Chapter Thirty Four.A startling Situation.Three steps back were sufficient—three steps taken suddenly in that profound darkness were enough, in the excitement of the moment, to make Guest completely lose what a nautical man would call “his bearings;” and, startled, as well as puzzled, he waited, in utter ignorance of his position in the room, for what was to come next.Time and again he had been uneasy, even startled, by his friend’s actions, feeling that there was a certain amount of mental aberration. He had felt, too, that it was quite possible that in some sudden paroxysm, when galled by his dictation, Stratton might strike at him, but until now he had never known absolute fear.For, manly and reckless as he was as a rule, he could not conceal from himself that Stratton was, after all, dangerous. That turning out of the light had been intentional; there must have been an object in view, and, in his tremor of nerve, Guest could think of no other aim than that of making a sudden attack upon one who had become irksome to him.They were quite alone in that solitary place. If he called for help, no one would hear, and he might be struck down and killed. Stratton, in his madness, might find some means of hiding his body, and—what then? Edie—poor little Edie, with her bright ways and merry, teasing smiles? He would never see her again; and she, too, poor little one, would be heart-broken, till some luckier fellow came along to make her happy.“No, I’ll be hanged if he shall,” thought Guest, as a culmination to the rapid rush of thought that flashed through his brain. “Poor old Stratton is really as mad as a hatter; but, even if he has such thoughts, I’ve as good a chance as he has in the dark, and I’ll die hard. Bah! who’s going to die? Where’s the window, or the door? Here, this is a nice game, Mal,” he said aloud, quite firmly. “Where are your matches?”But, as he spoke, he made a couple of rapid steps silently, to his right, with outstretched hands, so as to conceal his position from Stratton in the event of the latter meditating an attack—an event which Guest would not now allow.There was no reply, and Guest stood listening for a few moments before speaking again.“Do you hear?” he said. “You shouldn’t have been in such a hurry. Open the door, or I shall be upsetting some of your treasures.”Half angry with himself for his cowardice, as he called it, he repeated his monologue and listened; but he could only hear the throbbings of his own heart.“Well, of all the ways of getting rid of an unwelcome guest—no joke meant, old man—this is about the shadiest. Here,” he cried, more excitedly now, in spite of his efforts to be calm, “why don’t you speak?”He did not step aside now, but stood firm, with his fists clenched, ready to strike out with all his might in case of attack, though even then he was fighting hard to force down the rising dread, and declaring to himself that he was a mere child to be frightened at being in the dark.But he knew that he had good cause. Utter darkness is a horror of itself when the confusion of being helpless and in total ignorance of one’s position is superadded. Nature plays strange pranks then with one’s mental faculties, even as she does with a traveller in some dense fog, or the unfortunate who finds himself “bushed,” or lost in the primeval forest, far from help and with the balance of his mind upset. He learns at such a time that his boasted strength of nerve is very small indeed, and that the bravest and strongest man may succumb to a dread that makes him as timid as a child.Small as was the space in which he stood, and easy as it would have been, after a little calm reflection, to find door or window, Guest felt that he was rapidly losing his balance; for he dare not stir, face to face as he was with the dread that Stratton really was mad, and that in his cunning he had seized this opportunity for ridding himself of one who must seem to him like a keeper always on the watch to thwart him.He remained there silent, the cold sweat breaking out all over his face, and his hearing strained to catch the sound of the slightest movement, or even the heavy breathing of the man waiting for an opportunity to strike him down.For it was in vain to try and combat this feeling. He could find no other explanation in his confused mental state. That must be Stratton’s intention, and the only thing to do was to be on the alert and master him when the time for the great struggle came.There were moments, as Guest stood there breathing as softly as he could, when he felt that this horrible suspense must have been going on for hours; and, as he looked round, the blackness seemed to be full of strange, gliding points of light, which he was ready to think must be Stratton’s eyes, till common-sense told him that it was all fancy. Then, too, he felt certain that he could hear rapid movements and his enemy approaching him, but the sounds were made by his own pulses; otherwise all was still as death. And at the mental suggestion of death his horror grew more terrible than he could bear. He grew faint and giddy, and made a snatch in the air as if to save himself.The sensation passed off as quickly as it came, but in those brief moments Guest felt how narrow was the division between sanity and its reverse, and in a dread greater now than that of an attack by Stratton, he set his teeth, drew himself up, and forcing himself to grasp the fact that all this was only the result of a minute or two in the darkness, he craned forward his neck in the direction of where he believed Stratton to be, and listened.Not a breath; not a sound.There was a clock on the mantelpiece, and he tried to hear its calm, gentle tick, but gave that up on the instant, feeling sure that it must have been neglected and left unwound, and nerving himself now, he spoke out sharply:“Look here, Mal, old fellow, don’t play the fool. Either open the door, or strike a light, before I smash something valuable.”There was no reply, but the effort he had made over himself had somewhat restored his balance, and he felt ready to laugh at his childish fears.“Has he gone, and left me locked in?” he thought, after striving in vain to hear a sound.Improbable; for he had not heard the door open or close, and he would have seen the dim light from the staircase.No, not if Stratton had softly passed through the inner door and closed it after him before opening the outer.“Here, I must act,” he said to himself, mentally strung once more. “He couldn’t have played me such a fool’s prank as that. Now, where am I? The writing table should be straight out there.”He stretched forth his hand cautiously, and touched something which moved. It was a picture in the middle of a panel, hanging by a fine wire from the rod, and Guest faced round sharply with a touch of his old dread, for he knew now that he had been for long enough standing in a position that would give his enemy—if enemy Stratton was—an opportunity for striking him down from behind.With the idea growing upon him that his alarm had all been vain, and that Stratton must have gone straight out the moment he had turned down the lamp—either in his absent state forgetting his presence, or imagining that he had gone on out—Guest felt now a strange kind of irritability against himself, and, with the dread completely gone, he began to move cautiously, and pausing step by step, till his outstretched hands came in contact with a bronze ornament, which fell into the fender with a loud clang.Guest started round once more, knowing exactly where he stood, and facing Stratton, who seemed to have sprung out of his seat.“Who’s there?” he cried fiercely.“Who’s there?” retorted Guest. “Why, what’s come to you, man? Where are your lights? Bah!” he added to himself, “have I lost my head, too?”As he spoke he drew a little silver case from his vest pocket, and struck a wax match, whose bright light showed his friend sunk back in the chair by the writing table, gazing wildly in his face.A glance showed Guest a candle in a little holder on the mantelpiece, and applying the match, in another moment the black horror had given place to his friend’s room, with Stratton looking utterly prostrate, and unworthy of a moment’s dread.Guest’s words partook of his feeling of annoyance with himself at having given his imagination so much play.“Here, what’s come to you, man?” he cried, seizing Stratton roughly by the shoulder.“Come to me? I—I—don’t know.”“Have you been sitting there ever since you put out the light?”“Yes—I think so.”“But you heard me speak to you?”“No; I think not. What did you say?”“He’s trembling like a leaf,” thought Guest. “Worse than I was.”Then aloud:“I say, you had better have a glass of grog, and then go to bed. I’ll stop with you if you like.”“Here? No, no; come along. It must be getting late.”He made for the door and opened it, signed to Guest to come, and stood waiting.“All right; but don’t leave that candle burning, man. You seem determined to burn down this place.”Stratton uttered a curious little laugh, and hastily crossed the room to the mantelpiece, while Guest stood holding the door open, so as to admit a little light.The next minute they were on the landing, and Stratton, with trembling fingers, carefully locked the door.“Now,” said Guest, “about poor old Brettison? What do you say? Shall we give notice to the police?”“No, no,” cried Stratton angrily. “It is absurd! He will come back some day. See me home, please, old fellow. My head—all confused and strange. I want to get back as soon as I can.”Guest took his arm to the entrance of the inn, called a cab, and did not leave him till he was safe in his rooms at Sarum Street, after which the young barrister returned to his own chambers to think over the events of the evening in company with a pipe.“Takes all the conceit out of a fellow,” he mused, “to find what a lot of his old childish dread remains when he has grown up. Why, I felt then—Ugh! I’m ashamed to think of it all. Poor old Stratton! he doesn’t know what he’s about half his time. I believe he has got what the doctors call softening of the brain. Strikes me, after to-night’s work,” he added thoughtfully, “that I must have got it, too.”He refilled his pipe and went on thinking.“How he started, and how strange he seemed when I talked about the possibility of the poor old fellow lying there dead. Only a fancy of mine. How does the old saying go: ‘Fancy goes a great way’? There, I’ve had enough fancy for one night.”
Three steps back were sufficient—three steps taken suddenly in that profound darkness were enough, in the excitement of the moment, to make Guest completely lose what a nautical man would call “his bearings;” and, startled, as well as puzzled, he waited, in utter ignorance of his position in the room, for what was to come next.
Time and again he had been uneasy, even startled, by his friend’s actions, feeling that there was a certain amount of mental aberration. He had felt, too, that it was quite possible that in some sudden paroxysm, when galled by his dictation, Stratton might strike at him, but until now he had never known absolute fear.
For, manly and reckless as he was as a rule, he could not conceal from himself that Stratton was, after all, dangerous. That turning out of the light had been intentional; there must have been an object in view, and, in his tremor of nerve, Guest could think of no other aim than that of making a sudden attack upon one who had become irksome to him.
They were quite alone in that solitary place. If he called for help, no one would hear, and he might be struck down and killed. Stratton, in his madness, might find some means of hiding his body, and—what then? Edie—poor little Edie, with her bright ways and merry, teasing smiles? He would never see her again; and she, too, poor little one, would be heart-broken, till some luckier fellow came along to make her happy.
“No, I’ll be hanged if he shall,” thought Guest, as a culmination to the rapid rush of thought that flashed through his brain. “Poor old Stratton is really as mad as a hatter; but, even if he has such thoughts, I’ve as good a chance as he has in the dark, and I’ll die hard. Bah! who’s going to die? Where’s the window, or the door? Here, this is a nice game, Mal,” he said aloud, quite firmly. “Where are your matches?”
But, as he spoke, he made a couple of rapid steps silently, to his right, with outstretched hands, so as to conceal his position from Stratton in the event of the latter meditating an attack—an event which Guest would not now allow.
There was no reply, and Guest stood listening for a few moments before speaking again.
“Do you hear?” he said. “You shouldn’t have been in such a hurry. Open the door, or I shall be upsetting some of your treasures.”
Half angry with himself for his cowardice, as he called it, he repeated his monologue and listened; but he could only hear the throbbings of his own heart.
“Well, of all the ways of getting rid of an unwelcome guest—no joke meant, old man—this is about the shadiest. Here,” he cried, more excitedly now, in spite of his efforts to be calm, “why don’t you speak?”
He did not step aside now, but stood firm, with his fists clenched, ready to strike out with all his might in case of attack, though even then he was fighting hard to force down the rising dread, and declaring to himself that he was a mere child to be frightened at being in the dark.
But he knew that he had good cause. Utter darkness is a horror of itself when the confusion of being helpless and in total ignorance of one’s position is superadded. Nature plays strange pranks then with one’s mental faculties, even as she does with a traveller in some dense fog, or the unfortunate who finds himself “bushed,” or lost in the primeval forest, far from help and with the balance of his mind upset. He learns at such a time that his boasted strength of nerve is very small indeed, and that the bravest and strongest man may succumb to a dread that makes him as timid as a child.
Small as was the space in which he stood, and easy as it would have been, after a little calm reflection, to find door or window, Guest felt that he was rapidly losing his balance; for he dare not stir, face to face as he was with the dread that Stratton really was mad, and that in his cunning he had seized this opportunity for ridding himself of one who must seem to him like a keeper always on the watch to thwart him.
He remained there silent, the cold sweat breaking out all over his face, and his hearing strained to catch the sound of the slightest movement, or even the heavy breathing of the man waiting for an opportunity to strike him down.
For it was in vain to try and combat this feeling. He could find no other explanation in his confused mental state. That must be Stratton’s intention, and the only thing to do was to be on the alert and master him when the time for the great struggle came.
There were moments, as Guest stood there breathing as softly as he could, when he felt that this horrible suspense must have been going on for hours; and, as he looked round, the blackness seemed to be full of strange, gliding points of light, which he was ready to think must be Stratton’s eyes, till common-sense told him that it was all fancy. Then, too, he felt certain that he could hear rapid movements and his enemy approaching him, but the sounds were made by his own pulses; otherwise all was still as death. And at the mental suggestion of death his horror grew more terrible than he could bear. He grew faint and giddy, and made a snatch in the air as if to save himself.
The sensation passed off as quickly as it came, but in those brief moments Guest felt how narrow was the division between sanity and its reverse, and in a dread greater now than that of an attack by Stratton, he set his teeth, drew himself up, and forcing himself to grasp the fact that all this was only the result of a minute or two in the darkness, he craned forward his neck in the direction of where he believed Stratton to be, and listened.
Not a breath; not a sound.
There was a clock on the mantelpiece, and he tried to hear its calm, gentle tick, but gave that up on the instant, feeling sure that it must have been neglected and left unwound, and nerving himself now, he spoke out sharply:
“Look here, Mal, old fellow, don’t play the fool. Either open the door, or strike a light, before I smash something valuable.”
There was no reply, but the effort he had made over himself had somewhat restored his balance, and he felt ready to laugh at his childish fears.
“Has he gone, and left me locked in?” he thought, after striving in vain to hear a sound.
Improbable; for he had not heard the door open or close, and he would have seen the dim light from the staircase.
No, not if Stratton had softly passed through the inner door and closed it after him before opening the outer.
“Here, I must act,” he said to himself, mentally strung once more. “He couldn’t have played me such a fool’s prank as that. Now, where am I? The writing table should be straight out there.”
He stretched forth his hand cautiously, and touched something which moved. It was a picture in the middle of a panel, hanging by a fine wire from the rod, and Guest faced round sharply with a touch of his old dread, for he knew now that he had been for long enough standing in a position that would give his enemy—if enemy Stratton was—an opportunity for striking him down from behind.
With the idea growing upon him that his alarm had all been vain, and that Stratton must have gone straight out the moment he had turned down the lamp—either in his absent state forgetting his presence, or imagining that he had gone on out—Guest felt now a strange kind of irritability against himself, and, with the dread completely gone, he began to move cautiously, and pausing step by step, till his outstretched hands came in contact with a bronze ornament, which fell into the fender with a loud clang.
Guest started round once more, knowing exactly where he stood, and facing Stratton, who seemed to have sprung out of his seat.
“Who’s there?” he cried fiercely.
“Who’s there?” retorted Guest. “Why, what’s come to you, man? Where are your lights? Bah!” he added to himself, “have I lost my head, too?”
As he spoke he drew a little silver case from his vest pocket, and struck a wax match, whose bright light showed his friend sunk back in the chair by the writing table, gazing wildly in his face.
A glance showed Guest a candle in a little holder on the mantelpiece, and applying the match, in another moment the black horror had given place to his friend’s room, with Stratton looking utterly prostrate, and unworthy of a moment’s dread.
Guest’s words partook of his feeling of annoyance with himself at having given his imagination so much play.
“Here, what’s come to you, man?” he cried, seizing Stratton roughly by the shoulder.
“Come to me? I—I—don’t know.”
“Have you been sitting there ever since you put out the light?”
“Yes—I think so.”
“But you heard me speak to you?”
“No; I think not. What did you say?”
“He’s trembling like a leaf,” thought Guest. “Worse than I was.”
Then aloud:
“I say, you had better have a glass of grog, and then go to bed. I’ll stop with you if you like.”
“Here? No, no; come along. It must be getting late.”
He made for the door and opened it, signed to Guest to come, and stood waiting.
“All right; but don’t leave that candle burning, man. You seem determined to burn down this place.”
Stratton uttered a curious little laugh, and hastily crossed the room to the mantelpiece, while Guest stood holding the door open, so as to admit a little light.
The next minute they were on the landing, and Stratton, with trembling fingers, carefully locked the door.
“Now,” said Guest, “about poor old Brettison? What do you say? Shall we give notice to the police?”
“No, no,” cried Stratton angrily. “It is absurd! He will come back some day. See me home, please, old fellow. My head—all confused and strange. I want to get back as soon as I can.”
Guest took his arm to the entrance of the inn, called a cab, and did not leave him till he was safe in his rooms at Sarum Street, after which the young barrister returned to his own chambers to think over the events of the evening in company with a pipe.
“Takes all the conceit out of a fellow,” he mused, “to find what a lot of his old childish dread remains when he has grown up. Why, I felt then—Ugh! I’m ashamed to think of it all. Poor old Stratton! he doesn’t know what he’s about half his time. I believe he has got what the doctors call softening of the brain. Strikes me, after to-night’s work,” he added thoughtfully, “that I must have got it, too.”
He refilled his pipe and went on thinking.
“How he started, and how strange he seemed when I talked about the possibility of the poor old fellow lying there dead. Only a fancy of mine. How does the old saying go: ‘Fancy goes a great way’? There, I’ve had enough fancy for one night.”
Chapter Thirty Five.A modern Inquisition.The next day was a busy one for Guest. He had to attend court, and in the afternoon he stole a visit to Miss Jerrold, where, by “the merest chance,” he found Edie, who was also there by “the merest chance,” but they had a long chat about their invalids, as they termed them, and then Guest spoke of his ideas respecting Brettison.“And you sit here talking to me?” she said. “Why, you ought to be having the place searched.”“You think so, too?”“Of course, and without loss of time. Why, Percy, he may have known all about Malcolm Stratton’s trouble, and now the chance has gone forever.”“Steady, steady!” said Guest, smiling at the girl’s impetuosity. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. It’s rather bad sometimes.”He left almost directly, and was half disposed to go straight to the police-station nearest the inn; but it occurred to him that he had stirred Stratton a good deal on the previous night, and that if he could get his friend’s interest full upon this matter it would be a good thing.“I dare say it will all turn out to be nothing—mere imagination,” he thought; “but, even if it is, it may do something to get the poor fellow out of this morbid state. After all, Brettison may be there.”But Guest felt so little upon the matter that he did not hurry to his friend’s rooms till after dinner, and, to his surprise, found that he was either not in or obstinately determined not to be interrupted, for there was no reply to his knocking.“I’ll get him to let me have a latchkey,” he thought, “for he is not fit to be left alone.”On the chance of Stratton being there he went on to Benchers’ Inn, and, to his surprise and satisfaction, he saw a light in the room.After a few minutes his knock was responded to, and he was admitted.“You have come again, then,” said Stratton reproachfully.“Of course,” replied Guest, and he snatched at the idea again about Brettison. “Look here,” he said, “I have made up my mind that the proper thing to do is to have that room entered. Brettison has been away months, and it ought to be done.”“But you have no authority,” said Stratton uneasily.“You have, as his nearest friend and neighbour.”“No, no, no,” said Stratton uneasily.“I tell you it’s right,” said Guest. “We’ll go to the station quietly, give notice, and a couple of men will come, and bring a locksmith or carpenter to open the door.”“Impossible! The publicity: it would be horrible.”“If we found the old fellow lying dead there, yes. But he may not be.”“No, he may not be, so it cannot be done,” said Stratton with an unwonted animation which made Guest the more eager.“But it can.”“I say no,” said Stratton angrily.“But I say yes.”“You have no right, no business whatever, to interfere in the matter. I will not have Mr Brettison’s place broken open and his things disturbed. It shall not be done.”“Bravo,” thought Guest; “a little more argument of this sort would bring him round.” And full of determination, right or wrong, to persevere he said distinctly:“Look here, Stratton, have you any special reason for refusing to listen to my words?”“I—I—a reason?” cried Stratton looking startled. “None whatever.”“Oh! You seemed so stubborn.”“The natural feeling of a scientific man against intruders meddling with his study.”“Mr Brettison made no objection to your breaking in upon him when he was dangerously ill and would have died without your help.”Stratton was silenced for the moment, but he broke out directly with:“But I am sure he has not been back.”“How can you be, away as you have been so long?”“I should have heard him or seen him. He would have come in to me.”“Look here, Stratton,” said Guest at last, “if you oppose my wishes so strongly, I shall think that you have some special reason for it.”Stratton’s eyes contracted a little as he looked fixedly at his friend.“I shall not oppose you, then,” he said, after moistening his lips, as if speaking was an effort. “Have the place examined.”“I will,” cried Guest eagerly. “Come on with me to the police-station, and let’s give information.”Stratton shrank back in his seat.“No, no. Speak to the people at the lodge; the man can open the door.”“No; I am not going to have the matter spread abroad. And I do not accept the responsibility. No hesitation now; come on.”Stratton was so weakened by ill health and nervous shock that, in spite of himself, he felt compelled to yield, and ten minutes later they were in the cold, formal station, where he felt as if in a dream, held there against his will, and listening while Guest told the inspector on duty his suspicions as if they were those of his neighbour Stratton, who, of course, was not sure, only uneasy, and desirous of quietly learning whether, by any possibility, there was something wrong.“We’ll soon see to that, sir,” said the inspector quietly, and sending a message by a constable, a sergeant was called into the office, the matter explained to him, and, after a sharp glance at the two strangers, he proposed to call and get Johnson to come with them, as he would be home from work and they could pick him up on the way.The inspector expressed his approval, and then said:“I hope, gentlemen, you will find it is all a mistake, for your friend’s sake. Good-evening.”As soon as they were outside the sergeant turned to them.“As you want to make no fuss, gentlemen, and would like the matter kept quiet, suppose you both go on? I’ll join you in ten minutes with my man. People may notice it, if we all go together.”Guest nodded, and they separated. Then a cab was called, and Stratton’s chambers once more reached.Here the latter grew strangely excited, and began to protest against the proceedings.“Look here,” said Guest warmly, “if I had had any doubt about its being right, I should go on now.”“Why?” cried Stratton wonderingly.“Because the excitement of another’s trouble or suffering is rousing you up, old fellow, and making you seem something like what you were of old.”Stratton caught him by the arm, and was about to insist upon the plan being given up, when there was a sharp rap at the door, and Guest caught up candle and matches and led the way out on to the landing, followed by Stratton, who looked as if he were in a dream.The sergeant was outside with a man of the regular carpenter class, with a bag swung over his shoulder by a hammer passed through the handles.“Here we are, gentlemen,” said the police officer. “Candle? Shan’t want it, sir; I have a lantern, and it will be handier. You wish it all to be done quietly, you say, but I’m afraid our friend here will make a little noise with his tools. People downstairs will hear.”“They are only offices below,” said Guest.“Upstairs, then?”“No one there in the evening.”“That’s right then, sir. Which is the door?”At a word from Guest, Stratton moved across the landing and turned down the passage in which Brettison’s doorway stood, moving still in the same dreamy fashion, as his friend’s will forced him to act, and as they reached the doorway the sergeant turned on his lantern, so that the light played about the keyhole.“Now, Jem,” he said, “have a look at it. What do you say?”The man slouched up, and the shadow of his head, with its closely fitting cap, glided about on the door, as he turned from side to side to get a good look at the little opening.“Light more this way, matey,” he growled, in an ill-used tone. “That’ll do. Steady, please. I don’t want to look at the ’inges.”“There you are, then. Well, is it a pick? or a saw-out?”“Pick,” said the man, swinging his bag down on to the floor and opening it by drawing out the hammer.There was a faint jingle as the bag was opened, and its owner looked up in a protesting way.“Can’t work if you make a Jacky Lantern game of it, matey. I want to see.”The light of the lantern was directed into the bag, revealing a stock, a box of centre bits, a keyhole saw, and a couple of bunches of attenuated keys, some of which were merely a steel wire turned at right angles at the end.“Nice, respectable looking character this, gentlemen,” said the sergeant dryly. “Supposed to be an honest man; but if a ‘tec’ got hold of him with a bag like that he’d have to say a great deal before anyone would believe him. That one do, my lad?”“No, too big,” said the workman huskily, and he began to whistle softly as he coolly selected another hook-like skeleton key from his bunch; while Guest stood watching the pair with a strange feeling of nervousness increasing upon him, caused partly by the weird aspect of the scene, with all in darkness save the round patch of light on the old drab-painted oaken door, in which glow the fingers of the workman were busily engaged, as if they were part of some goblin performance, and were quite distinct from any body to which they should have belonged.He began wondering, too, whether there really was any cause for their operations—whether poor old Brettison really did lie dead in the dusty room beyond the double doors which held them at bay—dust to dust, the mortal frame of the gentle old naturalist slowly decaying into the atoms by which he was surrounded; and whether it was not something like sacrilege to interfere with so peaceful a repose.And all the time the little steel pick was probing about among the wards of the lock with a curious clicking sound, above which Guest could hear the intermittent, harsh breathing of his friend, who watched the illuminated door with a stern, fixed gaze.The second pick was after a time withdrawn.“No good?” said the sergeant.“Not a bit,” growled the man, and he held his bunch of keys up to the glass of the bull’s-eye lantern.“Don’t worry, old chap,” said the sergeant. Then, turning to Guest:“Look a nice, respectable lot, we do, sir,” he said. “If one of your neighbours was to see us he’d be slipping off to fetch all the police he could find, to see what we were about.”“Wish you’d hold that there light still,” growled his follower. “Who’s to find a pick with your bobbing it about like that?”“All right. Don’t get shirty, my lad;” and then, as a fresh pick was selected, and the man began operating again, the sergeant placed his hand beside his mouth, after directing the light full on the keyhole, and whispered to Guest:“I’m afraid you’re right, sir.”“What do you mean?”“What you thought, sir. There’s somebody lying in there, sure as sure, or my mate here wouldn’t turn like he has.”“Oh, nonsense!” whispered Guest uneasily.“No, sir; it’s right enough. He’s like a good dog; has a kind of feeling when there’s something wrong.”“There you go again,” growled the operator. “Keyhole ain’t on the ceiling, mate, nor yet on the floor.”“Oh, all right.”“But it ain’t all right. I’ve got only two hands, or I’d hold the blessed bulls-eye myself.”“There you are, then; will that do?”“Do? Why, of course it will,” growled the fellow. “I don’t ask much. If you can’t hold a lantern, let one of the gentlemen.”“Something’s rusty,” said the sergeant.“No, it ain’t that,” said the man, taking the remark literally. “Look’s ’ily enough, but it’s such a rum un—sort of a double trouble back-fall. I don’t know what people are about, inventing such stupid locks. ‘Patent,’ they calls ’em, and what for? Only to give a man more trouble. All locks can be opened, if you give your mind to it, whether you’ve got a key or no. It’s only a case of patience. That’s got him!” he said exultantly, and a thrill ran through Guest. “No, it ain’t; that blessed tumbler’s gone down again. But, as I was a-saying,” he continued, as he resumed his operations, “a man who knows his business can open a lock sooner or later, so why ain’t they all made simple and ha’ done with it?”“If talking would pick a lock,” said the sergeant jocularly, “that one would have flown open by now.”“And if chucking the light of a bull’s-eye everywheres but how a man wants it would ha’ done it, we should ha’ been inside ten minutes ago. Like to have a try yourself, pardner?”“No, no; go on,” said the sergeant sternly; and the man sighed and selected a fresh pick, one so slight and small that it seemed to be too fragile for the purpose, as it flashed in the light while being inserted.Then ensued a few minutes of clicking and scratching before there came a faint click, and a sigh of satisfaction from the workman.“There you are!” he said, as he drew the door toward him, the paint cracking where it had stuck, and a faint creak coming from one hinge, while there floated out toward them a puff of dense, thick air, suggestive of an ancient sarcophagus and the dust of ages and decay.Then there was a sharp, scampering noise, and, as Stratton stood peering forward into the dark room, where a faint halo of light spread like a nimbus about the head of a portrait on the further wall, the workman said, half nervously, half as if to keep up his courage:“Rats!”
The next day was a busy one for Guest. He had to attend court, and in the afternoon he stole a visit to Miss Jerrold, where, by “the merest chance,” he found Edie, who was also there by “the merest chance,” but they had a long chat about their invalids, as they termed them, and then Guest spoke of his ideas respecting Brettison.
“And you sit here talking to me?” she said. “Why, you ought to be having the place searched.”
“You think so, too?”
“Of course, and without loss of time. Why, Percy, he may have known all about Malcolm Stratton’s trouble, and now the chance has gone forever.”
“Steady, steady!” said Guest, smiling at the girl’s impetuosity. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. It’s rather bad sometimes.”
He left almost directly, and was half disposed to go straight to the police-station nearest the inn; but it occurred to him that he had stirred Stratton a good deal on the previous night, and that if he could get his friend’s interest full upon this matter it would be a good thing.
“I dare say it will all turn out to be nothing—mere imagination,” he thought; “but, even if it is, it may do something to get the poor fellow out of this morbid state. After all, Brettison may be there.”
But Guest felt so little upon the matter that he did not hurry to his friend’s rooms till after dinner, and, to his surprise, found that he was either not in or obstinately determined not to be interrupted, for there was no reply to his knocking.
“I’ll get him to let me have a latchkey,” he thought, “for he is not fit to be left alone.”
On the chance of Stratton being there he went on to Benchers’ Inn, and, to his surprise and satisfaction, he saw a light in the room.
After a few minutes his knock was responded to, and he was admitted.
“You have come again, then,” said Stratton reproachfully.
“Of course,” replied Guest, and he snatched at the idea again about Brettison. “Look here,” he said, “I have made up my mind that the proper thing to do is to have that room entered. Brettison has been away months, and it ought to be done.”
“But you have no authority,” said Stratton uneasily.
“You have, as his nearest friend and neighbour.”
“No, no, no,” said Stratton uneasily.
“I tell you it’s right,” said Guest. “We’ll go to the station quietly, give notice, and a couple of men will come, and bring a locksmith or carpenter to open the door.”
“Impossible! The publicity: it would be horrible.”
“If we found the old fellow lying dead there, yes. But he may not be.”
“No, he may not be, so it cannot be done,” said Stratton with an unwonted animation which made Guest the more eager.
“But it can.”
“I say no,” said Stratton angrily.
“But I say yes.”
“You have no right, no business whatever, to interfere in the matter. I will not have Mr Brettison’s place broken open and his things disturbed. It shall not be done.”
“Bravo,” thought Guest; “a little more argument of this sort would bring him round.” And full of determination, right or wrong, to persevere he said distinctly:
“Look here, Stratton, have you any special reason for refusing to listen to my words?”
“I—I—a reason?” cried Stratton looking startled. “None whatever.”
“Oh! You seemed so stubborn.”
“The natural feeling of a scientific man against intruders meddling with his study.”
“Mr Brettison made no objection to your breaking in upon him when he was dangerously ill and would have died without your help.”
Stratton was silenced for the moment, but he broke out directly with:
“But I am sure he has not been back.”
“How can you be, away as you have been so long?”
“I should have heard him or seen him. He would have come in to me.”
“Look here, Stratton,” said Guest at last, “if you oppose my wishes so strongly, I shall think that you have some special reason for it.”
Stratton’s eyes contracted a little as he looked fixedly at his friend.
“I shall not oppose you, then,” he said, after moistening his lips, as if speaking was an effort. “Have the place examined.”
“I will,” cried Guest eagerly. “Come on with me to the police-station, and let’s give information.”
Stratton shrank back in his seat.
“No, no. Speak to the people at the lodge; the man can open the door.”
“No; I am not going to have the matter spread abroad. And I do not accept the responsibility. No hesitation now; come on.”
Stratton was so weakened by ill health and nervous shock that, in spite of himself, he felt compelled to yield, and ten minutes later they were in the cold, formal station, where he felt as if in a dream, held there against his will, and listening while Guest told the inspector on duty his suspicions as if they were those of his neighbour Stratton, who, of course, was not sure, only uneasy, and desirous of quietly learning whether, by any possibility, there was something wrong.
“We’ll soon see to that, sir,” said the inspector quietly, and sending a message by a constable, a sergeant was called into the office, the matter explained to him, and, after a sharp glance at the two strangers, he proposed to call and get Johnson to come with them, as he would be home from work and they could pick him up on the way.
The inspector expressed his approval, and then said:
“I hope, gentlemen, you will find it is all a mistake, for your friend’s sake. Good-evening.”
As soon as they were outside the sergeant turned to them.
“As you want to make no fuss, gentlemen, and would like the matter kept quiet, suppose you both go on? I’ll join you in ten minutes with my man. People may notice it, if we all go together.”
Guest nodded, and they separated. Then a cab was called, and Stratton’s chambers once more reached.
Here the latter grew strangely excited, and began to protest against the proceedings.
“Look here,” said Guest warmly, “if I had had any doubt about its being right, I should go on now.”
“Why?” cried Stratton wonderingly.
“Because the excitement of another’s trouble or suffering is rousing you up, old fellow, and making you seem something like what you were of old.”
Stratton caught him by the arm, and was about to insist upon the plan being given up, when there was a sharp rap at the door, and Guest caught up candle and matches and led the way out on to the landing, followed by Stratton, who looked as if he were in a dream.
The sergeant was outside with a man of the regular carpenter class, with a bag swung over his shoulder by a hammer passed through the handles.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” said the police officer. “Candle? Shan’t want it, sir; I have a lantern, and it will be handier. You wish it all to be done quietly, you say, but I’m afraid our friend here will make a little noise with his tools. People downstairs will hear.”
“They are only offices below,” said Guest.
“Upstairs, then?”
“No one there in the evening.”
“That’s right then, sir. Which is the door?”
At a word from Guest, Stratton moved across the landing and turned down the passage in which Brettison’s doorway stood, moving still in the same dreamy fashion, as his friend’s will forced him to act, and as they reached the doorway the sergeant turned on his lantern, so that the light played about the keyhole.
“Now, Jem,” he said, “have a look at it. What do you say?”
The man slouched up, and the shadow of his head, with its closely fitting cap, glided about on the door, as he turned from side to side to get a good look at the little opening.
“Light more this way, matey,” he growled, in an ill-used tone. “That’ll do. Steady, please. I don’t want to look at the ’inges.”
“There you are, then. Well, is it a pick? or a saw-out?”
“Pick,” said the man, swinging his bag down on to the floor and opening it by drawing out the hammer.
There was a faint jingle as the bag was opened, and its owner looked up in a protesting way.
“Can’t work if you make a Jacky Lantern game of it, matey. I want to see.”
The light of the lantern was directed into the bag, revealing a stock, a box of centre bits, a keyhole saw, and a couple of bunches of attenuated keys, some of which were merely a steel wire turned at right angles at the end.
“Nice, respectable looking character this, gentlemen,” said the sergeant dryly. “Supposed to be an honest man; but if a ‘tec’ got hold of him with a bag like that he’d have to say a great deal before anyone would believe him. That one do, my lad?”
“No, too big,” said the workman huskily, and he began to whistle softly as he coolly selected another hook-like skeleton key from his bunch; while Guest stood watching the pair with a strange feeling of nervousness increasing upon him, caused partly by the weird aspect of the scene, with all in darkness save the round patch of light on the old drab-painted oaken door, in which glow the fingers of the workman were busily engaged, as if they were part of some goblin performance, and were quite distinct from any body to which they should have belonged.
He began wondering, too, whether there really was any cause for their operations—whether poor old Brettison really did lie dead in the dusty room beyond the double doors which held them at bay—dust to dust, the mortal frame of the gentle old naturalist slowly decaying into the atoms by which he was surrounded; and whether it was not something like sacrilege to interfere with so peaceful a repose.
And all the time the little steel pick was probing about among the wards of the lock with a curious clicking sound, above which Guest could hear the intermittent, harsh breathing of his friend, who watched the illuminated door with a stern, fixed gaze.
The second pick was after a time withdrawn.
“No good?” said the sergeant.
“Not a bit,” growled the man, and he held his bunch of keys up to the glass of the bull’s-eye lantern.
“Don’t worry, old chap,” said the sergeant. Then, turning to Guest:
“Look a nice, respectable lot, we do, sir,” he said. “If one of your neighbours was to see us he’d be slipping off to fetch all the police he could find, to see what we were about.”
“Wish you’d hold that there light still,” growled his follower. “Who’s to find a pick with your bobbing it about like that?”
“All right. Don’t get shirty, my lad;” and then, as a fresh pick was selected, and the man began operating again, the sergeant placed his hand beside his mouth, after directing the light full on the keyhole, and whispered to Guest:
“I’m afraid you’re right, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“What you thought, sir. There’s somebody lying in there, sure as sure, or my mate here wouldn’t turn like he has.”
“Oh, nonsense!” whispered Guest uneasily.
“No, sir; it’s right enough. He’s like a good dog; has a kind of feeling when there’s something wrong.”
“There you go again,” growled the operator. “Keyhole ain’t on the ceiling, mate, nor yet on the floor.”
“Oh, all right.”
“But it ain’t all right. I’ve got only two hands, or I’d hold the blessed bulls-eye myself.”
“There you are, then; will that do?”
“Do? Why, of course it will,” growled the fellow. “I don’t ask much. If you can’t hold a lantern, let one of the gentlemen.”
“Something’s rusty,” said the sergeant.
“No, it ain’t that,” said the man, taking the remark literally. “Look’s ’ily enough, but it’s such a rum un—sort of a double trouble back-fall. I don’t know what people are about, inventing such stupid locks. ‘Patent,’ they calls ’em, and what for? Only to give a man more trouble. All locks can be opened, if you give your mind to it, whether you’ve got a key or no. It’s only a case of patience. That’s got him!” he said exultantly, and a thrill ran through Guest. “No, it ain’t; that blessed tumbler’s gone down again. But, as I was a-saying,” he continued, as he resumed his operations, “a man who knows his business can open a lock sooner or later, so why ain’t they all made simple and ha’ done with it?”
“If talking would pick a lock,” said the sergeant jocularly, “that one would have flown open by now.”
“And if chucking the light of a bull’s-eye everywheres but how a man wants it would ha’ done it, we should ha’ been inside ten minutes ago. Like to have a try yourself, pardner?”
“No, no; go on,” said the sergeant sternly; and the man sighed and selected a fresh pick, one so slight and small that it seemed to be too fragile for the purpose, as it flashed in the light while being inserted.
Then ensued a few minutes of clicking and scratching before there came a faint click, and a sigh of satisfaction from the workman.
“There you are!” he said, as he drew the door toward him, the paint cracking where it had stuck, and a faint creak coming from one hinge, while there floated out toward them a puff of dense, thick air, suggestive of an ancient sarcophagus and the dust of ages and decay.
Then there was a sharp, scampering noise, and, as Stratton stood peering forward into the dark room, where a faint halo of light spread like a nimbus about the head of a portrait on the further wall, the workman said, half nervously, half as if to keep up his courage:
“Rats!”
Chapter Thirty Six.A Search for the Horror.The sound ceased on the instant as its cause passed through some hole in the panelling, and Stratton uttered a low gasping sigh, and caught hold of Guest’s arm with a grip which felt as if it was the grasp of a skeleton.“Are you faint?” whispered the young barrister. “Let me take you back to your room.”“If the gentleman feels queer, sir, he’d better not go on with it,” said the sergeant, also in a low voice, as if impressed by the place. “He isn’t used to it; we are.”“Yes,” said the workman. “Not our first case, eh, pardner?”But even he spoke below his breath.“No, I’ll stay,” said Stratton more firmly. “I have been ill, officer, and it has left me weak.”“Then don’t try it, sir. You can leave it to us.”“Go on,” said Stratton, after drawing a long, gasping breath; “I am quite right now.”“Spoken like an Englishman, sir,” said the sergeant. “Party’s likeness, gents?” he said, as the light shone full on the oil-painting across the room; the face of the grey, benevolent-looking man seeming to gaze at them reproachfully.“Yes, my old friend’s portrait,” said Stratton, with a sigh.“Better let me go first, sir,” said the sergeant, pressing before Stratton, who was about to enter, but he was too late. Stratton took a step forward, caught his foot against something, and nearly fell headlong into the room.“Mind my tools, please,” growled the workman, stooping to pick up his bag, which had lain in the darkness of the opening; and then all stepped cautiously into the well-furnished room, which was, in almost every respect, a repetition of Stratton’s, only reversed, and a good deal encumbered with large, open cases full of bulky folios, containing series of pressed and dried plants. These hid a great deal of the panelling and carving, save on the right, where, on either side of the beautiful old fireplace, were two low doors, formerly the entrances to the passages which connected the room with Stratton’s when they were part of a suite.Away to the left was another door, matching those by the fireplace—that leading into the botanist’s bed-chamber; and wherever a space was left on the panelling, there was a portrait, in an old tarnished gilt frame, of some ancestor, each—dimly seen though it was—as the sergeant made the light play round the walls—bearing a striking resemblance to that which faced them.“Looks as if he was watching us,” said the workman huskily; and he placed a piece of tobacco in his mouth, making Guest start as he closed the brass box from which he had extracted it with a loud snap.“Yes,” said the sergeant, in a whisper, as if to himself, and he made the light of his bull’s-eye play from easy-chair to couch, and then all about the floor; “I always wondered how they managed them eyes.”Everything looked in order, with one exception. The thick Turkey carpet and heavy rug were exactly as they had been laid; the fireplace showed the coal, wood, and paper neatly laid; and the chairs were all duly ranged in their places; but the sergeant’s light rested upon the table—a heavy, oblong affair, with four massive carven legs—a part of whose top was bare, for the thick green cloth cover, with bullion braiding at the border, had been half dragged off, and lay in folds from the top to floor, only kept from gliding right off by the heavy lamp, and looking as if it had been hastily dragged down to cover something by the table, or caught by someone’s foot when passing hastily to the door.The sergeant made his light play on the dark folds for a few moments, and then jerked it away.“Do you gentlemen mean to stop?” he said, speaking now a little more rapidly.There was no reply and the man stepped forward to the table, raised one corner of the cloth quickly, and then swung it right up and steadily lowered it again, while Guest uttered a sigh of relief, for there was nothing visible but the heavy legs of the table.“Enough to deceive any man,” said the sergeant, who then stopped and listened, walked back, and softly closed both doors.“May as well be private, gentleman,” he said. “Eh?”This last to the workman, who had muttered something in a low voice.“I says I could ha’ swore he was there.”“So could I, Jemmy,” replied the sergeant, as he made the light play round the room again, and let it rest upon the chamber-door.“There is nothing, you see,” said Stratton, rather quickly.“Haven’t done yet, sir,” replied the sergeant. Then, in a low voice to Guest—“I’m pretty well used to this sort o’ thing, sir, but ’pon my soul I feel as if I should like to turn that picture round. It’s just as if it was watching me. There, let’s get it over.”The man had, in spite of his being accustomed to scenes of horror, seemed as if it were necessary to string himself up. He had gone to the table finally to lift the cover, and that had used up a certain amount of nerve force. He was forced to make a call on nature for a further supply.He strode across to the chamber-door, threw it open, and walked in, the others following and standing just inside, as he made the light play round a well-furnished bedroom where everything was exactly in its place—the bed made, dressing table in perfect order, and a couple of cupboards displaying nothing within but sundry clothes hanging from pegs.“Arn’t in here,” said the sergeant, after a final look round. “Been no struggle—no sign of anyone having been took ill. Don’t like one thing, Jem,” he added.“Well,” said the man, “if you mean, pardner, that everything looks too tidy, and as if things had been straightened up all but the table-kiver, that’s just what I was a-thinking.”“Right,” said the sergeant; “that was the one thing forgotten or left in the hurry.”“Oh, no,” said Guest quickly. “I see we have raised a false alarm.”“Maybe, sir,” said the sergeant firmly, “but I’m not satisfied yet. Let’s go back in the other room, please. I want to know what that table-cover means. Hallo! What’s this?” he said sharply, as he stooped down and picked up a piece of composition candle, gnawed nearly all away. “Where’s the candlestick?”“Here,” said Guest, pointing to where a little old-fashioned candlestick lay by a stand containing folios of dried plants.“Well, sir, that was knocked down,” said the sergeant.“We are wasting time,” said Stratton firmly. “See if that lock is uninjured, my man, so that the door will close.”“Stop a bit, sir, please,” said the sergeant; “we haven’t done yet.”He stepped at once to the panelled door on the left of the fireplace, turned the handle, threw it open, and made his light play in the long, deep, narrow closet, one side of which was filled from floor to ceiling by a rack laden with books of pressed plants.“Looks as if it had once been a passage,” said the sergeant, “oak panels right over the ceiling. Well, nobody there,” he continued, as he backed out and closed the door.“That will do,” said Stratton, speaking more firmly now.“My friend and I made a mistake. We are much obliged for all you have done, and—”“Not quite done, sir,” said the sergeant grimly; and he crossed to the other side of the fireplace, took hold of the handle of the closed-up door, left to make both sides match, and tried to turn it, but it was fast.Stratton turned ghastly, but he was in the shade.“No cupboard there,” said Guest sharply.The sergeant turned quickly, and his light flashed across the faces of the two friends. He saw Stratton’s wild look, and he tapped on the panel.“No cupboard, sir? Sounds hollow, too.”Guest caught sight of his friend’s face at the same moment, and his pulses leaped; a confused mist of memories flooded his brain, and something made him keep silence, though, had he been asked, he could not have explained why.“I should say there is a cupboard here,” continued the sergeant, turning back to examine it. “Fastened up, but been a cupboard like the other, of course.”Guest glanced at Stratton again in the gloom, but he could see nothing now, with the light averted, only hear his heavy breathing, which was faintly stertorous, as if from exertion.“Let me see, gentlemen, you live in the next chambers?”Stratton was silent, while Guest met the officer’s eye, and involuntarily answered: “Yes.”“Do they back on to there?”“Yes; part of the old suite,” said Guest, answering, as it were, against his will.“I’ll trouble you to take me in there for a moment, please,” said the man decisively.Stratton drew a deep breath, and without a word led the way out into the passage and round to his own door.
The sound ceased on the instant as its cause passed through some hole in the panelling, and Stratton uttered a low gasping sigh, and caught hold of Guest’s arm with a grip which felt as if it was the grasp of a skeleton.
“Are you faint?” whispered the young barrister. “Let me take you back to your room.”
“If the gentleman feels queer, sir, he’d better not go on with it,” said the sergeant, also in a low voice, as if impressed by the place. “He isn’t used to it; we are.”
“Yes,” said the workman. “Not our first case, eh, pardner?”
But even he spoke below his breath.
“No, I’ll stay,” said Stratton more firmly. “I have been ill, officer, and it has left me weak.”
“Then don’t try it, sir. You can leave it to us.”
“Go on,” said Stratton, after drawing a long, gasping breath; “I am quite right now.”
“Spoken like an Englishman, sir,” said the sergeant. “Party’s likeness, gents?” he said, as the light shone full on the oil-painting across the room; the face of the grey, benevolent-looking man seeming to gaze at them reproachfully.
“Yes, my old friend’s portrait,” said Stratton, with a sigh.
“Better let me go first, sir,” said the sergeant, pressing before Stratton, who was about to enter, but he was too late. Stratton took a step forward, caught his foot against something, and nearly fell headlong into the room.
“Mind my tools, please,” growled the workman, stooping to pick up his bag, which had lain in the darkness of the opening; and then all stepped cautiously into the well-furnished room, which was, in almost every respect, a repetition of Stratton’s, only reversed, and a good deal encumbered with large, open cases full of bulky folios, containing series of pressed and dried plants. These hid a great deal of the panelling and carving, save on the right, where, on either side of the beautiful old fireplace, were two low doors, formerly the entrances to the passages which connected the room with Stratton’s when they were part of a suite.
Away to the left was another door, matching those by the fireplace—that leading into the botanist’s bed-chamber; and wherever a space was left on the panelling, there was a portrait, in an old tarnished gilt frame, of some ancestor, each—dimly seen though it was—as the sergeant made the light play round the walls—bearing a striking resemblance to that which faced them.
“Looks as if he was watching us,” said the workman huskily; and he placed a piece of tobacco in his mouth, making Guest start as he closed the brass box from which he had extracted it with a loud snap.
“Yes,” said the sergeant, in a whisper, as if to himself, and he made the light of his bull’s-eye play from easy-chair to couch, and then all about the floor; “I always wondered how they managed them eyes.”
Everything looked in order, with one exception. The thick Turkey carpet and heavy rug were exactly as they had been laid; the fireplace showed the coal, wood, and paper neatly laid; and the chairs were all duly ranged in their places; but the sergeant’s light rested upon the table—a heavy, oblong affair, with four massive carven legs—a part of whose top was bare, for the thick green cloth cover, with bullion braiding at the border, had been half dragged off, and lay in folds from the top to floor, only kept from gliding right off by the heavy lamp, and looking as if it had been hastily dragged down to cover something by the table, or caught by someone’s foot when passing hastily to the door.
The sergeant made his light play on the dark folds for a few moments, and then jerked it away.
“Do you gentlemen mean to stop?” he said, speaking now a little more rapidly.
There was no reply and the man stepped forward to the table, raised one corner of the cloth quickly, and then swung it right up and steadily lowered it again, while Guest uttered a sigh of relief, for there was nothing visible but the heavy legs of the table.
“Enough to deceive any man,” said the sergeant, who then stopped and listened, walked back, and softly closed both doors.
“May as well be private, gentleman,” he said. “Eh?”
This last to the workman, who had muttered something in a low voice.
“I says I could ha’ swore he was there.”
“So could I, Jemmy,” replied the sergeant, as he made the light play round the room again, and let it rest upon the chamber-door.
“There is nothing, you see,” said Stratton, rather quickly.
“Haven’t done yet, sir,” replied the sergeant. Then, in a low voice to Guest—“I’m pretty well used to this sort o’ thing, sir, but ’pon my soul I feel as if I should like to turn that picture round. It’s just as if it was watching me. There, let’s get it over.”
The man had, in spite of his being accustomed to scenes of horror, seemed as if it were necessary to string himself up. He had gone to the table finally to lift the cover, and that had used up a certain amount of nerve force. He was forced to make a call on nature for a further supply.
He strode across to the chamber-door, threw it open, and walked in, the others following and standing just inside, as he made the light play round a well-furnished bedroom where everything was exactly in its place—the bed made, dressing table in perfect order, and a couple of cupboards displaying nothing within but sundry clothes hanging from pegs.
“Arn’t in here,” said the sergeant, after a final look round. “Been no struggle—no sign of anyone having been took ill. Don’t like one thing, Jem,” he added.
“Well,” said the man, “if you mean, pardner, that everything looks too tidy, and as if things had been straightened up all but the table-kiver, that’s just what I was a-thinking.”
“Right,” said the sergeant; “that was the one thing forgotten or left in the hurry.”
“Oh, no,” said Guest quickly. “I see we have raised a false alarm.”
“Maybe, sir,” said the sergeant firmly, “but I’m not satisfied yet. Let’s go back in the other room, please. I want to know what that table-cover means. Hallo! What’s this?” he said sharply, as he stooped down and picked up a piece of composition candle, gnawed nearly all away. “Where’s the candlestick?”
“Here,” said Guest, pointing to where a little old-fashioned candlestick lay by a stand containing folios of dried plants.
“Well, sir, that was knocked down,” said the sergeant.
“We are wasting time,” said Stratton firmly. “See if that lock is uninjured, my man, so that the door will close.”
“Stop a bit, sir, please,” said the sergeant; “we haven’t done yet.”
He stepped at once to the panelled door on the left of the fireplace, turned the handle, threw it open, and made his light play in the long, deep, narrow closet, one side of which was filled from floor to ceiling by a rack laden with books of pressed plants.
“Looks as if it had once been a passage,” said the sergeant, “oak panels right over the ceiling. Well, nobody there,” he continued, as he backed out and closed the door.
“That will do,” said Stratton, speaking more firmly now.
“My friend and I made a mistake. We are much obliged for all you have done, and—”
“Not quite done, sir,” said the sergeant grimly; and he crossed to the other side of the fireplace, took hold of the handle of the closed-up door, left to make both sides match, and tried to turn it, but it was fast.
Stratton turned ghastly, but he was in the shade.
“No cupboard there,” said Guest sharply.
The sergeant turned quickly, and his light flashed across the faces of the two friends. He saw Stratton’s wild look, and he tapped on the panel.
“No cupboard, sir? Sounds hollow, too.”
Guest caught sight of his friend’s face at the same moment, and his pulses leaped; a confused mist of memories flooded his brain, and something made him keep silence, though, had he been asked, he could not have explained why.
“I should say there is a cupboard here,” continued the sergeant, turning back to examine it. “Fastened up, but been a cupboard like the other, of course.”
Guest glanced at Stratton again in the gloom, but he could see nothing now, with the light averted, only hear his heavy breathing, which was faintly stertorous, as if from exertion.
“Let me see, gentlemen, you live in the next chambers?”
Stratton was silent, while Guest met the officer’s eye, and involuntarily answered: “Yes.”
“Do they back on to there?”
“Yes; part of the old suite,” said Guest, answering, as it were, against his will.
“I’ll trouble you to take me in there for a moment, please,” said the man decisively.
Stratton drew a deep breath, and without a word led the way out into the passage and round to his own door.
Chapter Thirty Seven.Run to Earth.“What the dickens does it all mean?” thought Guest wonderingly, as he followed into Stratton’s chambers, with a strange feeling of expectancy exciting him. Something was going to happen, he felt sure, and that something would be connected with his friend. And now he began to regret bitterly having urged on the quest. It had had the effect of rousing Stratton for the moment, but he looked horrible now, and Guest asked himself again, what did it mean?The sergeant looked sharply round Stratton’s room, and noted where the chamber lay; but his attention was at once riveted upon the fireplace with its two doors, and he walked to the one on the right, seized the handle, and found it fast.“Yes,” he said, “been open once, but closed, I should say, for many years.”“Want it opened, pardner?” said his companion.“Not that one,” said the sergeant meaningly; and he went to the door on the left, Stratton watching him fixedly the while, and Guest, in turn, watching his friend, with a sense of some great trouble looming over him, as he wondered what was about to happen.“Hah! yes,” said the sergeant, who began to show no little excitement now; “fellow door sealed up, too.”Guest started and glanced quickly at his friend, who remained drawn up, silent and stern, as a man would look who was submitting to a scrutiny to which he has objected.The sergeant shook the door, but it was perfectly fast, and the handle immovable.“Some time since there was a way through here,” he said confidently; and, as he spoke, Guest again gazed at Stratton, and thought of how short a time it was since he had been in the habit of going to that closet to fetch out soda water, spirits, and cigars.What did it mean? What could it mean, and why did not Stratton speak out and say: “The closet belongs to this side of the suite.”But no; he was silent and rigid, while the sense of a coming calamity loomed broader to mingle with a cloud of regrets.He was trying to think out some means of retiring from the scrutiny, as the sergeant turned to his companion and said a few words in a low tone—words which Guest felt certain meant orders to force open the closet door, which, for some reason, Stratton had fastened up, when the sergeant spoke out:“Now, gentlemen, please, we’ll go back to the other chambers.”Guest drew a deep breath, full of relief, for the tension was, for the moment, at an end.He followed with Stratton, whose eyes now met his; and there was such a look of helplessness and despair in the gaze that Guest caught his friend’s arm.“What is it, old fellow?” he whispered; but there was no reply, and, after closing the door, they followed into Brettison’s room, where the sergeant stood ready for them with his companion.As they entered, the man closed the door and said sharply:“You’re right, gentlemen; there has been foul play.”A cold sweat burst out over Guest’s brow, and his hair began to cling to his temples. He once more glanced at Stratton, but he did not move a muscle; merely stood listening, as if surprised at the man’s assertion.“There have always been two cupboards here, made out of these two old passages, and this one has been lately fastened up.”“No, no,” said Stratton, in a low, deep tone.“What, sir! Look here,” cried the man, and he shook one of the great panels low down in the door, and the other higher. “What do you say to that? Both those have been out quite lately.”Stratton bent forward, looking startled, and then stepped close up to the door, to see for himself if the man was correct.The lower panel was certainly loose, and could be shaken about a quarter of an inch each way, but that seemed to be all; and looking relieved he drew back.“Nonsense!” he said. “Absurd!”Guest looked at him sharply, for the voice seemed to be that of a stranger.“Not very absurd, sir,” replied the sergeant. “This door was made two or three hundred years ago, I should say, and the old oak is shrunken and worm-eaten. I could easily shove that panel out, but there’s no need. Here, Jem, try and open the lock the regular way.”Stratton’s lips parted, but he said no word; and, as the second man strode up to the door with his tools, the sergeant went on:“I thought it was a mare’s nest, sir, and even now I don’t like to speak too fast; but it looks to me as if the poor gentleman had been robbed and murdered, and whoever did it has hidden the body in here.”A curious cry escaped from Stratton’s lips, and he gazed fiercely at the officer.“That’s it, sir,” said the man. “It’s a startler for you, I know, living so close, but I’m afraid it’s true. Well, Jem, what do you make of it?”Guest looked as if he had received a mental blow, as idea after idea flashed through his mind. Stratton’s manner suggested it—his acts of late, the disappearance of Brettison on the wedding day, the large sum of money on the table, the mad horror and despair of the man ever since—it must be so; and he felt that here was the real key to all his friend’s strange behaviour.He wiped the cold moisture from his brow, and stared at Stratton, but his friend was standing rigid and determined, watching the actions of the two men, and Guest had hard work to suppress a groan, as he felt that his companion would owe to him the discovery and the punishment that would follow.Just then Stratton turned and saw that he was being watched; but, as if all attempts at concealment were hopeless, he smiled faintly at his friend and then turned away.The workman had not made any reply, and the sergeant spoke again as a large picklock was thrust into the keyhole again and again.“Rusted up?”“Ay, and eaten away; there hasn’t been a key used in that lock in our time, pardner. But stop a minute; more ways of killing a cat than hanging of her. Let’s have a look.”He began to examine the edge of the door, and then turned sharply round.“Look here,” he said; and then taking hold of the antique door knob, he lifted it and the whole of the front bar or rail came away—a piece of narrow wood six feet long.“Split away from the tenons,” he said; and the sergeant uttered an ejaculation, full of eager satisfaction.“There, gentleman,” he said, pointing. “One—two—three—four bright new screws. What do you say now?”There they were plain enough, close to the door frame, and Guest uttered a low sigh as he supported himself by the back of a chair.“Out with ’em, Jem,” cried the sergeant excitedly, and, a large screw-driver being produced from the tool bag, the screws were attacked, and turned easily, the man rapidly withdrawing them and laying them one by one on the mantel-shelf.“They haven’t been in very long,” he muttered, raising one to his nose. “Been rubbed in paraffin candle, I should say.”He began turning another, while the sergeant gave Guest the lantern to hold while he went and picked up the piece of candle they had found at first.“Not all teeth marks, gentlemen,” he said; “the candle was used to ease those screws.”There was a pause then, for the man was at work on the last screw, and as he turned, Guest arrived at the course he should pursue. Stratton was ignoring the fact that the closet belonged to his room; he must, for his own sake, do the same. He could not give evidence against his friend; for there it was plain enough now, and if Stratton had been guilty of Brettison’s death, he was being bitterly punished for his crime.The last screw fell on the floor, and was picked up and placed with the others. Then the man stood with his screw-driver in his hand.“Prize it open?” he said. The sergeant nodded, and on forcing the edge of the screw-driver in the crack between the inner half of the bar and the jamb, it acted as a lever, and the door gave with a faint creak, but as soon as it was a couple of inches open the man drew back.“Your job now,” he said.The sergeant stepped forward; Stratton stood firm, as if carved in stone, and Guest closed his eyes, feeling sick, and as if the room was turning round, till a sharp ejaculation made him open his eyes again to see that the sergeant had entered with his lantern, and was making it play over the panels of the inner side of the farther door.“That’s the old door leading into the place, I suppose, sir?” he said.“Yes.”Guest started again, the voice sounded so strange, but he was gaining courage, for there was the familiar dark bathroom, viewed from the other end, with the cigar box on the shelf close to the door in company with the spirit-stand. Beneath the shelf there were three large four-gallon tins, which were unfamiliar, and suggested petroleum or crystal oil; there was a mackintosh hung on a peg, looking very suggestive; an alpenstock in a corner, with a salmon and trout rod. Guest saw all this at a glance, and his spirits rose, for there was no ghastly scene upon which to gaze.Then his spirits sank to zero again, for there was the oblong of the inclosed bath occupying the left of the long, narrow place, and only just leaving room for anyone to pass.He shuddered, and at that moment the sergeant took hold of the edge of the mahogany lid to raise it, but without success.“Fast,” muttered the latter; and he held the light to the glistening French-polished mahogany cover, looking from place to place. “Here you are, Jem,” he said, in a low tone; “four more screws, and only just put in.”The other man uttered a low growl, and entered with his screw-driver; moistened his hands and the tool creaked on the top of a screw, and then entered the cross slit with a loud snap. The next minute the first screw was being withdrawn.“Pretty badly put in,” said the man. “Didn’t have a carpenter here.”He worked away, making the old place vibrate a little with his efforts, and to Guest the whole business was horribly suggestive of taking off the lid from a coffin; but he was firmer now, as he stood behind Stratton, who drew a deep breath, now and then like a heavy sigh, but neither stirred from his position by the door they had entered, nor spoke.All at once there was a sharp rap on the lid of the bath, which acted like a sounding-board, and the man at work started back in alarm.“All right, Jem,” said the sergeant; “you jarred it down from the shelf.”As he spoke he snatched up what he evidently looked upon as evidence; for it was a large gimlet, evidently quite new, and its long spiral glistened in the light of the lantern.“Thought somebody throwed it,” growled the man, as he resumed his task of withdrawing the screws till the last was out, and placed close to the bath, on the floor.“Sure that’s all?” said the sergeant.The man ran his finger along the edge of the bath lid, uttered a grunt, and drew back toward the door by which he had entered.“Lift up the lid, man—lift up the lid,” said the sergeant, directing the lantern so that the grain of the new-looking wood glistened and seemed full of golden and ruddy brown depths of shadow, among which the light seemed to play.“Do you hear?” he said. “Lift up the lid.”The man made no answer, but ran his hand over his moist forehead, and still backed toward the door, where Stratton and Guest were standing. Then, as they drew aside to let him pass:“Precious hot in there,” he growled.“Look here, Jem,” said the sergeant; “don’t leave a fellow in the lurch. Come on.”Thus adjured, the man turned back and held out his hand.“It ain’t my work,” he said in a hoarse whisper; “I’ve done my bit. But I’ll hold the light for you, if you like.”The sergeant passed the lantern to his companion, who took it, and so reversed its position, the rays from the bull’s-eye being directed toward the sergeant, and, consequently, Stratton and Guest were in the shadow, out of which the latter peered forward with his heart beating violently, and as he leaned forward he touched Stratton’s arm.He shuddered and shrank back, being conscious that Stratton grasped the reason, for a low sigh escaped him; but he did not stir, and, in spite of his feeling of repulsion, Guest felt compelled to press forward again to witness the horror about to be unveiled.“Turn the light more down,” whispered the sergeant; and, in spite of the low tone in which they were uttered, the words sounded loudly in Guest’s ears.“Now for it,” muttered the officer; and, as if forcing himself to act, he flung up the bath lid so that it struck against the panelled side of the place with a sharp rap, and set free a quantity of loose plaster and brickwork to fall behind the wainscot with a peculiar, rustling sound that sent a shudder through the lookers-on.
“What the dickens does it all mean?” thought Guest wonderingly, as he followed into Stratton’s chambers, with a strange feeling of expectancy exciting him. Something was going to happen, he felt sure, and that something would be connected with his friend. And now he began to regret bitterly having urged on the quest. It had had the effect of rousing Stratton for the moment, but he looked horrible now, and Guest asked himself again, what did it mean?
The sergeant looked sharply round Stratton’s room, and noted where the chamber lay; but his attention was at once riveted upon the fireplace with its two doors, and he walked to the one on the right, seized the handle, and found it fast.
“Yes,” he said, “been open once, but closed, I should say, for many years.”
“Want it opened, pardner?” said his companion.
“Not that one,” said the sergeant meaningly; and he went to the door on the left, Stratton watching him fixedly the while, and Guest, in turn, watching his friend, with a sense of some great trouble looming over him, as he wondered what was about to happen.
“Hah! yes,” said the sergeant, who began to show no little excitement now; “fellow door sealed up, too.”
Guest started and glanced quickly at his friend, who remained drawn up, silent and stern, as a man would look who was submitting to a scrutiny to which he has objected.
The sergeant shook the door, but it was perfectly fast, and the handle immovable.
“Some time since there was a way through here,” he said confidently; and, as he spoke, Guest again gazed at Stratton, and thought of how short a time it was since he had been in the habit of going to that closet to fetch out soda water, spirits, and cigars.
What did it mean? What could it mean, and why did not Stratton speak out and say: “The closet belongs to this side of the suite.”
But no; he was silent and rigid, while the sense of a coming calamity loomed broader to mingle with a cloud of regrets.
He was trying to think out some means of retiring from the scrutiny, as the sergeant turned to his companion and said a few words in a low tone—words which Guest felt certain meant orders to force open the closet door, which, for some reason, Stratton had fastened up, when the sergeant spoke out:
“Now, gentlemen, please, we’ll go back to the other chambers.”
Guest drew a deep breath, full of relief, for the tension was, for the moment, at an end.
He followed with Stratton, whose eyes now met his; and there was such a look of helplessness and despair in the gaze that Guest caught his friend’s arm.
“What is it, old fellow?” he whispered; but there was no reply, and, after closing the door, they followed into Brettison’s room, where the sergeant stood ready for them with his companion.
As they entered, the man closed the door and said sharply:
“You’re right, gentlemen; there has been foul play.”
A cold sweat burst out over Guest’s brow, and his hair began to cling to his temples. He once more glanced at Stratton, but he did not move a muscle; merely stood listening, as if surprised at the man’s assertion.
“There have always been two cupboards here, made out of these two old passages, and this one has been lately fastened up.”
“No, no,” said Stratton, in a low, deep tone.
“What, sir! Look here,” cried the man, and he shook one of the great panels low down in the door, and the other higher. “What do you say to that? Both those have been out quite lately.”
Stratton bent forward, looking startled, and then stepped close up to the door, to see for himself if the man was correct.
The lower panel was certainly loose, and could be shaken about a quarter of an inch each way, but that seemed to be all; and looking relieved he drew back.
“Nonsense!” he said. “Absurd!”
Guest looked at him sharply, for the voice seemed to be that of a stranger.
“Not very absurd, sir,” replied the sergeant. “This door was made two or three hundred years ago, I should say, and the old oak is shrunken and worm-eaten. I could easily shove that panel out, but there’s no need. Here, Jem, try and open the lock the regular way.”
Stratton’s lips parted, but he said no word; and, as the second man strode up to the door with his tools, the sergeant went on:
“I thought it was a mare’s nest, sir, and even now I don’t like to speak too fast; but it looks to me as if the poor gentleman had been robbed and murdered, and whoever did it has hidden the body in here.”
A curious cry escaped from Stratton’s lips, and he gazed fiercely at the officer.
“That’s it, sir,” said the man. “It’s a startler for you, I know, living so close, but I’m afraid it’s true. Well, Jem, what do you make of it?”
Guest looked as if he had received a mental blow, as idea after idea flashed through his mind. Stratton’s manner suggested it—his acts of late, the disappearance of Brettison on the wedding day, the large sum of money on the table, the mad horror and despair of the man ever since—it must be so; and he felt that here was the real key to all his friend’s strange behaviour.
He wiped the cold moisture from his brow, and stared at Stratton, but his friend was standing rigid and determined, watching the actions of the two men, and Guest had hard work to suppress a groan, as he felt that his companion would owe to him the discovery and the punishment that would follow.
Just then Stratton turned and saw that he was being watched; but, as if all attempts at concealment were hopeless, he smiled faintly at his friend and then turned away.
The workman had not made any reply, and the sergeant spoke again as a large picklock was thrust into the keyhole again and again.
“Rusted up?”
“Ay, and eaten away; there hasn’t been a key used in that lock in our time, pardner. But stop a minute; more ways of killing a cat than hanging of her. Let’s have a look.”
He began to examine the edge of the door, and then turned sharply round.
“Look here,” he said; and then taking hold of the antique door knob, he lifted it and the whole of the front bar or rail came away—a piece of narrow wood six feet long.
“Split away from the tenons,” he said; and the sergeant uttered an ejaculation, full of eager satisfaction.
“There, gentleman,” he said, pointing. “One—two—three—four bright new screws. What do you say now?”
There they were plain enough, close to the door frame, and Guest uttered a low sigh as he supported himself by the back of a chair.
“Out with ’em, Jem,” cried the sergeant excitedly, and, a large screw-driver being produced from the tool bag, the screws were attacked, and turned easily, the man rapidly withdrawing them and laying them one by one on the mantel-shelf.
“They haven’t been in very long,” he muttered, raising one to his nose. “Been rubbed in paraffin candle, I should say.”
He began turning another, while the sergeant gave Guest the lantern to hold while he went and picked up the piece of candle they had found at first.
“Not all teeth marks, gentlemen,” he said; “the candle was used to ease those screws.”
There was a pause then, for the man was at work on the last screw, and as he turned, Guest arrived at the course he should pursue. Stratton was ignoring the fact that the closet belonged to his room; he must, for his own sake, do the same. He could not give evidence against his friend; for there it was plain enough now, and if Stratton had been guilty of Brettison’s death, he was being bitterly punished for his crime.
The last screw fell on the floor, and was picked up and placed with the others. Then the man stood with his screw-driver in his hand.
“Prize it open?” he said. The sergeant nodded, and on forcing the edge of the screw-driver in the crack between the inner half of the bar and the jamb, it acted as a lever, and the door gave with a faint creak, but as soon as it was a couple of inches open the man drew back.
“Your job now,” he said.
The sergeant stepped forward; Stratton stood firm, as if carved in stone, and Guest closed his eyes, feeling sick, and as if the room was turning round, till a sharp ejaculation made him open his eyes again to see that the sergeant had entered with his lantern, and was making it play over the panels of the inner side of the farther door.
“That’s the old door leading into the place, I suppose, sir?” he said.
“Yes.”
Guest started again, the voice sounded so strange, but he was gaining courage, for there was the familiar dark bathroom, viewed from the other end, with the cigar box on the shelf close to the door in company with the spirit-stand. Beneath the shelf there were three large four-gallon tins, which were unfamiliar, and suggested petroleum or crystal oil; there was a mackintosh hung on a peg, looking very suggestive; an alpenstock in a corner, with a salmon and trout rod. Guest saw all this at a glance, and his spirits rose, for there was no ghastly scene upon which to gaze.
Then his spirits sank to zero again, for there was the oblong of the inclosed bath occupying the left of the long, narrow place, and only just leaving room for anyone to pass.
He shuddered, and at that moment the sergeant took hold of the edge of the mahogany lid to raise it, but without success.
“Fast,” muttered the latter; and he held the light to the glistening French-polished mahogany cover, looking from place to place. “Here you are, Jem,” he said, in a low tone; “four more screws, and only just put in.”
The other man uttered a low growl, and entered with his screw-driver; moistened his hands and the tool creaked on the top of a screw, and then entered the cross slit with a loud snap. The next minute the first screw was being withdrawn.
“Pretty badly put in,” said the man. “Didn’t have a carpenter here.”
He worked away, making the old place vibrate a little with his efforts, and to Guest the whole business was horribly suggestive of taking off the lid from a coffin; but he was firmer now, as he stood behind Stratton, who drew a deep breath, now and then like a heavy sigh, but neither stirred from his position by the door they had entered, nor spoke.
All at once there was a sharp rap on the lid of the bath, which acted like a sounding-board, and the man at work started back in alarm.
“All right, Jem,” said the sergeant; “you jarred it down from the shelf.”
As he spoke he snatched up what he evidently looked upon as evidence; for it was a large gimlet, evidently quite new, and its long spiral glistened in the light of the lantern.
“Thought somebody throwed it,” growled the man, as he resumed his task of withdrawing the screws till the last was out, and placed close to the bath, on the floor.
“Sure that’s all?” said the sergeant.
The man ran his finger along the edge of the bath lid, uttered a grunt, and drew back toward the door by which he had entered.
“Lift up the lid, man—lift up the lid,” said the sergeant, directing the lantern so that the grain of the new-looking wood glistened and seemed full of golden and ruddy brown depths of shadow, among which the light seemed to play.
“Do you hear?” he said. “Lift up the lid.”
The man made no answer, but ran his hand over his moist forehead, and still backed toward the door, where Stratton and Guest were standing. Then, as they drew aside to let him pass:
“Precious hot in there,” he growled.
“Look here, Jem,” said the sergeant; “don’t leave a fellow in the lurch. Come on.”
Thus adjured, the man turned back and held out his hand.
“It ain’t my work,” he said in a hoarse whisper; “I’ve done my bit. But I’ll hold the light for you, if you like.”
The sergeant passed the lantern to his companion, who took it, and so reversed its position, the rays from the bull’s-eye being directed toward the sergeant, and, consequently, Stratton and Guest were in the shadow, out of which the latter peered forward with his heart beating violently, and as he leaned forward he touched Stratton’s arm.
He shuddered and shrank back, being conscious that Stratton grasped the reason, for a low sigh escaped him; but he did not stir, and, in spite of his feeling of repulsion, Guest felt compelled to press forward again to witness the horror about to be unveiled.
“Turn the light more down,” whispered the sergeant; and, in spite of the low tone in which they were uttered, the words sounded loudly in Guest’s ears.
“Now for it,” muttered the officer; and, as if forcing himself to act, he flung up the bath lid so that it struck against the panelled side of the place with a sharp rap, and set free a quantity of loose plaster and brickwork to fall behind the wainscot with a peculiar, rustling sound that sent a shudder through the lookers-on.
Chapter Thirty Eight.The blind Lead.As that horrible, rustling sound behind the wainscot was heard, the two hardened men in the old passage shrank away to door and end, while a cold sweat bedewed Guest’s face, and his breath felt laboured. Then there was a reaction. Old memories flashed through his brain, and he seized Stratton’s arm.“Old friends,” he muttered. “I can’t forsake him now.”The arm he gripped felt rigid and cold, but Stratton made no movement, no sign, and at that moment they saw the sergeant flash the light down into the sarcophagus-like receptacle; for, thanks to the manufacturers, our baths are made as suggestive of a man’s last resting-place as they can be designed.There was utter silence then for a moment. Then the sergeant uttered a low whistle and exclaimed:“Well, Iamblessed!”“Ain’t he there?” said the workman, from the door.“Come and look, Jem.”Jem went in slowly, looked down in the bath, which was lit up by the rays from the lantern, and then uttered a low, chuckling sound, while Guest tried to make out the meaning of the strange expression, dimly seen, on his friend’s face.For Stratton’s eyes showed white circles about the irises, as he now leaned forward to gaze into the bath.Guest was the last to look into the white enamelled vessel, one-third full of what seemed to be water, but from the peculiar odour which rose from the surface, evidently was not.Stratton was silent; and in the strange exultation he felt on seeing that all the horrors he had imagined were vain and empty, Guest shouted:“Bah! What cock-and-bull stories you policemen hatch!”The sergeant, who had been regularly taken aback, recovered himself at this.“Come, sir,” he cried; “I like that. You come to us and say your friend’s missing, and you think that he is lying dead in his chambers. ‘All right,’ we say—”“Wrong,” cried Guest with a laugh, which sounded strange and forced.“So it is, sir—wrong,” said the sergeant. “We come and do our duty, and I follow up the scent as clear as clear, right up to this spot; and I put it to you gents, as gentlemen, oughtn’t your friend to have been murdered and a-lying there?”“Well,” said Guest, with another forced laugh, as he glanced uneasily at Stratton; “it did look suspicious, and you worked it all up so theatrically that I was a little impressed.”“Theatrical! Impressed, sir! Why, it was all as real to me; and I say again your friend ought to be lying there. What do you say, Jem?”“Cert’nly.”“But he is not,” said Guest sharply; “and it has all been a false alarm, you see, and I’m very, very glad.”“Course you are, sir, and so are we,” said Jem huskily. “Don’t ’pologise. Don’t make a bit o’ diffrens to us. We’re paid all the same.”“Of course,” cried Guest, keeping up the position of leader, for Stratton stood gazing down into the bath like one in a dream. “There, sergeant, we are very much obliged, and it’s all right; so your man had better screw down the bath lid again.”“But it isn’t all right, sir,” said the sergeant testily, and he gave his ear a scratch. “I don’t like giving up just for a check.”Guest shivered.“I’ve got as far as here, and I put it to you; the gentleman ought to have been in that thing, and he isn’t.”“That’s plain enough,” said Guest hurriedly.“Then where is he?”“In the country, I suppose, collecting.”“That’s your opinion, sir. P’r’aps your friend’ll speak. What do you say, sir?”“Nothing,” said Stratton, with an effort.“There is nothing to say,” said Guest sharply.“Queer for this place to have all been screwed up—both, the door and the bath.”“Oh, no; I see why,” said Guest quickly. “Bad smells, perhaps, from the waste pipe—sewer gas.”“Don’t smell like bad gas,” said Jem, sniffing about and ending by dipping a finger in the bath, and holding it to his nose, after which he gave a peculiar grunt.“Well?”“Sperrits.”“Nonsense, man!” cried Guest. “What! That?”“That’s sperrits, sure enough, sir,” said the man, dipping his finger in the bath again. “Open that there lantern, pardner.”The sergeant obeyed, and his companion thrust in his finger, for it to be enveloped directly with a bluish flame.“Mind what you’re doing,” said the sergeant hastily, “or we shall have the whole place a-fire.”“All right, pardner. Sperrits it is, and, I should say, come in them cans.”He gave one of the great tins a tap with his toe, and it sent forth a dull, metallic sound.“Very likely,” said Guest. “Our friend is a naturalist, and uses spirits to preserve things in.”“Look ye here,” said the workman oracularly, and he worked one hand about as he spoke. “I don’t purfess to know no more than what’s my trade, which is locks and odd jobs o’ that sort. My pardner here’ll tell you, gents, that I’ll face anything from a tup’ny padlock up to a strong room or a patent safe; but I’ve got a thought here as may be a bright ’un, or only a bit of a man’s nat’ral fog. You want to find this gent, don’t you?”“Yes,” said Guest; and the tone of that “yes” suggested plainly enough, “no.”“What have you got in that wooden head of yours now, Jem?” growled the sergeant.“Wait a minute, my lad, and you’ll hear.”“There’s no occasion for us to stop here,” said Guest hurriedly.“On’y a minute, sir, and then I’ll screw down the lid. What I wanted to say, gents, is: haven’t we found the party, after all?”“What!” cried Guest. “Where?”“Here, sir. I don’t understand sperrits—beer’s my line; but what I say is: mayn’t the gent be in there, after all, in slooshun—melted away in the sperrits, like a lump o’ sugar in a man’s tea?”“No, he mayn’t,” said the sergeant, closing the lid with a bang. “Don’t you take no notice of him, gentlemen; he’s handled screws till he’s a reg’lar screw himself.”“But what I say is—”“Hold your row, and don’t make a fool of yourself, mate. Get your work done, and then go home and try experiments with a pint o’ paraffin and a rat.”The man uttered a growl, and attacked the bath lid angrily, screwing it down as the light was held for him, and then going with the others into the sitting room, where he soon restored the old door to its former state, there being no sign, when he had finished, of its having been touched.Then, after a glance round, with Brettison’s portrait still seeming to watch them intently, the outer door was closed, and the little party returned to Stratton’s chambers, where certain coins were passed from hand to hand, evidently to the great satisfaction of the two men, for Jem began to chuckle and shake his head.“Well,” said the sergeant; “what now?”“I was thinking, pardner, about baths.”“Yes, yes,” said Guest hurriedly; “but that will do.”“Yes, sir, I’m going; but there’s your gents as goes and breaks the ice in the Serpentine, and them as goes to be cooked in a hoven, and shampooed; and you pull your strings and has it in showers, and your hot waters and cold waters; but this gent seems to have liked his stronger than anyone I ever knowed afore. I say, pardner, that’s having your lotion, and no sham.”“Pooh!” said the sergeant.“Look here,” said Guest quickly, and he slipped another sovereign into the sergeant’s hand, “this has all been a foolish mistake. I was too hasty.”“Only did your duty, sir,” replied the man. “It was quite right, and I’m glad, for all concerned, that it was a mistake.”“You understand, then; we don’t want it to be talked about in the inn, or—or—anywhere, in fact.”“Don’t you be afraid about that, sir,” said the man quietly. “I don’t wonder at you. It did look suspicious, but that’s all right, sir. Good-night, gentlemen both.”“But your man?”“Close as a nut, sir; aren’t you, Jem?”“Rather,” said that personage, with a growl. “Night, sir.”He slipped out, and the sergeant followed. As Guest was closing the door upon him, he whispered:“Quite upset your friend, sir. Why, he turned ghastly; couldn’t have looked worse if we’d found the—”“Exactly. Bad health,” said Guest hurriedly. “Good-night.”And he closed both doors; and then, with a peculiar sensation of shrinking, turned to face Stratton where he stood by the fireplace.
As that horrible, rustling sound behind the wainscot was heard, the two hardened men in the old passage shrank away to door and end, while a cold sweat bedewed Guest’s face, and his breath felt laboured. Then there was a reaction. Old memories flashed through his brain, and he seized Stratton’s arm.
“Old friends,” he muttered. “I can’t forsake him now.”
The arm he gripped felt rigid and cold, but Stratton made no movement, no sign, and at that moment they saw the sergeant flash the light down into the sarcophagus-like receptacle; for, thanks to the manufacturers, our baths are made as suggestive of a man’s last resting-place as they can be designed.
There was utter silence then for a moment. Then the sergeant uttered a low whistle and exclaimed:
“Well, Iamblessed!”
“Ain’t he there?” said the workman, from the door.
“Come and look, Jem.”
Jem went in slowly, looked down in the bath, which was lit up by the rays from the lantern, and then uttered a low, chuckling sound, while Guest tried to make out the meaning of the strange expression, dimly seen, on his friend’s face.
For Stratton’s eyes showed white circles about the irises, as he now leaned forward to gaze into the bath.
Guest was the last to look into the white enamelled vessel, one-third full of what seemed to be water, but from the peculiar odour which rose from the surface, evidently was not.
Stratton was silent; and in the strange exultation he felt on seeing that all the horrors he had imagined were vain and empty, Guest shouted:
“Bah! What cock-and-bull stories you policemen hatch!”
The sergeant, who had been regularly taken aback, recovered himself at this.
“Come, sir,” he cried; “I like that. You come to us and say your friend’s missing, and you think that he is lying dead in his chambers. ‘All right,’ we say—”
“Wrong,” cried Guest with a laugh, which sounded strange and forced.
“So it is, sir—wrong,” said the sergeant. “We come and do our duty, and I follow up the scent as clear as clear, right up to this spot; and I put it to you gents, as gentlemen, oughtn’t your friend to have been murdered and a-lying there?”
“Well,” said Guest, with another forced laugh, as he glanced uneasily at Stratton; “it did look suspicious, and you worked it all up so theatrically that I was a little impressed.”
“Theatrical! Impressed, sir! Why, it was all as real to me; and I say again your friend ought to be lying there. What do you say, Jem?”
“Cert’nly.”
“But he is not,” said Guest sharply; “and it has all been a false alarm, you see, and I’m very, very glad.”
“Course you are, sir, and so are we,” said Jem huskily. “Don’t ’pologise. Don’t make a bit o’ diffrens to us. We’re paid all the same.”
“Of course,” cried Guest, keeping up the position of leader, for Stratton stood gazing down into the bath like one in a dream. “There, sergeant, we are very much obliged, and it’s all right; so your man had better screw down the bath lid again.”
“But it isn’t all right, sir,” said the sergeant testily, and he gave his ear a scratch. “I don’t like giving up just for a check.”
Guest shivered.
“I’ve got as far as here, and I put it to you; the gentleman ought to have been in that thing, and he isn’t.”
“That’s plain enough,” said Guest hurriedly.
“Then where is he?”
“In the country, I suppose, collecting.”
“That’s your opinion, sir. P’r’aps your friend’ll speak. What do you say, sir?”
“Nothing,” said Stratton, with an effort.
“There is nothing to say,” said Guest sharply.
“Queer for this place to have all been screwed up—both, the door and the bath.”
“Oh, no; I see why,” said Guest quickly. “Bad smells, perhaps, from the waste pipe—sewer gas.”
“Don’t smell like bad gas,” said Jem, sniffing about and ending by dipping a finger in the bath, and holding it to his nose, after which he gave a peculiar grunt.
“Well?”
“Sperrits.”
“Nonsense, man!” cried Guest. “What! That?”
“That’s sperrits, sure enough, sir,” said the man, dipping his finger in the bath again. “Open that there lantern, pardner.”
The sergeant obeyed, and his companion thrust in his finger, for it to be enveloped directly with a bluish flame.
“Mind what you’re doing,” said the sergeant hastily, “or we shall have the whole place a-fire.”
“All right, pardner. Sperrits it is, and, I should say, come in them cans.”
He gave one of the great tins a tap with his toe, and it sent forth a dull, metallic sound.
“Very likely,” said Guest. “Our friend is a naturalist, and uses spirits to preserve things in.”
“Look ye here,” said the workman oracularly, and he worked one hand about as he spoke. “I don’t purfess to know no more than what’s my trade, which is locks and odd jobs o’ that sort. My pardner here’ll tell you, gents, that I’ll face anything from a tup’ny padlock up to a strong room or a patent safe; but I’ve got a thought here as may be a bright ’un, or only a bit of a man’s nat’ral fog. You want to find this gent, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Guest; and the tone of that “yes” suggested plainly enough, “no.”
“What have you got in that wooden head of yours now, Jem?” growled the sergeant.
“Wait a minute, my lad, and you’ll hear.”
“There’s no occasion for us to stop here,” said Guest hurriedly.
“On’y a minute, sir, and then I’ll screw down the lid. What I wanted to say, gents, is: haven’t we found the party, after all?”
“What!” cried Guest. “Where?”
“Here, sir. I don’t understand sperrits—beer’s my line; but what I say is: mayn’t the gent be in there, after all, in slooshun—melted away in the sperrits, like a lump o’ sugar in a man’s tea?”
“No, he mayn’t,” said the sergeant, closing the lid with a bang. “Don’t you take no notice of him, gentlemen; he’s handled screws till he’s a reg’lar screw himself.”
“But what I say is—”
“Hold your row, and don’t make a fool of yourself, mate. Get your work done, and then go home and try experiments with a pint o’ paraffin and a rat.”
The man uttered a growl, and attacked the bath lid angrily, screwing it down as the light was held for him, and then going with the others into the sitting room, where he soon restored the old door to its former state, there being no sign, when he had finished, of its having been touched.
Then, after a glance round, with Brettison’s portrait still seeming to watch them intently, the outer door was closed, and the little party returned to Stratton’s chambers, where certain coins were passed from hand to hand, evidently to the great satisfaction of the two men, for Jem began to chuckle and shake his head.
“Well,” said the sergeant; “what now?”
“I was thinking, pardner, about baths.”
“Yes, yes,” said Guest hurriedly; “but that will do.”
“Yes, sir, I’m going; but there’s your gents as goes and breaks the ice in the Serpentine, and them as goes to be cooked in a hoven, and shampooed; and you pull your strings and has it in showers, and your hot waters and cold waters; but this gent seems to have liked his stronger than anyone I ever knowed afore. I say, pardner, that’s having your lotion, and no sham.”
“Pooh!” said the sergeant.
“Look here,” said Guest quickly, and he slipped another sovereign into the sergeant’s hand, “this has all been a foolish mistake. I was too hasty.”
“Only did your duty, sir,” replied the man. “It was quite right, and I’m glad, for all concerned, that it was a mistake.”
“You understand, then; we don’t want it to be talked about in the inn, or—or—anywhere, in fact.”
“Don’t you be afraid about that, sir,” said the man quietly. “I don’t wonder at you. It did look suspicious, but that’s all right, sir. Good-night, gentlemen both.”
“But your man?”
“Close as a nut, sir; aren’t you, Jem?”
“Rather,” said that personage, with a growl. “Night, sir.”
He slipped out, and the sergeant followed. As Guest was closing the door upon him, he whispered:
“Quite upset your friend, sir. Why, he turned ghastly; couldn’t have looked worse if we’d found the—”
“Exactly. Bad health,” said Guest hurriedly. “Good-night.”
And he closed both doors; and then, with a peculiar sensation of shrinking, turned to face Stratton where he stood by the fireplace.