CHAPTER XXXIVTHE SEARCH
“Yes, it’s me,” said Michael bitterly. “All right, officer, you needn’t wait. Jack, I’ll come up to the house to get this make-up off.”
“For the Lord’s sake!” breathed Knebworth, staring at the detective. “I’ve never seen a man made up so well that he deceived me.”
“I’ve deceived everybody, including myself,” said Michael savagely. “I thought I’d caught him with a dummy letter, instead of which the devil caught me.”
“What was it?”
“Ammonia, I think—a concentrated solution thereof,” said Michael.
It was twenty minutes before he emerged from the bathroom, his eyes inflamed but otherwise his old self.
“I wanted to trap him in my own way, but he was too smart for me.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Michael nodded.
“Oh, yes, I know,” he said. “I’ve got a special force of men here, waiting to effect the arrest, but I didn’t want a fuss, and I certainly did not want bloodshed. And bloodshed there will be, unless I am mistaken.”
“I didn’t seem to recognize the car, and I know most of the machines in this city,” said Jack.
“It is a new one, used only for these midnight adventures of the Head-Hunter. He probably garages it away from his house. You asked me if I’d have something to eat just now, and I lied and told you I was living on the fat of the land. Give me some food, for the love of heaven!”
Jack went into the larder and brought out some cold meat, brewed a pot of coffee, and sat in silence, watching the famished detective dispose of the viands.
“I feel a man now,” said Michael as he finished, “for I’d had nothing to eat except a biscuit since eleven this morning. By the way, our friend Stella Mendoza is staying at Griff Towers, and I’m afraid I rather scared her. I happened to be nosing round there an hour ago, to make absolutely sure of my bird, and I looked in upon her—to her alarm!”
There came a sharp rap at the door, and Jack Knebworth looked up.
“Who’s that at this time of night?” he asked.
“Probably the policeman,” said Michael.
Knebworth opened the door and found a short, stout, middle-aged woman standing on the doorstep with a roll of paper in her hand.
“Is this Mr. Knebworth’s?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Jack.
“I’ve brought the play that Miss Leamington left behind. She asked me to bring it to you.”
Knebworth took the roll of paper and slipped off the elastic band which encircled it. It was the manuscript of “Roselle.”
“Why have you brought this?” he asked.
“She told me to bring it up if I found it.”
“Very good,” said Jack, mystified. “Thank you very much.”
He closed the door on the woman and went back to the dining-room.
“Adele has sent up her script. What’s wrong, I wonder?”
“Who brought it?” asked Michael, interested.
“Her landlady, I suppose,” said Jack, describing the woman.
“Yes, that’s she. Adele is not turning in her part?”
Jack shook his head.
“That wouldn’t be likely.”
Michael was puzzled.
“What the dickens does it mean? What did the woman say?”
“She said that Miss Leamington wanted her to bring up the manuscript if she found it.”
Michael was out of the house in a second, and, racing down the street, overtook the woman.
“Will you come back, please?” he said, and escorted her to the house again. “Just tell Mr. Knebworth why Miss Leamington sent this manuscript, and what you mean by having ‘forgotten’ it.”
“Why, when she came up to you——” began the woman.
“Came up to me?” cried Knebworth quickly.
“A gentleman from the studio called for her, and said you wanted to see her,” said the landlady. “Miss Leamington was just going to bed, but I took up the message. He said you wanted to see her about the play, and asked her to bring the manuscript. She had mislaid it somewhere and was in a great state about it, so I told her to go on, as you were in a hurry, and I’d bring it up. At least, she asked me to do that.”
“What sort of a gentleman was it who called?”
“A rather stout gentleman. He wasn’t exactly a gentleman, he was a chauffeur. As a matter of fact, I thought he’d been drinking, though I didn’t want to alarm Miss Leamington by telling her so.”
“And then what happened?” asked Michael quickly.
“She came down and got in the car. The chauffeur was already in.”
“A closed car, I suppose?”
The woman nodded.
“And then they drove off? What time was this?”
“Just after half-past ten. I remember, because I heard the church clock strike just before the car drove up.”
Michael was cool now. His voice scarcely rose above a whisper.
“Twenty-five past eleven,” he said, looking at his watch. “You’ve been a long time coming.”
“I couldn’t find the paper, sir. It was under Miss Leamington’s pillow. Isn’t she here?”
“No, she’s not here,” said Michael quietly. “Thank you very much; I won’t keep you. Will you wait for me at the police station?”
He went upstairs and put on his coat.
“Where do you think she is?” asked Jack.
“She is at Griff Towers,” replied the other, “and whether Gregory Penne lives or dies this night depends entirely upon the treatment that Adele has received at his hands.”
At the police station he found the landlady, a little frightened, more than a little tearful.
“What was Miss Leamington wearing when she went out?”
“Her blue cloak, sir,” whimpered the woman, “that pretty blue cloak she always wore.”
Scotland Yard men were at the station, and it was a heavily loaded car that ran out to Chichester—too heavy for Michael, in a fever of impatience, for the weight of its human cargo checked its speed, and every second was precious. At last, after an eternity of time, the big car swung into the drive. Michael did not stop to waken the lodge-keeper, but smashed the frail gates open with the buffers of his machine, mounted the slope, crossing the gravel parade, and halted.
There was no need to ring the bell: the door was wide open, and, at the head of his party, Mike Brixan dashed through the deserted hall, along the corridor into Gregory’s library. One light burnt, offering a feeble illumination, but the room was empty. With rapid strides he crossed to the desk and turned the switch. Bhag’s den opened, but Bhag too was an absentee.
He pressed the bell by the side of the fireplace, and almost immediately the brown-faced servitor whom he had seen before came trembling into the room.
“Where is your master?” asked Michael in Dutch.
The man shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he replied, but instinctively he looked up to the ceiling.
“Show me the way.”
They went back to the hall, up the broad stairway on to the first floor. Along a corridor, hung with swords, as was its fellow below, he reached another open door—the great dance hall where Gregory Penne had held revel that evening. There was nobody in sight, and Michael came out into the hall. As he did so, he was aware of a frantic tapping at one of the doors in the corridor. The key was in the lock: he turned it and flung the door wide open, and Stella Mendoza, white as death, staggered out.
“Where is Adele?” she gasped.
“I want to ask you that,” said Michael sternly. “Where is she?”
The girl shook her head helplessly, strove to speak, and then collapsed in a swoon.
He did not wait for her to recover, but continued his search. From room to room he went, but there was no sign of Adele or the brutal owner of Griff Towers. He searched the library again, and passed through into the little drawing-room, where a table was laid for two. The cloth was wet with spilt wine; one glass was half empty—but the two for whom the table was laid had vanished. They must have gone out of the front door—whither?
He was standing tense, his mind concentrated upon a problem that was more vital to him than life itself, when he heard a sound that came from the direction of Bhag’s den. And then there appeared in the doorway the monstrous ape himself. He was bleeding from a wound in the shoulder; the blood fell drip-drip-drip as he stood, clutching in his two great hands something that seemed like a bundle of rags. As Michael looked, the room rocked before his eyes.
The tattered, stained garment that Bhag held was the cloak that Adele Leamington had worn!
For a second Bhag glared at the man who he knew was his enemy, and then, dropping the cloak, he shrank back toward his quarters, his teeth bared.
Three times Michael’s automatic spat, and the great, man-like thing disappeared in a flash—and the door closed with a click.
Knebworth had been a witness of the scene. It was he who ran forward and picked up the cloak that the ape had dropped.
“Yes, that was hers,” he said huskily, and a horrible thought chilled him.
Michael had opened the door of the den, and, pistol in hand, dashed through the opening. Knebworth dared not follow. He stood petrified, waiting, and then Michael reappeared.
“There’s nothing here,” he said.
“Nothing?” asked Jack Knebworth in a whisper. “Thank God!”
“Bhag has gone—I think I may have hit him; there is a trail of blood, but I may not be responsible for that. He had been shot recently,” he pointed to stains on the floor. “He wasn’t shot when I saw him last.”
“Have you seen him before to-night?”
Michael nodded.
“For three nights he has been haunting Longvale’s house.”
“Longvale’s!”
Where was Adele? That was the one dominant question, the one thought uppermost in Michael Brixan’s mind. And where was the baronet? What was the meaning of that open door? None of the servants could tell him, and for some reason he saw that they were speaking the truth. Only Penne and the girl—and this great ape—knew, unless——
He hurried back to where he had left a detective trying to revive the unconscious Stella Mendoza.
“She has passed from one fainting fit to another,” said the officer. “I can get nothing out of her except that once she said ‘Kill him, Adele.’ ”
“Then she has seen her!” said Michael.
One of the officers he had left outside to watch the building had a report to make. He had seen a dark figure climbing the wall and disappear apparently through the solid brickwork. A few minutes later it had come out again.
“That was Bhag,” said Michael. “I knew he was not here when we arrived. He must have come in through the opening while we were upstairs.”
The car that had carried Adele had been found. It was Stella’s, and at first Michael suspected that the girl was a party to the abduction. He learnt afterwards that, whilst the woman’s chauffeur had been in the kitchen, virtually a prisoner, Penne himself had driven the car to the girl’s house, and it was the sight of the machine, which she knew belonged to Stella, that had lulled any suspicions she may have had.
Michael was in a condition bordering upon frenzy. The Head-Hunter and his capture was insignificant compared with the safety of the girl.
“If I don’t find her I shall go mad,” he said.
Jack Knebworth had opened his lips to answer when there came a startling interruption. Borne on the still night air came a scream of agony which turned the director’s blood to ice.
“Help, help!”
Shrill as was the cry, Michael knew that it was the voice of a man, and knew that that man was Gregory Penne!
CHAPTER XXXVWHAT HAPPENED TO ADELE
Therewere moments when Adele Leamington had doubts as to her fitness for the profession she had entered; and never were those periods of doubt more poignant than when she tried to fix her mind upon the written directions of the scenario. She blamed Michael, and was immediately repentant. She blamed herself more freely; and at last she gave up the struggle, rolled up the manuscript book, and, putting an elastic band about it, thrust it under her pillow and prepared for bed. She had rid herself of skirt and blouse when the summons came.
“From Mr. Knebworth?” she said in surprise. “At this time of night?”
“Yes, miss. He’s going to make a big alteration to-morrow and he wants to see you at once. He has sent his car. Miss Mendoza is coming into the cast.”
“Oh!” she said faintly.
Then she had been a failure, after all, and had lived in a fool’s paradise for these past days.
“I’ll come at once,” she said.
Her fingers trembled as she fastened her dress, and she hated herself for such a display of weakness. Perhaps Stella was not coming into the cast in her old part; perhaps some new character had been written in; perhaps it was not for “Roselle” at all that she had been re-engaged. These and other speculations rioted in her mind; and she was in the passage and the door was opened when she remembered that Jack Knebworth would want the manuscript. She ran upstairs, and, by an aberration of memory, forgot entirely where the script had been left. At last, in despair, she went down to the landlady.
“I have left some manuscripts which are rather important. Would you bring them up to Mr. Knebworth’s house when you find them? They’re in a little brown jacket——” She described the appearance as well as she could.
It was Stella Mendoza’s car; she recognized the machine with a pang. So Jack and she were reconciled!
In a minute she was inside the machine, the door closed behind her, and was sitting by the driver, who did not speak.
“Is Mr. Brixan with Mr. Knebworth?” she asked.
He did not reply. She thought he had not heard her, until he turned with a wide sweep and set the car going in the opposite direction.
“This is not the way to Mr. Knebworth’s,” she said in alarm. “Don’t you know the way?”
Still he made no reply. The machine gathered speed, passed down a long, dark street, and turned into a country lane.
“Stop the car at once!” she said, terrified, and put her hand on the handle of the door.
Instantly her arm was gripped.
“My dear, you’re going to injure your pretty little body, and probably spoil your beautiful face, if you attempt to get out while the car is in motion,” he said.
“Sir Gregory!” she gasped.
“Now don’t make a fuss,” said Gregory. There was no mistaking the elation in his voice. “You’re coming up to have a little bit of supper with me. I’ve asked you often enough, and now you’re going willy-nilly! Stella’s there, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She held down her fears with an effort.
“Sir Gregory, you will take me back at once to my lodgings,” she said. “This is disgraceful of you!”
He chuckled loudly.
“Nothing’s going to happen to you; nobody’s going to hurt you, and you’ll be delivered safe and sound; but you’re going to have supper with me first, little darling. And if you make a fuss, I’m going to turn the car into the first tree I see and smash us all up!”
He was drunk—drunk not only with wine, but with the lust of power. Gregory had achieved his object, and would stop at nothing now.
Was Stella there? She did not believe him. And yet it might be true. She grasped at the straw which Stella’s presence offered.
“Here we are,” grunted Gregory, as he stopped the car before the Towers door and slipped out on to the gravel.
Before she realized what he was doing, he had lifted her in his arms, though she struggled desperately.
“If you scream I’ll kiss you,” growled his voice in her ear, and she lay passive.
The door opened instantly. She looked down at the servant standing stolidly in the hall, as Gregory carried her up the wide stairway, and wondered what help might come from him. Presently Penne set her down on her feet and, opening a door, thrust her in.
“Here’s your friend, Stella,” he said. “Say the good word for me! Knock some sense into her head if you can. I’ll come back in ten minutes, and we’ll have the grandest little wedding supper that any bridegroom ever had.”
The door was banged and locked upon her before she realized there was another woman in the room. It was Stella. Her heart rose at the sight of the girl’s white face.
“Oh, Miss Mendoza,” she said breathlessly, “thank God you’re here!”
CHAPTER XXXVITHE ESCAPE
“Don’tstart thanking God too soon,” said Stella with ominous calm. “Oh, you little fool, why did you come here?”
“He brought me. I didn’t want to come,” said Adele.
She was half hysterical in her fright. She tried hard to imitate the calm of her companion, biting her quivering lips to keep them still, and after a while she was calm enough to tell what had happened. Stella’s face clouded.
“Of course, he took my car,” she said, speaking to herself, “and he has caught the chauffeur, as he said he would. Oh, my God!”
“What will he do?” asked Adele in a whisper.
Stella’s fine eyes turned on the girl.
“What do you think he will do?” she asked significantly. “He’s a beast—the kind of beast you seldom meet except in books—and locked rooms. He’ll have no more mercy on you than Bhag would have on you.”
“If Michael knows, he will kill him.”
“Michael? Oh, Brixan, you mean?” said Stella with newly awakened interest. “Is he fond of you? Is that why he hangs around the lot? That never struck me before. But what does he care about Michael or any other man? He can run—his yacht is at Southampton, and he depends a lot upon his wealth to get him out of these kind of scrapes. And he knows that decent women shrink from appearance in a police court. Oh, he’s got all sorts of defences. He’s a worm, but a scaly worm!”
“What shall I do?”
Stella was walking up and down the narrow apartment, her hands clasped before her, her eyes sunk to the ground.
“I don’t think he’ll hurt me.” And then, inconsequently, she went off at a tangent: “I saw a tramp at that window two hours ago.”
“A tramp?” said the bewildered girl.
Stella nodded.
“It scared me terribly, until I remembered his eyes. They were Brixan’s eyes, though you’d never guess it, the make-up was so wonderful.”
“Michael? Is he here?” asked the girl eagerly.
“He’s somewhere around. That is your salvation, and there’s another.”
She took down from a shelf a small Browning.
“Did you ever fire a pistol?”
The girl nodded.
“I have to, in one scene,” she said a little awkwardly.
“Of course! Well, this is loaded. That”—she pointed—“is the safety catch. Push it down with your thumb before you start to use it. You had better kill Penne—better for you, and better for him, I think.”
The girl shrank back in horror.
“Oh, no, no!”
“Put it in your pocket—have you a pocket?”
There was one inside the blue cloak the girl was wearing, and into this Stella dropped the pistol.
“You don’t know what sort of sacrifice I’m making,” she said frankly, “and it isn’t as though I’m doing it for somebody I’m fond of, because I’m not particularly fond of you, Adele Leamington. But I wouldn’t be fit to live if I let that brute get you without a struggle.”
And then impulsively she stooped forward and kissed the girl, and Adele put her arms about her neck and clung to her for a second.
“He’s coming,” whispered Stella Mendoza, and stepped back with a gesture.
It was Gregory—Gregory in his scarlet pyjama jacket and purple dressing-gown, his face aflame, his eyes fired with excitement.
“Come on, you!” He crooked his finger. “Not you, Mendoza: you stay here, eh? You can see her after, perhaps—after supper.”
He leered down at the shrinking girl.
“Nobody’s going to hurt you. Leave your cloak here.”
“No, I’ll wear it,” she said.
Her hand went instinctively to the butt of the pistol and closed upon it.
“All right, come as you are. It makes no difference to me.”
He held her tightly by the hand and marched by her side, surprised and pleased that she offered so little resistance. Down into the hall they went, and then to the little drawing-room adjoining his study. He flung open the door and showed her the gaily decorated table, pushing her into the room before him.
“Wine and a kiss!” he roared, as he pulled the cork from a champagne bottle and sent the amber fluid splashing upon the spotless tablecloth. “Wine and a kiss!” He splashed the glass out to her so that it spilt and trickled down her cloak.
She shook her head mutely.
“Drink!” he snarled, and she touched the glass with her lips.
Then, before she could realize what had happened, she was in his arms, his great face pressed down to hers. She tried to escape from the encirclement of his embrace, successfully averted her mouth and felt his hot lips pressing against her cheek.
Presently he let her go, and, staggering to the door, kicked it shut. His fingers were closing on the key handle when:
“If you turn that key I’ll kill you.”
He looked up in ludicrous surprise, and, at the sight of the pistol in the girl’s hand, his big hands waved before his face in a gesture of fear.
“Put it down, you fool!” he squealed. “Put it down! Don’t you know what you’re doing? The damned thing may go off by accident.”
“It will not go off by accident,” she said. “Open that door.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then her thumb tightened on the safety-catch, and he must have seen the movement.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he screamed, and flung the door wide open. “Wait, you fool! Don’t go out. Bhag is there. Bhag will get you. Stay with me. I’ll——”
But she was flying down the corridor. She slipped on a loose rug in the hall but recovered herself. Her trembling hands were working at the bolts and chains; the door swung open, and in another instant she was in the open, free.
Sir Gregory followed her. The shock of her escape had sobered him, and all the tragic consequences which might follow came crowding in upon him, until his very soul writhed in fear. Dashing back to his study, he opened his safe, took out a bundle of notes. These he thrust into the pocket of a fur-lined overcoat that was hanging in a cupboard and put it on. He changed his slippers for thick shoes, and then bethought him of Bhag. He opened the den, but Bhag was not there, and he raised his shaking fingers to his lips. If Bhag caught her!
Some glimmering of a lost manhood stirred dully in his mind. He must first be sure of Bhag. He went out into the darkness in search of his strange and horrible servant. Putting both hands to his mouth, he emitted a long and painful howl, the call that Bhag had never yet disobeyed, and then waited. There was no answer. Again he sent forth the melancholy sound, but, if Bhag heard him, for the first time in his life he did not obey.
Gregory Penne stood in a sweat of fear, but, so standing, recovered some of his balance. There was time to change. He went up to his ornate bedroom, flung off his pyjamas, and in a short space of time was down again in the dark grounds, seeking for the ape.
Dressed, he felt more of a man. A long glass of whisky restored some of his confidence. He rang for the servant who was in charge of his car.
“Have the machine by the postern gate,” he said. “Get it there at once. See that the gate is open: I may have to leave to-night.”
That he would be arrested he did not doubt. Not all his wealth, his position, the pull he had in the county, could save him. This latest deed of his was something more than eccentricity.
Then he remembered that Stella Mendoza was still in the house, and went up to see her. A glance at his face told her that something unusual had happened.
“Where is Adele?” she asked instantly.
“I don’t know. She escaped—she had a pistol. Bhag went after her. God knows what will happen if he finds her. He’ll tear her limb from limb. What’s that?”
It was the faint sound of a pistol shot at a distance, and it came from the back of the house.
“Poachers,” said Gregory uneasily. “Listen, I’m going.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“That’s no damned business of yours,” he snarled. “Here’s some money.” He thrust some notes into her hand.
“What have you done?” she whispered in horror.
“I’ve done nothing, I tell you,” he stormed. “But they’ll take me for it. I’m going to get to the yacht. You’d better clear before they come.”
She was collecting her hat and gloves when she heard the door close and the key turn. Mechanically he had locked her in, and mechanically took no heed of her beating hand upon the panel of the door.
Griff Towers stood on high ground and commanded a view of the by-road from Chichester. As he stood in the front of the house, hoping against hope that he would see the ape, he saw instead two lights come rapidly along the road.
“The police!” he croaked, and went blundering across the kitchen garden to the gate.
CHAPTER XXXVIIAT THE TOWER AGAIN
Adelewent flying down the drive, intent only upon one object, to escape from this horrible house. The gates were closed, the lodge was in darkness, and she strove desperately to unfasten the iron catch, but it held.
Looking back toward the oblong of light which represented the tower door, she was dimly aware of a figure moving stealthily along the grass that bordered each side of the roadway. For a moment she thought it was Gregory Penne, and then the true explanation of that skulking shape came to her, and she nearly dropped. It was Bhag!
She moved as quietly as she could along the side of the wall, creeping from bush to bush, but he had seen her, and came in pursuit, moving slowly, cautiously, as though he was not quite sure that she was legitimate prey. Perhaps there was another gate, she thought, and continued, glancing over her shoulder from time to time, and gripping the little pistol in her hand with such intensity that it was slippery with perspiration before she had gone a hundred yards.
Now she left the cover of the wall and came across a meadow, and at first she thought that she had slipped her pursuer. But Bhag seldom went into the open, and presently she saw him again. He was parallel with her, walking under the wall, and showing no sign of hurry. Perhaps, she thought, if she continued, he would drop his pursuit and go off. It might be curiosity that kept him on her trail. But this hope was disappointed. She crossed a stile and followed a path until she realized it was bringing her nearer and nearer to the wall where her watcher was keeping pace with her. As soon as she realized this, she turned abruptly from the path, and found herself walking through dew-laden grasses. She was wet to the knees before she had gone far, but she did not even know this—Bhag had left cover and was following her into the open!
She wondered if the grounds were entirely enclosed by a wall, and was relieved when she came to a low fence. Stumbling down a bank on to a road which was evidently the eastern boundary of the property, she ran at full speed, though where the road led she could not guess. Glancing back, she saw, to her horror, that Bhag was following, yet making no attempt to decrease the distance which separated them.
And then, far away, she saw the lights of a cottage. They seemed close at hand, but were in reality more than two miles distant. With a sob of thankfulness she turned from the road and ran up a gentle slope, only to discover, to her dismay, when she reached the crest, that the lights seemed as far away as ever. Looking back, she saw Bhag, his green eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Where was she? Glancing round, she found an answer. Ahead and to the left was the squat outline of old Griff Tower.
And then, for some reason, Bhag dropped his rôle of interested watcher, and, with a dog-like growl, leapt at her. She flew upward toward the tower, her breath coming in sobs, her heart thumping so that she felt every moment she would drop from sheer exhaustion. A hand clutched at her cloak and tore it from her. That gave her a moment’s respite. She must face her enemy, or she herself must perish.
Spinning round, her shaking pistol raised, she confronted the monster, who was growling and tearing at the clothing in his hand. Again he crouched to spring, and she pressed the trigger. The unexpected loudness of the explosion so startled her that she nearly dropped the pistol. With a howl of anguish he fell, gripping at his wounded shoulder, but rose again immediately. And then he began to move backward, watching her all the time.
What should she do? In her present position he might creep from bush to bush and pounce upon her at any moment. She looked up at the tower. If she could reach the top! And then she remembered the ladder that Jack Knebworth had left behind. But that would have been collected.
She moved stealthily, keeping her eye upon the ape, and though he was motionless, she knew he was watching her. Then, groping in the grass, her fingers touched the light ladder, and she lifted it without difficulty and placed it against the wall. She had heard Jack say that the ape could not have climbed the tower from the outside without assistance, though it had been an easy matter, with the aid of the trees growing against the wall inside, for him to get out.
Bhag was still visible; the dull glow of his eyes was dreadful to see. With a wild run she reached the top of the ladder and began pulling it up after her. Bhag crept nearer and nearer till he came to the foot of the tower, made three ineffectual efforts to scale the wall and failed. She heard his twitter of rage, and guided the ladder to the inside of the tower.
For a long time they sat, looking at one another, the orang-outang and the girl. And then Bhag crept away. She followed him as far as her keen eyes could distinguish his ungainly shape, waiting until she was certain he had gone, and then reached for the ladder. The lower rung must have caught in one of the bushes below. She tugged, tugged again, tugged for the third time, and it came away so smoothly that she lost her balance. For a second she was holding the top of the wall with one hand, the ladder with the other; then, half-sliding, half-tumbling, she came down with a run, and picked herself up breathless. She could have laughed at the mishap but for the eerie loneliness of her new surroundings. She tried to erect the ladder again, but in the dark it was impossible to get a firm foundation.
There must be small stones somewhere about, and she began to look out for them. She reached the bottom of the circular depression, and pushing aside a bush to make further progress, feeling all the time with her feet for a suitable prop, suddenly she slipped. She was dropping down a sloping shaft into the depths of the earth!
CHAPTER XXXVIIITHE CAVERN OF BONES
Down, down, down she fell, one hand clawing wildly at the soft earth, the other clenching unconsciously at the tiny pistol. She was rolling down a steep slope. Once her feet came violently and painfully into contact with an out-jutting rock, and the shock and the pain of it turned her sick and faint. Whither she was going she dared not think. It seemed an eternity before, at last, she struck a level floor and, rolling over and over, was brought up against a rocky wall with a jolt that shook the breath from her body.
Eternity it seemed, yet it could not have been more than a few seconds. For five minutes she lay, recovering, on the rock floor. She got up with a grimace of pain, felt her hurt ankle, and worked her foot to discover if anything was broken. Looking up, she saw a pale star above, and, guessing that it was the opening through which she had fallen, attempted to climb back; but with every step she took the soft earth gave under her feet and she slipped back again.
She had lost a shoe: that was the first tangible truth that asserted itself. She groped round in the darkness and found it after a while, half embedded in the earth. She shook it empty, dusted her stockinged foot, and put it on. Then she sat down to wonder what she should do next. She guessed that, with the coming of day, she would be able to examine her surroundings, and she must wait, with what philosophy she could summon, for the morning to break.
It was then that she became conscious that she was still gripping the earth-caked Browning, and, with a half-smile, she cleaned it as best she could, pressed down the safety-catch and, putting the weapon inside her blouse, thrust its blunt nose into the waistband of her skirt.
The mystery of Bhag’s reappearance was now a mystery no longer. He had been hiding in the cave, though it was her imagination that supplied the queer animal scent which was peculiarly his.
How far did the cave extend? She peered left and right, but could see nothing; then, groping cautiously, feeling every inch of her way, her hand struck a stone pillar, and she withdrew it quickly, for it was wet and clammy.
And then she made a discovery of the greatest importance to her. She was feeling along the wall when her hand went into a niche, and by the surface of its shelf she knew it was man-fashioned. She put her hand farther along, and her heart leapt as she touched something which had a familiar and homely feel. It was a lantern. Her other hand went up, and presently she opened its glass door and felt a length of candle, and, at the bottom of the lantern, a small box of matches.
It was no miracle, as she was to learn; but for the moment it seemed that that possibility of light had come in answer to her unspoken prayers. Striking a match with a hand that shook so that the light went out immediately, she at last succeeded in kindling the wick. The candle was new, and at first its light was feeble; but presently the wax began to burn, and, closing the lantern door, her surroundings came into view.
She was in a narrow cave, from the roof of which hung innumerable stalactites; but the dripping water which is inseparable from this queer formation was absent at the foot of the opening where she had tumbled. Farther along the floor was wet, and a tiny stream of water ran in a sort of naturally carved tunnel on one side of the path. Here, where the cave broadened, the stalactites were many, and left and right, at such regular intervals and of such even shape that they seemed almost to have been sculptured by human agency, were little caves within caves, narrow openings that revealed, in the light of her lantern, the splendour of nature’s treasures. Fairylike grottos, rich with delicate stone traceries; tiny lakes that sparkled in the light of the lantern. Broader and broader grew the cave, until she stood in a huge chamber that appeared to be festooned with frozen lace. And here the floor was littered with queer white sticks. There were thousands of them, of every conceivable shape and size. They showed whitely in the gleam of her lantern, in the crevices of the rocks. She stooped and picked one up, dropping it quickly with a cry of horror. They were human bones!
With a shuddering gasp she half walked, half ran across the great cavern, which began to narrow again and assumed the appearance of that portion of the cave into which she had fallen. And here she saw, in another niche, a second lantern, with new candle and matches. Who had placed them there? The first lantern she had not dared to think about: it belonged to the miraculous category. But the second brought her up with a jerk. Who had placed these lanterns at intervals along the wall of the cave, as if in preparation for an expected emergency? There must be somebody who lived down here. She breathed a little more quickly at the thought.
Going on slowly, she examined every foot of the way, the second lantern, unlighted, slung on her arm. At one part, the floor was flooded with running water; at another, she had to wade through a little subterranean ford, where the water came over her ankle. And now the cave was curving imperceptibly to the right. From time to time she stopped and listened, hoping to hear the sound of a human voice, and yet fearing. The roof of the cave came lower. There were signs in the roof that the stalactites had been knocked off to afford head room for the mysterious person who haunted these underground chambers.
Once she stopped, her heart thumping painfully at the sound of footsteps. They passed over her head, and then came a curious humming sound that grew in intensity, passed and faded. A motor-car! She was under the road! Of course, old Griff Tower stood upon the hillside. She was now near the road level, and possibly eight or nine feet above her the stars were shining. She looked wistfully at the ragged surface of the roof, and, steeling herself against the terrors that rose within her, she went on. She had need of nerve, need of courage beyond the ordinary.
The cave passage turned abruptly; the little grotto openings in the wall occurred again. Suddenly she stopped dead. The light of the lantern showed into one of the grottos. Two men lay side by side——
She stifled the scream that rose to her lips, pressing her hands tight upon her mouth, her eyes shut tightly to hide the sight. They were dead—headless! Lying in a shallow pool, the petrifying water came dripping down upon them, as it would drip down for everlasting until these pitiful things were stone.
For a long time she dared not move, dared not open her eyes, but at last her will conquered, and she looked with outward calm upon a sight that froze her very marrow. The next grotto was similarly tenanted, only this time there was one man. And then, when she was on the point of sinking under the shock, a tiny point of light appeared in the gloom ahead. It moved and swayed, and there came to her the sound of a fearful laugh.
She acted instantly. Pulling open the door of the lantern, she stooped and blew it out, and stood, leaning against the wall of the cave, oblivious to the grisly relics that surrounded her, conscious only of the danger which lay ahead. Then a brighter light blazed up and another, till the distant spaces wherein they burnt were as bright as day. As she stood, wondering, there came to her a squeal of mortal agony and a whining voice that cried:
“Help! Oh, God, help! Brixan, I am not fit to die!”
It was the voice of Sir Gregory Penne.