Ere we had gained the Walworth Road, Yelverton, so breathless in his
haste that he could scarce gasp "Good night" to the small crowd who
saluted him as he passed, overtook us.
"Where is she?" he inquired.
"There--in front of us, standing on the kerb," I answered, halting in
order to escape observation. "She's evidently waiting for an omnibus."
My surmise proved true, for a few moments later she entered one of those
green omnibuses which ply to Camberwell Green, and the moment the
conveyance moved off again Muriel, turning to me quickly, said--
"We must now lose no time, but take a cab at once to Herne Hill."
We therefore hailed the first four-wheeler, and in one of those most
terrible of all conveyances which ply for hire in London--vehicles known
in the vernacular as "fever-traps"--we made our way with much rattle and
jolting along the Camberwell Road, past Camberwell Green, and up Denmark
Hill.
The cab deposited us on the brow of the hill at the corner of that steep
road, Red Post Hill, one of the few thoroughfares untouched by the
modern builder, and together we descended Herne Hill until we came to a
great old house standing back in its own grounds, with large trees
around it, and approached by a broad carriage drive. It had undoubtedly
been an important residence a century ago, but in the darkness I could
discern that weeds had been allowed to grow upon the drive, that
shutters closed the windows of the ground floor, that pieces of paper,
straw, and other rubbish, the flotsam and jetsam of the street, lay upon
the moss-grown steps leading to the front door, and the large board
which announced that the desirable site was for sale "for building
purposes" told conclusively how the neighbourhood had decayed until it
was being gradually swallowed up by overgrown, overcrowded Camberwell.
The double gates rusting on their hinges were secured together by a
chain and formidable padlock, but following Muriel we went to a small
side door in the high wall, which she opened with a key, admitting us,
closing it, and locking it after her.
Within the old tangled garden, where the shrubs, weeds, and flowers had
grown wild and unpruned for years, all was silent as the grave. The old
place, partly overgrown with ivy, which had almost hidden several of the
windows, looked grim and ghostly in the gloom, for the moon was hidden
behind a bank of fleecy cloud, and only shed a mystic half-light, which
added to rather than decreased the sense of forlorn dreariness which
oppressed one. By the aspect of the place it appeared as though it had
remained untenanted for fully ten years.
As I stood with my two companions, in the deep shadow, preserving the
strict silence which Muriel had now imposed upon us, I confess to
entertaining some misgivings. There was a weirdness about the whole
affair which I did not like, and I felt a foreboding of some vague evil
which I could not define.
With a whispered word of caution Muriel crept forward, treading
noiselessly on the carpet of weeds which had hidden the gravel, and
skirting the house, swiftly approached a door at the side, evidently
once the tradesmen's entrance.
"Hush!" she whispered, "make no noise. If we were discovered here it
would be fatal to all our plans--fatal, indeed, to us!"
Noiselessly she opened the door with her key, while we stood behind her,
scarce daring to breathe, and then we all three passed silently into a
small, dark passage, down which we groped our way, after Muriel had
again locked the door behind her.
I thought I heard a movement at my back like the swish of silk, but next
instant reassured myself that it must be a rat disturbed by our
intrusion. The place was silent as the tomb, for upon the passage were
the remains of some old cocoa-nut matting, which deadened the sound of
our footsteps as we crept forward to our unknown goal.