"has entrusted me with the papers in the case and I have the honour to
return to you your letter of a week ago." He handed the letter to
Garvey, who took it without a word and deliberately placed it in the
fire. He was not aware that the secretary was ignorant of its contents,
yet his face betrayed no signs of feeling. Shorthouse noticed, however,
that his eyes never left the fire until the last morsel had been
consumed. Then he looked up and said, "You are familiar then with the
facts of this most peculiar case?"
Shorthouse saw no reason to confess his ignorance.
"I have all the papers, Mr. Garvey," he replied, taking them out of the
bag, "and I should be very glad if we could transact our business as
speedily as possible. If you will cut out your signature I--"
"One moment, please," interrupted the other. "I must, before we proceed
further, consult some papers in my laboratory. If you will allow me to
leave you alone a few minutes for this purpose we can conclude the whole
matter in a very short time."
Shorthouse did not approve of this further delay, but he had no option
than to acquiesce, and when Garvey had left the room by the private door
he sat and waited with the papers in his hand. The minutes went by and
the other did not return. To pass the time he thought of taking the
false packet from his coat to see that the papers were in order, and the
move was indeed almost completed, when something--he never knew
what--warned him to desist. The feeling again came over him that he was
being watched, and he leaned back in his chair with the bag on his knees
and waited with considerable impatience for the other's return. For more
than twenty minutes he waited, and when at length the door opened and
Garvey appeared, with profuse apologies for the delay, he saw by the
clock that only a few minutes still remained of the time he had allowed
himself to catch the last train.
"Now I am completely at your service," he said pleasantly; "you must, of
course, know, Mr. Shorthouse, that one cannot be too careful in matters
of this kind--especially," he went on, speaking very slowly and
impressively, "in dealing with a man like my former partner, whose mind,
as you doubtless may have discovered, is at times very sadly affected."
Shorthouse made no reply to this. He felt that the other was watching
him as a cat watches a mouse.
"It is almost a wonder to me," Garvey added, "that he is still at large.
Unless he has greatly improved it can hardly be safe for those who are
closely associated with him."
The other began to feel uncomfortable. Either this was the other side of
the story, or it was the first signs of mental irresponsibility.
"All business matters of importance require the utmost care in my
opinion, Mr. Garvey," he said at length, cautiously.
"Ah! then, as I thought, you have had a great deal to put up with from
him," Garvey said, with his eyes fixed on his companion's face. "And, no
doubt, he is still as bitter against me as he was years ago when the
disease first showed itself?"
Although this last remark was a deliberate question and the questioner
was waiting with fixed eyes for an answer, Shorthouse elected to take
no notice of it. Without a word he pulled the elastic band from the blue
envelope with a snap and plainly showed his desire to conclude the
business as soon as possible. The tendency on the other's part to delay
did not suit him at all.
"But never personal violence, I trust, Mr. Shorthouse," he added.
"Never."
"I'm glad to hear it," Garvey said in a sympathetic voice, "very glad to
hear it. And now," he went on, "if you are ready we can transact this
little matter of business before dinner. It will only take a moment."
He drew a chair up to the desk and sat down, taking a pair of scissors
from a drawer. His companion approached with the papers in his hand,
unfolding them as he came. Garvey at once took them from him, and after
turning over a few pages he stopped and cut out a piece of writing at
the bottom of the last sheet but one.
Holding it up to him Shorthouse read the words "Joel Garvey" in faded
ink.
"There! That's my signature," he said, "and I've cut it out. It must be
nearly twenty years since I wrote it, and now I'm going to burn it."
He went to the fire and stooped over to burn the little slip of paper,
and while he watched it being consumed Shorthouse put the real papers in
his pocket and slipped the imitation ones into the bag. Garvey turned
just in time to see this latter movement.
"I'm putting the papers back," Shorthouse said quietly; "you've done
with them, I think."
"Certainly," he replied as, completely deceived, he saw the blue
envelope disappear into the black bag and watched Shorthouse turn the
key. "They no longer have the slightest interest for me." As he spoke he
moved over to the sideboard, and pouring himself out a small glass of
whisky asked his visitor if he might do the same for him. But the
visitor declined and was already putting on his overcoat when Garvey
turned with genuine surprise on his face.
"You surely are not going back to New York to-night, Mr. Shorthouse?" he
said, in a voice of astonishment.
"I've just time to catch the 7.15 if I'm quick."
"But I never heard of such a thing," Garvey said. "Of course I took it
for granted that you would stay the night."
"It's kind of you," said Shorthouse, "but really I must return to-night.
I never expected to stay."
The two men stood facing each other. Garvey pulled out his watch.
"I'm exceedingly sorry," he said; "but, upon my word, I took it for
granted you would stay. I ought to have said so long ago. I'm such a
lonely fellow and so little accustomed to visitors that I fear I forgot
my manners altogether. But in any case, Mr. Shorthouse, you cannot catch
the 7.15, for it's already after six o'clock, and that's the last train
to-night." Garvey spoke very quickly, almost eagerly, but his voice
sounded genuine.
"There's time if I walk quickly," said the young man with decision,
moving towards the door. He glanced at his watch as he went. Hitherto he
had gone by the clock on the mantelpiece. To his dismay he saw that it
was, as his host had said, long after six. The clock was half an hour
slow, and he realised at once that it was no longer possible to catch
the train.
Had the hands of the clock been moved back intentionally? Had he been
purposely detained? Unpleasant thoughts flashed into his brain and made
him hesitate before taking the next step. His employer's warning rang in
his ears. The alternative was six miles along a lonely road in the
dark, or a night under Garvey's roof. The former seemed a direct
invitation to catastrophe, if catastrophe there was planned to be. The
latter--well, the choice was certainly small. One thing, however, he
realised, was plain--he must show neither fear nor hesitancy.
"My watch must have gained," he observed quietly, turning the hands back
without looking up. "It seems I have certainly missed that train and
shall be obliged to throw myself upon your hospitality. But, believe me,
I had no intention of putting you out to any such extent."
"I'm delighted," the other said. "Defer to the judgment of an older man
and make yourself comfortable for the night. There's a bitter storm
outside, and you don't put me out at all. On the contrary it's a great
pleasure. I have so little contact with the outside world that it's
really a god-send to have you."
The man's face changed as he spoke. His manner was cordial and sincere.
Shorthouse began to feel ashamed of his doubts and to read between the
lines of his employer's warning. He took off his coat and the two men
moved to the armchairs beside the fire.
"You see," Garvey went on in a lowered voice, "I understand your
hesitancy perfectly. I didn't know Sidebotham all those years without
knowing a good deal about him--perhaps more than you do. I've no doubt,
now, he filled your mind with all sorts of nonsense about me--probably
told you that I was the greatest villain unhung, eh? and all that sort
of thing? Poor fellow! He was a fine sort before his mind became
unhinged. One of his fancies used to be that everybody else was insane,
or just about to become insane. Is he still as bad as that?"
"Few men," replied Shorthouse, with the manner of making a great
confidence, but entirely refusing to be drawn, "go through his
experiences and reach his age without entertaining delusions of one kind
or another."
"Perfectly true," said Garvey. "Your observation is evidently keen."
"Very keen indeed," Shorthouse replied, taking his cue neatly; "but, of
course, there are some things"--and here he looked cautiously over his
shoulder--"there are some things one cannot talk about too
circumspectly."
"I understand perfectly and respect your reserve."
There was a little more conversation and then Garvey got up and excused
himself on the plea of superintending the preparation of the bedroom.
"It's quite an event to have a visitor in the house, and I want to make
you as comfortable as possible," he said. "Marx will do better for a
little supervision. And," he added with a laugh as he stood in the
doorway, "I want you to carry back a good account to Sidebotham."
II
The tall form disappeared and the door was shut. The conversation of the
past few minutes had come somewhat as a revelation to the secretary.
Garvey seemed in full possession of normal instincts. There was no doubt
as to the sincerity of his manner and intentions. The suspicions of the
first hour began to vanish like mist before the sun. Sidebotham's
portentous warnings and the mystery with which he surrounded the whole
episode had been allowed to unduly influence his mind. The loneliness of
the situation and the bleak nature of the surroundings had helped to
complete the illusion. He began to be ashamed of his suspicions and a
change commenced gradually to be wrought in his thoughts. Anyhow a
dinner and a bed were preferable to six miles in the dark, no dinner,
and a cold train into the bargain.
Garvey returned presently. "We'll do the best we can for you," he said,
dropping into the deep armchair on the other side of the fire. "Marx is
a good servant if you watch him all the time. You must always stand over
a Jew, though, if you want things done properly. They're tricky and
uncertain unless they're working for their own interest. But Marx might
be worse, I'll admit. He's been with me for nearly twenty years--cook,
valet, housemaid, and butler all in one. In the old days, you know, he
was a clerk in our office in Chicago."
Garvey rattled on and Shorthouse listened with occasional remarks thrown
in. The former seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to and the sound
of his own voice was evidently sweet music in his ears. After a few
minutes, he crossed over to the sideboard and again took up the decanter
of whisky, holding it to the light. "You will join me this time," he
said pleasantly, pouring out two glasses, "it will give us an appetite
for dinner," and this time Shorthouse did not refuse. The liquor was
mellow and soft and the men took two glasses apiece.
"Excellent," remarked the secretary.
"Glad you appreciate it," said the host, smacking his lips. "It's very
old whisky, and I rarely touch it when I'm alone. But this," he added,
"is a special occasion, isn't it?"
Shorthouse was in the act of putting his glass down when something drew
his eyes suddenly to the other's face. A strange note in the man's voice
caught his attention and communicated alarm to his nerves. A new light
shone in Garvey's eyes and there flitted momentarily across his strong
features the shadow of something that set the secretary's nerves
tingling. A mist spread before his eyes and the unaccountable belief
rose strong in him that he was staring into the visage of an untamed
animal. Close to his heart there was something that was wild, fierce,
savage. An involuntary shiver ran over him and seemed to dispel the
strange fancy as suddenly as it had come. He met the other's eye with a
smile, the counterpart of which in his heart was vivid horror.
"It _is_ a special occasion," he said, as naturally as possible, "and,
allow me to add, very special whisky."
Garvey appeared delighted. He was in the middle of a devious tale
describing how the whisky came originally into his possession when the
door opened behind them and a grating voice announced that dinner was
ready. They followed the cassocked form of Marx across the dirty hall,
lit only by the shaft of light that followed them from the library door,
and entered a small room where a single lamp stood upon a table laid for
dinner. The walls were destitute of pictures, and the windows had
Venetian blinds without curtains. There was no fire in the grate, and
when the men sat down facing each other Shorthouse noticed that, while
his own cover was laid with its due proportion of glasses and cutlery,
his companion had nothing before him but a soup plate, without fork,
knife, or spoon beside it.
"I don't know what there is to offer you," he said; "but I'm sure Marx
has done the best he can at such short notice. I only eat one course for
dinner, but pray take your time and enjoy your food."
Marx presently set a plate of soup before the guest, yet so loathsome
was the immediate presence of this old Hebrew servitor, that the
spoonfuls disappeared somewhat slowly. Garvey sat and watched him.
Shorthouse said the soup was delicious and bravely swallowed another
mouthful. In reality his thoughts were centred upon his companion, whose
manners were giving evidence of a gradual and curious change. There was
a decided difference in his demeanour, a difference that the secretary
_felt_ at first, rather than saw. Garvey's quiet self-possession was
giving place to a degree of suppressed excitement that seemed so far
inexplicable. His movements became quick and nervous, his eye shifting
and strangely brilliant, and his voice, when he spoke, betrayed an
occasional deep tremor. Something unwonted was stirring within him and
evidently demanding every moment more vigorous manifestation as the meal
proceeded.
Intuitively Shorthouse was afraid of this growing excitement, and while
negotiating some uncommonly tough pork chops he tried to lead the
conversation on to the subject of chemistry, of which in his Oxford days
he had been an enthusiastic student. His companion, however, would none
of it. It seemed to have lost interest for him, and he would barely
condescend to respond. When Marx presently returned with a plate of
steaming eggs and bacon the subject dropped of its own accord.
"An inadequate dinner dish," Garvey said, as soon as the man was gone;
"but better than nothing, I hope."
Shorthouse remarked that he was exceedingly fond of bacon and eggs, and,
looking up with the last word, saw that Garvey's face was twitching
convulsively and that he was almost wriggling in his chair. He quieted
down, however, under the secretary's gaze and observed, though evidently
with an effort--
"Very good of you to say so. Wish I could join you, only I never eat
such stuff. I only take one course for dinner."
Shorthouse began to feel some curiosity as to what the nature of this
one course might be, but he made no further remark and contented himself
with noting mentally that his companion's excitement seemed to be
rapidly growing beyond his control. There was something uncanny about
it, and he began to wish he had chosen the alternative of the walk to
the station.
"I'm glad to see you never speak when Marx is in the room," said Garvey
presently. "I'm sure it's better not. Don't you think so?"
He appeared to wait eagerly for the answer.
"Undoubtedly," said the puzzled secretary.
"Yes," the other went on quickly. "He's an excellent man, but he has
one drawback--a really horrid one. You may--but, no, you could hardly
have noticed it yet."
"Not drink, I trust," said Shorthouse, who would rather have discussed
any other subject than the odious Jew.
"Worse than that a great deal," Garvey replied, evidently expecting the
other to draw him out. But Shorthouse was in no mood to hear anything
horrible, and he declined to step into the trap.
"The best of servants have their faults," he said coldly.
"I'll tell you what it is if you like," Garvey went on, still speaking
very low and leaning forward over the table so that his face came close
to the flame of the lamp, "only we must speak quietly in case he's
listening. I'll tell you what it is--if you think you won't be
frightened."
"Nothing frightens me," he laughed. (Garvey must understand that at all
events.) "Nothing can frighten me," he repeated.
"I'm glad of that; for it frightens _me_ a good deal sometimes."
Shorthouse feigned indifference. Yet he was aware that his heart was
beating a little quicker and that there was a sensation of chilliness in
his back. He waited in silence for what was to come.
"He has a horrible predilection for vacuums," Garvey went on presently
in a still lower voice and thrusting his face farther forward under the
lamp.
"Vacuums!" exclaimed the secretary in spite of himself. "What in the
world do you mean?"
"What I say of course. He's always tumbling into them, so that I can't
find him or get at him. He hides there for hours at a time, and for the
life of me I can't make out what he does there."
Shorthouse stared his companion straight in the eyes. What in the name
of Heaven was he talking about?
"Do you suppose he goes there for a change of air, or--or to escape?" he
went on in a louder voice.
Shorthouse could have laughed outright but for the expression of the
other's face.
"I should not think there was much air of any sort in a vacuum," he said
quietly.
"That's exactly what _I_ feel," continued Garvey with ever growing
excitement. "That's the horrid part of it. How the devil does he live
there? You see--"
"Have you ever followed him there?" interrupted the secretary. The
other leaned back in his chair and drew a deep sigh.
"Never! It's impossible. You see I can't follow him. There's not room
for two. A vacuum only holds one comfortably. Marx knows that. He's out
of my reach altogether once he's fairly inside. He knows the best side
of a bargain. He's a regular Jew."
"That is a drawback to a servant, of course--" Shorthouse spoke slowly,
with his eyes on his plate.
"A drawback," interrupted the other with an ugly chuckle, "I call it a
draw-in, that's what I call it."
"A draw-in does seem a more accurate term," assented Shorthouse. "But,"
he went on, "I thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She used to, when
I was at school--though perhaps--it's so long ago--"
He hesitated and looked up. Something in Garvey's face--something he had
_felt_ before he looked up--stopped his tongue and froze the words in
his throat. His lips refused to move and became suddenly dry. Again the
mist rose before his eyes and the appalling shadow dropped its veil over
the face before him. Garvey's features began to burn and glow. Then they
seemed to coarsen and somehow slip confusedly together. He stared for a
second--it seemed only for a second--into the visage of a ferocious and
abominable animal; and then, as suddenly as it had come, the filthy
shadow of the beast passed off, the mist melted out, and with a mighty
effort over his nerves he forced himself to finish his sentence.
"You see it's so long since I've given attention to such things," he
stammered. His heart was beating rapidly, and a feeling of oppression
was gathering over it.
"It's my peculiar and special study on the other hand," Garvey resumed.
"I've not spent all these years in my laboratory to no purpose, I can
assure you. Nature, I know for a fact," he added with unnatural warmth,
"does _not_ abhor a vacuum. On the contrary, she's uncommonly fond of
'em, much too fond, it seems, for the comfort of my little household. If
there were fewer vacuums and more abhorrence we should get on better--a
damned sight better in my opinion."
"Your special knowledge, no doubt, enables you to speak with authority,"
Shorthouse said, curiosity and alarm warring with other mixed feelings
in his mind; "but how _can_ a man tumble into a vacuum?"
"You may well ask. That's just it. How can he? It's preposterous and I
can't make it out at all. Marx knows, but he won't tell me. Jews know
more than we do. For my part I have reason to believe--" He stopped and
listened. "Hush! here he comes," he added, rubbing his hands together as
if in glee and fidgeting in his chair.
Steps were heard coming down the passage, and as they approached the
door Garvey seemed to give himself completely over to an excitement he
could not control. His eyes were fixed on the door and he began
clutching the tablecloth with both hands. Again his face was screened by
the loathsome shadow. It grew wild, wolfish. As through a mask, that
concealed, and yet was thin enough to let through a suggestion of, the
beast crouching behind, there leaped into his countenance the strange
look of the animal in the human--the expression of the were-wolf, the
monster. The change in all its loathsomeness came rapidly over his
features, which began to lose their outline. The nose flattened,
dropping with broad nostrils over thick lips. The face rounded, filled,
and became squat. The eyes, which, luckily for Shorthouse, no longer
sought his own, glowed with the light of untamed appetite and bestial
greed. The hands left the cloth and grasped the edges of the plate, and
then clutched the cloth again.
"This is _my_ course coming now," said Garvey, in a deep guttural voice.
He was shivering. His upper lip was partly lifted and showed the teeth,
white and gleaming.
A moment later the door opened and Marx hurried into the room and set a
dish in front of his master. Garvey half rose to meet him, stretching
out his hands and grinning horribly. With his mouth he made a sound like
the snarl of an animal. The dish before him was steaming, but the slight
vapour rising from it betrayed by its odour that it was not born of a
fire of coals. It was the natural heat of flesh warmed by the fires of
life only just expelled. The moment the dish rested on the table Garvey
pushed away his own plate and drew the other up close under his mouth.
Then he seized the food in both hands and commenced to tear it with his
teeth, grunting as he did so. Shorthouse closed his eyes, with a feeling
of nausea. When he looked up again the lips and jaw of the man opposite
were stained with crimson. The whole man was transformed. A feasting
tiger, starved and ravenous, but without a tiger's grace--this was what
he watched for several minutes, transfixed with horror and disgust.
Marx had already taken his departure, knowing evidently what was not
good for the eyes to look upon, and Shorthouse knew at last that he was
sitting face to face with a madman.
The ghastly meal was finished in an incredibly short time and nothing
was left but a tiny pool of red liquid rapidly hardening. Garvey leaned
back heavily in his chair and sighed. His smeared face, withdrawn now
from the glare of the lamp, began to resume its normal appearance.
Presently he looked up at his guest and said in his natural voice--
"I hope you've had enough to eat. You wouldn't care for this, you know,"
with a downward glance.
Shorthouse met his eyes with an inward loathing, and it was impossible
not to show some of the repugnance he felt. In the other's face,
however, he thought he saw a subdued, cowed expression. But he found
nothing to say.
"Marx will be in presently," Garvey went on. "He's either listening, or
in a vacuum."
"Does he choose any particular time for his visits?" the secretary
managed to ask.
"He generally goes after dinner; just about this time, in fact. But he's
not gone yet," he added, shrugging his shoulders, "for I think I hear
him coming."
Shorthouse wondered whether vacuum was possibly synonymous with wine
cellar, but gave no expression to his thoughts. With chills of horror
still running up and down his back, he saw Marx come in with a basin and
towel, while Garvey thrust up his face just as an animal puts up its
muzzle to be rubbed.
"Now we'll have coffee in the library, if you're ready," he said, in the
tone of a gentleman addressing his guests after a dinner party.
Shorthouse picked up the bag, which had lain all this time between his
feet, and walked through the door his host held open for him. Side by
side they crossed the dark hall together, and, to his disgust, Garvey
linked an arm in his, and with his face so close to the secretary's ear
that he felt the warm breath, said in a thick voice--
"You're uncommonly careful with that bag, Mr. Shorthouse. It surely must
contain something more than the bundle of papers."
"Nothing but the papers," he answered, feeling the hand burning upon his
arm and wishing he were miles away from the house and its abominable
occupants.