Then he laughed. I had been seized from behind, a rope was round me, binding my arms to my side, a sudden jerk had me on my back. In that instant Sir Michael was upon me, and I was gagged and trussed almost before I realized what had happened. Never did the veriest tyro walk more innocently into a trap.
"That's well done," said Sir Michael to the farmer. "You had better go and see that the other has been taken as successfully."
Alone with me, he removed the revolver from my hip pocket and placed it in a drawer, which he locked.
"Rather a surprise for you, Mr. Wigan. I am afraid Scotland Yard is likely to lose an officer, and your friend Quarles is an old man who has had a very good inning. I do not know exactly where he is at the present moment, but somewhere about the grounds he has been caught and is in a similar condition to yourself. You have both been very carefully shadowed to-day. The quarter of a million will be paid, Mr. Wigan, and my niece will reappear. She will be none the worse for her adventure—will thank me for all the trouble I have taken to rescue her from the kidnapers her father dreaded so much—and she will never suspect that the bulk of the ransom money has gone into my pocket. It is money sorely needed, I can assure you. I shall probably give my consent to her marriage with Cayley; her marriage will make my guardianship less irksome. He will be as unsuspicious of me as Eva. I prevailed upon him not to come to Whiteladies until to-morrow by suggesting that you were foolish enough to suspect him. I think it has all been rather cleverly managed. The only regrettable thing will be the death of two—two brilliant detectives. It may interest you to know that you will be found dead—shot—which will account for my having waited for you in vain at Whiteladies to-night. You have helped me greatly by being secretive to-day and not arriving here until after dark. Your death will be a nine days' wonder, but it will be a mystery which will not be solved, I fancy."
His cold-blooded manner left no doubt of his sinister intention, and I felt convinced that Quarles had been trapped just as I had been. Sir Michael laughed again as he bent over me to make sure that my bonds were secure. Then he stood erect suddenly.
"Don't move," said a voice, "or I shall fire."
He did move, and a bullet ripped into a picture just behind him. With an oath he stood perfectly still. A door had opened across the room and a girl stood there. It was Joan Perry.
"I missed you on purpose," she said. "I shall not miss a second time. Cut those ropes."
For a moment he stood still, then he moved again, but not with the intention of setting me free; the next instant he stumbled, as if his leg had suddenly given way, and he let out a savage oath.
"To show you I do not miss," said the girl. "Cut those ropes, or the third bullet finds your heart."
Sir Michael took a knife from his pocket, and the girl came a little closer, but not near enough to give him a chance of grabbing at her. Her calm deliberation was wonderful.
"Do more than cut the ropes and you are a dead man," she said.
The instant my arms were free I had the gag from my mouth and could do something in my own defense. I was quickly on my feet.
"Keep him covered," I said to Perry. "I think we change places,Sir Michael."
Physically he was not a powerful man, and with Joan Perry near him he seemed to have lost his nerve. Her courage had shaken him badly, and he made no resistance. I was not long in having him bound and handcuffed.
"I have to thank you," I said, turning to the girl.
"Not yet. There is more to do. Mrs. Reville is in it, and Mr. Quarles has no doubt been caught in the grounds, as he said. I will ring. The servants are honest, and I expect Mr. Saunders is in the house by now. He usually comes up in the evening."
Fortunately Mrs. Reville had not heard the revolver shots, or she might have given the alarm to the two men who had secured the professor in the ruins, and they would very probably have killed him. I took the lady by strategy. I sent a servant to tell her that Sir Michael wished to speak to her, a summons which she had evidently been expecting, and I secured her as she came down the stairs. Then, leaving her and Sir Michael in charge of Perry and Saunders and a footman, I went with other servants to rescue Quarles. We took the confederates in the ruins by surprise, but in my anxiety that no harm should come to the professor, who was bound just as I had been, they managed to get away.
Now that he was captured, Sir Michael Lavory's pluck entirely deserted him, and he told us where to find his niece. She was in a secret chamber under a tower in the ruins. She had been caught that night at the end of the terrace by Sir Michael's accomplices, had been rendered unconscious by chloroform, and taken to the tower.
Quarles's deductions so far as they went were right, but they had not gone nearly far enough. Neither of us had thought of Sir Michael as the criminal, and had it not been for the maid Perry I have little doubt that this would have been our last case. Perry herself had not suspected Sir Michael until that day, but she had always been suspicious of Mrs. Reville. That morning, however, when Sir Michael arrived at Whiteladies, she had chanced to overhear a conversation. She heard Sir Michael tell Mrs. Reville there would be visitors that evening, and suggested that she should be near the front door at the time to admit them, as it would be well if they were not seen by the servants. Perry did not understand who the visitors were to be, but she thought such secrecy might be connected with her young mistress, and she had hidden herself earlier in the evening in the small room adjoining the library.
"It is fortunate Saunders taught me how to use a revolver," she said, when Quarles thanked and complimented her.
"A narrow escape, Wigan," the professor said to me. "One of our failures, eh? The fear expressed in the will, the fact that Sir Michael could not benefit by the death of his niece, confused me. He is a very clever scoundrel, making no mistake, making no attempt to implicate any one. His treatment of Cayley on his sudden return from Paris was a masterpiece of diplomacy; so was his handling of us from the first. He concocted no complicated story, so ran no risk of contradicting himself. He was simple and straightforward, and when a villain is that a detective is practically helpless. I was thoroughly deceived, Wigan, I admit it, and it is certain that had it not been for Joan Perry I should not be alive to say so, and you would not be here to listen. Do you know, I should not be surprised if it was the fear expressed in the will which gave Sir Michael the idea of kidnaping his niece and putting the ransom into his own pocket."
At his trial Sir Michael confessed that the will had given him the idea.Personally I think he got far too light a sentence.
As I hear that Cayley and Miss Wilkinson are to be married shortly, I suppose her guardian's consent to her marriage has been obtained; at any rate, it will be a good thing for her to have a husband to protect her from such a guardian. I hear, too, that Saunders and Perry are to be married on the same day as their mistress, and I am quite sure of one thing, two of the handsomest wedding presents Joan Perry receives will come from Christopher Quarles and myself.
After our experience at Whiteladies Christopher Quarles went into Devonshire. He declared that excitement of that kind was a little too much for a man of his years and he must take a long rest to recuperate and get his nerves in order. Under no circumstances whatever was I to bother him with any problems. Had I been able to do so I should have gone away too. Sir Michael Lavory had succeeded in giving me the jumps. In her letters Zena told me the professor was playing golf, and knowing something of him as a golfer, I rather pitied the men he induced to play with him. It was not so much that he was a very bad player, it was the peculiar twist in his brain which convinced him that he was a good one. To give him a hint was to raise his anger at once.
One morning I received a letter from him, two pages of golf talk, in which he opined he was playing at about five handicap—pure imagination, of course, because he never kept a card and didn't count his foozled shots—and then he came to theraison d'êtreof his letter.
"I want you to look up a case," he wrote. "It happened about three years ago. A man named Farrell, partner in the firm of Delverton Brothers of Austin Friars, was found dead in his office. An open verdict was returned. It may have been a case of suicide. Get all the facts you can. If you can obtain any information from some who were interested in the tragedy, do. I am not sure that the result of your inquiries will interest me, but it may. Send me along a full report, it may bring me back to Chelsea, but I am so keen to put another fifty yards on to my drive that I may remain here for three months. Why live in Chelsea when there is such a place as Devonshire?"
I remembered that the Delverton case had caused a considerable amount of excitement at the time, and had remained an unsolved mystery, but I knew no more than this. Three years ago I had been away from London engaged on an intricate investigation, with neither time nor inclination to think of anything else.
As it happened there was little difficulty in getting a very full account of the affair. It had been in the hands of Detective Southey, since retired, and it was a persistent grievance with him that this case had beaten him. He was delighted to talk about it when I went to see him in his little riverside cottage at Twickenham.
Delverton Brothers were foreign bankers, and at the time of the tragedy consisted of three partners, John and Martin Delverton, who were brothers, and Thomas Farrell, their nephew. John Delverton was an invalid, and for a year past had only come to the office for an hour once or twice a week. He had died about six months after the tragedy.
One day during a Stock Exchange settlement Thomas Farrell left the office early, and Martin Delverton was there until seven o'clock. When he left the only clerks remaining in the outer office were Kellner, the second in seniority on the staff, and a junior named Small.
These two left the office together ten minutes after Mr. Delverton had gone. Next morning when the housekeeper went to the offices he found Thomas Farrell sitting at the table in his private room, his head fallen on his arms, which were stretched across the table. He had died from the effects of poison, yet the tumbler beside him showed no traces of poison.
Medical evidence proved that he had been dead some hours, but there was nothing to show at what time he had returned to the office.
"In view of the doctor's statement it must have been between ten minutes past seven and midnight," Southey told me. "The poison would produce intense drowsiness, then sleep from which there was no waking. The time of its action would vary in different individuals. I am inclined to think it was late when he returned. He was a well-known figure in Austin Friars and Throgmorton Street, and had he been about earlier in the evening some one would almost certainly have seen him. That part of the world is alive to a late hour during a Stock Exchange settlement. The offices consist of a large outer room, which accommodates seven or eight clerks, and two private rooms opening into one another, but opening into the outer office only from the first room. This first room, which is the larger of the two, the brothers Delverton occupied, Farrell having the smaller inner room. From this there is a side door which gives on to a short passage leading into Austin Friars. The partners used this side door constantly, each of them having a key to the Yale lock, and we know from Mr. Delverton that Farrell went out by the side door that afternoon. Presumably he returned by it. Everything seemed to point to suicide, and possibly had there been a shadow of a motive for Farrell taking his own life, a verdict of suicide would have been returned. Apparently there was no motive. His affairs were in perfect order, he was shortly to be married, and the only person who suggested that he had looked in any way worried recently was the junior clerk, Small."
"What of the woman he was to have married?"
"She was a Miss Lester, and she introduces a complication. Her people were comparatively poor, her father being a clerk in a City bank. Mr. Farrell, according to Miss Lester, had helped her father out of some difficulty, and it was undoubtedly parental persuasion which had arranged the marriage. It was a case of gratitude rather than love. But that is not all. At the Lesters' house there was another constant visitor, a young doctor named Morrison, and he and Farrell became friends in spite of the fact that they were two angles of a triangle, Ruth Lester being the third angle. The position was this: Morrison was in love with the girl, but remained silent because he was too poor to marry; the girl loved him, but, thinking that he was indifferent, consented to marry Farrell. Whether Farrell was aware of this it is impossible to say. Now on the very day of Farrell's death, Dr. Morrison called and asked for him at the offices in Austin Friars. The clerk took in his name, and was told by Mr. Delverton that Mr. Farrell had left for the day. This was the first intimation the clerks had that he had left, and seems an indirect proof that no one in the office could have had anything to do with the tragedy. Farrell had been gone about an hour then. Morrison left no message, merely asked that Mr. Farrell should be told he had called."
"What was Morrison's explanation?" I asked.
"He said Farrell had requested him to call. He was going to give him a tip for a little flutter in the mining market."
"Is it known where Farrell went that afternoon?"
"I see you think the doctor's explanation thin, just as I did. Farrell told his partner that he had an appointment with Miss Lester; Miss Lester says there was no appointment. Naturally I at once speculated whether Farrell and Morrison had met later in the afternoon. I followed that trail every inch of the way. The doctor was poor and somewhat in debt, and—"
"And Farrell, who died by poison, which is significant, was his rival?" I said.
"I thought of all that," Southey returned. "Fortunately for him the doctor could account for every hour of his time. Of course, the man in the street was suspicious of him—is still, perhaps, to some extent, but it hasn't prevented his getting on. He married Ruth Lester, and I hear is getting a good practise together."
"What conclusion did you come to?"
"I am inclined to think there was some international reason at the back of the mystery, some difficulty with a foreign government, it may be. If Farrell had become mixed up in such an affair suicide might be the way out. I suggested this to Mr. Delverton, and he did not scout it as altogether a ridiculous idea. These foreign bankers are sometimes very much behind the scenes in European politics."
"Do you know whether the invalid brother was at the office that day?" I asked.
"He was not. He was quite incapacitated at the time."
I hunted up one or two points which occurred to me, and then went toAustin Friars to call upon Mr. Delverton.
He was out of town, yachting, but his partner came into the clerks' office to see me. I told him that my business with Mr. Delverton was private.
This partner, I discovered, was Kellner, who had formerly been a clerk in the firm. He was the man who, with the junior, had been the last to leave the office on the night of the tragedy. He was worth a little attention, and I spent two days making inquiries about him. He was as smart a man of business as could be found within a mile radius of the Royal Exchange, I was informed, a wonderful linguist, with a profound knowledge of financial matters. Now he was a wealthy man, but three years ago he had been in very low water.
This discovery sent me to Twickenham again. I said nothing about Kellner having become a partner in Delverton Brothers'; I merely asked Southey whether he had satisfactorily accounted for his time on the fatal night.
"Didn't I tell you?" said Southey. "Oh, yes, he had an absolute alibi; so had the youth Small. I made them my first business."
I did not call on Dr. Morrison, but I went to his neighborhood, and asked a few questions. Everybody spoke well of the doctor, which, of course, might mean much or little, and I was fortunate enough to see him with his wife in a motor. He looked like a doctor, a forceful and self-reliant man, not one to lose his head or give himself away. He would be likely to carry through any enterprise he set his mind to. His wife, without being beautiful, was attractive, the kind of woman you begin to call pretty after you have known her a little while.
That night I wrote a full report to Christopher Quarles with my own comments in the margin, and three days later I had a wire from Zena, saying they were returning to Chelsea at once.
There was no need to ask the professor whether the case interested him or not. He began by being complimentary about my report, praised my astuteness in not calling upon the doctor, and he made me give him a verbal description of Morrison and his wife.
"Of course, Wigan, looks count for nothing, but they are often misleading evidence, and we are told to beware of that man of whom every one speaks well. The most saintly individual I ever knew had a strong likeness to a notorious criminal I once saw, and on a slight acquaintance you and I would probably have trusted Cleopatra or Helen of Troy, neither of them very estimable women, I take it. Now apparently this doctor and his wife are near the center of this mystery."
"It seems so, but—"
"Believe me, I am making no accusation," he interrupted; "indeed, I am more inclined to argue that they occupy an eccentric point within the circle rather than the true center. Still, we must not overlook one or two facts which you have duly emphasized in your report. The rivalry between Morrison and Farrell does supply, as you say, a motive for the crime, if crime it was, and it is the only motive that is apparent. Again, a doctor could obtain and make use of poison with less risk than most men. And, again, it is curious the doctor should call on Farrell on that particular day. The visit might be a subtle move to establish his innocence. True, according to Southey, his time after the visit was accounted for, but how about the time before the visit? Farrell had already left the office an hour, and might have met Morrison."
"Do you suggest he was poisoned then, and came back hours afterwards to die in the office?"
"You think that unlikely?"
"I do."
"Still, we must recollect the action of this particular poison," said Quarles. "It produces drowsiness, the time necessary to get to this condition varying in different persons, and the doctor, knowing Farrell, might be able to gage how long it would take in his case. Of course, we labor under difficulties. Three years having passed, we cannot rely on direct investigation. Purposely I gave you no bias when I asked you to gather up the known facts, and from your report I judge you have come to the conclusion that Farrell committed suicide, possibly driven into a corner by some international complication."
"Yes, on the whole, I lean to that idea."
"It is not the belief of Mr. Delverton himself."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I met Martin Delverton in Devonshire. He was yachting round the coast and came ashore for golf. We played together several times, and became quite friendly. It was not until he began to talk about it that I remembered there had ever been a Delverton mystery. Practically he gave me the same history of the case as your report does, missing some points certainly, but enlarging considerably on others. That the villain had escaped justice seemed to rankle in his mind, and he was contemptuous of the intelligence of Scotland Yard. The tragedy, he said, had hastened his brother's end, and I judged he had no great love for the Morrisons."
"He knew who you were, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; and included my intelligence in the sneer at Scotland Yard. He argued the point with me until he forced me to admit that there was a large element of luck in most of my successes."
"You admitted that?" I exclaimed.
"I did. I had just beaten him three up and two to play, so was in an angelic frame of mind. Even then he would not let me alone. He wanted to know how I should have gone to work had the case been in my hands. To his evident delight I gave him arguments on the lines of our empty room conferences, making one thing especially clear, that I should have enquired far more closely about the Morrisons than had been done. This interested him immensely, and he did not attempt to hide from me the fact that his suspicions lay in the same direction. He became keen that I should look into the mystery; indeed, he challenged my skill. I am taking up that challenge, and I am going to tell the world the truth about Farrell's death."
"You know it?"
"Not yet, but the key to it is in this report of yours. Do you know what has become of the junior clerk, Small?"
"No. He left the firm to go abroad, I understand."
"I should like to have asked him whether John Delverton, the invalid partner, had seemed worried when he was last at the office."
"He was not at the office that day. I asked that question, and Southey is certain upon the point."
"Farrell might have left early to see him."
"Of course, we might question Kellner," I suggested.
"Kellner has the interests of the firm at heart, and is not personally connected with the affair. I don't suppose he will be pleased to have the old mystery raked up; naturally he will fear damage to the firm. I do not think he would be inclined to help us in any way, and I can imagine his being angry with Delverton for mentioning the affair to me."
"Still, I think there is something that wants explaining about Mr. Kellner," said Zena, "You evidently thought so too, Murray, since you made such minute inquiries about him."
"I do not think there is anything against him," I answered.
"I am not very interested in Kellner's past," said the professor, "and as we cannot get hold of Small we must do a little guessing."
"Is there anything further for me to do?" I asked.
"One thing. I want you to get hold of some stockbroker you know, and get him to tell you whether there was any kind of panic here, or on the Continent, with regard to any foreign securities between three and four years ago. Find out, if you can, the names of any members of the House who were hammered during that period, and the names of any firms considered shaky at the time. I am not hoping for much useful information, but we may learn something to assist our guesswork."
The information I obtained on the following day amounted to little. As my friend in Threadneedle Street said, three years on the Stock Exchange are a lifetime. In the different markets there had been several crises during the period I mentioned, and certain men, chiefly small ones, had gone under. As for shaky firms, it was impossible to speak unless you were closely interested. A good firm, under temporary stress, would probably be bolstered up, and a week or two might find it in affluence again.
I went to Chelsea with the information, such as it was, but only saw Zena. Quarles was out, and I did not see him for nearly a week. Then he 'phoned to me to call for him one evening and to come in evening dress.
"I am dining with Mr. Delverton to-night," he said, "and I asked him if I might bring you. He returned to town at the beginning of the week, and I have seen him two or three times, once at the office in Austin Friars. I did not see Kellner, he happened to be away that day."
Martin Delverton lived in Dorchester Square, rather a pompous house, and he was rather a pompous individual. Of course he wasn't a bit like Quarles in appearance, yet I was struck by a certain characteristic resemblance between them. They both had that annoying way of appearing to mean more than they said, and of watering down their arguments to meet the requirements of your inferior intellect.
I had become accustomed to it in Quarles, but in a stranger I should have resented it had not the professor told me of the peculiarity beforehand, and warned me not to be annoyed.
He gave us an excellent dinner, and our conversation for a time had nothing to do with the mystery.
"Well, Mr. Quarles, have you brought this affair to a head?" Mr.Delverton asked at last.
"I think so."
"Sufficiently to bring the criminal to book?"
"If not, I could hardly claim success, could I?"
"You might claim it," laughed Delverton, "but I should not be satisfied. Possibly I have my own opinion, but I trust nothing I have said has influenced you and led you to a wrong conclusion. I do not want you to get me into trouble by saying that I suggested who the criminal was."
"Not if I could prove that the solution was correct?"
"That might be a different matter, of course."
"It would prove your astuteness, Mr. Delverton," said Quarles. "Mine would be only the spade work which any one can do when he has been told how. Perhaps you will let me explain in my own way, and I will go over the old ground as little as possible, since we three are aware of the main facts and the investigations which originally took place. First, then, the manner of Mr. Farrell's death. Now, since he was found in his own private office, sitting at his own desk, with a tumbler beside him, it is evident that if he did not commit suicide it was intended that it should appear as if he had done so. To believe it a case of suicide is the simplest solution. He could enter the office by the side door at his will, he could poison himself there at his leisure, and it would never occur to him to imagine that any one would afterwards suspect he had met his death in any other way. The one thing missing is the motive. The only person even to suggest that Farrell had looked worried was the junior clerk, Small, and his uncorroborated opinion does not count for much. Besides, his affairs were in order, and he was about to be married. You must stop me, Mr. Delverton, if I make any incorrect statements."
"Certainly. So far you have merely repeated what every one knows."
"Except in one minor particular," said Quarles. "I lay special emphasis on the desire of some one to show that it was a case of suicide. If we deny suicide this becomes an important point, for we have to enquire when and how the poison was administered. Did Farrell at some time before midnight bring some one back to the office with him? For what purpose was he brought there? How was the poison administered? We have evidence that it was not drunk out of the glass on the table, no trace of poison being found, and we can hardly suppose that Farrell would swallow a tablet at any one's bidding. Since there was an evident desire to make it appear a case of suicide, we should expect to find traces of poison in the glass; it would have made it appear so much more like suicide. But we are denying that it was suicide, so we are forced to the conclusion that some one was present with Farrell in the office, and also that the somebody ought to have allowed traces of the poison to remain in the glass. That innocent tumbler is a fact we must not lose sight of. You see, Mr. Delverton, I am not working along quite the same line as the original investigation took."
"No; and I am very interested. Still, I think a man might take a tablet were it offered by one he looked upon as a friend. It might be for headache."
"Did Mr. Farrell suffer from headaches?" Quarles inquired.
"Not that I am aware of. I am only putting a supposititious case."
"Ah, but we are bound to stick to what we know, or we shall find ourselves in difficulties," the professor returned. "Now, I understand that when you left the office that evening only two of the clerks were there, and they left the office together about ten minutes afterwards. The junior clerk we may dismiss from our minds, but Kellner merits some attention. It appears that his subsequent movements that evening are accounted for; still, it is a fact that he directly profited by Mr. Farrell's death. Shortly afterwards he became a partner in the firm."
"He had no reason at the time to suppose he would be a partner," saidDelverton.
"And would not have become one but for Farrell's death, I take it?"
"He might. It is really impossible to say. Left alone, I took in Kellner because he was the most competent man I knew. I may add that I have not regretted it."
"Had the detective who had the case in hand known that Kellner was to become a partner, he would undoubtedly have given him more attention," said Quarles. "He does not seem to have discovered that Kellner was in financial straits at the time."
"Was he?" said Delverton.
"I have found that it was so," I answered.
"I am surprised to hear it; but, after all, a clerk's financial difficulties—" And he laughed as a man will who always thinks in thousands.
"We come to another person who profited by Farrell's death, Dr. Morrison," said Quarles. "He married Miss Lester not long afterwards. It is known that he was friendly, or apparently friendly, with his rival, for such Farrell was, although he may not have been aware of the fact; and, curiously enough, Morrison called at the office in Austin Friars on the fatal day, and wanted to see Farrell an hour or so after he had left."
"Yes; I thought it was curious at the time."
"He was able to account for his subsequent doings that day," Quarles went on; "so it seems impossible that he could have been the person Farrell brought back to the office that night. I think we must say positively he was not. At the same time we must not overlook the fact that in his case there was a motive for the crime. Forgetting for a moment our conclusion that some one must have been in the office with Farrell in order to make the death appear like suicide, we ask whether in any way it was possible for Morrison to administer poison to Farrell. Supposing Farrell had met Morrison immediately upon leaving the office, could the doctor possibly have given him poison in such a manner that it would not take effect for hours after?"
"Stood him a glass of wine somewhere, you mean?"
"Or induced him to swallow a tablet," said Quarles.
"It is really a new idea," said our host.
"It is a possibility, of course," Quarles answered; "but not a very likely one, I fancy. It might account for the tumbler. Farrell might have felt ill and drunk some plain water, but why was he in the office at all? I find the whole crux of the affair in that question. Why should he come back when he had left for the day?"
"Then you are inclined to exonerate Morrison?"
"On the evidence, yes."
"You speak with some reservation, Mr. Quarles."
"I want to bring the whole argument into focus, as it were," the professor went on. "It was a settlement day on the Stock Exchange. I believe a point was made three years ago that it was curious no one had seen Farrell return, since many people who knew him would be about Austin Friars late that night. This does not seem to me much of an argument. If he returned between nine and ten he might easily escape notice. What does seem to me curious is that he should choose such a day to leave the office early, and tell a lie about it into the bargain. He said he had an appointment with Miss Lester, and we know he had not."
"Ought we not to say that we know she says he had not?" Delverton corrected. "I do not wish to be captious, but—"
"You are quite right," said Quarles; "we must be precise. You knew MissLester, of course?"
"I did not see her until after Farrell's death, then I saw her several times. She seemed rather a charming person."
"You have not seen her since her marriage?"
"No."
"I saw her the other day," said Quarles, "and I quite endorse your opinion. She is charming, and I do not think she is the kind of woman to tell a deliberate falsehood. If Farrell had had an appointment with her I think she would have said so."
"I am making no accusation against her," was the answer. "I was only sticking to the actual evidence."
"And that does not tell us where Farrell went that day," said Quarles. "It seems strange that he did not meet any of the scores of people who knew him as he left the office that afternoon."
"Undoubtedly he did meet many."
"They didn't come forward to say they had seen him."
"I can see no reason why they should do so. There was no question of fixing the time he left. I was able to give definite information on that point."
"Well, we seem to have used up our facts," said Quarles, "and are forced to theorize."
Delverton smiled.
"You must not jump to the conclusion that I have failed," said the professor quickly. "I did not promise to tell you the name of the murderer to-night. Let me theorize for a few moments. You told me you believed that Farrell's tragic end had hastened your brother's death. Did your brother chance to come to the office that day?"
"No."
"Perhaps he came that night after you had left. I suppose you cannot bring evidence that he did not?"
"No; but—"
"Or it might have been with him that Farrell had an appointment that day, which was connected with some affair you were not intended to know anything about. That would account for his telling you a lie."
"I assure you—"
"Let me follow out my idea to the end," said Quarles, leaning over the table, and emphasizing his words by patting the cloth with his open hand. "Three years ago things were rather bad on the Stock Exchange, one or two men in the House were hammered, and several respected firms were shaky. Now supposing Farrell had been playing with the firm's money unknown to his partners, or perchance unknown only to one of them—yourself. Your brother may have—"
"Really, Mr. Quarles, you are getting absurd."
"I was going to say—"
"Oh, please, let me stop you before you say anything more foolish," saidDelverton. "At that time my brother was very ill and as weak as a rat.How could he have administered poison to Farrell?"
"It requires no strength to administer poison, only subtlety," said Quarles. "A glass of wine, perhaps by your brother's bedside, and the thing would be accomplished. Or there is another alternative. Your brother may have been playing with the firm's credit, and Farrell may have found him out."
"Any other alternative, Mr. Quarles? Your fertile brain must hold others."
"Yes, one more, and two opinions which lead up to it," was the quick reply.
Delverton laughed.
"It is not so absurd as the others, I trust."
"The two opinions may lead you to change your ideas concerning this mystery. First, I believe Kellner was made a partner because he knew too much."
"I am inclined to think the discussion of a glass of my best port will be more profitable than these speculations," said our host with a smile, and he took up the cradle which the servant had placed beside him. "I offered you a glass in the office the other day, but it was not such good wine as this."
"And I was shocked at the idea of port in the middle of the morning," said Quarles.
"But not now, eh?" And Delverton filled our glasses and his own.
"Of course not. My second belief is that Farrell did not leave the office at all that day. We have only your word for it, you know."
"Shall we drink to your clearer judgment?" said Delverton.
I had raised my glass when Quarles cried out and tossed a spoon across the table at me.
"So you don't drink, Mr. Quarles," said Delverton, putting down his emptied glass.
"Not this vintage. It is too strong for me, and also for my friendWigan."
"Your judgment of a vintage leaves something to be desired. That glass of port has made me curious to hear the other alternative."
"I think it was you who had been playing with the firm's money, and your nephew found you out," said Quarles very deliberately. "That Stock Exchange settlement was a crisis for you. I think you induced Farrell to drink a glass of port with you, which was so doctored that he soon fell into a sleep from which he never woke. Perchance you smiled at his drowsiness, and suggested he should have half an hour's sleep in his room. You would look after things in the meanwhile. You did so, and when a clerk came in to say Dr. Morrison had called, you said Mr. Farrell had left for the day. You took care to wash the wine glass, but it seemed a good point to you to leave a tumbler with a little water in it on the table. You did not leave the office until you knew that the last of the clerks was ready to leave, and I imagine you waited somewhere in Austin Friars to see them safely off the premises. You had no doubt that a verdict of suicide would be returned. Later you were surprised to find that your clerk, Kellner, knew of your money difficulties, and to silence him he was taken into partnership. Whether the firm of Delverton Brothers is running straight now I have no means of knowing, nor can I say whether Mr. Kellner has any suspicion that the death of Mr. Farrell was more opportune than natural. You are the kind of man who is much impressed by his own cleverness, and when you met me in Devonshire it occurred to you to throw down a challenge, to pit your wits against mine. I suspected you then, for you overdid certain things, and a sinister intention had entered into your head. You confessed yourself charmed with Miss Lester, yet your whole attitude suggested that you believed Dr. Morrison guilty of murder. You became something more than an ordinary criminal who takes life to save himself from the consequence of his actions, you crossed the line and became devilish. Mrs. Morrison believes you would have asked her to marry you almost directly after Farrell's death had she not very plainly shown you her loathing of such a union. So you planned to be revenged when you threw down the challenge to me, and having failed, you now attempt to be wholesale in your destruction."
"I end by cheating you," said Delverton.
"Not me, but the hangman. I will warn your butler that the port is poisoned, and tell him to telephone for the doctor."
"You can go to the devil," said Delverton.
He died that night, and the following day the Delverton mystery filled columns of the papers. It was a dull season, and the press made the most of it. It is only right to say that Kellner was not generally believed to have known that Farrell had been done to death by his uncle. Quarles believes he was absolutely innocent in this respect. I am doubtful on the point, I admit.
The dramatic suicide of Martin Delverton, and the solution of a mystery which had been relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes produced a sensation. The public clamored for intimate particulars concerning Christopher Quarles, the house in Chelsea was besieged by hopeful interviewers, and the professor could only escape their attentions by going out of town. It was an excellent excuse for golf, he declared, and an opportunity to improve on his five handicap. I am bound to say that while I was with him he never went round in less than twenty over bogey, and when he only took twenty over he had luck.
This sudden enthusiasm on the part of the public was the cause of some difficulty and not a little annoyance so far as I was personally concerned.
As I have said elsewhere, I have constantly received the credit of unmasking a scoundrel simply because Quarles chose to remain in the background, but I have never claimed any credit to which I was not entitled. It was distinctly hard, therefore, when all the praise for bringing a series of crimes to light was given to him when justly it should have been accorded to me. I had been engaged on the work at the time the case of Eva Wilkinson had cropped up, my investigations had prevented my accompanying Quarles and Zena to Devonshire. He would be the first to deny that he had any part in solving these problems. I daresay I mentioned certain points about them to him, he may possibly have made a suggestion or two, but it is only because he had really nothing to do with them that they have found no place in his chronicle. I admit I was much annoyed, because I rather prided myself on the astuteness I had displayed.
Curiously enough, it was not only the public who persisted in giving him the credit, but the victims of my ingenuity as well, and the mistake was destined to bring peril to both of us in a most unexpected manner.
I was at breakfast one morning about a week after our little golfing holiday, when Quarles telephoned for me to go to him at once. He would give me no information, except that it was an urgent matter, and it was like him to ignore the possibility that I might have another engagement. As it happened I was free that morning, and was soon on my way to Chelsea.
I found him studying some pamphlets and letters which had apparently come altogether in the big envelope which was lying on the table.
"Have you seen the paper this morning?" he asked.
"I had just opened it when you 'phoned to me."
"Did you read that?"
He pointed to a paragraph headed, "Strange Affair in Savoy Street," and I read as follows:
"Last night, just after twelve o'clock, an elderly gentleman was walking down Savoy Street, and was approaching the Embankment end, when a man stepped from a doorway and deliberately fired at him. This was the old gentleman's story told to half a dozen pedestrians who came running to the spot. He seemed rather dazed, as well he might be, at the sudden attack, and his assailant had disappeared. None of those who were first upon the scene saw him, and although there is no doubt that a revolver was fired, and that the gentleman's description of the assailant's position was so exact that the bullet was found embedded in a door on the opposite side of the street, the denouement casts some doubt on the story. Quite a small crowd had collected by the time the police arrived, and then the old gentleman was not to be found. In the excitement he had slipped away without any one seeing him go. We understand that the police theory is that there was no attempt at murder, but that the old gentleman, having fired a revolver for a lark, or perhaps for a wager, told a tale to save himself from the consequences of his folly, and then, seizing his opportunity, quietly slipped away. Those who were first upon the spot say his dazed condition may have been the result of too much to drink. We cannot say the explanation is altogether satisfactory to us."
"Well?" said Quarles when he saw I had finished.
"I agree with the writer of the paragraph," I answered. "The explanation is far from satisfactory. Such a story and such a smart disappearance do not suggest drunkenness."
"Perhaps not, although it is wonderful how Providence seems to watch over the drunken man. However, the elderly gentleman was not drunk and his story was strictly true. I was the elderly gentleman."
"You! And your assailant?"
Quarles got up and walked slowly to the window and back again.
"It was a very near thing, Wigan, and it has got on my nerves a bit. You know that I am held chiefly responsible for the solution of these robbery cases with which you have been busy lately. That belief is at the bottom of this attempt, I fancy. You remember the fellow who got off over the first affair. There was little doubt of his guilt, but you had insufficient evidence to bring it home to him. He was the man who fired at me last night."
"Had you no chance of capturing him?"
"No, and the moment I saw his face clearly by the light of a street lamp as he turned to run away, I made up my mind not to give information. I should have got away at once, only people were on the spot too quickly; so I told the simple truth, and slipped away at the first opportunity to avoid being recognized by the police. It was rather neatly done, I think."
"But I do not see why you should withhold information," I said.
"I didn't want my name mentioned in connection with the affair, and I did not want the man to know I had recognized him. I think there is bigger game to go for. All along I have believed that in these cases of yours there was a connecting-link, a subtle personality in the background. I believe you have only succeeded in bringing some of the tools to justice."
"And you want to get at the central scoundrel?"
"I must, or he will get at me. Without knowing it I have probably escaped other traps he has set. The fact that I am only your scapegoat does not alter the position. He means to have me if he can. We, or rather you, have come very near to unmasking him, I imagine, and his fear has made him desperate."
"What is to be done?"
"I want you to go very carefully through those cases, treating them as though they were all part of one problem. If necessary, you could get an interview with one or two of the men who are doing time. When a man is undergoing punishment, and believes that an equally guilty person has got off scot-free, he is likely to become communicative."
"All this will take time, and in the meanwhile—"
"I am chiefly concerned with the meanwhile," said Quarles, "and it happens rather fortunately that I have something to interest me and take my mind off the matter. These letters and pamphlets were sent to me a few days ago by Dr. Randall. You have heard of him, no doubt."
"I don't think so."
"He is a specialist in nervous diseases, so is naturally interested in psychological matters. An article of mine in a psychological review attracted his attention, and through a mutual friend—a barrister in the Temple—we were introduced last night. To-night I am dining with Randall at a little restaurant in Old Compton Street, and—well, I want you to come too, Wigan."
"But—"
"Oh, I can make it all right. I shall send him a note, asking if I can bring a friend who is much interested in these matters."
"But I am not, and directly I open my mouth I shall show my ignorance."
"Then obviously you must keep your mouth shut," said Quarles. "The fact is, Wigan, last night has got on my nerves. I am—I may as well be quite honest—I am a little afraid of going about alone. I want you to call for me and go with me."
"Of course I will. But surely, with your nerves on edge, it would be wiser to keep away from psychological problems. What is the particular problem?"
"Randall will explain to-night, and you must at least pretend to be interested. As regards my nerves, I can assure you this kind of thing is a relief after the other. I do not think I am a coward as a rule, but I am afraid of this unknown scoundrel. I have a presentiment that I am in very real danger."
"You probably exaggerate it," I said.
"Maybe. But I never ignore a strong presentiment, and I—I slept with a loaded revolver under my pillow last night, Wigan."
There was no doubt as to his nervous condition; he showed it in his restlessness, in his acute consciousness of sounds in the house and in the street. He expected to be brought suddenly face to face with danger, and was afraid he would not be ready to meet it.
He certainly was not himself. Zena had gone to stay with friends in the country for a few days, or I should have got her to persuade the old man to give up this psychological business—at least until he was in a normal condition again.
The restaurant, where we found Dr. Randall waiting for us, was one of those excellent little French places which cannot be beaten until they have become too successful and popular, when they almost invariably deteriorate. Randall said he was delighted the professor had brought me, and dinner was served at once at a cozy table in a corner.
"A patient of mine originally brought me here," said the doctor. "It is rather a discovery, I think, and personally I prefer dining where I am unlikely to come in contact with a lot of people I know. In recent years we have improved, of course; but in England we still eat, while in France they dine. Here we are practically in France."
Certainly more French was spoken than English, and the doctor spoke in French to the waiter. Quarles's nervousness, which had been apparent during the drive from Chelsea, disappeared as dinner progressed, and I did not suppose a stranger like Randall would notice it. He would probably form rather a wrong impression of the professor, would look upon him as a highly-strung man, and would not realize that he was not in a normal condition this evening. Randall carried his profession in his face, but for the time being his medical manner was laid aside; nor did he speak of the business which had brought us together until we had got to the coffee and liqueur stage.
"I suppose you read the papers I sent you, Professor?"
"Yes, but rather cursorily," Quarles answered. "I think if you told the whole story I should understand it better; besides, my friend here knows nothing of it, and will bring an unbiased mind to bear upon it."
"And may give us a new idea," said the doctor. "I don't know whether you are acquainted with Manleigh Road, Bayswater. There are about fifty houses in it—a terrace, in fact, on either side. The houses are sixty or seventy years old, I daresay, ugly but roomy, and some few years ago a lot of money was spent in bringing them up to date, putting in bath-rooms, modernizing them, and redecorating them thoroughly. In spite of this, however, they have not attracted the kind of tenant they were intended for. Many of them have apartments to let. The house we have to do with is No. 7. The even numbers are on one side of the road, the odd on the other. No. 5 is a boarding-house of a very respectable kind, frequented by young fellows in business chiefly. No. 9 is occupied by a man who, after retiring from business comparatively wealthy, had financial losses. His four daughters have had to go out and work. I mention these facts to show that the surroundings are entirely commonplace. The owner of No. 7 went abroad some years ago, owing to the death of his wife, I understand, and left the house in the hands of an agent. It was to be let furnished, but, except for a caretaker, it remained empty for several months. It was then taken by a newly-married couple. They could not remain in it. The house was haunted, they said, and I believe the agent threatened them with legal proceedings if they spread such an absurd report. He seemed to think they said so only to repudiate their bargain. It was then let to a man named Greaves, about whom nothing was known. He paid the rent in advance, and lived there alone with a housekeeper and a young servant. One morning he was found dead in his bed, in the large room on the first floor at the back. A piece of cord was fastened tightly round his neck. There seemed little doubt that he had committed suicide, for when he did not come down to breakfast the housekeeper went to his room and found the door locked on the inside. It had to be broken open. Perhaps you heard of the case?"
Quarles shook his head.
"Well, the door was locked on the inside, the window was shut and fastened, there was no sign that any one had entered the room, and nothing was missing. Foul play was out of the question, but the doctor who was called in was troubled about the affair. It was from him that I had these particulars. Dr. Bates had become acquainted—not professionally, I believe—with the young couple who had lived in the house for a time, and they had told him the place was haunted. In bringing his judgment to bear upon Greaves' death, it is only right to remember that his mind had received a bias."
"I take it he did not believe it was a case of suicide," said Quarles.
"His reason told him it must be, yet something beyond reason told him it wasn't."
"He thought it was murder?" I asked.
"No, not ordinary murder," Randall answered. "He thought it was a supernatural death."
"I have read the letter he wrote to you; there is nothing very definite in it," said Quarles.
"It was his indefinite state of mind which caused him to relate the whole story to me. When the police failed to make any discovery, he thought some one interested in psychological research might solve the mystery."
"What, exactly, were the experiences of this young couple?" I asked.
"Chiefly noises, footsteps echoing through a silent house. Once the shadow of a man, or so it seemed, was thrown suddenly upon the wall by a ray of moonlight, and once the curtains and sheets of a bed were found torn, as if hands, finding nothing else to destroy, had taken vengeance upon them. Of course, this all comes second-hand from Dr. Bates."
"And is probably unconsciously exaggerated," said Quarles. "The ordinary man is almost certain to overstate and to emphasize unduly one part of the evidence."
"That was my feeling exactly," returned Randall, "so I spent a night in that haunted room myself. The result was disappointing."
"Did nothing happen?" I asked.
"There was no direct manifestation—at least I saw nothing, and I do not think I heard anything, but I am sure that I felt something. It was very vague. You know it is my theory," Randall went on, addressing me, "that different individuals are sensitive to different influences. For example, let us suppose a certain spot is haunted, a spot where something particularly desperate has taken place in the past. Now I believe that A, B, and C, all sensitive to supernatural influences, may watch there and seeing nothing, but that D, being sensitive to that particular influence, or moving on that particular plane, may be successful. In another case, where D fails, A, B, or C may be successful. I think it is this fact which accounts for the comparatively small number of experiences which we are able to authenticate. It was an article of the professor's, setting forth similar views, which made me anxious to make his acquaintance."
"Are you suggesting that he should spend a night in this house?" I asked.
"I do not think I suggested such a thing," said Randall with a smile, "but I believe that is the professor's intention."
"It is," said Quarles.
"When?" I asked.
"On Friday night."
"Greaves died on a Friday night," said Randall. "It is a small point, perhaps, but, like myself, the professor believes in small details."
"I suppose the agent will let me have the key," said Quarles.
"I do not know the agent. I got the key through Dr. Bates, and I can give you a card of introduction to him."
"It will be a very interesting experiment," I said, looking as learned as I could. I thought I had kept my end up very well, and far from having to pretend to be interested, as Quarles had suggested, I was profoundly interested, not in the psychological discussion, but in the Bayswater mystery. I had heard of it before, and remembered that Martin, one of the oldest members of the force, had said that it was no more a case of suicide than he was a raw recruit. I am far from saying that no mystery is to be accounted for by the supernatural, but I always want to test it in every other way first.
Quarles was pleased to jeer at me for a skeptic as we drove back to Chelsea. He did not consider me altogether a fool as a detective, but he had no use for me as a psychological student.
"Anyway, it is a pity you are undertaking this business in your present nervous state," I said. "At least let me be with you on Friday night."
"Nonsense, that would make the experiment useless. You clear up the mystery of this subtle scoundrel who has tried to get me shot and my nervous state will soon disappear."
As a matter of fact, I couldn't settle to a careful study of my recent cases, as the professor had suggested. I tried and failed. I could not forget the experiment which was to be made on Friday night, and on Wednesday morning I took action. First of all, I arranged that a special constable should be on duty in Manleigh Road, and from his appearance no one would have supposed that anything in the way of a genius had been introduced into the neighborhood. He looked a fool; he was one of the smartest men I knew. Strangely enough, on the Thursday night No. 7 was burgled quite early in the evening as soon as it was dusk. Two men got in at a basement window, and the constable was quite close at the time. He had instructions, in fact, to give warning to the burglars if there was any danger of their being seen.
I had not burgled the house alone; I had taken a young detective named Burroughs with me. Of course, I might say it was because I wanted to give him a chance, or because I thought we might encounter desperate characters in the house; but as a fact, it was the supernatural element which decided me. I do not like the idea of the supernatural; my nerves, excellent in their way and in their own sphere, are inclined to get jumpy under certain conditions.
We went up from the basement cautiously, and it would have needed keen ears to have heard our movements.
Without showing a light, we went into every room in the house. Those in front had some light in them from a street lamp outside, but those at the back were dark, although, after a while, we got accustomed to the dark, and could see to some extent. None of the blinds was drawn, and although there was no moon, it was a clear, starlit night.
Our special attention was devoted to the room where Greaves had been found dead. It was substantially furnished, mid-Victorian in character. The lock on the door, which had been broken open, had been mended, and the window was fastened. Systematically we examined every article of furniture and the innocent-looking cupboard. The walls were substantial, but we did not subject them to tapping. I did not want to arouse the neighbors to the fact that No. 7 was not empty to-night.
"We have a long vigil before us, Burroughs," I said.
"What do you expect to discover, sir?"
"I don't know, nothing most likely; but if anything does happen it is going to happen in this room. I am going to take up my position in this chair by the bed, and I want you to keep watch on the landing. If you hear any one about the house come in to me at once, but if you only hear me move don't come in unless I call. I shall not fasten the door, but I shall put it to. If in some way it is possible to find out that this room is occupied, I want to appear as if I were quite alone. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
I saw Burroughs settled in a chair on the landing; then I entered the room and closed the door without latching it, and there was a certain feeling down my spine, in spite of the knowledge that I had a comrade near at hand.
It was quite beyond me how Quarles could undertake to stay there all alone. I could have done it had I been convinced that danger could only come from a material foe; it was the idea of the supernatural which beat me. I was not skeptic enough to be unmoved.
I had determined to sit beside the bed; but remembering that Greaves had been found on the bed I first of all lay down for a minute or two. The bed was not made up, but the mattresses were there with blankets over them, and the hangings were in place. The key to the mystery might lie in some hidden mechanism in the bed. Then I settled myself in the chair beside the bed, my hand in my pocket on my revolver.
This kind of waiting is always a trial. The silence, the bodily inactivity while the mind is strained to be keenly alert, have a sort of hypnotic influence. An untrained man will certainly fancy he hears and sees things, and even a trained man has to light hard against the desire to sleep. There comes a longing for something, anything, to happen. I think I got into a condition at last in which I should have welcomed a ghost. There was no church clock near to break the monotony with its striking; time seemed non-existent.
Once I thought I heard Burroughs shift his position on the landing outside, and there presently came to me an uncontrollable desire to move. I stood up. Just to walk to the window and back would make all the difference.
My journey across the room was noiseless, and, coming back, I stopped suddenly.
To my left there was movement, movement without sound. In an instant my revolver was ready, and then I felt a fool. In a recess there was a glass fixed to the wall, we had noticed it when we examined the room, and I had caught the dim reflection of my head and shoulders in it. The glass was just at that height from the floor.
I went to it and called myself a fool to my reflection. I could only see myself very dimly, so I cannot say whether the incident had driven any color from my face.
It had the effect of quieting my restlessness, at any rate. I returned to my chair refreshed, feeling capable of keeping a vigil, however long it might last.
Almost unconsciously I began to consider how many deceptions looking-glasses were responsible for, and remembered some of the illusions I had seen at the Egyptian Hall. No doubt looking-glasses had played a large part in some of them.
And then I began to wonder why the mattresses had been left upon the bed. Was the agent expecting to let the house again at once, or had they been put there for Quarles's convenience to-morrow night?
How long my mind slid from one thing to another I cannot say; but gradually my ideas seemed to dwindle away into nothingness, and it is easy to imagine that I slept. I do not think I did, however.
Although my mind was a blank for a time, I am convinced I never lost consciousness of that room or of the business I had in hand. There was absolutely no sensation of waking, only another sudden desire to move.
Again I walked to the window, and as I came back I glanced in the direction of the glass. This time my own reflection did not startle me; not because I was ready for it, but because I did not see it.
I must have crossed the room at a different angle, or my eyes—
I went to the glass, and then I started. There was no reflection. I was not in the glass.
In a moment the knowledge that this room was haunted came to me in full force. There was the glass, plainer than I had seen it before, my eyes were not at fault. Indeed, as I stared into it, there was a dim outline of images in the glass, the furniture of the room, but of me no reflection at all. Was I bewitched? Surely I must be in my chair, sleeping, dreaming, for suddenly in the glass, moving as in a mist, there were shadows—a bed and a man lying on it, and bending over him was another man whose hands were twisting about his companion.
I tried to call out to stop him, then I drew back, and the next moment I was at the door, speaking to Burroughs in a whisper.
"What is it?" he asked, coming swiftly into the room.
"Look!" and I seized him by the arm and drew him to the looking-glass.
"Well, what is it?" he asked again.
His reflection and mine were looking out at us, one scared face, mine; one full of questioning, his.
I told him what I had seen.
"You dropped off to sleep, Mr. Wigan, that's what it was."
Had I? It couldn't have been a dream, and yet faith in myself was shaken. It was possible I had only walked across the room a second time in my dreams. One thing is certain, I did not fall asleep again that night.
I had arranged with the constable in Manleigh Road that he should keep a careful watch at dawn. We should leave then by the same way as we had entered, and he was to signal to us if the coast was clear.
It was an essential part of my plan that no one should know the house had been occupied that night. I had kept watch, thinking that if harm were intended to Quarles the trap would be made ready previously. How and by whom I had not fully considered. Now I determined not to leave the house during the day.
I would be there when Quarles came that night.
I scribbled a note to him, explaining what I was doing, and I said that if the agent should accompany him to the house I would remain hidden until the agent had gone. This note I gave to Burroughs, and instructed him to explain matters to the constable.
I had provided myself with a flask and some dry biscuits in case of contingencies, and prepared to pass the day as comfortably as I could. It is needless to say that in daylight I examined that haunted room again, especially the looking-glass.
It was in an ornamental wooden frame fixed on the wall, formed, in fact, a finish to a wooden dado. It was like the fixed overmantel one finds sometimes in small modern villas, only it wasn't over the mantelpiece.
I think there was nothing in the room which I did not examine carefully, but I did not sit there; I preferred the front room.
It was an immense relief when I saw Quarles and another man, the agent, come through the gate.
It was between eight and nine, and I retired to the basement to be out of the way. The agent stayed about half an hour, and they were chiefly in the haunted room together.
"I sincerely hope your report will set at rest this silly idea that the house is haunted," I heard the agent say as they came down to the hall. "When my client returns he will be pretty mad about it."
"When does he return?" asked Quarles.