THE BOTTOM DRAWER
That night he realised his own picture.
One o'clock was the hour suggested by Miss Casata. Twenty times before
that hour arrived he told himself that he had better return to
Africa--ghosts or no ghosts--than do this thing. It seemed to him that
dishonour hedged him round about; that whichever way he went he would
find himself among the thorns. If he did this thing he would break his
plighted word; quite possibly lose his love and his fortune too. If he
did the other he might quite possibly find himself up to the neck in a
slough of misunderstandings--to speak of nothing worse--from which he
could never emerge as clean as he went in. The choice was a pleasant
one. Yet he never hesitated as to which horn of the dilemma he would
thrust himself on. Although very much against his will, he was set on
burglary. And, being once resolved, set about the business, to all
outward appearances, as calmly as if such incidents were the mere
trivialities of his nightly life.
At a quarter after midnight he started to stroll from Charing Cross.
At the half hour he was sauntering in the Westminster Abbey Gardens.
He glanced along Victoria Street as far as he could see. An occasional
omnibus came rumbling along. Cabs flitted to and fro; sometimes
carriages. But foot passengers were few and far between. And, so far
as could be seen from the street, the buildings on either side of the
way were in darkness.
He strolled gently on, swinging his stick, smoking a cigar, as any
other gentleman might have done who enjoyed the cool night air. Under
a lamp-post stood a policeman. Mr Holland smiled.
'Good-night, officer!'
He bestowed on him a genial salutation, which the other returned in
kind.
'Good-night, sir.'
He seemed rather a youngish man, well set up, with broad shoulders and
a shrewd face. Mr Holland wondered if he should have any professional
intercourse with him before the night was over. He laughed to himself
as he thought of it. When he had gone some distance further he stopped
and turned. The constable had vanished. Presumably his duty had led
him down one of the side streets. An omnibus was coming in one
direction, a couple of cabs in the other. Miss Bewicke's rooms were
close at hand. Should he let the vehicles pass before he came to
business? It was not yet one. He hesitated, then walked slowly past
the house, noticing as he went that the front door was closed. What
did it mean? Was he supposed to knock, calling upon the porter to let
him in? The notion was absurd. Perhaps Miss Casata had only been
playing with him after all.
At the idea he laughed again. What would Miss Broad say--and think--if
the woman had promised more than she could perform? He went nearly as
far as Victoria, then retraced his steps. As he approached the house
again Big Ben struck one. He stopped, threw away the butt of his
cigar, moved to the door. There was a handle. He turned it, it
yielded, the door was open.
So it seemed that there was some sort of method in Miss Casata's
madness.
The question was, Where was the porter? Was he within? Upstairs or
down? He peeped inside the door, or tried to. The street lamps did not
penetrate; it was pitch dark. He entered, closing the door behind him.
All was still. As he listened, seeking to peer this way and that, it
seemed to him that the darkness was like a wall on every side.
'What am I to do? I shall tumble over something if I don't look out; I
don't even know where the staircase is: Dare I strike a match? I
wonder what professionals do under circumstances such as these. I've
heard of their carrying dark lanterns, and such-like mysterious
things. Unfortunately, I haven't got so far as that, though there's no
knowing how far I shall get before I've done.'
He moved forward, and kicked against something which made a noise.
'This will never do. I shall come to grief if I don't look out. It'll
have to be a match.'
He struck one; it ignited with a spluttering noise which seemed to him
to resemble the explosion of a dynamite cartridge, fizzled, then went
out.
'This is pretty. But I caught a glimpse of the staircase. I suppose
I'll have to be content with seeing so much.'
He felt his way to the stairs, presently had his hand upon the rail,
then commenced to ascend. All at once he stopped.
'Hanged if I haven't forgotten on which floor her rooms are! That's a
comfortable state of affairs. I can't go prowling all over the place
playing a game of hide-and-seek with Miss Bewicke's rooms. There'd be
trouble. Now, what am I to do?'
The question was answered in rather a curious way. Looking up he
gradually became conscious of what looked like a gleam of light
somewhere overhead.
'I wonder if that's a hint to me, or if it's the porter. I'm off to
inquire. If it's the porter I'll have to explain.'
He chuckled to himself at the reflection of the sort of explanation he
would have to offer. He continued to ascend.
'I hope it's all right, but it seems a good way up. I didn't think she
occupied quite such an elevated position as this.'
He reached the floor on which was the light, perceiving now that it
proceeded from a door upon the right which was open but the merest
fraction of an inch.
'Is that where she resides? I wonder. At least I'll make inquiries.
I'll knock, as an honest man should do, and see who answers.'
He tapped at the panel softly with his knuckles, so softly that one
might have been excused for supposing he had no desire that his
tapping should be heard. There was no response. He tapped again; still
none. He pushed the door wider open, finding himself in what appeared,
in the dim light, to be a little hall. Another open door was on his
right. It was on the other side of this that the light was burning. He
remembered what Miss Casata had said about Miss Bewicke's bedroom;
that it was the second door on his right as he entered. Apparently she
had been as good as her word; better, indeed, for she had placed a
light to guide him. He advanced to find himself in what was evidently
a lady's bedroom.
A night light flickered on a table in the centre; it was that which
had lightened his darkness. He glanced around. Everywhere were traces
of feminine occupation; knick-knacks which no man would willingly
suffer in the chamber in which he slept; numerous examples of the
inevitable photograph. Against a wall hung a crayon portrait. He
recognised the original--the owner of the room. The pictured face
seemed to return him look for look, reproaches in its glances. He
removed his eyes, abashed.
On one side was the dressing-table of which Miss Casata had spoken.
A gorgeous piece of furniture, of some delicate light wood, with
gilt and ivory insets. Columns of drawers were on either side; a
full-length cheval glass swung between them. As he stood in front of
it he was startled by the reflection of his own image; he felt that
there was something sinister in the bearing of the man who spied on
him. The little drawers were those of which he had been told. They
contained many of Miss Bewicke's jewels. What he sought was in the
bottom drawer upon his right. Somehow, since he had entered the house,
everything seemed on his right. He stooped to open it. The drawer was
locked.
The discovery staggered him more than anything which had gone
before--that the drawer was locked. At last he was confronted with the
real nature of the errand he had come upon. Hitherto he had been able
to salve his conscience with the fact that he had simply passed
through open doors. Now, if he wished to effect an entrance he would
have to force one, like any other thief. He gave another try at the
handle. The drawer refused to budge. It certainly was locked. His eye
was caught by something which was lying upon the floor, within a foot
of him. It was a screwdriver. The juxtaposition was suggestive; the
screwdriver, and the locked drawer. Miss Casata was no half-hearted
ally; she was thorough. She was aware that, as an amateur, he might
forget to bring the proper tools; so, with praiseworthy
thoughtfulness, she had supplied, in advance, his possible omissions.
He was not so grateful as he might have been. He used strong language.
'Curse that woman! It is such as she who drive men along the road to
hell.'
None the less he took the screwdriver in his hand. He felt its edge.
It seemed sharp.
'I suppose, since I've gone so far, I may as well see the thing right
through. It's no good shying at a gnat after tackling a whale. Here
goes!'
Thrusting the chisel between the woodwork and the drawer, he proceeded
to prise it open. The lock was but a slight one. It quickly yielded.
The drawer shot out. He peered within. It contained a small white box,
apparently of deal. He took it out. Inside was a ruby signet ring. He
rose with the ring between his fingers.
As he stood up, someone came into the room. Turning, he found himself
staring at Miss Bewicke.