Cautiously he glided nearer, moving as noiselessly as any shadow,
seeming indeed but one shadow the more in the heavy surrounding
darkness.
The persistent scratching noise continued, and Dunn was now so close he
could have put out his hand and touched the shoulder of the man who was
causing it and who still, intent and busy, had not the least idea of the
other's proximity.
A faint smile touched Dunn's lips. The situation seemed not to be
without a grim humour, for if one-half of what he suspected were true,
one might as sensibly and safely attempt to break into the condemned
cell at Pentonville Gaol as into this quiet house.
But then, was it perhaps possible that this fellow, working away so
unconcernedly, within arm's-length of him, was in reality one of them,
seeking to obtain admittance in this way for some reason of his own,
some private treachery, it might be, or some dispute? To Dunn that
did not seem likely. More probably the fellow was merely an
ordinary burglar--some local practitioner of the housebreaking art,
perhaps--whose ill-fortune it was to have hit upon this house to rob
without his having the least idea of the nature of the place he was
trying to enter.
“He might prove a useful recruit for them, though,” Dunn thought, and a
sudden idea flashed into his mind, vivid and startling.
For one moment he thought intently, weighing in his mind this idea that
had come to him so suddenly. He was not blind to the risks it involved,
but his eager temperament always inclined him to the most direct and
often to the most dangerous course. His mind was made up, his plan of
action decided.
The scratching of the burglar's tool upon the glass ceased. Already he
had smeared treacle over the square of glass he intended to remove and
had covered it with paper so as to be able to take it out easily and in
one piece without the risk of falling fragments betraying him.
Through the gap thus made he thrust his arm and made sure there were no
alarms fitted and no obstacles in the way of his easy entrance.
Cautiously he unfastened the window and cautiously and silently lifted
the sash, and when he had done so he paused and listened for a space to
make sure no one was stirring and that no alarm had been caused within
the house.
Still very cautiously and with the utmost precaution to avoid making
even the least noise, he put one knee upon the window-sill, preparatory
to climbing in, and as he did so Dunn touched him lightly on the
shoulder.
“Well, my man, what are you up to?” he said softly. And without a
word, without giving the least warning, the burglar, a man evidently
of determination and resource, swung round and aimed at Dunn's head a
tremendous blow with the heavy iron jemmy he held in his right hand.
But Dunn was not unprepared for an attack and those bright, keen eyes of
his seemed able to see as well in the dark as in the light. He threw up
his left hand and caught the other's wrist before that deadly blow he
aimed could descend and at the same instant he dashed his own clenched
fist full into the burglar's face.
As it happened, more by good luck than intended aim, the blow took him
on the point of the chin. He dropped instantly, collapsing in on himself
as falls a pole-axed bullock, and lay, unconscious, in a crumpled heap
on the ground.
For a little Dunn waited, crouching above him and listening for the
least sound to show that their brief scuffle had been heard.
But it had all passed nearly as silently as quickly. Within the house
everything remained silent, there was no sound audible, no gleam of
light to show that any of the inmates had been disturbed.
Taking from his pocket a small electric flash-lamp Dunn turned its light
on his victim.
He seemed a man of middle age with a brutal, heavy-jawed face and a low,
receding forehead. His lips, a little apart, showed yellow, irregular
teeth, of which two at the front of the lower jaw had been broken, and
the scar of an old wound, running from the corner of his left eye down
to the centre of his cheek, added to the sinister and forbidding aspect
he bore.
His build was heavy and powerful and near by, where he had dropped it
when he fell, lay the jemmy with which he had struck at Dunn. It was
a heavy, ugly-looking thing, about two feet in length and with one end
nearly as sharp as that of a chisel.
Dunn picked it up and felt it thoughtfully.
“Just as well I got my blow in first,” he mused. “If he had landed that
fairly on my skull I don't think anything else in this world would ever
have interested me any more.”
Stooping over the unconscious man, he felt in his pockets and found an
ugly-looking revolver, fully loaded, a handful of cartridges, a coil
of thin rope, an electric torch, a tiny dark lantern no bigger than a
match-box, and so arranged that the single drop of light it permitted
to escape fell on one spot only, a bunch of curiously-shaped wires Dunn
rightly guessed to be skeleton keys used for opening locks quietly,
together with some tobacco, a pipe, a little money, and a few other
personal belongings of no special interest or significance.
These Dunn replaced where he had found them, but the revolver, the rope,
the torch, the dark lantern, and the bunch of wires he took possession
of.
He noticed also that the man was wearing rubber-soled boots and rubber
gloves, and these last he also kept. Stooping, he lifted the unconscious
man on to his shoulder and carried him with perfect ease and at a quick
pace out of the garden and across the road to the common opposite,
where, in a convenient spot, behind some furze bushes, he laid him down.
“When he comes round,” Dunn muttered. “He won't know where he is or
what's happened, and probably his one idea will be to clear off as
quickly as possible. I don't suppose he'll interfere with me at all.”
Then a new idea seemed to strike him, and he hurriedly removed his own
coat and trousers and boots and exchanged them for those the burglar was
wearing.
They were not a good fit, but he could get them on and the idea in his
mind was that if the police of the district began searching, as very
likely they would, for Mr. John Clive's assailant, and if they had
discovered any clues in the shape of footprints or torn bits of clothing
or buttons--and Dunn knew his attire had suffered considerably during
the struggle--then it would be as well that such clues should lead not
to him, but to this other man, who, if he were innocent on that score,
had at any rate been guilty of attempting to carry out a much worse
offence.
“I'm afraid your luck's out, old chap,” Dunn muttered, apostrophizing
the unconscious man. “But you did your best to brain me, and that gives
me a sort of right to make you useful. Besides, if the police do run you
in, it won't mean anything worse than a few questions it'll be your own
fault if you can't answer. Anyhow, I can't afford to run the risk of
some blundering fool of a policeman trying to arrest me for assaulting
the local magnate.”
Much relieved in mind, for he had been greatly worried by a fear that
this encounter with John Clive might lead to highly inconvenient legal
proceedings, he left the unlucky burglar lying in the shelter of the
furze bushes and returned to the house.
All was as he had left it, the open window gaped widely, almost inviting
entrance, and he climbed silently within. The apartment in which he
found himself was apparently the drawing-room and he felt his way
cautiously and slowly across it, moving with infinite care so as to
avoid making even the least noise.
Reaching the door, he opened it and went out into the hall. All was dark
and silent. He permitted himself here to flash on his electric torch for
a moment, and he saw that the hall was spacious and used as a lounge,
for there were several chairs clustered in its centre, opposite the
fireplace. There were two or three doors opening from it, and almost
opposite where he stood were the stairs, a broad flight leading to a
wide landing above.
Still with the same extreme silence and care, he began to ascend these
stairs and when he was about half-way up he became aware of a faint and
strange sound that came trembling through the silence and stillness of
the night.
What it was he could not imagine. He listened for a time and then
resumed his silent progress with even more care than previously, and
only when he reached the landing did he understand that this faint and
low sound he heard was caused by a woman weeping very softly in one of
the rooms near by.
Silently he crossed the landing in the direction whence the sound seemed
to come. Now, too, he saw a thread of light showing beneath a door at a
little distance, and when he crept up to it and listened he could hear
for certain that it was from within this room that there came the sound
of muffled, passionate weeping.
The door was closed, but he turned the handle so carefully that he made
not the least sound and very cautiously he began to push the door back,
the tiniest fraction of an inch at a time, so that even one watching
closely could never have said that it moved.
When, after a long time, during which the muffled weeping never ceased,
he had it open an inch or two, he leaned forward and peeped within.
It was a bed-chamber, and, crouching on the floor near the fireplace, in
front of a low arm-chair, her head hidden on her arms and resting on
the seat of the chair, was the figure of a girl. She had made no
preparations for retiring, and by the frock she wore Dunn recognized her
as the girl he had seen on the veranda bidding good-bye to John Clive.
The sound of her weeping was very pitiful, her attitude was full of an
utter and poignant despair, there was something touching in the extreme
in the utter abandonment to grief shown by this young and lovely
creature who seemed framed only for joy and laughter.
The stern features and hard eyes of the unseen watcher softened, then
all at once they grew like tempered steel again.
For on the mantlepiece, just above where the weeping girl crouched,
stood a photograph--the photograph of a young and good-looking,
gaily-smiling man. Across it, in a boyish and somewhat unformed hand,
was written,
“Devotedly yours,
Charley Wright.”
It was this photograph that had caught Dunn's eyes. Both it and the
writing and the signature he recognized, and his look was very stern,
his eyes as cold as death itself, as slowly, slowly he pushed back the
door of the room another inch or so.