The doctor entered with the brusqueness of a man who had no knowledge of, or at any rate no regard for, the usages of polite society. He treated Lady Oxted to little more than his profile and an imperceptible pause, which indulgence might construe into a bow, then walked straight up to Geoffrey, with a face businesslike, concentrated.
"I had important information," he said, "which I was desirous of telling you without delay. My hansom is waiting."
Geoffrey felt his heart thump riotously, a heavy repeated blow.
"We have to act immediately, you mean?" he asked.
"No, not that," said the doctor. "I only thought——" and he looked for a brief moment at Lady Oxted. She rose.
"How do you do, Dr. Armytage?" she said. "Mr. Langham and I were, when you entered, talking about the same business as that on which you have come. Harry Vail, I must tell you, is a great friend of mine; he is staying with me now. Last night he told me the history of the past fortnightvery fully. It will not therefore surprise you to learn that I came up to London to-day to see Mr. Langham."
"It does not surprise me in the least," he said. "I take it, then, that you wish me to speak before you. If that is so, I will send my hansom away."
He was back again immediately, and waited till the others had sat down, warming his hands at the fire, with his back turned to them. The silence, so to speak, was of his own making, and neither thought to interrupt it. Then, facing them, he spoke.
"There is no need, therefore," he began, as if continuing his private train of thought, "that I should speak at any length of what has already happened. Harry, I gather, has told you, Lady Oxted, of his three escapes; he has told you also of his quarrel with his friend here, and the reason of it."
There was something in this bald abruptness which pleased Lady Oxted. It looked genuine, but at the same time she made to herself the conscious reservation that it might be a piece of acting. If acting, it was a very decent performance. She gave a silent assent.
"You have asked me to speak before you," he went on, "but in doing so I am somewhat at a personal disadvantage. I have no reason to suppose that you trust me; indeed, there is no reason why you should. You know of me, probably, as an intimate friend of Mr. Francis, and when it appearsthat I am a traitor to him you naturally ask yourself if I am really so. But"—and he paused a moment—"but I do not think that this need much concern me. I am here to tell you in what manner Mr. Francis hopes to kill his nephew. It is our object, I take it, to prevent that."
There was something in his tone that smacked of the lecture, so dry and precise was it. But a clearer observer of him than either of his present audience, to whom the words he said were so much more just now than the man who said them, would have seen that an intense agitation quivered beneath the surface. The man was desperately in earnest about something.
"There is one more preliminary word," he went on. "We are dealing, so far as my observations go, with a man who is scarcely sane. In the psychology of crime we find that such patient, calculated attempts to take life are usually associated with something else that indicates cerebral disorder—some fixed idea, in short, of an insane character, which is usually the motive for the homicidal desire. That symptom is present here."
"The Luck!" exclaimed Lady Oxted.
"Precisely. The idea of owning the Luck possesses our—our patient. He believes that it brings its owner dangers possibly, and risks, but compensations of an overwhelming weight. He believes, I may tell you, that it will keep off death, perhaps indefinitely. And to an old man that is a consideration of some importance, especially if hehas such an exuberant love of life as Mr. Francis has. On the other hand, we must remember that before the last outbreak, if we may call it such, Mr. Francis procured the death of a man who stood in no relation to the Luck. Yes, he shot young Harmsworth," he said slowly, looking at Lady Oxted, "for nothing more nor less than the insurance money. One may have doubts whether all crime of violent kind is not a form of insanity. But that particular form of insanity is punished with hanging."
It is by strange pathways that a woman's mind sometimes moves: she may take short cuts of the most dubious and fallacious kind to avoid a minute's traversing of the safe road, or walk a mile round in order to avoid a puddle over which she could easily step, but she at any rate knows when she has arrived, and at this juncture Lady Oxted got up and held out her hand to the doctor.
"I entreat your pardon," she said, "and, in any case, I trust you now."
A certain brightness shone in those dark, sad eyes, as he took her hand.
"I am glad to know that," he said, "and I advise you, if possible, to continue trusting me. You will have a trial of faith before long."
Geoffrey moved impatiently; all three seemed to have forgotten their manners.
"Oh, go on, man—go on!" he exclaimed.
"Bear in mind, then," said the doctor, "that we may be dealing with a lunatic. This fixed ideainclines me to that belief; the murder of young Harmsworth pulls the other way. But Mr. Francis has now made his plans; he told me them this morning, for I, as you will see, am to figure in them. And what he will do is this."
The doctor again paused, and adjusted his finger-tips together.
"He expects Harry," he said, "to return to Vail before the end of the month; he and his servant will return about the same time, or perhaps a day or two earlier, for there will be a few arrangements to make. I shall also accompany Mr. Francis, so he tells me, on the ground of his continued ill health."
"Ah, those heart attacks!" said Lady Oxted; "are they genuine?"
"Perfectly; they are also dangerous. To continue: On the night appointed—that is to say, as soon as we are all there—I am to administer to Harry a drug called metholycine. In all respects it is suitable for Mr. Francis's purpose, and a small dose produces within a very few minutes complete unconsciousness, to which, if no antidote or restorative is applied, succeeds death. It also is extremely volatile, more so even than aconite, and a very few hours after death no trace of it would be found in the stomach or other parts of the body. The drug, however, is exceedingly hard to get; no chemist would conceivably give it to any unauthorized person; but a few years ago I was experimenting with it, and it so happens that I still have some in my possession. Mr.Francis has a most retentive memory, and though I have no recollection of having ever mentioned this fact to him, he asked me this morning whether I had any left. He did so in so quiet and normal a voice that for the moment I was off my guard, and told him I had. But perhaps, after all, it was a lucky occurrence, for he seemed very much pleased, and played on his flute for a time. Then he came back to me and told me what I have already told you, and what I shall now tell you."
There was something strangely grim about the composure of the doctor's manner. You would have said he spoke of Danish politics; more grim, perhaps, was this mention of the flute-playing. Certainly it added an extreme vividness to his narrative, and the flute-player was more horrible than the man who planned death.
"In this respect, then, first of all," continued the icy voice, "I am useful to him. In the second place, Mr. Francis seems to have a singular horror of doing himself—actually, and with his hands—this deed. In another way also I shall be of service to him, and here I must touch on things more gruesome, but it is best that you should know all. The drug is to be administered late at night, after the servants are out of the way. It is almost completely without taste or odour, and Mr. Francis's suggestion is that a whisky and soda, which he tells me Harry always takes before going to bed, should be the vehicle. Ten minutes after he has taken it he will be unconscious,but he will live for another half hour. During that time we shall carry him down to the plate closet, where the Luck is kept with the rest of the plate; there Sanders will be. That part will be in Sanders's hands, but he will not use firearms, for fear of the noise of the report reaching the servants, and the blow that kills him, you understand, looking at the occurrence from the point of view of the coroner, must be dealt while he is still alive. Otherwise, the absence of effusion of blood and other details would show a doctor that he was already dead when his skull was broken—this is the idea—by a battering blow. Here, again, Mr. Francis anticipates that I shall be of use to him in determining when unconsciousness is quite complete, and death not yet immediate. He has a curiously strong desire that Harry should feel no pain, for he is very fond of him."
Lady Oxted and Geoffrey alike were glued to his words, both paler than their wont. As the doctor paused they sought each other's eyes, and found there horror beyond all speech.
"Some of the most valuable of the plate," continued the doctor, "will be taken, and, of course, the Luck. The plate will be the perquisite of Sanders; the Luck Mr. Francis will keep secretly, the presumption being that it was stolen also. Why, then, you may ask, should not Mr. Francis simply steal the Luck? For this reason: that as long as Harry lives it is his; on his death it becomes Mr. Francis's. Thus, morning will show the plate closet rifled, and Harry, clubbed todeath, on the floor. The plan is complete and ingenious; indeed, it has no weak point. It will appear that Harry, after the servants had gone to bed, drank his whisky and soda, and, hearing something stirring, went downstairs. Finding the door of the plate closet open, he entered, and was instantly felled by a blow on the side of the head, which killed him. The burglars did not arouse any one else in the house, and escaped (even the details are arranged) by the same way as they entered—through the window of the gun room, which looks out, you are aware, on to the garden beds which adjoin the sweep of the carriage drive. Footprints of large, heavy boots will be found there; Mr. Francis bought a pair to-day at some cheap, ready-made shop."
Again, a horror palpable as a draught of cold air passed through the auditors, seeming to each to lift the hair upon the scalp. These trivial details of boots and flute-playing were of almost more intimate touch than the crime itself; they brought it at any rate into the range of realities, to the time of to-day or next week, to a familiar setting. Again the doctor spoke.
"I have already taken one precaution," he said. "I have emptied from its bottle the real metholycine and substituted common salt. I went to my house hurriedly, after seeing Mr. Francis, to get it, and I brought it away in my pocket. I shall be glad to dispose of it; it is not a thing to carry about."
He drew out a small packet, folded up withthe precision of a dispensing chemist, and opened it. It contained an ounce of white coarse-grained powder, very like to ordinary salt, and, without more words, he emptied it on the fire. The red-hot coal blackened where he poured, then grew red again, and for a moment an aura of yellow flame flickered over the place.
"And Mr. Francis will not find it easy to get more," said the doctor.
The effect of this was great and immediate. Both Lady Oxted and Geoffrey felt as much relieved as if an imminent danger had been removed, though the logic of their relief, seeing that they both trusted Dr. Armytage, in whose domain the poison lay, was not capable of bearing examination. At any rate, Lady Oxted sat briskly up from the cramped huddling of the position in which she had listened to the doctor's story, and clapped her hands.
"Ha! check number one," she said. "And what next, Dr. Armytage?"
"That depends on what end you have in view," said he. "Is Harry's safety all?"
"Yes, but his safety must be certain," she said. "I must see that man in a criminal lunatic asylum, or in penal servitude. Harry will never be safe till he is behind bars."
"I agree with you," said Geoffrey.
Dr. Armytage left the fireplace, where he had been standing since the beginning of the interview, and sat down.
"Do you realize what that demands?" hesaid. "It means that Mr. Francis must be allowed to make the attempt."
"Which we have already frustrated," said Lady Oxted, pointing to the fireplace.
Dr. Armytage shook his head.
"If the idea is to catch him red-handed, that is not sufficient," he said. "Harry takes whisky and soda and salt one night, very little salt, for the drug is potent. He may or he may not notice the salt. What then? Sanders, meantime, is waiting in the plate closet. No doubt we can thus catch Sanders. But that is all."
Lady Oxted rang the bell.
"We can do nothing," she said, "except go straight to Scotland Yard and put the whole matter in the hands of the police. You will please come with me, Dr. Armytage—Geoffrey too. To us, of course, the evidence is overwhelming: look at it, from the Harmsworth case onward—" and she stopped suddenly and looked at the doctor. "Good heavens! I never thought of that!" she said.
The doctor rose.
"I, as you may imagine, have thought a good deal of that," he said.
"Is it possible by any means to get hold of this man Sanders?" asked Lady Oxted at length.
"Get me a hansom," she said to the man who answered the bell.
"I should prefer to try that first," said the doctor, "and I will see what I can do. It may be possible to buy the man; he may be scampenough to be venal. But if we have to go to Scotland Yard, we have to go to Scotland Yard. But for the moment we need not; Harry is safe with you for ten days more, and Mr. Francis is not thinking of leaving London for ten days. Something, perhaps, may turn up in the interval. If not, I am ready."
Lady Oxted felt that no words could meet the situation, and did not make the attempt.
"Then the hansom shall take me to the station instead," she said. "I have just time to catch my train.—Drive with me there, Geoffrey."
She stood up, drawing on her gloves.
"Please let me hear from you, Dr. Armytage," she said, "or if you have any communication to make which had better not be written, come down to Oxted, or wire for me to come up. At present, then, there is nothing more to be said."
She shook hands, and the three went out through the hall and across the broad pavement to where the hansom was waiting. Lady Oxted got in first, and Geoffrey was already on the step to follow, when a man crossing the road came from behind the hansom and stepped on to the pavement close to where the doctor was standing.
"Dear fellow," said a very familiar voice, "what a glorious afternoon!"
The thing was so sudden that the doctor had literally no time to lose his nerve.
"Get in and don't look round," he said very low to Geoffrey.
But he was too late. At the sound of that voice, Geoffrey had already looked round, and he and Mr. Francis for one stricken moment stared at each other. But the pleasant smile did not fade from the old man's face; rather, it seemed fixed there.
Simultaneously, from inside the hansom came Lady Oxted's voice.
"Get in, Geoff," she said; "we haven't too much time."
Mr. Francis advanced a step, so that he could see into the hansom.
"Ah, and Lady Oxted too!" he remarked gently.—"Drive on, cabman."
The horse broke into a rapid trot, and he and the doctor were left standing together.
Mr. Francis stood looking after the diminishing vehicle for a moment, still smiling.
"And Lady Oxted, and Lady Oxted," he continued to murmur to himself. Then he turned briskly to his companion and in gentle, low-modulated tones and without haste:
"A charming woman—one whom one is delighted to call friend," he said. "And dear Geoffrey too—dear Geoffrey, Harry's great friend. How nice to have even so short a glimpse of him! What good fortune to meet you all together like this! Well, well, I must go on. Good-bye, for the present, my dear man."
He turned from him, walked three paces away, then stopped and faced round again. For the moment the doctor thought his eye or his brainhad played him some inexplicable trick; he could barely credit that the face now looking at him was the same as that which two seconds ago had been so smiling a show of sunlit urbanity. Now it was scarce human; a fiend or a wild beast, mad with passion and hate, glared at him. The iris of the eye seemed to have swelled till the white was invisible; from each, a pin-point of a pupil was focused on him. Great veins stood out on his forehead and neck, blue and dilated; the lips were drawn back from the mouth till the gums appeared, showing two rows of white and very even teeth. The pleasant rosiness of the face was blotched and mottled with patches of white and purple, the forehead and corners of the quivering mouth were streaked with corrugations so deeply cut that the dividing ridges of flesh cast shadows therein. The stamp of humanity was obliterated.
He stood there for perhaps five seconds, his lower jaw working gently up and down as if chewing, and a little foam gathered on his lips. Each moment the doctor expected him either to fall senseless on the pavement or to spring upon him, for it seemed impossible that any human frame could contain so raging an energy of emotion, and yet neither break nor give it outlet. Then the horrible chewing of the jaw ceased, and the man or beast wiped the froth from his lips.
"You black, treacherous scoundrel!" he said, very softly. "Do you think I am the sort of man to be thwarted by a faithless subordinate?"
He came a step nearer; his mouth still seemedto be forming words, but it was as if the human nature of the man had been so effaced as to preclude speech, and he stood chattering and gesticulating like some angry ape. Yet the resemblance roused in the doctor no sense of the ludicrous, but only a deep-seated horror at this thing which had doffed its humanity like a cloak and become part of the brute creation. He summoned all his courage to his aid—an empty effort, for he knew within himself that if this travesty of a man came but one step nearer he would, in spite of himself, simply turn tail and run from it.
But Mr. Francis came no nearer, nor did he speak again, and before the lapse of another five seconds he turned away and walked quickly down toward the corner of the square without looking back. The doctor followed him with his eye, and saw him hail a hansom at the end of Upper Grosvenor Street, get in, and drive northward. He himself stood there, his brain a tumult of bewildered conjecture, and did not see who it was rapidly approaching him till the figure was by him, and he heard his own name called.
"I got down as soon as I could stop the cab," said Geoffrey. "He has gone? Where? What has happened?"
"He knows I have betrayed him," said the doctor. "That is all. And for the moment he was no longer human. In this mood he will not stop to weigh risks or consequences. Before anything else we must find out where he is going—probably to his own flat, where we must watchhim—possibly first to my house—ah! yes, for the metholycine. Thank God, that is harmless!"
There were no cabs about, so they started to walk northward in the direction Mr. Francis had taken. At the corner of Green Street they found a disengaged hansom, and drove to 32 Wimpole Street. Here the doctor got out.
"Drive on to his flat in Wigmore Street," he said to Geoffrey, "and ask the porter if he has come in. Then come back here."
Three minutes later Geoffrey returned.
"He came in a minute or two before me," he said. "He has kept his cab."
The doctor pointed to a row of bottles on a shelf in his cabinet.
"The metholycine is missing," he said. "He came here, where he is known to the servants, told the man he had instructions from me to take a certain bottle from my cases, and was allowed. I asked if he appeared in any way strange or excited. Not a bit of it; he had a smile and a joke as usual. Come on!"
"Where?" asked Geoffrey.
"To see where his cab goes. By the way, what of Lady Oxted?"
"She went on to catch her train. It is far better she should be with Harry. I told her I would telegraph all that happened."
"Quite so. Here is Wigmore Street. We will wait in this entry. There is his cab still at the door. Ah! we must have a cab waiting too."
He stepped out of the entry, hailed a cab froma rank a little way down the street, and said a few words to the man, pointing out to him the hansom he was to keep in sight. He drew up at the curb opposite their place of observation. Not forty yards in front was Mr. Francis's hansom.
The sober, respectable street dozed in the haze of the afternoon sun with the air of a professional man resting for a little from his work. Vehicles were but few, the pavements only sparsely populous, and the roadway nearly empty. The driver of Mr. Francis's cab had got down from his perch, and was talking to the hall porter of the house of flats and pulling at a laggard pipe. Then suddenly both porter and cabman looked up as if they had been called from within, and disappeared into the entry, to come back with various small pieces of luggage. Then the cabman mounted his box, and with the other's assistance drew up a portmanteau on to the roof. At that moment Mr. Francis stepped across the pavement and entered the cab. He had on a straw hat, in his hand was the morocco flute case, on his mouth a smile and thanks to the porter. Sanders followed, and, after a word, got in after him. At the same instant of time the doctor and Geoffrey had sprung into their places, and the two cabs started together.
The passage of half a dozen streets was sufficient to make their destination tolerably certain, and when Mr. Francis's cab turned into the steep decline leading to the departure platform at Paddington, the matter was practically beyonddoubt. Here the doctor stopped the cab, and they got out.
"It is certain," said Geoffrey, though no word had passed between them. "Look! it is ten minutes past five; the fast train to Vail will start in seven minutes. Now what are we to do?"
"Harry is at Oxted," said the doctor, as if speaking to himself. "Yes, we only want to be perfectly certain that Mr. Francis goes to Vail."
"I will find that out," said Geoffrey.
He walked down the incline, past Sanders, who was busy with the luggage, and into the booking office. There was a considerable number of passengers waiting, but Mr. Francis was already high up in the queue. Geoffrey waited with his back turned till he heard him speak to the clerk.
"One first and one second single to Vail," he said.
With this their information was complete, and he rejoined the doctor.
Harry at Oxted, Mr. Francis with luggage for a prolonged stay at Vail, here was the sum of it, and the movements were duly telegraphed to Lady Oxted. So far all was well, in such degree as anything could be well in this dark business, and by mutual consent they determined to leave all further deliberations till the morrow. They were fully informed and prepared for all moves. To-morrow, it might be, Mr. Francis would show for what reason he had gone to Vail.
Geoffrey, in spite of, or perhaps owing to his anxieties, slept long and late, and it was already after ten when he came half dressed from his bedroom to the adjoining sitting room, in quest of letters.
But there was no word either from Dr. Armytage or Lady Oxted, and here no news was distinctly good news. No fresh complication had arisen; Harry, it might be certainly assumed, was safe at Oxted, Mr. Francis, as certainly, at Vail, though his safety was a matter of infinitesimal moment. Yet, in spite of this, Geoffrey had no morning face; an intolerable presage of disaster sat heavy on him, and he brooded sombrely over his meal, reading the paper, yet not noting its contents, and the paragraphs were Dutch to him. Even here in London, the fog centre, one must believe of created things; the morning was one of fine and exquisite beauty. Primrose-coloured sunshine flooded the town, the air was brisk with the cleanly smell of autumnal frost. How clearly could he picture to himself what this same hour was like at Vail, how familiar and intimate was the memory of such mornings, when he andHarry had stepped after breakfast into the sparkling coolness of the young day, and the sunshine from without met with a glad thrill of welcome the sunshine from within! The lake lay level and shining—the brain picture had the vividness of authentic hallucination—a wisp of mist still hanging in places over it. Level and shining, too, were the lawns; a pearly mysterious halo moved with the moving shadow of the head. Blackbirds scurried and chuckled over the grass, the beeches were golden in their autumn liveries, a solemn glee even smiled in the gray and toned red of the square house. At that, regret as bitter as tears surged up within him; never again, so he thought, could the particular happiness of those unreflecting days be his; tragedy, like drops from some corroding drug, had fallen in sting and smoke upon him; over that fair scene slept on the wing the destroying angel; between himself and Harry had risen the barrier of irreconcilable estrangement. And, like a monstrous spider, spinning threads God knew where, or to catch what heedless footstep, Mr. Francis stretched his web over every outlet from that house, and sat in each, malign and poisonous.
These vague forebodings and the mordancy of regret grew to be unbearable, and, taking his hat, Geoffrey walked out westward, aimlessly enough, only seeking to dull misgivings by the sight of many human faces. The crowd had for him an absorbing fascination; to be in the midst of folk was to put the rein on private fancies, for thespectacle of life claimed all the attention. But this morning this healthful prescription seemed to have lost its efficacy, or the drugs were stale and impotent, and the air was dark with winged fears that came to roost within him, chatting evilly together. Yet the streets were better than his own room, and for nearly two hours he wandered up and down the jostling pavements. Then returning to Orchard Street, he entered his weary room, and his heart stood suddenly still, for on the table was lying a telegram.
For a moment he stood by the door, as if fearing even to go near it; then with a stride and an inserted finger the pink sheet was before his eye.
"Harry has just left for Vail," it ran, "passing through London. Sanders has telegraphed that his master is dangerously ill, and he must come at once to see him alive. Take this direct to Dr. Armytage."
The shock was as of fire or cold water, disabling for the moment, but bracing beyond words. All the brooding, the regret, the dull, vague aches of the morning had passed as completely as a blink of summer lightning, and Geoffrey knew himself to be strung up again to the level of intelligent activity. As he drove to Wimpole Street he examined the chronology of the message: it had been sent off, it appeared, three hours ago; it was likely that even now Harry was passing through London. A cab was standing at the doctor's door, which was open, a servant by it. At the same moment of receiving these impressionshe was aware of two figures in the hall beyond, and he stopped. One was with its back to him, but on the sound of his step it turned round.
"O Geoff," said Harry, holding out his hand, "Uncle Francis is ill, very dangerously ill. I am going to Vail at once, and was just coming to see you first. But now you are here."
By a flash of intuition, unerring and instantaneous, Geoffrey saw precisely what was in Harry's mind, and knew that next moment an opportunity so vitally desirable, yet vitally dishonourable to accept, would be given him, that he had no idea whether in his nature there was that which should be strong enough to resist it.
"Won't you come with me?" asked Harry, low and almost timidly. "Can't you—in case we are in time—just ask his forgiveness for the wrong you did him? He is very ill, perhaps dying—dying, Geoff."
At this moment the doctor stepped forward, Bradshaw in hand, to the brighter light by the open door. In passing Geoffrey, he made a faint but unmistakable command of assent. His finger was on the open page, and he spoke immediately.
"We can catch the 3.15, Harry," he said. "Shall I telegraph to them to meet it?"
"Please," said Harry, still looking at the other.—"Geoffrey!" he said again, and touched him on the arm.
Geoffrey heard the leaf of the Bradshaw flutter,and the sound of his name lingered in his ears. Much, perhaps, was to gain by going, and the price? The price was just deliberate deception on a solemn matter. To say "yes" was to declare to his friend that he desired the forgiveness of that horrible man whom he soberly believed to be guilty of the most monstrous designs. But the momentous debate was but momentary.
"No, Harry, I can not," he said.
The two turned from each other without further words, and Geoffrey took a step to where the doctor stood.
"I came to have a word with you," he said, and together they went into the consulting room.
Scarcely had the door closed behind them, when Geoffrey drew the telegram from his pocket.
"I have just found this from Lady Oxted," he said. "Probably she has telegraphed the same to you. Now, how did Harry come here, and what has passed between you?"
The doctor glanced at the sheet.
"Yes, she telegraphed to me also," he said. "Harry's coming was pure luck. He wanted me to go with him down to Vail, to see if anything can be done for Mr. Francis. I hope," he added, with a humour too grim for smiles, "to be able to do a great deal for Mr. Francis."
"So you are going, thank the Lord!" said Geoffrey. "And do you believe in this illness?"
"He may have had another attack," said the doctor with a shrug; "indeed, it is not improbableafter the agitation of yesterday. Again, he may not, and it is a subtle man."
"It is a trap, you mean, to get Harry there."
"Possibly, and if so, a trap laid in a hurry. Else he would never have telegraphed to Harry at Lady Oxted's. He might have guessed it would be passed on to us. I am sorry, by the way, that you could not manage to say 'yes' to his wish that you should go with him. But I respect you for saying 'no.'"
"I couldn't do otherwise," said Geoffrey. "All the same, if it appears desirable, I shall come to Vail."
"Ah, you will come secretly on your own account, just as you would have if you had not seen Harry. That will do just as well. Now I can give you three minutes. I shall be in the house; you, I suppose, will not. How can I communicate with you?"
Geoffrey thought a moment, and his eye brightened.
"In two ways—no less," he said. "Listen carefully, please. At any appointed time, tap at the portrait of old Francis in the hall. I shall be just behind it, and will open it. Or, secondly, go to the window of the gun room, open it and call me very gently. I shall be within three yards of you, in the centre of the box hedge just outside. I will do whichever seems to you best."
"Does Mr. Francis know of either?" asked the doctor after a pause.
"He knows of the passage inside the house;of that I am sure. I don't know that he knows of the box hedge."
"Then we will choose that. Now, how will you get to Vail? You must not go by the same train as we. You must not run the risk of Harry seeing you."
"Then I shall go by the next, 5.17, same as Mr. Francis went by yesterday. It gets in at half past six. I will be at the box hedge soon after seven."
"Very good," said the doctor. "Now, in turn, listen to me. Mr. Francis believes he has the metholycine with him; he has also Sanders. It seems to me therefore probable that he will attempt to carry the thing out in the way he indicated to me, which I told you and Lady Oxted."
Geoffrey shook his head.
"Not likely," he said. "You hold the evidence of the metholycine he has taken from your cabinet."
"Yes, but he is desperate, and the drug almost untraceable. Also the fact that he has the metholycine from my cabinet may be supposed to shut my mouth. It looks very much as if I was his accomplice, does it not? He will guess that this is awkward for me, as indeed it would be, were not the metholycine common salt."
"Ha!" said Geoffrey. "Go on."
"I suspect—I feel sure, then—that his plans are more or less the same as before, only he and Sanders will have to carry it through alone. I see no reason why they should alter the idea ofthe supposed burglary. It is simple and convincing, and my mouth is sealed in two ways."
"How two?" asked Geoffrey.
"Two—so Mr. Francis thinks: Harmsworth and metholycine. Now the metholycine will fail, and they will have to get Harry into their power some other way. Also, Mr. Francis will be very anxious, as I told you, that he should not suffer pain. Of that I am certain; it is a fixed idea with him. Probably, also, the attempt will be made as planned, late, when the servants are in bed. Now, is there not a groom in the stables very like Harry?"
Geoffrey stared.
"Yes, the image of him," he said. "And what about him?"
"Go down to the stables as soon as you get to Vail, and tell him he is wanted at the house. He knows you, I suppose. Walk up with him yourself, and let him be in the box hedge with you."
For a moment the excitement of adventure overpowered all else in Geoffrey's mind.
"Ah, you have some idea!" he cried.
"Nothing, except that it may be useful to—have two Harrys in the house. Allowing time for this, you should be at the box hedge by eight. That shall be the appointed hour."
"But what shall I tell Jim?"
"Jim is the name of the groom? Tell him that it may be in his power to save his master from great peril. Harry is liked by his servants,is he not? All that we know at present is that he must wait in the box hedge with you in case we need him. But supposing he is swiftly and secretly needed, how are we to get him into the house?"
"By the secret passage within," said Geoffrey, quick as an echo.
"Good again. It looks as if the Luck was with us. And this passage comes out at the back of old Francis's portrait? Bad place."
"Yes, but also at the bottom of the main stairs, through a panel between them and the hall."
"That is better. There, then—O God, help us all! And now you must go. Harry is waiting for me. I dare not risk trying to convince him. He quarrelled with you, his best friend, for the suspicion—I can serve him better by going with him."
They went out together and found Harry in the hall. He detained Geoffrey with his hand, and the doctor passed on into the dining room.
"You will lunch here, Harry," he said. "It is ready."
From outside the lad closed the door. Geoffrey knew that a bad moment was coming, and set his teeth. But the moment was worse than he anticipated, for Harry's voice when he spoke was broken, and his eyes moist.
"O Geoffrey," he said, "can not you do what I asked? If you knew what it meant to me! There are two men in the world whom I love.There, you understand—and I can not bear it, simply I can not bear it!"
The temptation had been severe before; it was a trifle to this.
"No, I can't!" cried Geoffrey, eager to get the words spoken, for each moment made them harder to speak. "O Harry, some day you will understand. Before your marriage—I give it a date—I swear to you in God's name that you will understand how it is that I can not come with you to ask Mr. Francis's forgiveness!"
Disappointment deepened on Harry's face, and a gleam of anger shone there.
"I will not ask you a third time," he said, and went into the dining room.
Geoffrey had still three hours to wait in London before the starting of his train, and these were chequered with an incredible crowd of various hopes and fears. At one time he hugged himself on the obvious superiority of their dispositions against Mr. Francis; he would even smile to think of the toils enveloping that evil schemer; again mere exhilaration at the unknown and the violent would boil up in effervescence; another moment, and an anguish of distrust would seize him. What if, after all, Dr. Armytage had been playing with him, how completely and successfully, he writhed to think? A week ago the sweat would have broken out on him to picture Harry travelling down to Vail with that man of sinister repute, to be alone in the house with him, Mr. Francis, and the foxlike servant. Had hebeen hoodwinked throughout? Was the doctor even now smiling to himself behind his paper at the facility of his victim? At the thought, London turned hell; he had taken the bait like a silly staring fish; even now he was already hauled, as it were, on to dry land, there to gasp innocuously, impotent to stir or warn, while who knew what ghastly subaqueous drama might even now be going on? He had trusted the doctor on evidence of the most diaphanous kind, unsupported by any testimony of another. The sleeping-draught given to Harry, the brushing aside of the revolver he had passed to him, when to shoot was impossible—these, with a calculated gravity of face and an assumption of anxious sincerity, had been enough to convince him of the man's honesty. He could have screamed aloud at the thought, and every moment whirled Harry nearer, helpless and unsuspecting, to that house of death!
Meantime the journey of the two had been for the most part a silent passage. Each was absorbed in his own thoughts and anxieties: Harry, restless, impatient, eager for the quicker falling behind of wayside stations, while the doctor brooded with half-closed eyelids, intent, it would seem, on the pattern of the carriage mat, his thoughts inconjecturable. Once only, as the train yelled through Slough, did he speak, but then with earnestness.
"Don't let your uncle know I have come, Harry," he said. "It may be that Sanders has unnecessarily alarmed you. So see him firstyourself, and if this has been a heart attack like to what he had before, and he seems now to be quietly recuperating, do not let him know I am here. It may only alarm him for his condition."
"Pray God it may be so!" said Harry.
The doctor looked steadfastly at the carriage mat.
"Medically speaking," he said, "I insist on this. I should also wish that you would guard against all possibility of his knowing I am here. Sanders, I suppose, looks after him. I should therefore not wish Sanders to know."
"Oh, he can keep a secret," said Harry.
"Very likely; but I would rather he had no secret to keep. I am not speaking without reason. If, as you fear, and as the telegram seems to indicate, this attack has been unusually severe, I must assure you that it is essential that no agitating influence of any kind should come near him. If he is in real danger, of course I will see him."
"Would it not be likely to reassure him to know you are here?" asked Harry.
"I have told you that I think not," said the doctor, "unless there is absolute need of me. I hope"—and the word did not stick in his throat "that quiet will again restore him."
A trap was waiting for them at the station, driven by Jim, and the doctor had an opportunity of judging how far the likeness between the two might be hoped to deceive one who knew them both. Even now, with the one in livery, the other in ordinary dress, it was extraordinary, notonly in superficialities, but somehow essentially, and he felt that it was worth while to have arranged to profit by it, should opportunity occur. The groom had a note for Harry, which he tore open hastily.
"Ah! that is good," he said, and handed it to the doctor.
It was but a matter of a couple of lines, signed by Templeton, saying merely that the severity of the attack was past, and at the time of writing Mr. Francis was sleeping, being looked after by Sanders, who had not left him since the seizure. And to the one reader this account brought an up-springing of hope, to the other the conviction that his estimate of Mr. Francis's illness was correct.
Harry went upstairs immediately on his arrival, leaving the doctor in the hall. Templeton, usually a man of wood, had perceptibly started when he opened the door to them and saw the doctor, and now, instead of discreetly retiring on the removal of their luggage, he hung about, aimlessly poking the fire, putting a crooked chair straight, and a straight chair crooked, and fidgeting with the blinds. All at once the strangeness of his manner struck the doctor.
"What have you got to tell me?" he asked suddenly.
The blind crashed down to its full length as the butler's hand dropped the retaining string. The rigid control of domestic service was snapped; he was a frightened man speaking to his equal.
"This is a strange illness of Mr. Francis's," he said.
The doctor was alive to seize every chance.
"How strange?" he asked. "Mr. Francis has had these attacks before."
"I sent for the doctor from Didcot, as soon as it occurred, unknown to him or Sanders," said Templeton, "but he was not allowed to see him. Why is that, sir? There was Sanders telegraphing for his lordship, and saying that Mr. Francis was dying, yet refusing to let the doctor see him. But perhaps he was expecting you, sir."
"He does not know I am here, Templeton, nor must he know. Look to that; see that the servants do not tell Sanders I am here. Now, what do you mean? You think Mr. Francis is not ill at all."
"Does a man in the jaws of death, I may say, play the flute?" asked the butler.
"Play the flute?"
"Yes, sir. It was during the servants' dinner hour—but I had no stomach for my meat to-day, and went upstairs—when we might have been at dinner perhaps five minutes, and along the top passage to his lordship's room to see if they had it ready. Well, sir, I heard coming from Mr. Francis's room—very low and guarded, so that I should have heard nothing had I not stood outside a moment listening, you may say, but I did not know for what—a little lively tune I have heard him play a score of times. But in a minute it ceased, and then I heard two voices talking, and after thatMr. Francis laughed. That from a man who was sleeping, so Sanders told us."
"This is all very strange," said the doctor.
"Ay, and then the door opened, and out came that man Sanders; black as hell he looked when he saw me! But little I cared for his black looks, and I just asked him how his master was. Very bad, he told me, and wandering, and he wondered whether his lordship would get here in time."
The doctor came a step nearer.
"Templeton," he said, "I rely on you to obey me implicitly. It is necessary that neither Mr. Francis nor Sanders know I am here. Things which I can not yet tell you may depend on this. And see to this: let me have the room I had before, and put his lordship into the room opening from it. Lock the door of it which leads into the passage, and lose the key, so that the only entrance is through my room. If he asks why his room is changed, make any paltry excuse: say the electric light in his room is gone wrong—anything. But make his usual room look as if it was occupied; go up there during dinner, turn down the bed, put a nightshirt on it, and leave a sponge, brushes, and so on."
"Master Harry!" gasped the butler, his mind suddenly reverting to old days.
The doctor frowned.
"Come," he said, "do not get out of hand like that. Do as I bid you, and try to look yourself. I can tell you no more."
Harry came down from the sick room a few minutes later, with a brow markedly clearer.
"He is much better, ever so much better, Sanders thinks," he said. "He was sleeping, but when he wakes he will be told I have come."
"Ah! that is good," said the doctor. "Did Sanders tell you about the attack?"
"Yes, it came on while he was dressing this morning. Luckily, Sanders was with him; but for an hour, he tells me, he thought that every breath might be his last. He's a trump, that man, and there's a head on his shoulders too. He has hardly left him for five minutes."
"Will Sanders sleep in his room to-night?" asked the doctor.
"Yes, he has his meals brought to him there too, so that it will be easy for you not to be seen by him, since you make such a point of it. Oh, thank God, he is so much better! Ah, look! we are going to have one of those curious low mists to-night."
The doctor followed Harry to one of the windows which Templeton had left unshuttered, and looked out.
The autumn twilight was fast closing in, and after the hot sun of the day, the mist, in the sudden coolness of its withdrawal, was forming very thickly and rapidly over the lake. There was a little draught of wind toward the house, not sufficient to disperse it, but only to slide it gently, like a sheet, over the lawns. It lay very low, in thickness not perhaps exceeding five feet over thehigher stretches of the lawn, but as the surface of it was level, it must have been some few feet thicker where the ground declined toward the lake. It appeared to be of extraordinary density, and spread very swiftly and steadily, so that even while they watched, it had pushed on till, like flood water, it struck the wall of the house, and presently lawn and lake were both entirely vanished, and they looked out, as from a mountain-top, over a level sea of cloud, pricked here and there by plantations and the higher shrubs. Above, the night was clear, and a young moon rode high in a heaven that silently filled with stars.
Geoffrey, meantime, had followed two hours behind them; his train was punctual, and it was only a little after seven when he found himself, having walked from the station, at the edge of the woods, looking down on to this same curious sea of mist. The monstrous birds of the box hedge stood out upon it, like great aquatic creatures swimming there, for the hedge itself was submerged, and the descent into it was like a plunge into a bath. Not wishing to risk being seen from the house, he made a wide circuit round it toward the lake. Here the mist rose above his head, baffling and blinding; but striking the edge of the lake, he followed it, guided as much by the sobbing of the ripples against the bank as by the vague muffled outline, till he reached the inlet of the stream which fed it. From this point the ground rose rapidly, and in a few minutes he could look over the mist again and see the housealready twinkling with scattered lights, moored like some great ship in that white sea. A few hundred yards more brought him to the stables, and, conveniently for his purpose, at the gate stood Jim and a helper, their work over, smoking and chatting. Geoffrey approached till it was certain they could see who he was.
"Is that you, Jim?" he said. "They want you at the house."
Jim knocked out his pipe and followed. His clothes had "evening out" stamped upon them, and there seemed to be an unpleasing curtailment of his liberty in prospect.
"Come round by the lake," said Geoffrey in a low voice, when the groom had joined him. "I have something to tell you."
He waited till they were certainly out of ear-shot.
"Now, Jim," he said, "it's just this. We believe that an attempt will be made to-night to murder Lord Vail. I want your help, though I can't yet tell you in what way you can help, because I don't know. But will you do all you can or are told to do?"
"Gawd bless my soul!" said Jim. Then, with a return to his ordinary impassivity, "yes, sir, I'll do anything you tell me to help."
"Come on, then. You can trust me that you shall run no unreasonable risks."
"I'm not thinking you'll let them murder me instead, sir," said Jim. "And may I ask who is going to do the murdering?"
Geoffrey hesitated a moment, but on reflection there seemed to him to be no reason for concealing anything.
"We believe—Dr. Armytage and I, that is—that Sanders, Mr. Francis's man, will attempt it."
Jim whistled under his breath.
"Bring him on," he said. "Lord! I should like to have a go at that Sanders, sir! He walks into the stable yard as if every horse in the place belonged to him."
They had by this time skirted the lake again, and the booming of the sluice sounded near at hand. Then, striking for higher ground, they saw they had already passed the house, and close in front of them swam the birds of the box hedge. The mist had sunk back a little, and now they sat, as if in a receding tide, on the long peninsula of the hedge itself, visible above the drift, and black in the moonlight.
"This way," said Geoffrey, and groping round to the back of it they found the overgrown door and entered. Thence, going cautiously and feeling their way, they passed down the length of it, and soon saw in front of them, like a blurred moon, the light from the gun-room windows. The time had been calculated to a nicety, for they had been there scarcely five minutes, when a shadow moved across the blind, which was then rolled up, and the window silently lifted a crack. The figure, owing to the density of the mist, was indistinguishable, but Geoffrey recognised the doctor's voice when it whispered his name. Hetouched Jim to make him follow, and together they stood close by the window.
"Good you have Jim with you," said the doctor, "and you have told him we may need him. I want him inside the house; so go with him through the secret passage, and open the panel by the stairs which you told me of. I shall be there, and I will tell you what we are going to do. Harry has gone to dress, and the house is quiet. Wait, Geoffrey. Take this."
And he handed him out a rook rifle and eight or ten cartridges.
"Put these inside the hedge," he whispered, "and come round at once with Jim."
Five minutes later Geoffrey gently opened the panel of the door, and the doctor glided in like a ghost, latching it noiselessly behind him. His face brooded and gloomed no laugh; it was alert and active.
"There is very little time," he said; "so, first for you, Geoffrey. Go back for the rifle and cartridges, and get somewhere in cover where you can command the front of the house. What course events will take outside I can not say. But the Luck and the plate will be stolen, and they will have to get them away somehow. You must stop that. Sanders, I suspect, will try to remove them."
"Beg your pardon, sir," put in Jim, "but Sanders was down at the stable this afternoon, and said that the door of the coach house and one of the loose boxes was to be left unlocked to-night,in case a doctor was wanted for Mr. Francis. He said he could put to himself, sir, so that none of us need sit up."
The doctor's keen face grew a shade more animate, his mouth bordered on a smile.
"Good lad!" he said.—"Well, that's your job, Geoffrey: you must use your discretion entirely. You may have to deal with a pretty desperate man, and it is possible you will feel safer with that rifle."
"Where shall I go?" asked Geoffrey.
"I thought the summerhouse on the knoll would be a good place; it stands above the mist."
"Excellent. And for Jim?"
"We must be guided by the course of events. Jim will have to wait here, in any case, probably till eleven, or even later. Then I expect he will go to bed in Harry's room, where I—I can't tell you: it is all in the clouds at present. I want to spare Harry horror. Anyhow, he will stop here until I tap twice on the panel outside. Now I can not wait. Harry may be down any minute; we dine at a quarter past. Ah! this is for you, Geoffrey," and he handed him a packet of sandwiches—"and this for you, Jim.—Now, you to the summerhouse, Geoffrey—Jim waits here: I dine with Harry. Yes, your hand, and yours. God help our work!"
Though never a voluminous talker, the doctor was even more silent than usual at dinner that night, and, despite the alertness of his eye, confessed to an extreme fatigue. Thus it wasthat, soon after ten, he and Harry went upstairs; he straight to his room, the latter to tap discreetly at the door of the sick room and learn the latest of the patient.
The change of Harry's room from the one he usually occupied to that communicating with the doctor's caused no comment, either silent or spoken, from him, nor did the loss of the key seem to him in any way remarkable. He came straight from his visit to Mr. Francis, to give the news to the doctor.
"Still sleeping," he said, "and sleeping very quietly, so Sanders tells me. And I—I feel as if I should sleep the clock round! I really think I shall go to bed at once."
He went through the doctor's room and turned on his light, then appeared again in the doorway.
"Got everything you want?" he asked. "Have a whisky and soda?"
A confused idea of metholycine, a distinct idea that he did not wish Harry to run the risk of being seen by Sanders going to another room than the ordinary, made itself felt in the doctor's reply.
"Not for worlds!" he said. "A poisonous habit."
"That means I mustn't have any, does it?" asked Harry from the doorway. "Now that is hard lines. I want some, but not enough to go and fetch it from the hall myself. Do have some: give me an excuse."
"Not even that," said the doctor.
"Well, good-night," said the lad, and he closed the door between the two rooms.
For so tired a man, the doctor on the closing of the door exhibited a considerable briskness. Very quickly and quietly he took off dress coat, shoes, and shirt, and buttoning a dark-gray coat over his vest, set his door ajar, and switched off his light. The hour for action, he well realized, might strike any moment, but he was prepared, as far as preparation was possible. Outside there was waiting Geoffrey with the rook rifle; inside the secret passage the spurious Harry—both, he knew, calm and bland for any emergency. Meanwhile the real Harry was safe for the present; none but he and Templeton knew of the change of room, and none could reach him but through the chamber he himself occupied. But an intricate and subtle passage was likely to be ahead, and as yet its windings were unconjecturable. As a working hypothesis, for he could find no better, he had assumed that Mr. Francis's plans were in the main unaltered. Harry, drugged and unconscious, was to be taken to the plate closet at some hour in this dead night, where Sanders would be waiting. Yet this conjecture might be utterly at fault; in any case the drugged whisky, mixed as it now was with innocuous salt, could not have the effect desired, and for anything unforeseen (and here was at least one step untraceable), he must have every sense alert, to interpret to the best of his ability the smallest clew that came from the room opposite. Mr. Francis and Sanders werethere now, firearms were not to be feared: here was the sum of his certainties. This also, and this from his study of Mr. Francis he considered probable to the verge of certainty, Harry would be unconscious when the death blow was given.
In the dark, time may either fly with swallows' wings or lag with the tortoise, for the watch in a man's brain is an unaccountable mechanism, and the doctor had no idea how long he had been waiting, when he heard the latch of a door open somewhere in the passage outside. Two noiseless steps took him to his own, and through the crack, where he had left it ajar, he saw a long perpendicular chink of light; bright it seemed and near. Without further audible sound this grew gradually fainter, and with the most stealthy precautions he opened his own door and peered out. Some fifteen yards distant, moving very slowly down the passage, were two figures—those of Mr. Francis and his valet. The latter was dressed in ordinary clothes, the former, vividly visible by the light of the candle the servant carried, in a light garish dressing gown and red slippers. At this moment they paused opposite the door of the room Harry usually occupied, and here held a word of inaudible colloquy. There was a table just outside the door, fronting the top of the stairs, and a dim lamp on a bracket hung above it. On it Mr. Francis put down a small bottle, and what looked like an ordinary table napkin, and the two went down the stairs.
It was the time for caution and rapidity; already, as he knew, luck had favoured him, in that neither had entered Harry's room, and after giving them some ten seconds' law, he went noiselessly over the thick carpet of the passage to the table and opened the bottle Mr. Francis had left there. The unmistakable fumes of chloroform greeted his nostril, and he stood awhile in unutterable perplexity. Fresh and valuable as this evidence was, it was difficult to form any certain conclusions about it. Conceivably, the chloroform was an additional precaution, in case Harry had not drunk the whisky; conceivably also the metholycine idea had been altogether abandoned in the absence of a skilled operator. That at least he could easily settle, and turning into the bedroom Harry usually occupied, he switched on the electric light. Templeton had followed his instructions about making the room look habitable, but on the dressing table stood what was perhaps not the work of Templeton. A cut-glass bottle was there on a tray, with a glass and a siphon. He spilled a teaspoonful of the spirit into the glass and tasted it. Salt.
So much, then, was certain: one or both of the figures he had seen go downstairs would return here, with the chloroform; and still cudgelling his brains over the main problem, as to why Mr. Francis had gone downstairs at all, he lingered not, but felt his way down to the bottom of the flight. Here he paused, but hearing nothing, tapped twice at the panel which opened into thesecret passage. It was at once withdrawn, and Jim stepped out.
"Come!" he whispered.
With the same rapid stealthiness they ascended again, crossed the landing, and entered Harry's bedroom. The bed stood facing the door in an angle between the window and the wall, and the doctor drew the curtain across the window, which was deep and with a seat in it.
"Undress at once," he said to Jim. "They might notice that your clothes were not lying about if they have a light. Quick! off with them—coat, waistcoat, shirt, trousers, boots, as naked as your mother bore you. There is a nightshirt, put it on. Now get into bed, and lie with your face half covered. Do not stir or make any sound whatever till I turn up the light or call to you. I shall be behind the curtain."
There were two electric lamps in the room, one by the door, the other with its own switch over the bed. The doctor had lit both, and as soon as the groom was in bed, extinguished the one by the door. Then, crossing the room, he got up behind the curtain in the window seat, and from there turned off the other.
"And when I turn up the light, Jim," he whispered, "throw off anything that may have been placed over your face, and spring up in bed. Till then be asleep. You understand?"
"Yes, sir," said Jim softly.
At that moment, with the suddenness of a long-forgotten memory returned, the doctorguessed why Mr. Francis had gone downstairs. The glory of the guess was so great that he could not help speaking.
"He has gone for the Luck," he said.
"Yes, sir," said Jim again, and there were darkness and silence.
Interminable eons passed, or may be ten minutes, but at the end of infinite time came scarcely sound, but an absence of complete silence, from the door. From behind the thick curtains the doctor could see nothing, but a moment later came the gentle sigh of the scraped carpet, and from that, or from the infallible sixth sense that awakes only in the dark, he knew that some one had entered. Then from closer at hand he heard the faintest shuffle of movement, and he knew that, whoever this was in the room besides the groom and himself, he was not a couple of yards distant. After another while the least vibration sounded from the glasses in the tray, as if a hand had touched them unwittingly, and again dead stillness succeeded, till the doctor's ears sang with it. Then from the bed his ear suddenly focused the breathings of two persons—one very short and quick, the other a slow, steady respiration, and simultaneously with that his nostril caught the whiff of chloroform. Again the rustle of linen sounded, and hearing that, he held his breath and counted the pulse which throbbed in his own temples. Twenty times it beat, and on the twentieth stroke his finger pressed the switch of the light, and he drew back the curtain.
Already Jim was sitting up in bed, bland and impassive in face, and his left hand flung the reeking napkin from him. By the bedside crouched a white-haired figure clad in a blue dressing gown; close by it on the floor stood the leather case which held the Luck; the right hand was still stretched over the bed, though the napkin which it had held was plucked from it. His face was flushed with colour; the bright blue eyes, a little puckered up in this sudden change from darkness to the glare of the electric light, moved slowly from Jim to the doctor and back again. But no word passed the thin, compressed lips.
Suddenly the alertness of the face was gone like a burst bubble; the mouth opened and drooped, the eyes grew staring and sightless; the left hand only seemed to retain its vitality, and felt gropingly on the carpet for the Luck. Then, with a slow, supreme effort, the figure half raised itself, drawing the jewel tight to its breast, folding both arms about it, with fingers intertwined in the strap that carried it. Then it collapsed completely, rolled over, and lay face downward on the floor.
For one moment neither of the others stirred; then, recovering himself, the doctor stepped down from the window seat.
"Put on your coat and trousers, Jim," he said, "and come with me quickly. Yes, leave him—it—there. I will come back presently. We have to catch Sanders now, and we must go without a light. You behaved admirably. Now follow me."
"Is it dead, sir?" whispered Jim.
"I think so. Come!"
In the eagerness of their pursuit they crossed the passage without looking to right hand or left, and felt their way down the many-angled stairs. The hall was faintly lit by the pallor of moonshine that came through the skylight, and without difficulty they found the baize door leading into the servants' parts. But here with the shuttered windows reigned the darkness of Egypt, and despairing of finding his way, the doctor lit a match to guide them to the farther end of the passage where was the plate closet. But when they reached it, it was to find the door open and none within. In all directions stood boxes with forced lids. Here a dozen spoons were scattered on the floor, here a saltcellar; but the rifling had been fairly complete.
"How long do you suppose we were waiting in the dark?" he asked Jim. "Anyhow, it was long enough for Sanders and Mr. Francis to have taken most of the plate. I had thought they would do that after—afterward. Now, where is the plate, and where is Sanders?"
"Can't say, sir," said Jim.
The match which had showed the disorder of the place had burned out, and the doctor, still frowning over the next step, had just lit another, when from outside there rang out the sharp ping of a rifle shot.
"That is Geoffrey!" he said, "and what in God's name is happening? Upstairs again."
They groped their way back along the basement to the door leading into the hall. Close to this went up the back stairs forming the servants' communication with the upper story, and, seeing these, the doctor clicked his tongue against his teeth.
"That's how we missed him," he said; "he went this way up to Mr. Francis, while we were going down the front stairs."
"Yes, sir," said Jim.
They passed through into the hall, and a draught of cold air met them. There was no longer any reason for secret movements, and the doctor turned on the electric light. The front door was open, and the wreaths of dense mist streamed in.
"Go and see if you can help Mr. Geoffrey, Jim," he said, "if you can find him. It is clear that Sanders has left the house: who else could have opened that door? I must see to that which we left upstairs."
He ran up. The room door as they had left it was open; on the floor still lay what they had left there. But it was lying no longer on its face; the sightless eyes were turned to the ceiling, and the Luck was no longer clasped, with fingers intertwined in its strap, to the breast.