It was nearly two hours later before Rigby crept cautiously down the steps and emerged by the way in which he had entered the house. The street as before was absolutely deserted; so far as Rigby could see he might have been in a city of the dead. Despite his disguise and the artistic make-up of his grimy face, an acute spectator would not have failed to notice the agitation of his features. He crept with trembling footsteps to the roadway, and clung to the railings with a swaying air of one who has seen things the tongue refuses to describe. Then his natural courage, fanned by the cool air of the evening and the sense of being no longer isolated, returned with virile force to him. Mechanically he fumbled in his rags and produced from a breast pocket a silver cigarette-case, that might have got him into serious trouble if a lynx-eyed policeman had been near at hand.
"Well, I have seen some queer things in my time, but, as the poet says, 'never aught like this,'" Rigby said, with teeth that chattered a little. "I really must have one of my own cigarettes."
Despite his excitement, Rigby was conscious that he ought to be just a little ashamed of himself. He had always prided himself upon the fact that his nerves were perfectly under control and that nothing ever put him out, otherwise he would not have occupied the position he did at thePlanetoffice. He began to feel the effect of the cool night air, which braced him like a tonic. As he stood there waiting for something--though he would have found it difficult to say what--a policeman came slowly down the street. Rigby stooped and pretended to be busy with his stock of papers.
Some spirit of mischief moved him to chaff the representative of the law, and at the same time test to the utmost the disguise that he was wearing.
"Paper, sir?" he asked. "All the winners--horrible murder in Grosvenor Square. Ain't you going to buy one?"
Apparently the officer was one of the good-tempered sort, for he only smiled, and in a more or less gruff voice ordered the news-vender to move on.
"Just waiting for my pal, sir," Rigby explained. "I have never come down this street before, an' I'll take good care never to come down here again. Why, half these houses seem to be empty. Look at that show opposite. 'Ow long since anybody has lived there?"
"Before I came on the beat, anyway," the policeman explained. "Do you want to take one?"
With a laugh at his own pleasantry the policeman stalked off down the street, leaving Rigby easier in his mind and quite satisfied that his disguise would stand any ordinary test.
He leaned against the area railings absolutely undecided as to what to do next. With a certain new caution almost amounting to cowardice--a feeling of which he would be ashamed at any other time--Rigby turned his back upon the man who was advancing down the street. At the same time, so full was he of the horrors that he had lately witnessed, the amateur detective quite forgot the fragrant cigarette so out of keeping with his character. The stranger pulled up and, crossing the pavement, tapped Rigby familiarly on the shoulder.
"You are not so clever as you think you are," the stranger remarked coolly. "You may be a very smart chap, Dick, and I may be a very dull one, but I have certainly sufficient brains to know that the average newspaper tout does not smoke Turkish cigarettes. Besides, after our conversation this morning, I felt pretty certain that you would make an attempt to get inside that house."
Rigby laughed in a way that suggested that his nerves were in a considerably frayed condition.
"So that's you, Jack," he said, with a sigh of relief. "Yes, you are quite right; in fact, I told you I should not rest to-night until I had seen the inside of that house."
"And did the expedition come up to expectations?" Masefield asked eagerly.
"My dear fellow, I have had some weird experiences in my time, but I would not go through the last hour again for the wealth of the Indies. In fact, if I tell you what I've seen, you would set me down for a doddering lunatic."
The look of self-satisfaction on Jack's face faded away. He shivered with a strange weird feeling, that strange presentiment of something dire about to happen. Again, why should he doubt the fact that something terribly out of the common had happened to Rigby after his own amazing experiences?
With his hand on the arm of his friend, he walked abstractedly the whole of the terrace. Here a great arc light threw a stream of pallid blue upon the motley coloring displayed upon a big hoarding. In the centre of the hoarding, well displayed, was the terrible placard disclosing the grinning features of Nostalgo.
"By Heaven!" Jack exclaimed, "there is no getting away from the features of that grinning devil. I know as well as if I had seen it down in black and white that the awful experiences which have so changed you lately have to do with that yellow face."
"I am not going to deny it," Rigby replied; "and, what is more, I am not going to tell you what I have seen in the last two hours--at least, not at present. And now tell me, to change the subject, what is your private opinion of Spencer Anstruther?"
To say that Jack was taken aback by the suddenness of the question would be a mistake. It will be remembered that on the occasion Masefield last dined with Anstruther he had pointed out to Claire the amazing likeness between Nostalgo and her guardian. Not that it was possible for anybody to notice this except when Anstruther was moved to great emotion; but the fact remained. And now to find that Rigby's mind was so strangely moved in the same train of thought was, to say the least of it, disturbing.
"What do you mean by asking that question?" Jack said guardedly.
"For goodness' sake do not let us have any of this unnecessary caution between friends like ourselves," Rigby said, with great feeling. "Believe me, my dear friend, I am not asking this question out of idle curiosity. As man to man, is he a magnificent genius or the greatest criminal the world has ever seen?"
Thus put to it, Jack had no hesitation; indeed, he could have had no hesitation in replying to such a direct question as this.
"I am going to speak quite candidly to you," he said. "As you are perfectly well aware, knowing the man quite as well as I do, he is, like most geniuses, an exceedingly poor man. At the same time, unlike most geniuses, he is as unscrupulous as he is clever. I have more than an idea that he could tell us all about this affair, but I prefer to pose as a person who has come into it by accident, and who is only languidly interested. I have had some hesitation in mentioning my estimate of Anstruther's character to his ward, but I feel very uneasy so far as Claire is concerned. I know for a fact that Anstruther is painfully hard up; really, there are times when his financial straits are absolutely desperate. This being so, it has occurred to me more than once that Claire's money must be a strong inducement to prevent her marrying, for instance, myself."
"That is by no means a remote contingency," Rigby suggested drily.
"My dear fellow, to be perfectly frank with you, Miss Helmsley and myself have been engaged for the past two years. Mind you, this is a dead secret. I have a presentiment, call it foolish if you like, that the announcement of this fact to Anstruther will be the first moment of real danger for Claire. But why do you so suddenly spring this question upon me?"
By way of reply Rigby drew his companion into the comparative shadow of a doorway. He had hardly done so before another figure came jauntily down the street--a tall, slim figure which seemed strangely familiar to Masefield.
"The whole place seems to reek of Anstruther to-night," Jack said, "or perhaps it is my disordered imagination. But if that is not Anstruther himself, my eyesight strangely deceives me."
"If you knew as much as I do, or you had learned what I have learned the last hour, you would not be surprised," Rigby said. "However, we will soon settle that. I'll just step across the road and try and sell him a paper." Before Jack could lay a detaining hand on the arm of his friend, Rigby was half way across the street. In the approved raucous voice of the tribe, the amateur news-vender tendered Anstruther anEcho. He waved the offer aside, and made his way down the street with the air of one who has a definite object in view. With a whine artistically uttered, Rigby fell back upon the doorway in which Masefield was concealed.
"Anstruther beyond all shadow of doubt," Rigby said triumphantly. "Now, I am not a betting man, but I will lay you any odds in reason that our interesting friend enters No. 4. Ah, what did I tell you?"
Surely enough, Anstruther paused in his stride before the dilapidated door of No. 4. With one swift glance up and down the street to make certain that he was not observed, he drew a latch-key from his pocket and disappeared within the dingy portals. On the still night air the click of the latch-key and the muffled banging of the door could be heard all down the road. Rigby drew a sigh of relief.
"Well, I think that'll do for to-night," he said. "I reckon I have had just about as much as my nerves will stand. No, I am not going to tell you anything, and I have no stomach for further adventures this evening. I am going straight to bed, to sleep if I can. Come around and see me to-morrow afternoon."
But curious as he was, and anxious also as he was, Jack was forced to decline the proffered invitation. Besides, he had promised to take Claire to a matinee concert at the Albert Hall, to hear a new violinist who so far had only performed twice before in England. Signor Padini had come to the metropolis with a marvelous reputation, but so far he had hardly fulfilled expectations. Still, it was not the habit of music-lovers like Claire and Masefield to accept a verdict of this kind at second-hand. Therefore they had determined to hear the new virtuoso for themselves.
Not that any thoughts of a harmonious and musical kind were running in Jack's mind as he walked home to-night. Try as he would, he could not dismiss the idea that some grave peril was impending, and that Claire was likely to be the central figure of the tragedy. But it is the blessed privilege of youth to throw off the haunting cares and doubts that assail their elders, and Jack suffered little on the ground of sleeplessness that night.
All the same, the haunting fears were with him again on waking in the morning.
But perhaps Claire noticed something of this, for she put the direct question to her lover when he called on her the next afternoon. Yet Jack had no intention of saying anything for the present. He began to speak somewhat hurriedly of the new violinist, Signor Padini, and so the conversation lasted till the Albert Hall was reached.
There was nothing particularly attractive in the concert generally, and both waited somewhat impatiently for the foreigner to appear. He came at length, tall, slim, and clean-shaven, and Claire noticed with an amused smile that for once she was in the presence of a master who eschewed long hair. She turned and whispered something to this effect to Jack, who did not appear to be listening.
"Now, where have I seen that fellow before?" he muttered. "Call me foolish if you like, say this man is an absolute stranger to England if you please; but I am absolutely prepared to swear that his face is quite familiar to me."
But perhaps it was merely a chance likeness, Claire suggested. She was far too interested in the musician to take much heed of what Jack said. Evidently this man knew his business to his finger-tips; the way in which he handled his bow would have proved that to any critic. Claire glanced down the programme; and no sooner did the wild sweeping music come streaming from the strings than the whole audience thrilled responsive to the master's touch. He was not, after all, playing the piece standing against his name on the programme, but the peculiar weird and mournful rhapsodie of Chopin's that Jack had heard Anstruther interpreting two nights before. He leaned back; his eyes were half closed with a strange sensation that he was listening to Anstruther now. He turned to suggest something of this to Claire, and to his surprise he noticed that her face was paler than his own.
"Does anything strike you?" he whispered. "Have you a feeling, like myself, of having gone through all this before?"
"Dreadful!" Claire shuddered. "I know exactly what you mean. It is the same, precisely the same, as if my guardian had crept inside the body of Padini---- There! Did you notice that particular slur, that strange half hesitation? I declare, I feel certain that this Padini was in my guardian's study the other night. Jack, you must get at the bottom of this; there is some mystery here which we must solve, and that without delay."
Jack rose from his seat and buttoned his coat firmly about him.
"Ay," he said, "a deeper mystery than you are aware of. Stay here while I go behind the stage. I am going to see Signor Padini, and get to the bottom of this business at any cost."
Claire sat there, her mind half on her music and half on the extraordinary conduct of her lover. Not that she did not trust him implicitly; but, still, it seemed strange that he should have gone off without explaining the cause of his agitation.
Some one next to her touched her on the elbow and asked a question as to an item on the programme. The question was repeated twice before Claire realized that she would have to pull herself together. She replied quite at random; then she looked about her, and became cognizant of the fact that Padini was still on the stage, bowing his acknowledgments of the thunderous applause which had greeted his magnificent efforts.
Yet a closer glance did not serve to show Claire anything sinister in the artist's personality. He was pale and clean-shaven, palpably very nervous, and yet pleased with the warmth of his reception. Surely there could have been no mystery connected with a man like this.
On the other hand, the marvelous likeness between his playing and the execution in the same piece displayed by Anstruther two nights ago could not possibly be overlooked by any one professing to any musical knowledge at all. Claire hoped that the inevitable encore would produce a repetition of the same piece.
Surely enough, Padini came forward and struck the opening bars of the same rhapsodie. With eyes closed and mind eagerly concentrated on the music, Claire followed every passage with rapt attention. There was no longer any possibility of mistake. The Padini interpretation of the piece was exactly that of Anstruther. Was Anstruther, therefore, a consummate master of his art or a showy humbug or charlatan? Could it have been possible that this new artist had been concealed in the Panton Square library two nights before? But, on the face of it, this was absolutely impossible. Padini had only been in England a little over eight and forty hours, and his first appearance in London had been at a musical "at home" on the same night that Anstruther had played the Nocturne in Panton Square.
Claire was still debating this problem in her mind when Jack returned to his seat. He looked a little pale and shaky, but the grim smile on his face was determined enough. "My dearest girl, I am going to ask you a little favor," Jack whispered. "I hope you won't think it the least rude of me, but I want you to excuse me going back with you. Can't you guess that there is something more than meets the eye here?"
"I should be very blind indeed if I did not," Claire replied. "Jack, what is the meaning of this strange mystery? Either Signor Padini was at our house the other night, or my guardian learned to play that rhapsodie after having had lessons from the man on the platform before us."
"I may be wrong, of course," Jack said, "but I feel pretty sure that I have guessed the problem. That is why I want you to go off by yourself, and leave me to play the detective so far as Padini is concerned. It is not altogether a pleasant job, but I am going to follow that fellow when he leaves the Hall."
So saying, Jack rose from his seat, and Claire obediently followed his example. Once outside, Jack called a cab, and gave the driver his instructions.
"I think that will be all right," he said. "You may expect me to come round after dinner, my darling girl. I hope you are not in the least annoyed with me; but there is danger ahead for you and me, and it is my duty to prevent it at all hazards. I declare if I had not almost forgotten one of the most important things I had to say to you. On no account are you to breathe a word of this afternoon's visit to your guardian. He is not to know that you have been with me or anybody else to the Albert Hall to-day."
Claire glanced at the pale, anxious face of her lover and gave the desired assurance. She felt perfectly safe in his hands; he would tell her all there was to be told in due course; and now for the first time she congratulated herself on the fact that her engagement had been kept a secret from Anstruther.
Meanwhile Jack had returned to the back of the Hall. So far as he could recollect, Padini was down on the programme for no further item that afternoon, therefore it was only a matter of waiting till the violinist emerged, and following him to his destination. But Jack had succeeded in consuming three cigarettes without any sign of the artist rewarding his patience. Taking half-a-crown from his pocket, he crossed the road and proceeded to interview the stage-door keeper.
"Oh, that foreign-looking chap, is it?" the stage-door guardian said. "Signor Somebody or other who plays the fiddle. Why, he's been gone the last ten minutes."
"Gone!" Jack exclaimed, with palpable dismay. "Why, I have been watching most carefully for him the last half-hour. Was he wrapped up or shawled in any way?"
Whilst Jack still stood arguing there a slim young man, with fair moustache turned upwardsà laGerman Emperor, passed and repassed him hurriedly. The stranger passed into a smartly appointed hansom and vanished.
"Well, there's your man," the doorkeeper exclaimed. "He must have forgotten something and returned for it."
Jack muttered his thanks, parted with his half-crown, and went into the roadway thoroughly puzzled. He could not for a moment doubt the word of the doorkeeper, who was naturally an expert in a recognition of faces. As a matter of fact, the man with the turned-up moustache was the same individual who had been so mysteriously concealed in Panton Square, and who had afterwards accompanied the deaf-mute girl to Mr. Carrington's. On the stage Padini had appeared as a slight, slim man, whose face was absolutely devoid of hair.
Jack stood thoughtfully in the middle of the road, wondering what to do next. His first idea was to go at once and look up Rigby. He must have been standing there a great deal longer than he had imagined, for presently he saw the smart hansom return and take its place on the rank. Here was a slice of luck indeed. Jack crossed over and hailed the hansom.
"Here, I want you to drive me to the office of thePlanet," he said. "I suppose you know where that is. Do you want to earn an extra half-sovereign?"
"That's the way I was educated," said the cabman, with a grin. "Oh, my last fare, is it? Well, I can easily answer that question. Gent with the cocked-up moustache. I have just driven him to 5, Panton Square."
Jack stepped into the hansom, feeling that luck was entirely on his side. He knew now that he was on the track of something more than mere coincidence. For 5, Panton Square was no less a place than the residence of Spencer Anstruther, Claire's guardian. Here was proof positive that Padini, the violinist, a perfect stranger to London, was at any rate on terms of friendship with Anstruther. There was nothing for it now but to seek out Rigby and tell him all that had happened without delay. Rigby was found in his room at thePlanetoffice, mournfully drawing skeletons on a sheet of blotting-paper. He nodded thoughtfully as Jack came in; then, catching sight of the latter's eager face, asked what was in the wind.
"I have been making discoveries galore," Jack responded. "You would hardly expect me to do that through the medium of an afternoon concert; but there it is. You have heard of this new violinist, Signor Padini, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes," Rigby said indifferently. "Well, a typical class of foreign boomster, I suppose."
"That is not the point," Jack proceeded to explain. "You will recollect what I told you about the empty study in Anstruther's house from which the music proceeded in that strange, unaccountable manner. Naturally, I thought the player was Anstruther himself--Anstruther wonderfully improved or inspired beyond all recognition; but now I know that such was not the case. Dick, there is something devilish in this strange business--the empty room, the unearthly music, the strange appearance of that young man with his deaf-mute companion, followed so closely by the death of Nostalgo. What does it all mean?"
"I will give a thousand pounds to know," Rigby responded.
"Well, I think I can tell you," Jack went on. "You will recollect the night before last, during our chance meeting at Carrington's, that I asked you to keep an eye on a young man with moustache turned upà laGerman Emperor. Would you be surprised to hear that this young man was no less a person than Signor Padini?"
"Impossible!" Rigby exclaimed. "How could you prove such a statement?"
"Well, I am going to prove it, anyway. Together with Miss Helmsley I went to hear Padini this afternoon. By some strange freak of fate he had chosen Chopin's Rhapsodie in F as his item on the programme. Directly he began to play my mind went back to that strange, weird music in Anstruther's study. It was not I alone who noticed this subtle resemblance; in fact, Claire recognized it as soon as I did. Mind you, every musician of note has his little tricks and fancies which are absolutely peculiar to himself. When I shut my eyes, I could literally hear Padini playing in Anstruther's house.
"I sent Claire home in a cab, and proceeded to wait till Padini left the Albert Hall. I missed him, of course, for Padini was a clean-shaven man on the stage. As a matter of fact, he must be a very conceited creature, seeing that in private life he wears a fair moustache. I got that from the doorkeeper; but, what is more to the point, the cabman who drove me here is the same man who half-an-hour ago dropped Padini at Anstruther's house. Now, I would like to know what you make of that."
Rigby listened thoughtfully to all that Jack had had to say. The significance of the revelations was not lost upon him.
"And yet, I dare say, Anstruther would deny any knowledge of Padini if you asked him," he said. "Still, we know a great deal, and, clever as Anstruther is, he cannot possibly conceive the fact that we are so closely acquainted with his movements. Let's go and call upon the beggar, shall we? Pretend that we want to consult him on some matter of business. Anything will do. Did you keep your cab?"
"Well, yes; it occurred to me that we might want him again, and, besides, the driver can prove that he left Padini at 5, Panton Square."
Panton Square was reached at length; the cabman had been discreetly dropped at the corner of the street. Jack rang the bell, which was answered by Serena. In the full light of the afternoon sunshine her strange, inscrutable face looked more haggard and strange than usual. There was the same furtive droop of her eyelids, the same pitiable shake of her hands, that suggested the beaten hound, that Jack had so often noticed before. He would have given much, as a writer of stories himself, to have known the secret history of this woman. Docile and tame as she appeared to be, she was still capable of passionate emotion, or the dilatation of her black pupils spoke falsely. Though she was meek and friendly enough, there was ever a suggestion that she was on her guard.
"Your master in?" Rigby asked breezily. "But we know that he is. Don't you trouble about us; we will go to the study ourselves."
Serena stood there as if something gripped her throat and choked her utterance.
"But my master is not at home," she protested. "He has not been at home all day; neither do I know what time to expect him to-night. I fancy he is out of town altogether."
"That's rather awkward," Rigby said. "We came here on business, expecting to meet a friend of ours. I suppose you have seen nothing of him--a tall, slim young man, with rather a fierce type of moustache?"
"There has been no visitor calling here to-day," Serena replied, with the air of one who repeats a well-learned lesson. "I am the only servant in the house at present, and should have known if anybody had called."
Jack did not dare to glance at his companion, feeling that those dark, interrogating eyes were fixed upon his face. A sudden impulse moved Jack; he decided upon trying the effect of a swift surprise. He tapped the woman familiarly on the shoulder.
"Come, come," he said, with a jocular ring in his voice. "Do you mean to tell me that you have not had a visit to-day from Signor Padini?"
A stifled cry broke from the woman; she clenched her hands in an attitude of pain.
Nothing was said for a full minute. Serena stood there, gazing from one to the other as a child might do who finds herself in the presence of two harsh taskmasters. There was something pitiable about her hopelessness; the fighting glint had left her eyes; she stood there downcast and shaking as a slave might do.
"I am afraid I do not understand what you mean," the woman said.
In a way Jack was feeling very sorry for Serena. Ever since he had known Anstruther and been a friend of the household the woman had held a certain subtle fascination for him. Though Jack had not made as yet much progress in the paths of literature, he had all the quick dramatic feeling which is essential to the making of a successful novelist.
It had often occurred to him that so mysterious a figure as Serena would have made a splendid character for a strong novel. He watched the woman carefully now; he saw how her breast was heaving, and what a great fight she was making to keep her emotions under control.
"I am afraid I must press you for an answer," Jack said. "Signor Padini can be nothing to you, and yet you start and cry out when his name is mentioned as if I had struck you a blow. Now, tell me, was the man I speak of a visitor to this house last night? What time did he come?"
"My master's business is my master's business," Serena said sullenly. "He tells me nothing--he tells nobody anything. And who am I, a humble servant like me, to ask questions of my master?"
Rigby shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. He began to see that there was nothing to gain here. He nodded to Jack and half turned away. But Jack was not to be so easily suppressed.
"But, surely," he urged, "you would be doing no harm in telling us if a foreign gentleman called here last night?"
"I will tell you nothing," Serena cried. "Why do you come and bully a poor woman like this?"
And yet, at the same time, though Jack knew how faithful she was to her master, he could not but feel that she was not antagonistic to Claire and himself. With a sudden impulse he pushed his way into the hall, followed by Rigby.
"We all make mistakes sometimes," he said. "Now, are you quite sure you have made no mistake about your master? Mr. Anstruther is a law unto himself; he comes and goes as he likes, and it is just possible that he might have returned without you being aware of the fact. There is nothing to be frightened about; we are not here to murder him for the sake of his Apostle spoons."
As Jack ceased to speak he made a swift sign to Rigby behind the woman's back, and the latter understood. He would go off to the library and see for himself if Anstruther had returned. As the hall door closed behind him, Serena rushed impulsively forward and threw herself headlong at Jack's feet. Her attitude had entirely changed; she was no longer the half-dumb slave of circumstance, no longer a mere machine answering to the call of her master, but a living, palpitating woman. The change was so quick, so dramatic and unexpected, that Jack had no voice of protest left to him.
"For heaven's sake, do not do it!" Serena whispered hoarsely; "and, if not that, for your own sake I implore you to stay your hand. Oh, I am not so blind and foolish as you think--I am not the dull, stupid creature that my master takes me to be. You can deceive him where love and honor are concerned, but you cannot blind my eyes, because I have loved, alas! too well myself. Do not think that I pry and watch, for such is not my nature. And yet I know as well as if you had told me in so many words that Miss Claire and yourself are something more than friends. I cannot speak more plainly because I dare not; but if you would save the girl you love from the terrible danger that hangs over her, you will be blind to all that goes on in this dreadful house."
The words which had begun so hoarsely and quietly came at the finish with the torrential force of a mountain stream. Surprised as he had been, Jack's self-possession had not quite deserted him. Hitherto he had regarded the silent Serena as an old woman, but now that her face was transformed and glowing with emotions he could see that she was still comparatively young. He could see also, and the fact gave him a vague sense of satisfaction, that this woman's sympathies were entirely with Claire and himself.
"Will you get up, please?" he said, and his own voice was just a little shaky. "It is not right for a woman to kneel to a man like that. Serena, you are not what you seem. You are not a servant in the ordinary acceptation of the word; you spoke just now like a refined and educated woman. You may say that is no business of mine, and, indeed, I do not wish to pry into your past, but you must see that this matter cannot possibly stop here. You denied just now that Signor Padini had been here at all. You denied the presence of your master, and yet I can hear his voice on the other side of the study door at this moment. You will perhaps also deny that you heard of No. 4, Montrose Place."
It was merely a bow drawn at a venture, but the shaft seemed to strike home to the feather. Serena had risen painfully and slowly to her knees; she staggered back against the table and contemplated Jack with dilated eyes.
"Oh, you have gone further than I dreamed," she moaned. "You are a strong, masterful man, and I see now that nothing I can say will turn you from your purpose."
"Since you have made up your mind to that," Jack said grimly, "perhaps you had better be candid with me and tell me all you know. For some time past I have felt a strong conviction that Anstruther is no better than a consummate scoundrel. Discreet as he is, I have come to the conclusion that this is no house for Miss Helmsley. I am quite certain that you would find both of us more sincere friends than the man you call your master. Why not, therefore, leave him and throw in your lot with us?"
The woman wrung her hands piteously; Jack could see the tears rolling down her face.
"Oh, if I only could--if I only dared," she whispered; "and yet I cannot, even if it were only for your sakes. If you only knew what was hanging over you--but I must say no more. When that man comes to me, when I stand before him with his eyes looking into mine, I am compelled to give him up the secrets of my very soul. I wish from the bottom of my heart that----"
Serena clutched at her throat with a quivering hand, as if something choked her, and rushed impulsively from the room. She had said nothing, and yet she had said so much. Her very reticence, her hesitation to speak definitely against her master, had proved conclusively to Jack what a consummate scoundrel Anstruther was. He was still debating the matter in his mind when Rigby came back to him. The latter did not speak; instead of that, he took Jack by the arm and piloted him quietly and firmly to the front door. They were in the street before Jack could ask the meaning of this cautious conduct.
"One can't be too cautious in a case like this," Rigby explained. "It was just as I had expected. Anstruther was at home; he, indeed, had not been out all day, which fact was proved by his still being in dressing-gown and slippers. Our usually self-contained friend had either been dissipating last night or he has had disturbing news; at any rate, he was very pale and shaky, and did not seem in the least pleased to see me. Not that I think that he was in the least suspicious of my visit."
"Did you happen to see anything of Padini?" Jack asked eagerly. "Well, I did and I did not," Rigby explained. "At any rate, the Italian was not in the study, though he had been there, from the simple fact that a music case and a rather jaunty-looking Homburg hat rested on a side table. Did you happen to notice if Padini was wearing a Homburg hat this afternoon?"
Jack was able to reassure his friend on that point, whereupon Rigby proceeded to ask if anything had happened during the time he was left alone with Serena. Rigby listened with interest to all that Jack had to say.
"That's a woman we ought to get hold of," he said thoughtfully. "Unless I am greatly mistaken, she can tell us all we want to know. As a matter of fact, she has told us a great deal, though perhaps without knowing it. At any rate, from what you say, she is quite aware of the fact that something uncanny is going on at 4, Montrose Place. I feel perfectly certain that the body of Nostalgo was smuggled awayviathat empty house; we know perfectly well that Anstruther is in the habit of going there, and we are equally sure that the very mention of the house filled Serena with terror. As we have plenty of time on our side, and there seems to be no immediate hurry, you and I are going to keep our eye on that place. You were very anxious last night to know what I had seen there. Well, you have plenty of pluck and courage of your own; you shall come with me presently and verify the thing for yourself."
"Do you mean to say we are going to keep a vigil there to-night?" Jack asked.
"That's about the size of it," Rigby answered coolly. "You had better come round to my rooms not a moment later than half-past ten. Mind you, we are not going there as ourselves, but you can leave a disguise quite safely to me. Don't bring a revolver or anything noisy of that kind; something in the way of a thick stick would be much safer. By the way, didn't you tell me that you were going to see Miss Helmsley to-night? Take my advice, call there and dine as if nothing had happened, and directly Anstruther makes an excuse to return to his study, slip away from the house without the formality of leave-taking and come to my place at once."
It was not easy work for a straightforward fellow like Jack to sit with Anstruther on the other side of the table, discussing trivial topics as if there was nothing grim and terrible behind this picture of refined home life. Jack was conscious of carrying himself off fairly well, what time Anstruther rose from the table with an excuse that he had work to do.
"Please don't think I am avoiding your company," Anstruther said pleasantly, "and don't be annoyed if you hear the sound of my violin presently. As a matter of fact, my thoughts are always clearest when inspired by the sounds of music."
Jack muttered something suitable to the occasion, and exchanged glances with Claire directly Anstruther left the room.
Just as that genius had prophesied, the sweet strains of the violin stole from the study presently. Claire listened with an interest which was vivid and thrilling beyond words.
"Now, listen to that," she cried. "Did you ever hear anything like it? Did you ever hear Mr. Anstruther play in that style and manner before? Note the little slurs, the half hesitation, which is at once so dramatic and artistic. If you close your eyes, you might swear that you are listening to Padini himself."
"It really is amazing," Jack murmured. "Padini to the life; the Italian to a semitone. And yet we know perfectly well that it cannot be Padini, because at this very moment he is waiting to take his turn at the Queen's Hall concert. Claire, you must try to get to the bottom of this. I cannot possibly believe that this infernal juggling is conceived merely to satisfy the vanity of Anstruther, for, in the first place, we form so small an audience. There is something behind this much more serious than the soothing of a clever man's vanity. And now I must be off."
Claire pleaded with her lover to stay a little longer, but, mindful of Rigby's strict injunctions, he was fain to refuse. In the light of recent knowledge he had no occasion to feel sure that Anstruther was still on the premises, despite the fact of those exquisite strains of music emanating from the library. He had not forgotten the strange experience in that direction two nights before. Still, the sweet, melancholy melody could be distinctly heard by Jack as he crossed the road.
Rigby was impatiently awaiting his friend, and he had all the disguises sent up to his bedroom. He listened eagerly to all Jack had to say whilst artistically making himself up as a news-vender. A glance at himself in the glass reassured Jack; he felt pretty sure in his mind that no one could possibly recognize him attired as he was now.
"What's the programme?" he asked, completing the illusion with a short clap pipe. "Are we going straight away to Montrose Place?"
Rigby replied that that was the intention. It was getting near to eleven o'clock before the friends reached Montrose Place; so far as they could see they had the terrace entirely to themselves. A policeman strode majestically down the road, flashing his lantern here and there, and finally disappeared from sight.
"Now's our time," Rigby said eagerly; "no chance of being interrupted for the next ten minutes. You stand at the top of the steps whilst I sneak down and open the window. We 'shall have to fumble our way up-stairs, because it is by no means safe to use matches. Still, I have the geography of the house quite clear in my mind. Come along."
They were in the grim, dusty house at last. Jack was conscious only of the intense darkness and musty smell of the place. Carefully piloted by Rigby, he reached the second floor landing at length, and there Rigby grasped his arm significantly. There was no sound at first save the scratching of mice behind the panel or the flutter of some ragged blind swayed in the piercing draught. Then suddenly it seemed to Jack that a solemn footfall sounded in a room close by, a door opened with a pop like a pistol crack, and a long slit of light, dazzling in its brilliancy, fell like a lance upon the dusty floor. Somebody laughed somewhere, a laugh that sounded so near and yet so far away; then the door opened wider, and a partial view of the interior of the room could be seen.
Utterly taken by surprise, moved and horrified to the depths of his soul, Jack could have cried out, but for the hand clapped upon his mouth like a steel trap.
"Not a sound," Rigby whispered sternly. "For heaven's sake, restrain yourself, and look, look!"
Jack needed no second bidding; he was only too anxious and eager to follow the direction of Rigby's outstretched finger. He was by no means lacking in the nerve and pluck which generally go to a young man of fine physique and clean habit. But there was something about the whole of this affair, a creeping suggestion of diabolical crime, such as one only encounters in the wildest realms of fiction.
And yet it seemed to Jack that his reading of the daily press recalled things just as vile in every-day life. With teeth clenched firmly, with a stern resolution to do nothing very likely to precipitate what might have been a terrible catastrophe, Jack looked into the room before him. As the door was half open and the two friends were hidden in the blackish shadow, it was possible to watch without the slightest chance of being seen.
For an empty house, dusty and gloomy and deserted as it was, the room in front of our two adventurers presented a striking contrast to the rest of the place. There was no window, or at least, where the window ought to have been, something in the way of an iron shutter stood, and over this a great wealth of silken hangings was artistically arranged. As to the rest of the apartment, the furniture was directly in keeping with the abode of a millionaire. Jack did not fail to notice the rich Persian carpet, the luxurious chairs and settees of the First Empire period, the fine pictures on the walls. The walls, too, had been recently decorated, so that there was not a single jarring note to mar the harmonious whole. There were flowers, too, grouped in the corners of the room and piled cunningly around the electrolier standing on the centre table.
"Now, that is a strange thing," Jack whispered. "So far as I could see, so far as I can see now, there is no sign whatever of the electric lighting in any other part of the house. Do you suppose that these people have taken this house in the ordinary way, or is it possible that----"
"Not a bit of it," Rigby replied. "They're not the sort of people to do anything as foolish as that. Nor would there be any occasion to go to the expense. Depend upon it, they know all about the character of the owner of this property, and that it is not in the least likely to let unless put thoroughly in order."
"Then, what about the electric light?" Jack suggested. "That would have to be put in by somebody. These people could not tap the main, or anything of that kind."
"There's a much simpler way than that, my dear fellow. Dr. Adamson lives next door, and I know perfectly well that he has electric light. It does not require much technical knowledge to wire a house, and anybody with a small amount of common sense could easily drill a small hole through a partition and attach a wire to one of the main lines next door. I think that explains the problem."
Jack had no further question to ask for the moment. His full attention now was concentrated on the occupants of the room. There were three of them altogether, two being dressed like superior mechanics, and were evidently there for some purpose connected with machinery. The third man, superior in every way to his companions, had his back turned to the door, so that it was impossible to get a glimpse of his features. He had in front of him an ingenious-looking arrangement, not unlike a magic lantern or a contrivance for throwing cinematograph pictures on a screen. At a sign from him, one of the workmen drew back the silken draperies covering what ought to have been the window, and a white sheet stood confessed.
"Give me the third slide by your left hand," the operator commanded. "That will do. Now switch out the light."
There was a click and a jerk, and immediately the whole room was plunged in darkness save for the fierce disc of blinding light that flashed upon the screen. Almost immediately a dazzling disc was transformed to the face of a man. Jack clutched at the arm of his companion.
"By heaven! do you see that?" he whispered. "It is nothing more nor less than the face of Nostalgo. Do you think this is merely a development of some novel form of advertisement, or is it possible that these fellows have hit upon some novel way of putting in posters?"
But Rigby had nothing to say. He was too deeply interested in the spectacle before him. It had occurred to him for the moment that there might have been something in what Jack suggested. It was just possible also that what he took to be a large sheet was no more than a wide stretch of paper.
At any rate, there was no hurry. There would be plenty of time to ascertain whether the supposed sheet on the wall was paper or not. Rigby had made no reply to Jack's cogent question, but he seemed to be quite as interested as his friend.
"Hang me if I know what to think of it," he said at length. "It seems to me as if these fellows were trying to work out something quite new in the way of lantern slides. Mind you, it is just possible that we are mistaken altogether in our assumption that Anstruther is carrying out some cunning rascality. These men may, after all, be no more or less than honest workmen."
"I can't quite see that point," Jack replied. "Honest workmen do not, as a rule, come in this furtive way to an empty house. Besides, look at them."
"That is all very well," Rigby argued. "But supposing that you were engaged upon some secret process which you did not want anybody to know anything about. And, besides, Anstruther is quite a genius in his way, and there is no reason why he should not be engaged upon inventing some new process of lithography."
"In that case," Jack said, "is it not a strange coincidence that they should be manufacturing these Nostalgo posters? I grant you that Anstruther is absolutely a genius, but his talents always take a sinister bent; in fact, I don't think the fellow could be honest if he tried. Still, we have plenty of time to find out."
"Do you really think that is paper?" Rigby asked. "It looks to me like it."
"It looks to me like it, too," Jack said; "but we shall have to possess our souls in patience."
"Hang me if I don't go and see," he said. "No, I don't see that there is any great danger unless they should happen to turn up the light again, and I do not suppose they will do that until the experiment is finished."
"For goodness' sake, do nothing rash," Jack implored. "From what we have already seen, we have to do with a gang who would not hesitate to cut our throats if it served their purpose."
The thing, after all, was not so hazardous as Jack had imagined. Just for an instant, as if by accident, one of the shaded electrics on the wall flashed out in a pin-point of diamond light.
"You clumsy fool!" growled the man behind the lantern. "What did you do that for? You might have spoilt all my work by your blundering folly."
The erring workman grunted out something in the way of an apology and a promise that he would be more careful in the future. Here, then, was Rigby's opportunity. He knew now that there was no likelihood of the light being turned on again for some time to come. All he had to do, therefore, was to creep cautiously, wriggling like a snake across the floor, until he could touch the huge screen and ascertain whether it were paper or cloth.
He took a penknife from his pocket and opened a small blade. So dense was the darkness of the room by contrast with the vivid lane of light thrown upon the screen that the journey was practically devoid of peril, so long as no one touched the switch of the electrics. Therefore Rigby crept along, his nerves braced to the highest tension and an exhilarating sense of danger strong upon him. He could see now that the white sheet extended from floor to ceiling, the edges of it seeming black and firm like an iron plate in contrast with the brilliant white centre.
He was close to it now, so close indeed that, with a cautious movement of his arm, he could touch the sheet. A single prick with a sharp point of his knife gave him all the information that he needed. It was a sheet of paper surely enough. A moment later Rigby was standing by Jack's side once more.
"Paper," he whispered. "Really, this adventure is likely to prove prosaic after all. Don't you think we are rather making a mountain out of a molehill? We know that Anstruther is a great rascal, but at the same time he is an exceedingly clever man, and, as you know, inclined to be secretive. Now, isn't it just possible that our friend has hit upon some new process of photo-lithography, and that we are witnessing an experiment to demonstrate the value of the new idea."
"I don't think so," Jack replied. "Indeed, since you have been away, I have made something in the way of a discovery also. Mark well the picture thrown upon the screen yonder. You know what it represents, of course?"
"Well, naturally. I have seen the diabolical face of Nostalgo on too many posters not to be absolutely familiar with his ugly mug. Depend upon it, those fellows are printing the famous poster in some way known to themselves. Maybe we shall see that self-same sheet on some hoarding to-morrow."
"But that is not what I meant at all," Jack proceeded to explain. "If you are as familiar with the poster as you say you are, you will notice a considerable difference in this one. In the first place, the face is a little more in profile, and surely you must notice the difference in the hands."
"Right you are," Rigby replied. "In the present instance the hands are half-extended, as if in the act of clutching something. Strange that I had not noticed that before. What do you make it out to be?"
"Hush!" Jack whispered. "I think our ingenious friend behind the lantern will explain that for himself."
The leading operator in the room gave a short curt sign and the brilliant lights flashed up once more. The slide was also drawn from the lantern, but the sinister features of the dark, repulsive face upon the screen did not vanish as might have been expected. On the contrary, the grim face frowned down as if it had been brushwork from the pencil of some imaginative artist. One of the workmen approached the sheet and dragged it to the floor. Then the three men in the room bent over the poster and examined it critically.
"It seems to me that the hand is a little out of drawing," the leader of the trio remarked critically. "Give me the paints--the white paint, I mean."
The speaker took a brush heavily charged with some white pigment and proceeded to touch up the hand. He cut this portion from the sheet and placed it in the slide of the lantern. Then another large sheet of paper was erected in front of the window, and the lights turned out again. Almost immediately there appeared upon the disc the shadow of a huge, bony hand uplifting a dagger in a menacing attitude. A grunt of approval came from the man behind the lantern, and once more the lights were turned up.
"There, what did I tell you?" Jack asked eagerly. "I am sure the different attitudes of that man's hand are meant for signs."
"Indeed, it would seem so," Rigby was forced to admit. "We'd better stay here and await developments."
For the next hour or so the mysterious process of printing the posters continued. It was exactly as Jack's ingenious mind had forecast. In every instance, although the dark and sinister features remained the same, the attitude of the hand was different. It was a strange and most important discovery that the two friends had made; but, instead of making their task easier, the problem had become still more intricate. Was all this part of some cunning device for attracting public attention, something absolutely new in the way of advertisement, or did it signify a deeper and more sinister purpose?
Jack recollected now how frequently Anstruther had alluded in his hearing to the ramifications of secret societies. With his intimate knowledge of criminality, and having every assistance from the police always at his disposal, Anstruther's acquaintance with the seamy side of life was extensive and peculiar. But was he now helping the police as usual, or was he engaged himself upon some ingenious conspiracy for the aggrandizement of himself and his satellites?
It was difficult to say, it was still more difficult to prove anything, seeing that the work of printing was still proceeding in silence. If these men would only speak, if they would only utter some word which might give a clue to what they were doing, the spies would have been more satisfied. Their only hope was to watch and wait on the off-chance of a careless word.
They were listening so eagerly indeed that they almost failed to notice the sound of a footstep which now echoed on the stairs. They were so close to the door that any one reaching their landing from below could hardly fail to make out the outline of their figures. Rigby had barely time to drag his companion back into the velvety darkness beyond before the newcomer was past them and had entered the room.
"How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?" the newcomer cried. "How are you getting on? Nobody interrupting you--seen nothing of the police or anything of that kind?"
"No doubt as to who that is," Rigby whispered. "I should recognize Anstruther's voice anywhere. I told you he was at the bottom of this business."
Anstruther stood before them, tall and distinguished in his evening dress, and there was no sign about him that he was doing anything more than pursuing a quite normal occupation.
"Not at all a bad evening's work," he said. "Are we all here, or is Carrington late again? Confound that fellow! I begin to wish we hadn't taken him into the business at all. But I do not think he is at all likely to play me false; it will be a bad day's work for him if he does."
"Carrington, too," Jack muttered significantly; "that is your rich banker friend, Dick. The plot thickens apace. It seems impossible for anybody to come in contact with Anstruther and retain his respectability."