taken in ascending, that it was Ronald Elsdale who was coming up. I opened the door for him, and gave him good-evening. I observed again the look of discomposure on his face as he entered the room; again I saw him turn his eyes downward to the spot upon which the cat was lying. He made no reference, however, to the fancy which oppressed him, but brushed his hand across his forehead, as he had done before.
"I am glad you are here, Mr. Emery," he said. "I wished to ask you something. Why did you want to know where the young lady lived whom, but for my blindness, I should have asked to be my wife?"
I paused a moment before I spoke. I felt that the time had not arrived to take him fully into my confidence.
"I beg you will not press me," I said; "I had a reason, but I cannot disclose it at present."
"You will some day?"
"Yes, I promise you."
"Thank you. I have been thinking of it a great deal, and I felt that you did not ask the question out of idle curiosity."
"I did not. And now, if you will deal more generously to me than it may appear I am dealing to you, I should like to ask another question or two concerning her--if," I added, "the subject is not too painful to you."
He turned to his uncle, who said, "Yes, answer the questions, Ronald."
"I will do so freely," he said.
"I assure you," I commenced, "that I am impelled by a strong and earnest motive, and that before long you shall know all that is passing in my mind. When you met her on the Continent, did she give you the impression that she was of a morbid or melancholy temperament?"
"Not at all. She was always cheerful and animated."
"Was she averse to society? Did she show that it was distasteful to her?"
"Oh, no. With modesty and discretion she seemed glad to converse with people whose manners were agreeable and becoming."
"She had a favorite instrument, had she not, upon which she was fond of playing?"
"You seem to know a great deal about her, Mr. Emery. Her favorite instrument was the zither."
"Have you heard her play upon it?"
"Yes, and her touch was sweet and beautiful."
"Would you say that her inclination was to play sorrowful or somber airs?"
"By no means. The zither does not lend itself to boisterous music, there is a tenderness in the instrument which goes to the heart. Her taste lay in the direction of sweetness; but there was nothing sorrowful or somber in her playing."
These questions answered, I succeeded in changing the subject of conversation, and Ronald stopped with us an hour, and then took his departure, saying before he left, "I rely on your promise, Mr. Emery."
When he was gone I said to Bob, "False in one thing, false in all. Mr. Nisbet's evidence at the inquest was a tissue of fabrications. Now, Bob, I am going to put you to the test. The house in Lamb's Terrace is mine for three months. Will you spend a night or two with me there?"
He looked up, rather startled at the proposition; but any uneasiness he may have felt passed away almost immediately.
"Yes," he replied. "When?"
"Not to-morrow night. It would not be fair. You have to get to the office on the following morning, and a night of unrest may interfere with your duties. Your Sundays are free. Let us fix Saturday night."
"Very well, Ned. What explanation will you give to your wife?"
"I shall exercise a pardonable deceit upon her. On Saturday afternoon you and I will be supposed to be going to Brighton for a blow. She will raise no objection and we may depend upon her not disturbing us. Untold gold would not tempt her into that house again."
"I will join you," said Bob, in a serious tone. "I should not like you to be alone there."
So it was arranged, and I bade him good-night.
As I supposed, my wife was entirely agreeable to the seaside excursion, and professed herself delighted at the idea.
"You should go about more," she said. "Too much moping at home is bad for a man. We don't notice the changes that take place in ourselves, but others do."
"You have noticed some change in me?" I asked.
"I have. You are not half the man you used to be; your good spirits seem to have quite deserted you, and you keep looking about you in a most suspicious way."
"Tell me, Maria, in what particular way?"
"Well, as if you were afraid somebody was going to pick your pocket, or as if you fancied you had a shadow for a companion. My opinion is that you have not got over that unfortunate visit we paid to the house in Lamb's Terrace."
"Have you got over it?"
"No, and never shall. I can't keep my thoughts away from the place, and I often feel as if something was dragging me to the house again, though a second visit would be the death of me."
"Never be tempted, Maria; don't go near the neighborhood. We both need change of scene to clear the cobwebs away. When I come back from Brighton you shall run off to the seaside for a day or two; you can easily get a lady friend to keep you company, especially if I pay all the expenses."
"Why should we not go together?"
"Because in each other's society we should brood over the frightful adventure we had. Change of company, Maria, as well as change of scene; that is what will do us good."
This conversation proved that my wife had not succeeded in forgetting the adventure, and had only refrained from speaking of it out of consideration for me. Her confession that she sometimes felt as if she was being dragged to the house against her will rather alarmed me, and I determined to adopt some means to send her from London for longer than a day or two. It would be beneficial to her, and would leave me free to act.
Before the hour arrived upon which Bob and I were to set out upon our pretended holiday, I paid a second visit to the inquiry agent, Mr. Dickson, and commissioned him to ascertain for me:
First. The name of the servant girl who was sent to Switzerland by Mr. Nisbet; where her family lived; when she returned from the Continent.
Second. The names and residences of the other servants in Mr. Nisbet's employ who had discharged themselves.
Third. Where Miss Beatrice Lockyer was buried.
Fourth. Any particulars he could gather relating to the death of Miss Beatrice's mother.
Fifth. Where Mr. Nisbet was living at the present time.
Mr. Dickson informed me that these inquiries could scarcely be answered in less than a couple of weeks, and I left them in his hands, requesting him to use expedition.
Contrary to my expectation I received a letter from him on Saturday morning, in which he informed me that he was enabled to give me imperfect answers to three of my questions.
First. The name of the servant girl who was sent to Switzerland was Molly Brand. She had no parents, and the people she lived with when she entered Mr. Nisbet's service had emigrated. At that time she had a little sister dependent upon her, a child of some six years of age. This child had presumably been taken by Molly's friends to Australia, but upon this point, and upon the point of the child's age, he could not speak with any certainty. He had not yet succeeded in obtaining any traces of Molly from the time of her departure from London, and could not therefore say whether she had returned or where she was.
Second. From what he could gather Mr. Nisbet had had no other servants in his employ.
Third. The young lady was not buried. She was cremated at Woking.
To these scanty particulars was attached a memorandum to the effect that he was cramped by a limit I had mentioned as to the amount of the expenses to be incurred in his investigation. It was a measure of prudence I had adopted, for I was not inclined to give him quite a free hand, but it seemed to be fated that my desires to reach the heart of the mystery should be continually baffled by meeting with closed doors, and I now determined to be more liberal in my instructions. I wrote to Mr. Dickson to this effect, inwardly marveling as I wrote the letter that, in a matter in which I did not appear to be in any way personally interested, I should be impelled into a reckless course of expenditure. But, casting my eyes downward, I saw the phantom cat at my feet, and I felt that I should not be released from this frightful companion until my task was completed.
"Rest content," I said to the specter; "I will pursue it to the end."
There was no sign, no movement from it. Waiting for the development of events, it was ever on the watch. If, like Poe's raven, it had uttered but a word, it would have been a relief to me, for nothing could intensify the terror of the dread silence it preserved. There was within me a conviction that a moment would arrive when it would take some action toward the unraveling of the mystery, but in what shape this action would display itself was to me unfathomable.
At one o'clock Bob called for me, and I bade Maria good-by.
"Now, mind you enjoy yourselves," she said; "and take good care of him, Mr. Millet."
"I will do that," said Bob, rather guiltily.
He was not an adept in deception, but my wife had no suspicion that we were deceiving her, and we took our departure in peace, each of us provided with a Gladstone bag, Bob's being the bulkier of the two. In mine my wife had placed, in addition to toilet necessaries, two flat bottles, one containing brandy, the other port wine, and the usual packet of sandwiches which the middle-class feminine mind deems a positive essential for a railway journey. Bob had also provided himself with food and liquids, and thus furnished we started upon our expedition.
On our road we discussed the information I had received from Mr. Dickson, each item of which strengthened our suspicion of foul play. The strongest feature in confirmation of this suspicion was the cremation of the body of the unfortunate young lady. We would not for one moment admit that Mr. Nisbet was an enthusiast on the subject of cremation, but accepted the course he had adopted as damning evidence against him. I mention it to show to what lengths the prejudiced mind will go in arriving at a conclusion upon an open matter; but, apart from this consideration, we certainly had ample reason for the strong feelings we entertained. A hasty inquest held by incompetent persons, the acceptance of conclusive statements from the party most interested in the young lady's death, the falsehoods of which he already stood convicted, and other falsehoods which I had little doubt would be in a short time discovered, pointed one and all to a miscarriage of justice. Bob no longer disputed the conclusions at which I arrived, but accepted them with gloomy avidity.
Needless to say that we did not set out upon our expedition without the society of my spectral familiar, and that we were both in a state of nervous excitement as to what would occur. Bob had never been in the neighborhood of Lamb's Terrace, and its desolate appearance surprised him. Dismal and forlorn as was its aspect on the occasion of my first introduction to the region, it was still more so now. This sharpened accentuation of its desolate condition was probably caused by the knowledge I had since gained, and by the vagaries of our beautiful London climate. When we stated from home there was the promise of a tolerably fine day, but during the last half hour the sky had become overcast and dreary mists were gathering.
"Cheerful, isn't it, Bob?" I said.
"Do you mean to tell me," was his response, "that having come so far on your first visit, your wife did not immediately abandon the idea of taking a house in such a locality?"
"Whatever may have been in her mind," I replied, "she certainly insisted upon finding the house and going over it. It was offered to us at half the value of a house of such dimensions, and did you ever know a woman sufficiently strong minded to resist a bargain? I do not believe she would have had the courage to complete the arrangement, but she went quite far enough."
We turned down the narrow lane and skirted the dilapidated wall till we arrived at our destination. As we walked through the front garden entrance, choked up with its weeds and rank grass, and ascended the flight of steps, I asked Bob how he felt.
"It is impossible not to feel depressed," he answered; "but you will not find me fail you, Ned. We will go through what we have undertaken."
"Well said. We shall get along all right till Monday morning. There was a little furniture in one or two of the rooms, and I do not suppose it has been removed. When my wife was here we only examined the front room on the second floor; the rooms I have not seen may be habitable. I expect we shall have to go out and buy some necessaries. What have you got in your bag?"
"You shall see presently."
The cat entered the house with us, but it did not remain with us in the lobby. I saw it pass down to the basement, and it gave no sign of expectation that I should accompany it.
"That's a comfort," I remarked.
I had to explain my meaning to Bob, and he seemed to regard the departure as a significant commencement of our enterprise. We did not follow our spectral companion to the basement, but proceeded upstairs to the apartments I had already seen. In all, with the exception of the front room on the second floor, in which I had rang the bell which summoned the apparitions, there was some furniture left, and Bob expressed his astonishment that it had not been removed or sold by the last tenant.
"It would have been a simple matter," he said, "to call in a broker, who would very soon have cleared the house of every stick in it."
"He must have had his reasons," I observed. "Perhaps his coming into possession of a large fortune made him careless of these trifles."
"They are not exactly trifles," said Bob, who was better able than I to speak on the subject. "A broker would give at least fifty pounds for what is on this floor. The wonder is that the place has not been robbed."
We had not yet reached the second floor, and we now ascended to the room in which my wife and I had met with our appalling experience. Before entering it we examined the back rooms, and in one, a bedroom, we found two beds, which we determined to occupy for the night. Bob, having lived a bachelor life for many years, now showed his handiness. He examined the stove, to see that the register was up, and then he opened his Gladstone bag, the contents of which surprised me. He produced first a bundle of wood, then a remarkable case which contained within its exceedingly limited space a kettle with a folding handle, a gridiron, two tin pannikins, knives, forks, and spoons, and a spirit lamp, fitting in each other.
"Bravo, Bob," I said; "living alone has taught you something."
He smiled, and proceeded to further surprise me, fishing out a loaf of bread, tea, sugar, a tin of condensed milk, sausages, salt, pepper, a revolver, a pack of cards, and a Bible--a motley collection of articles.
"A bachelor'smultum in parvo," he said, adding, as he touched the revolver, "wouldn't be bad for the bush. We are short of two things, coal and water. But look here--we are in luck. A scuttle nearly full. There will be no water in the house fit to drink. We shall have to go and market, but there will not be so much to get in as I expected."
With the manner of a man accustomed to attend to his wants he knelt down and burned some paper and wood in the grate, and the draught being all right, laid the fire, but did not set light to it. Rising, he expressed a wish to see the front room.
It was, as before, quite bare and empty, and Bob said it looked as if it had not been furnished. The bell ropes were there, one broken, the other in a workable condition. I laid my hand on the unbroken cord, and cast an inquiring glance at Bob.
"Yes," he said, "pull it."
He threw the door wide open, and stood with his back to it, to prevent its closing. He held his revolver in his hand, his finger on the trigger. I gave the rope a smart tug, and, as on the previous eventful occasion, it was followed by the jangle of a host of discordant bells. The sounds died away in a low wail, and we waited in silent apprehension. But this time there was no response to the call; it was answered only by a dead silence. The feeling of relief I experienced was shared by Bob, though, curiously enough, there was an expression of disappointment in his face.
"Of course it is better as it is," he said, "but I expected something very different. Where is your apparition, Ned?"
"I cannot tell you. Thank Heaven, it is not in sight!"
"Perhaps this is an end of the matter."
"You are wrong, Bob; there is more to come before we finally leave the house."
"We will wait for it, then," he said, and I saw that he was beginning again to believe that I had been under the spell of a delusion. "And now, as we have determined to remain here two nights, we had best go and get in the things we want to make us comfortable. I will empty my bag to carry back what we purchase, and if what we leave behind us is carried away we shall know that human, and not supernatural, agency is at work. Come along, old fellow."
We left the house and no spectral apparition accompanied us. Bob's spirits rose, and I confess that I myself was somewhat shaken by the desertion of my familiar.
We had to go some distance before arriving at a line of shops, and not wishing to attract attention I purposely selected those which lay apart from the principal thoroughfares. Our principal difficulty was water, and this we carried back with us in a zinc bucket I purchased. The shopkeeper stared at us when I asked him to fill it, but he did not refuse, and, furnished with all we required, we returned to Lamb's Terrace, and ascended to the room we intended to occupy for the night. By this time it was dark, and we lit the fire and saw to the beds. Then we prepared a meal, and were fairly jolly over it. Every few minutes one of us went into the passage and listened, but we were not disturbed by any sounds from below or above. It had been my intention to search the various rooms for some chance clew relating to the last tenant, but it was too late and dark to carry it out; I therefore postponed it till the morning. Bob proposed a game of cards, and we sat down to cribbage, which we played till ten o'clock. Under such circumstances it was rather a lugubrious amusement, but it was better than doing nothing. After the game we drank hot brandy and water out of the pannikins, and prepared for bed. The lock of the door was in workable order, and for a wonder the key was there. We turned it, undressed, put out the light, and wished each other goodnight.
"If your good wife had the slightest suspicion of our proceedings," said Bob drowsily, "she would never forgive me. I have an odd Robinson Crusoe-ish feeling upon me, as though the civilized world were thousands of miles away."
I answered him briefly, and soon heard him breathing deeply. For my part I could not get to sleep so easily. For a long time I lay awake, closing my eyes only to open them and gaze upon the monstrous, uncouth shadows which the dying fire threw upon the walls and ceiling. At length, however, I closed my eyes and did not open them again till, as I judged from the circumstance of the fire being quite out, some hours had passed. It was not a natural awakening; I was aroused by the sound of something moving in the lower part of the house.
I sat up in bed, and quickly lit a candle. Bob was sleeping soundly, and I saw nothing in the room to alarm me; I was quite prepared to greet once more the apparition of my faithful companion, but as the cat was not in sight I inferred that it was contented with its quarters in the basement. On a small table by Bob's side lay his revolver, ready to his hand, and even in this moment of apprehension I smiled at the idea of my friend--the most humane man in the world--possessing so murderous an instrument. I was thankful, however, that he had brought it; powerless as it would be against spectral foes it inspired me with confidence. I slid from my bed, seized the pistol, stepped to the door and listened. My movements aroused Bob, as I intended they should, and he jumped up.
"Who's there?" he cried, clapping his hand on the table. "What's the matter?"
"Hush," I said, "make no noise. Your pistol's all right; I've got it. Slip on your clothes, and come and keep watch while I get into mine. There's someone--or something--downstairs."
He was soon ready and he took his station by the door while I dressed myself.
"I don't hear anything," he said, when I joined him.
"All is quiet just now, Bob, but I was not mistaken. I am positive I heard it."
"What was it like?"
"Like somebody moving softly about, wishing not to be heard."
"Rats or mice, perhaps. I shouldn't wonder if the lower part of the house is full of them."
I caught his arm. "Listen, Bob."
With our ears close to the door, we both caught the sound of a stealthy movement below.
"There it is," he whispered, and I felt his arm tremble in my grasp. A moment afterward he said, "We are trapped."
"Don't lose your nerve," I responded, in as cheerful a tone as I could command; "we must see it through, now we are here. I am sorry I brought you, Bob; the next time I come, I will come alone."
"Indeed you shall not, Ned," he replied, "and I am ashamed of my weakness. I was prepared for something of the sort, and here am I showing the white feather. I am all right now, old fellow."
"Bravo! Take your pistol; I brought a weapon with me."
It was a thick flat strip of iron, tapered at one end, which I used at home to open cases, and which, unknown to my wife, I had secreted about me. Bob nodded as I produced it.
"A formidable weapon," he said, "but useless against apparitions; we may have more formidable foes to contend with, however, and it is as well to be provided. It would be foolhardy to leave the room. We should have to carry a candle, and it might be dashed from our hands; the darkness would be horrible. We are safer where we are."
"We will not go out yet, Bob. The sound has ceased. Take a nip of brandy, and give me one."
This dialogue was carried on at intervals. We paused in the middle of sentences, and finished them as though it was our customary method of pursuing a conversation. In the fever of our senses we lost sight of the natural order of things, and the shadows created by the flickering light appeared to be in harmony with the position in which we were placed. The silence--as dread in its mysterious possibilities as threatening sounds would have been--continuing, Bob rekindled the fire, and we remained quiescent for an hour and more. Bob looked at his watch.
"It is past two, Ned."
"Yes. I have been thinking over what is best to be done."
"Have you decided?"
"I have, but I hardly like to propose it to you."
"I am ready for anything," he said, divining my wish. "Every moment that we are shut up here grows more oppressive."
"My feeling. We are fairly strong men, and are well armed. Have you the courage to explore the house with me?"
He straightened himself and replied, "Let us set about it at once."
We adopted every reasonable precaution. We each carried a candle, and held pistol and iron bar in our right hands, firmly resolved to use them promptly in case we were attacked. Throwing open the door we stepped into the passage.
So far as we could judge from the evidence of our senses, there was not a movement in the house which did not proceed from ourselves. Slowly and cautiously I led the way downstairs, and when we reached the hall I unlocked the street door and left it ajar, thus affording a readier means of escape should the need for flight present itself. In our progress we entered and examined every room on the three floors, and saw no spiritual or material foe. Then we descended to the basement.
As I touched the handle of the kitchen door I fancied I heard a faint sound, and looking at Bob I gathered from the expression on his face that he also was impressed by a similar fancy.
"What do you think it is?" I asked in a whisper.
"It sounds like soft breathing," he replied, in a voice as low as my own.
We paused a while, and then, receiving from Bob a silent approval, I gently pushed the door and we entered. We had not been beguiled by our fancies. In the extreme corner of the kitchen we observed a huddled heap of clothes and coverings, from beneath which issued the low breathing of a person asleep. Treading very softly we drew near to the spot, and to our astonishment beheld--no form of ruffian or bloodthirsty marauder, but the form of a child, deep in slumber.
It was a girl whose age appeared to be eleven or twelve. She was undressed, and was lying upon some strips of old carpet; other strips of old carpet and the clothes she had taken off comprised her bed coverings. Her face was not clean, but there dwelt upon it, even in her sleep, a pathetic expression of want and suffering. There was a loneliness and helplessness in the figure of this young child slumbering unprotected in such a place which stirred me to pity. Her tangled hair lay loose across her face, and her eyelids were swollen, as if she had been weeping before the angel of sleep brought ease and oblivion to her troubled heart; one little naked arm had released itself from its wrappings, and lay exposed; it was thin, and sharp, and pointed, and the tale of woe it told accentuated the pity I felt for the child.
Bob put his pistol in his pocket, and I buttoned my coat over my weapon.
"Nothing to scare us here," he said.
"No, indeed," I replied. "See, Bob--there are three boxes of matches which look as if they have been carried in her little hands for hours. She has been trying to sell them, perhaps, to get a bit of supper. Poor soul! What brings her to this dismal, haunted hole?"
"No other roof to cover her," suggested Bob.
So engrossed had I been in the contemplation of the pathetic figure that I had not noticed another figure crouching close to it. It was the apparition of the skeleton cat, seemingly keeping guard over the child. The moment my eyes fell upon it Bob knew from my startled movement what it was I beheld.
"It is there, Ned," he said quietly.
"Yes, it is there, and this child has some connection with the mystery which hangs over this house."
He did not dispute with me. The hour, the scene, and all that had passed, were favorable to my opinion, and he accepted it without question or remonstrance. The presence of the apparition, although it was not evident to his senses, disturbed him more than it disturbed me. I was by this time accustomed to it, and the feeling of horror with which it had at first inspired me was now replaced by a feeling of agitated curiosity as to the issue of the mission upon which I was convinced we were both engaged. There was not the slightest doubt in my mind that its presence by the side of the sleeping child, in conjunction with our discovery of the child herself, was an indication that I had advanced another step toward the unraveling of the mystery.
The latter part of our conversation had been carried on in our natural voices, our desire being to arouse the child from her slumbers. As, however, she still slept on, I knelt by her side and laid my hand upon her shoulder. Even then she did not awake, and it was not till I had shaken her--which I need scarcely say I did with a gentle hand--that she opened her eyes. With a terrified scream she started up, and then she plunged down again, and hiding her face in her clothes, began to shake and sob.
"We are not going to hurt you, my child," I said. "We are your friends. You have nothing to fear from us."
"I aint got no friends," she sobbed, "and I aint done no 'arm. Oh, please, please, let me go away!"
"Where to?" I asked.
"I don't know, I don't know," she sobbed. "Please don't do nothink to me, and let me go away."
"You shall go away if you like," I said, to soothe her, "but you must dress yourself first, you know."
"I will this minute, sir, if you'll only let me alone. Oh, my! oh, my! What shall I do, what shall I do?"
"You shall be let alone--you shall do exactly what you want to do. Only believe, my child, that we are really your friends and that we want to help you. You went to bed hungry, did you not?"
"Yes, I did, sir. I 'ad three boxes of matches, and I couldn't sell 'em, though I tried ever so. I've been all day at it, and nobody'd buy a box or give me a ha'penny."
"Been all day at it," I said, the tears starting to my eyes at the infinite pathos in the girl's voice; "you have been hungry all day?"
"Yes, sir, I 'ave," she answered plaintively. "I'm used to it. A boy give me a bit of bread this morning, and nothink else 'as passed my mouth all the blessed day."
"He was a good boy to be so kind to you." I turned to Bob. "Would you mind going upstairs alone, Bob, and bringing down some bread and butter and sausage. Then the little girl will believe that we wish to be as good to her as the boy was this morning."
Bob did not hesitate. All his fears had vanished, and he hastened from the kitchen, and soon returned with food and a cup of cold tea. Meanwhile I continued to speak to the child in my kindest tones, and she mustered courage to peep at me two or three times, and each time, I was pleased to observe, with renewed confidence. Once she asked why I had asked the gentleman if he wouldn't mind going upstairs alone, and I replied that my friend was rather timid because the house was so lonely.
"It is, sir," she said upon this; "it's awful!"
"In what way, my dear?" I inquired, but she closed her lips, firmly, and did not answer. I did not urge her, deeming it prudent not to press her until her confidence in us was completely won.
"Now, my dear," I said upon Bob's return, "sit up and eat this. The tea is cold, but we will give you a cup of hot tea presently if you care to have it. And see--I will buy your matches of you. Here is sixpence for them."
Her eyes, with wonder in them, were raised to mine, and her hot fingers closed over the coin, as she tremblingly sat up in her wretched bed, and wiped her tears away with her naked arm.
"Thank yer, sir," she murmured, and she began to eat and drink. Never in my life have I beheld a human being devour food so eagerly and ravenously, and she made no pause till she had drained the cup and disposed of every crumb.
"Do you feel better?" I asked, with a smiling nod at her.
"Ever so much, sir; thank yer kindly," she said humbly and gratefully. "I'm good for another day."
"And for many more after that," I said. "I dare say we shall be able to do something for you if you are a good girl."
"I aint bad, sir," she said, with an imploring look; "don't believe that I am. I never forgit what Molly sed----" she stopped with a sudden gasp. "You aint come from 'er, 'ave yer, sir?"
"From Molly, my dear? No, we have not come from her. Who is Molly?"
"My sister, sir," she replied with a sigh; "the only one, I aint got no other brothers or sisters."
"You have a mother and father, my dear?"
"No, sir, there was only Molly and me."
"Some relatives, surely?"
"No, sir, not as I knows on."
"Have you no home, my dear?"
"No, sir, 'xcept this, unless you turn me out of it."
"If we do turn you out of it, my child, it will be to put you in a better one."
"Don't, sir; oh, please don't!" she cried.
"Not put you in a more comfortable home, my dear?" I asked in surprise.
"I don't want a more comfortable one, sir, till Molly comes back. If she don't find me 'ere, where's she to look for me, and 'ow am I to know? I 'ope you won't turn me away; I do 'ope it, sir!"
"There, there, my dear," I said, "you need not distress yourself. Depend upon it we will do nothing that you do not wish done, and that is not for your good. We will see about it all presently. Where is your sister?"
"That's wot I want to know, sir; that's wot I want to find out. Oh, wot wouldn't I give if I knew where Molly was!"
There was pregnant matter here for me to think about. The child did not want to find another home till her sister came back. Came back where? To this Heaven-forsaken house. It was here that Molly would come to look for the poor little waif. The conclusion was that Molly knew something of the house, was familiar with it, else she would not expect to find her young sister in it. Was it a reasonable conclusion that she knew something of the last tenant, and could give me some information concerning him? I did not pursue the subject with the little girl in this direction, deeming it best to await a more advantageous opportunity for learning what I desired to know.
"What was it Molly said to you that you will never forget?" I asked.
"She said, Molly did, 'Look 'ere, Barbara, mind you're good, and mind you allus keep good. If you don't you shan't be no sister of mine.' That's wot I won't forgit as long as ever I live. But O Molly, Molly, why don't you come back? Why don't you come back!"
The imploring earnestness of this appeal powerfully affected me, and I gazed pitifully at poor Barbara, from whose eyes the tears were streaming. That when she put her hands up to her eyes, she should keep her little fist tightly clenched, touched me to the heart; the little silver piece was her shield against hunger, for a few hours at least, and she clung to it instinctively through all her grief. I waited till she was calmer before I said:
"Dress yourself quickly, Barbara, and come upstairs with us. There's a nice fire there, and I want to talk to you about Molly. We will try and find her for you, and you shall not be hungry again. Will you trust me?"
"Yes, sir, I will; no one could speak kinder, and you're not the sort of gentleman to take me in. Perhaps you won't mind telling me 'ow long you've been 'ere. I didn't know there was anybody in the house but me."
"We came only a few hours ago, Barbara," I answered, "and I have been here but once before."
"Wot did you come the first time for, sir?"
"The house is to let, and I thought of taking it."
"To live in, sir?"
"Yes, to live in."
"But you're never going to, sir?"
"No, I am not going to."
"I should say yer wouldn't," she muttered. "Who would, I'd like to know? What did you come for this time, sir?"
"I will tell you more when you're dressed," I said. "It will be warmer and nicer upstairs. Be as quick as you can."
Bob and I went out of the kitchen while Barbara put on her ragged garments, in which she looked a truly miserable object; Bob patted her cheek, and I took her hand and led her upstairs, the cat following at our heels. I noticed that she kept her eyes closed most of the time, and that when she lifted her lids she did so timorously and apprehensively, but I refrained at present from asking her the reason of this. It was only when we were in the room which we had selected for our sleeping apartment that she opened her eyes and kept them open.
"Now, Barbara," I said, putting a chair by the fireside for her, "sit down there, and warm yourself; then we will talk."
She sat down obediently, and spread out her thin hands to the comforting flame, and with a kind of wonder watched Bob as he put the kettle on and prepared to make the tea. He poured out a cup, and put in milk and sugar liberally, and gave it to her. She thanked him and drank it, saying when the cup was empty, "That's good, sir."
"Are you ready to talk, Barbara?" I asked.
"Yes, if you please, sir."
"I am going to ask you a good many questions, and perhaps they'll lead to good."
"I'll answer all I can, sir."
"So you sleep in this house regularly, Barbara?"
"Yes, sir; I aint got no other place. Where else'd I go to, I'd like to know?"
"How long have you lived here?"
"I can't tell you that, sir; it must be years and years."
"Since the house has been untenanted, perhaps?"
"Unwhat, sir?"
"I mean, Barbara, since it has been empty?"
"I dessay, sir. I know one thing--it was three weeks to a day after Molly went away that I first come 'ere, and I've 'ardly missed a night all the time. There was twice I couldn't git in for the snow, and I was 'most perished. When I did git in I was that numbed and froze that I could 'ardly move, but I knew I was done for if I didn't stir my pegs, so I put some sticks on the 'earthstone and set fire to 'em, and little by little I got thawed. It was touch and go with me then, sir, but I managed to dodge 'em that time. I don't know as I'd 'ave cared much one way or the other if it 'adn't been for Molly. Once there wos a gal she knew that throwed 'erself in the water, and she sed to me, sed Molly, 'It wos a wicked thing to do, Barbara,' she sed. 'There's 'eaven,' sed Molly, 'and there's 'ell,' she sed. 'If we do good things we go to 'eaven, if we do wicked things we go to the other place.' It's the way Molly used to talk to me that's kept me up over and over agin."
I had made up my mind not to interrupt Barbara even when she wandered from the subject in which I was most interested. By doing so I might lose valuable suggestions to be gathered from her chance words, and I naturally wished to hear everything it was in her power to impart. Impatient as I was to learn more of Molly--who evidently was imbued with a strong sense of duty, and whose story, I felt convinced, had a direct connection with the mystery I was endeavoring to solve--I recognized the advantage of leading gradually up to it. It was by far the wisest plan to allow her to ramble on in her own way, and not to startle her by abrupt questions.
"Why did you not light the fire in the stove, Barbara?"
"I wosn't sech a mug as that, sir," she replied with a faint dash of humor. "When smoke comes out of the chimney of a empty 'ouse the peeler sez, 'Ho, ho!' and in he pops to find out who's done it. Wot'd become of me then, I'd like to know? They'd 'ave made precious short work of me."
"And you have not lit a fire in a stove all the time you have been here."
"Never once, sir."
"How did you manage for coals, Barbara?"
"Well, sir, when I first come, there was a lot of coal in the cellar, and I used it all up. It lasted ever so long, but there was a end to it. Then I begun on the furniture and odd bits of sticks I found inside the house and out. Sometimes when it was dark and rainy I foller the coal wagons, and pick up wot drops from the sacks. Then there's dead branches; I've got 'arf a cupboardful downstairs."
"What time did you come"--I hesitated at the word--"home to-night?"
"Past one, I think, sir. I kep' out late trying to sell my matches, but I 'ad to give it up for a bad job."
"It was you we heard moving about?"
"Did I make a noise, sir? I don't, 'ardly ever, but I s'ppose I wos desp'rate, being so 'ungry, and thinking wot I should do to-morrer for grub. I wosn't long gitting my clothes off, cos I wanted to git to sleep quick and forgit everythink and everybody--everybody but Molly. I'm 'appy when I'm asleep, sir."
"Poor child! Do you mean to tell me, Barbara, that all these years you have never once been found out, that all these years you have come and gone from the house without being seen."
"Yes, sir, as fur as I know. If I aint clever in nothink else I've been clever in that. Oh, but the way I've had to dodge, and the tricks I've played! They'd fill a book if they wos took down. Allus coming 'ome late at night, looking about me, and turning another way if anybody wos near; allus very careful when I went out agin, peeping round corners, and 'iding quick if I 'eerd a step. Eyes, sir! I can see a mile off. Ears, sir! I could 'ear a blade o' grass whisper."
"You have had a hard life, my dear," I said, taking her hand. Despite her ragged clothes she looked more comfortable now. There was no wolf tearing at her vitals for food. This, and the warmth of the fire, the excitement of the conversation, the consciousness that we were her friends, and the novelty of such an association in a house in which she had not heard the voice of a human being during all the years she had slept and starved in it, had caused her cheeks to glow and her eyes to sparkle.
"Yes, sir, there's no denying it's 'ard, but it'll be all right when I see Molly agin."
"You expected to do so long before now?"
"Oh, yes, sir, ever so long before. She can't 'ave forgot me, she can't 'ave forgot me! You don't think that, do yer, sir?"
"I am sure she has not, my dear. She was always a good sister to you, from what you have told me, and always a good girl."
"The best in all the wide world, sir. There's nobody like 'er, I don't care where you look. 'I'm more than yer sister Molly,' she sed, 'I'm yer mother, and I'll never, never turn from yer as long as I live.'"
"Tell me, Barbara. What was your sister?"
"A servant gal, sir. I'd like to be one."
"Was she in a situation in London?"
"In course she wos, sir."
"Where?"
"In this 'ouse, sir. That's why I'm 'ere now."
And that, thought I, looking down at the cat, is whyIam here now. I glanced at Bob; the revelation that poor Barbara's sister was in domestic service with the last tenant had brought a flush of expectation into his face.