I
The atmosphere of the room in which Sergius Blake was sitting seemed to
him strange and cold. As he looked round it, he could imagine that a
light mist invaded it stealthily, like miasma rising from some sinister
marsh. There was surely a cloud about the electric light that gleamed in
the ceiling, a cloud sweeping in feathery, white flakes across the faces
of the pictures upon the wall. Even the familiar furniture seemed to
loom out faintly, with a gaunt and grotesque aspect, from shadows less
real, yet more fearful, than any living form could be.
Sergius stared round him slowly, pressing his strong lips together. When
he concentrated his gaze upon any one thing--a table, a sofa, a
chair--the cloud faded, and the object stood out clearly before his
eyes. Yet always the rest of the room seemed to lie in mist and in
shadows. He knew that this dim atmosphere did not really exist, that it
was projected by his mind. Yet it troubled him, and added a dull horror
to his thoughts, which moved again and again, in persistent promenade,
round one idea.
The hour was seven o'clock of an autumn night. Darkness lay over
London, and rain made a furtive music on roofs and pavements. Sergius
Blake listened to the drops upon the panes of his windows. They seemed
to beckon him forth, to tell him that it was time to exchange thought
for action. He had come to a definite and tremendous resolution. He must
now carry it out.
He got up slowly from his chair, and with the movement the mist seemed
to gather itself together in the room and to disappear. It passed away,
evaporating among the pictures and ornaments, the prayer-rugs and
divans. A clearness and an insight came to Sergius. He stood still by
the piano, on which he rested one hand lightly, and listened. The
rain-drops pattered close by. Beyond them rose the dull music of the
evening traffic of New Bond Street, in which thoroughfare he lived. As
he stood thus at attention, his young and handsome face seemed carved in
stone. His lips were set in a hard and straight line. His dark-grey eyes
stared, like eyes in a photograph. The muscles of his long-fingered
hands were tense and knotted. He was in evening dress, and had been
engaged to dine in Curzon Street; but he had written a hasty note to say
he was ill and could not come. Another appointment claimed him. He had
made it for himself.
Presently, lifting his hand from the piano, he took up a small leather
case from a table that stood near, opened it, and drew out a revolver.
He examined it carefully. Two chambers were loaded. They would be
enough. He put on his long overcoat, and slipped the revolver into his
left breast pocket. His heart could beat against it there.
Each time his heart pulsed, Sergius seemed to hear the silence of
another heart.
And now, though his mind was quite clear, and the mists and shadows had
slunk away, his familiar room looked very peculiar to him. The very
chair in which he generally sat wore the aspect of a stranger. Was the
wall paper really blue? Sergius went close up to it and examined it
narrowly, and then he drew back and laughed softly, like a child. In the
sound of his laugh irresponsibility chimed. "What is the cab fare to
Phillimore Place, Kensington?" he thought, searching in his waistcoat
pocket. "Half a crown?" He put the coin carefully in the ticket pocket
of his overcoat, buttoned the coat up slowly, took his hat and stick,
and drew on a pair of lavender gloves. Just then a new thought seemed to
strike him and he glanced down at his hands.
"Lavender gloves for such a deed!" he murmured. For a moment he paused
irresolute, even partially unbuttoned them. But then he smiled and shook
his head. In some way the gloves would not be wholly inappropriate.
Sergius cast one final glance round the room.
"When I stand here again," he said aloud, "I shall be a criminal--a
criminal!"
He repeated the last word, as if trying thoroughly to realise its
meaning.
Then he opened the door swiftly and went out on to the staircase.
Just as he was putting a hasty foot upon the first stair, a man out in
the street touched his electric bell. Its thin tingling cry made Sergius
start and hesitate. In the semi-twilight he waited, his hands deep in
his pockets, his silk hat tilted slightly over his eyes. The porter
tramped along the passage below. The hall door opened, and a deep and
strong voice asked, rather anxiously and breathlessly:--
"Is Mr. Blake at home?"
"I rather think he's gone out, sir."
"No--surely--how long ago?"
"I don't know, sir. He may be in. I'll see."
"Do--do--quickly. If he's in, say I must see him--Mr Endover. But you
know my name."
"Yes, sir."
The porter, mounting the stone staircase, suddenly came upon Sergius
standing there like a stone figure.
"Lord, sir!" he ejaculated. "You give me a start!" His voice was loud
from astonishment.
"Hush!" Sergius whispered. "Go down at once and say that I've gone out!"
The man turned to obey, but Anthony Endover was half-way up the stairs.
"It's all right," he exclaimed, as he met the porter.
He had passed him in an instant and arrived at the place where Sergius
was standing.
"Sergius," he cried, and there was a great music of relief in his voice.
"Hulloa! Now you're not going out."
"Yes, I am, Anthony."
"But I want to talk to you tremendously. Where are you going?"
"To dine with the Venables in Curzon Street."
"I met young Venables just now, and he said you'd written that you were
ill and couldn't come. He asked me to fill your place."
Sergius muttered a "Damn!" under his breath.
"Well, come in for a minute," he said, attempting no excuse.
He turned round slowly and re-entered his flat, followed by Endover.