When, riding fast, Rupert Dunsmore came in sight of Bittermeads he
experienced a feeling of extreme relief. Though what he had feared he
did not quite know, for he did not see that any alarm could have reached
here yet or any hint come to Deede Dawson of the failure of all his
plotting.
Even if Walter had had the idea of returning to give his accomplice
warning, he could not have come by the road on his bicycle as quickly
as Rupert had ridden across country. And that Walter would spend either
time or thought on Deede Dawson did not appear in any way probable.
To Rupert, therefore, it seemed certain that Deede Dawson could know
nothing as yet. But all the same it was an immense relief to see the
house again and to know that in a few moments he would be there.
He tied up the mare to a convenient tree, and with eyes that were quick
and alert and every nerve and muscle ready for all emergencies, he drew
near the house.
All was still and quiet, no smoke came from the chimneys, there was no
sign of life or movement anywhere. For a moment he hesitated and then
made his way round to the back, hoping to find Mrs. Barker there and
perhaps obtain from her information as to the whereabouts of Deede
Dawson and of Ella and her mother.
For it seemed to him it would be his best plan to get the two women
quietly out of the way if he could possibly do so before making any
attempt to deal with Deede Dawson or letting him know of his return.
For the mere fact that he was back again so soon would show at once that
something had gone seriously wrong, and once Deede Dawson knew that, he
would be, Rupert well realized, in a very desperate and reckless mood
and ripe for committing any mischief that he could.
Cautiously Rupert opened the back door and found himself in the
stone-paved passage that ran between the kitchen and the scullery and
pantry. Everything seemed very quiet and still, and there was no sign of
Mrs. Barker nor any appearance that she had been that morning busy about
her usual tasks. The kitchen fire was not lighted, a pile of unwashed
crockery stood on the table, there had apparently been no attempt to
prepare any meals.
Frowning uneasily, for all this did not seem to him of good omen, Rupert
went quickly on to the living rooms.
They were unoccupied and did not seem to have been much used that day;
and in the small breakfast-room Deede Dawson had been accustomed
to consider his special apartment, his favourite little travelling
chessboard stood on the table with pieces in position on it.
There was a letter, too, he had begun but not finished, to the editor
of a chess-column in some paper, apparently to the effect that a certain
problem “cooked,” and that by such and such a move “the mate for the
first player that appeared certain was unexpectedly and instantly
transferred in this dramatic manner into a mate for his opponent.”
The words seemed somehow oddly appropriate to Rupert, and he smiled
grimly as he read them and then all at once his expression changed and
his whole attitude became one of intense watchfulness and readiness.
For his quick eye had noted that the ink on the nib of the pen that this
letter had been written with, was not yet dry.
Then Deede Dawson must have been here a moment or two ago and must have
gone in a hurry. That could only mean he was aware of Rupert's return
and was warned and suspicious. It is perhaps characteristic of Rupert's
passionate and eager temperament that only now did it occur to him
that he was quite unarmed and that without a weapon of any kind he was
matching himself against as reckless and as formidable a criminal as had
ever lived.
For want of anything better he picked up the heavy glass inkpot standing
on the table, emptied the contents in a puddle on the floor, and held
the inkpot itself ready in his hand.
He listened intently, but heard no sound--no sound at all in the whole
house, and this increased his apprehensions, for he knew well that Deede
Dawson was a man always the most dangerous when most silent.
It was possible of course that he had fled, but not likely. He would not
go, Rupert thought, till he had made his preparations and not without
a last effort to take revenge on those who had defeated him and in this
dramatic way turned the mate he had expected to secure into a win for
his opponent.
Still Rupert listened intently, straining his ears to catch the least
sound to hint to him where his enemy was, for he knew that if he failed
to discover him his first intimation of his proximity might well come in
the shape of the white-hot sting of a bullet, rending flesh and bone.
Then, too, where was Ella, and where was her mother?
There was something inexpressibly sinister in the utter quietness of the
house, a quietness not at all of peace and rest but of a brooding, angry
threat.
Still he could hear nothing, and he left the room, very quickly and
noiselessly, and he made sure there was no one anywhere in any of these
rooms on the ground floor.
He locked the front door and the back to make sure no one should enter
or leave too easily, and returned on tiptoe, moving to and fro like
a shadow cast by a changing light, so swift and noiseless were his
movements.
For a little he remained crouching against the side of the stairway,
listening for any sound that might float down to him from above.
But none came--and on a sudden, in one movement, as it were, he ran up
the stairs and crouched down on the topmost one so that any bullet aimed
at him as he appeared might perhaps fly overhead.
But none was fired; there was still no sound at all, no sign that the
house held any living creature beside himself. He began to think
that Deede Dawson must have sent the two women away and now have gone
himself.
But there was the pen downstairs with ink still wet upon the nib to
prove that he had been here recently, and again very suddenly Rupert
leaped to his feet and ran noiselessly down the corridor and entered
quickly into Ella's room.
He had not been in it since the night of his arrival at Bittermeads, but
it appeared to him extraordinarily familiar and every little object in
it of ornament or use seemed to speak to him softly of Ella's gracious
presence.
Of Ella herself there was no sign, but he noticed that the tassel at the
end of the window blind cord was moving as if recently disturbed.
The movement was very slight, almost imperceptible, indeed, but it
existed; and it proved that some one must very shortly before have been
standing at the window. He moved to it and looked out.
The view commanded the road by which he had approached Bittermeads, and
he wondered if Ella had been standing there and had seen his approach,
and then had concealed herself for some reason.
But, if so, why and where was she hiding? And where was Deede Dawson?
And why was everything so silent and so still?
He turned from the window, and as he did so he caught a faint sound in
the passage without.
Instantly he crouched behind the bed, the heavy glass inkpot that was
his one weapon poised in his hand.
The sound did not come again, but as he waited, he saw the door begin to
open very slowly, very quietly.
Lower still he crouched, the inkpot ready to throw, every nerve taut and
tense for the leap at his foe's throat with which he meant to follow it
up. The door opened a little more, very slowly, very carefully. It was
wide enough now to admit of entry, and through the opening there sidled,
pale and red-eyed, Ella's mother, looking so frail and feeble and so
ruffled and disturbed she reminded Rupert irresistibly of a frightened
hen.
She edged her way in as though she dared not open the door too widely,
and Rupert hesitated in great perplexity and vexation, for he saw that
he must show himself, and he feared that she would announce his presence
by flight or screams.
But he could not possibly get away without her knowledge; and besides,
she might be able to give him useful information.
He stood up quickly, with his finger to his lips. “Hush!” he said. “Not
a sound--not a sound.” The warning seemed unnecessary, for Mrs. Dawson
appeared too paralysed with fear to utter even the faintest cry as she
dropped tremblingly on the nearest chair.
“Hush! Hush!” he said. “Where is Ella?”
“I--I don't know,” quavered Mrs. Dawson.
“When did you see her last?”
“A little while ago,” Mrs. Dawson faltered. “She went upstairs. She
didn't come down, so I thought I would try to find her.”
“Where's Deede Dawson?” Rupert asked.
“I--I don't know,” she quavered again.
“When did you see him last?”
“I--I--a little while ago,” she faltered. “He went upstairs--he didn't
come down again. I thought I would try to find her--him--I was so
frightened when they didn't either of them come down again.”
It was evident she was far too confused and upset to give any useful
information of any nature, even if she knew anything.
“Deede's been so strange,” she said. “And Ella too. I think it's
very hard on me--dreams, too. He said he wanted her to help him get a
packing-case ready he had to send away somewhere. I don't know where. I
don't think Ella wanted to--”
“A packing-case?” Rupert muttered. “What for?”
“It's what they came upstairs to do,” Mrs. Dawson said. “And--and--”
She began to cry feebly. “It's my nerves,” she said. “He's looked so
strange at us all day--and neither of them has come down again.”