I approach this and the following chapters of my secret personal history
with feelings of amazement and of thankfulness that I should still be
alive and able to write down the truth freely and without fear, for the
events were certainly most remarkable and utterly mystifying.
In no man's history has there ever been such a strange, bewildering page
as the one I am about to reveal to you.
Reader, as I have taken you into my confidence, so also I tell you
confidentially that I myself, an ordinary man, would never have believed
that in this life of ours such things were possible, had I not myself
experienced them, and personally endured the frightful agony of mind
which they entailed. But I am writing down in black and white upon
these pages the solid unvarnished facts, fearless of contradiction, so
that the whole of the strange truth shall be known, and hat she who is
dearest to me on earth may be adjudged by the world with fairness and
with justice. For that sole reason I have resolved to relate this
romance of real life, otherwise it would ever remain in that crabbed
writing in that small portfolio, or secret dossier as it is called,
numbered, docketed, and reposing in the archives of the Ministry of the
Interior of a certain European Power.
Well, I have written the truth here, so that all who read may judge.
Immediately after the slight abrasion of my tongue, caused by the
scratch of the needle so cunningly concealed in the cigar, I must have
lost all consciousness. Of that I have no doubt. The recollections I
have are only the faintest ones, blurred and indistinct, like shadows in
a dream. I remember shouting in alarm and fighting fiercely against the
drowsiness and general debility which seemed to overcome me, but all was
with little or no effect. The last I remember was the ugly face of
Hickman glaring evilly into mine. His hideous grin seemed to render his
dog's face the more repulsive, and his laugh of triumph sounded in my
ears harsh and discordant, showing plainly that the spirit of murder was
in his heart.
At the same instant that I had made a movement towards him, I seemed to
have received a stunning blow upon the top of the skull, which so dulled
my senses that I was powerless to combat the curious giddiness that
seized me, and sank senseless upon the floor of that shabby room,
helpless as a log.
The last thought that surged through my brain was the reflection that I
was powerless in the hands of an enemy. My first estimate of this man
Hickman had been correct, and I regretted that I did not allow my
instinctive caution to overrule my desire to become on friendly terms
with him. He had enticed me to that place with an evil purpose--
possibly that I might share the same fate as did that young man on the
fateful night at The Boltons.
The prick of an ordinary needle upon the tongue would never have created
such an electrical effect upon me, therefore it was certain that the
point had been smeared with some powerful drug or poison. The ingenuity
with which the cigar had been prepared was shown by the fact that a
needle placed within would, as the tobacco became moistened by the
saliva, gradually work downward towards the tongue, while the heat at
the further end of the needle would, of course, render liquid any
coating placed upon it. Without doubt I had been the victim of a
deeply-laid plot, prepared with a cunning that seemed almost beyond
comprehension.
The blank in my mind, caused by my sudden unconsciousness, did not
appear to me to be of very long duration. All I know is that I was
utterly ignorant of every event that transpired about me, and knew
nothing whatever of any of the incidents which afterwards took place in
that dark, obscure house, or elsewhere. And yet they must have been of
a character absolutely unheard of.
I have said that the period of my benighted senses did not appear to be
prolonged. Indeed, now on reflection in the calmness of the present, I
am inclined to put down the lapse of time during which, in my
estimation, I was lost to all knowledge of things about me at two, or
perhaps three, hours. Of course, it is difficult to fix time when we
awaken after sleeping, except by the degree of light in the heavens. If
it is still dark, it is always difficult to gauge the hour. So it was
with me when, with a heavy, bruised feeling about the top of my skull, I
slowly struggled back to a knowledge of the world.
My first thought as I opened my eyes was of Hickman. My second was a
feeling of surprise that I had been unconscious so long, for while it
was about two o'clock in the morning when my tongue had, been pricked by
the concealed needle, and my adversary had dealt me a crushing blow upon
my skull as I had rushed upon him, yet straight before my eyes the sun
was shining full upon the carpet, and the particles of dust were dancing
in its golden rays.
Surely, I thought, I could not have remained unconscious for nearly
twelve hours.
The pain in my skull was excruciating. I put my hand to the wound, and
when I withdrew it found blood upon it. I felt a huge bump, but the
abrasion of the skin was, I discovered, only slight.
At first my brain was confused and puzzled, as though my dulled senses
were wrapped in cotton wool. At a loss to account for the time that had
elapsed, I lay upon the carpet just as I was, in vague, ignorant
wonderment. My eyes, dazzled by the bright sunlight, pained me, and I
closed them. Perhaps I dozed. Of that I am not quite sure. All I know
is that when I opened my eyes again the pain in my head seemed better,
and my senses seemed gradually to recognise, appreciate, and perceive.
I was lying on my side upon the carpet, and slowly, with a careful
effort involuntarily made by the march of intellect, I gazed around me.
The place was unfamiliar--utterly unfamiliar. I wondered if I were
actually dreaming. I felt my head, and again glanced at my hand. No.
There was sufficient proof that my skull had been injured, and that I
was lying alone in that room with the bar of sunlight slanting straight
before my eyes.
Gradually, and not without considerable difficulty--for I was still
half-dazed--I made out the objects about me, and became aware of my
surroundings.
My eyes were amazed at every turn. Whereas Hickman's apartment was a
dirty, shabby lodging-house sitting-room of that stereotyped kind so
well known to Londoners, the place wherein I found myself was a rather
large, handsomely furnished drawing-room, the two long windows of which
opened out upon a wide lawn, with a park and a belt of high trees far
beyond. From where I was I could see a wealth of roses, and across the
lawn I saw the figure of a woman in a white summer blouse.
The carpet whereon I was stretched was soft and rich, the furniture was
of ebony, with gilt ornamentations--I think French, of the Empire
period--while close to me was a grand piano, and upon a chair beside it
a woman's garden hat.
I looked at that hat critically. It belonged to a young woman, no
doubt, for it was big and floppy, of soft yellow straw, with cherries,
and had strings to tie beneath the chin. I pictured its owner as pretty
and attractive.
About that room there were screens from Cairo, little inlaid
coffee-tables from Algiers, quaint wood-carvings of the Madonna beneath
glass shades, fashioned by the peasants of Central Russia, Italian
statuary, and modern French paintings. The room seemed almost a museum
of souvenirs of cosmopolitan travel. Whoever was its owner, he
evidently knew the value of _bric-a-brac_, and had picked up his
collection in cities far afield.
The door was closed, and over it hung a rich _portiere_ of dark-blue
plush edged with gold. The sculptured over-mantel, in white marble,
was, I quickly detected, a replica of one I had seen and admired in the
Bargello, in Florence. One object, however, aroused my wonder. It was
lying on the floor straight before me, an object in white marble, the
sculptured arm of a woman with the index-finger outstretched. The limb
was of life-size proportions, and had apparently been broken off at the
elbow.
I staggered unevenly to my feet, in order to further pursue my
investigations, and then I saw, upon a pedestal close to me, the marble
figure of a Phryne with its arm broken.
In the centre of that handsome apartment I stood and gazed wonderingly
around. My transition from that bizarre sitting-room in Chelsea to this
house, evidently in the country, had been effected in a manner beyond
comprehension. My surprising surroundings caused my weakened brain to
reel again. I was without hat or overcoat, and as I glanced down at my
trousers they somehow did not seem to be the same that I had been
wearing on the previous night.
Instinctively I felt that only by some extraordinary and mysterious
means could I have been conveyed from that close-smelling lodging in
Chelsea to this country mansion. The problem uppermost in my mind was
the identity of the place where I had thus found myself on recovering my
senses, and how I got there.
My eyes fell upon the push of an electric-bell. My position, lying
there injured upon the carpet, demanded explanation, and without further
hesitation I walked across and pressed the ivory button.
I heard no sound. The bell must have rung far away, and this gave me
the idea that the house was a large one.
Intently I listened, and a few minutes later heard a footstep. The door
opened, and an elderly man-servant, with grey whiskers, appeared in the
entry asking--"Did you ring, sir?"
"Yes," I answered. "Will you kindly inform me where I am?"
He regarded me with a strange, puzzled expression, and then, in alarm,
he rushed forward to me, crying--"Why, sir! You've hurt your head!
Look! You're covered with blood!"
His grey face was pale, and for an instant he stood regarding me
open-mouthed.
"Can't you answer my question?" I demanded hastily. "I know that I've
injured my head. I didn't call you in order to learn that. I want to
know where I am."
The man's countenance slowly assumed a terrified expression as he
regarded me, and then, without further word, he flew from the room as
fast as his legs could carry him. I heard him shouting like a lunatic,
in some other part of the house, and stood utterly dumbfounded at his
extraordinary behaviour. He had escaped from my presence as though he
had seen an apparition.
A few minutes later, however, he returned, accompanied by a dark-haired,
well-dressed man of about thirty, tall, rather good-looking, and
apparently a gentleman. The instant the latter saw me he rushed
forward, crying, in a voice of distress--
"Oh, my dear sir, whatever has happened?"
"My head," I explained. "It was that ugly-faced scoundrel Hickman.
Where is he?"
"Hickman?" echoed the new-comer. "Hickman? Who's he?"
"Oh, it's all very well for you to pretend to know nothing about it," I
cried angrily. "But I tell you that as soon as I'm able I'll apply for
a warrant for his arrest on a charge of attempted murder. Last night he
tried to kill me."
"I don't understand you," the stranger responded. "I don't, of course,
expect you to admit any complicity in the affair," I snapped. "You'd be
a fool if you did. All I tell you is that an attempt has been made upon
my life by a man to whom I was introduced as Hickman."
"Not in this room?"