In a second she had recovered, and had leapt out of bed. Better the
known than the unknown. All fear had vanished; she would face Dorn and
have the truth. Snatching up her dressing-gown, she went to the door,
turned the key noiselessly and ran down the dark stairs.
The drawing-room faced her as she came on to the landing, and she did
not hesitate, but flung open the door. The place was in darkness, and
reaching out, she felt for the light switches and turned them. The
room was empty; there was no sound save the musical ticking of a
French clock on the mantelpiece, no sign of Michael Dorn or of his
unknown companion. She gazed bewildered. Then she heard a noise behind
her and spun round.
“What is it?”
It was the countess, who slept on the same floor as the girl.
“Turn on the landing lights,” said the woman calmly, and when she did
so, Lois saw the older woman standing on the landing above, wrapped in
a white ermine coat, as calm and imperturbable as ever.
“I thought I heard voices and came down.”
“In the drawing-room? Of course, it is under your bedroom!”
Lady Moron descended the stairs without haste and walked into the
salon.
“You must have been mistaken, there’s nobody here,” she said. “I’m
afraid your nerves are on edge. The opening of your door woke me. What
did the noise sound like? The windows are fastened. None of the
furniture has been moved.”
“I heard somebody speaking,” said Lois.
“Go to bed, my child.”
Her large hand patted the girl gently on the shoulder, and Lois went
meekly up the stairs and into her room.
She came down to breakfast the next morning feeling a wreck, and
Lizzy, warned by her friend, made no reference at the table to the
voices of the night. She saw the girl off and came back to the
dining-room. A footman was clearing the table under Braime’s watchful
eye. When the man had gone:
“Her ladyship says you heard somebody speaking in the night, Miss
Reddle?”
“I thought I did. Perhaps I was dreaming, or only imagined that I
heard her ladyship in my sleep.”
“Lady Moron did not go into the drawing-room last night,” was the
surprising reply.
Lois stared at the man, who went on:
“Her ladyship went into the library, but you would not hear her from
your apartment.”
The library! That was where the microphone was fixed, and all the time
she had been talking to Lady Moron on the landing Michael Dorn and his
assistant had been on the floor below. The library was situated on the
ground floor at the back of the house. She was thankful that she had
not found him whilst that watchful woman was hovering in the
background.
“I thought I heard you come out of your room, miss,” Braime continued;
“in fact, I was on the point of coming downstairs when her ladyship
came up. By the way, her ladyship will not be down until one o’clock,
miss, she has two friends coming to lunch. She asked me if you would
deal with any letters which are not marked personal.”
Lois was in the midst of this occupation when Lord Moron came into the
drawing-room, a nervous and apprehensive man.
“’Morning, Miss Reddle,” he said, eyeing her keenly. “Well?”
“Not very well, thank you!” smiled Lois.
“Queer house this,” he mumbled. “All sorts of odd noises. These old
places are like that, you know. Nothing disturbed you, I suppose?
Nobody--er--talking in the street?”
“No, nothing disturbed me,” she said untruthfully, and he heaved a
sigh of relief.
“Awfully glad. You don’t mind my going into your room to get the
things I left behind, do you? I say, don’t mention this to her
ladyship, will you, because she thinks I’m a careless devil and she’ll
rag me most fearfully!”
Lois promised, and he hurried from the room. When she went up to
prepare for luncheon, she examined the canopy and found, as she had
expected, that the microphone and its attachments had been removed.
In other circumstances she might have been amused, but she was
conscious that a terrible danger was hovering over her, and in some
way that the menace was associated with the countess and her friend.
“Lois Reddle is near to death!” She shivered at the recollection.
Twice in a week she had escaped destruction by a hair’s breadth. Those
were not accidents; she was sure now. But who could desire her harm?
And what had the photograph of the young man in uniform to do with
her?
On one point she was determined, and she had confided her intention to
Lizzy that morning whilst they were dressing, before they came down to
breakfast. She must leave this house and take the risk of unemployment
for a while.
Lady Moron came into the drawing-room just before lunch, looked over
the letters and signed such as required her signature, and then Lois
broke the news. To her surprise the big woman was neither indignant
nor entreating.
“When I saw you early this morning I was afraid this would happen,”
she said. “And really I cannot blame you, Miss Reddle. You have had a
most terrifying experience, though I believe that last night’s trouble
was purely imaginary.”
Lois said nothing.
“When do you wish to go? As soon as possible, I gather from your
hesitation. Very well, I am not blaming you. I feel partly to blame,
and I will pay you a month’s salary and arrange for you to leave
to-morrow.”
The two visitors were Chesney Praye and a man whom Lois had not seen
before, though she had heard his lordship’s views on him. Later she
felt she had no particular desire to meet him again. He was a bald man
of fifty, with a face even redder than Mr. Praye’s, a big, bulbous
nose, a loose mouth. She might, had she met him in the street and not
in this chaste atmosphere, have analysed him as a typical drunkard.
Nor would that description have been uncharitable. His frock coat was
old and shone at the seams, and she observed that he had made only a
half-hearted attempt to make his nails presentable.
“I want you to meet Dr. Tappatt.”
So this was the famous doctor. She was not impressed.
“Glad to meet you, young lady, very glad to meet you,” said the doctor
with spurious heartiness. And with his words came the faint aroma of
something that was not entirely whisky and not entirely cloves. “This
is the young person your ladyship was speaking about? Hears voices,
eh? Dear, dear, that’s a bad symptom,” he chuckled, “a very bad
symptom. Eh, Chesney? We’ve had ’em for that! We’ve had ’em for that!”
Lois saw the butler fill this strange creature’s glass with wine, and
when she looked again the glass was empty. Apparently Braime, if he
did not already know the peculiarities of the guest, had been
carefully coached, for, without asking, he had refilled the glass.
Lord Moron appeared at the lunch table, a sulky and silent young man,
his face less extensively plastered.
“Had an accident, eh? Been in a railway smash?” demanded the doctor.
“Your lordship should be more careful.”
“I haven’t been in a railway accident,” said Selwyn sulkily.
He evidently knew the doctor, and the girl had a feeling that he was
afraid of him, for once or twice she saw him glancing furtively and a
little fearfully in the direction of the untidy man.
“There’s another one who hears voices, eh? Your lordship hasn’t been
followed by a dog--a nice black dog with a waggly tail, eh?”
“No, I haven’t,” almost shouted Lord Moron, going red and white. “I
never said I had, did I? I’m perfectly--I know what I’m doing and all
that sort of thing. You leave me alone, sir.”
It was in every way an uncomfortable meal for Lois Reddle. The
glowering resentment of Moron, the calm indifference of his mother,
the crude jocularity of Chesney Praye, and the presence of the doctor,
who, when he was not drinking, was boasting of the wonderful cures he
had effected in India, brought a sense of nightmare to the girl. Only
once more did Dr. Tappatt turn his attention to Lois.
“What’s this I hear about your trying to throw yourself over the
balcony? Come, come, young lady, that will never do!” He wagged his
animal face at her, and the bloodshot eyes gleamed unpleasantly.
“Don’t be stupid.” It was Lady Moron who spoke. “The balcony gave way
under Miss Reddle; there was no suggestion that she attempted to throw
herself into the street.”
“A joke, a mere jest,” said the doctor unabashed, and pushed his glass
towards the watchful Braime. “That’s a good wine of yours, your
ladyship, a fine, full-bodied wine with a generous bouquet.
Romanee-Conti, I think?”
“Clos de Vougeot,” corrected the countess.
“There is very little difference between the wines of Vougeot and
Vosne,” said the connoisseur. “As a rule, I prefer the Conti, but your
ladyship has converted me.”
The lunch did not end soon enough for Lois. When the countess had
risen, she strolled to where her son was standing.
“When you come down to dinner to-night, be so good as to have the last
of that ridiculous plaster taken from your face. I wish, at any rate,
that you should look like a gentleman and not like a prize-fighter.”
She mouthed the words deliberately. “Otherwise, perhaps I shall have
to consult Dr. Tappatt.”
Lord Moron shrunk at the ominous words, and his muttered rejoinder did
not reach Lois’ ears.
The suggestion that she should work in the library was one which Lois
was glad to accept; for beyond a glimpse, she had never seen the room
wherein the Countess of Moron spent so many hours with her jigsaw
puzzles. And there was another reason; she must find the artfully
concealed microphone which Lord Moron had installed.
It was a pleasant room, low-roofed and long, and ran from the wall of
the reception-room at the front of the house to a small conservatory
which hid the ugliness of the tiny courtyard at the back. Every wall
was covered with bookshelves, and there were, in addition, more than a
dozen big filing cabinets in which the countess had accumulated, and
carefully docketed, the little souvenirs which had come to her in the
course of her life; theatre programmes, newspaper cuttings,
correspondence which most people would not have thought worth
preserving. But Lady Moron was a methodical woman and had a horror of
waste. This she told the girl when she introduced her to the room.
Left alone, Lois made a careful inspection of the library, without,
however, discovering the hidden receiver or its wiring. She noticed
that one section of the bookcase was covered by a strong door, covered
with fine wire mesh, through which the titles could be seen; and
studying these in the ample leisure she had, she was more than a
little surprised at the precautions taken to prevent casual reading of
this forbidden library. The books were of the most innocuous type, and
she surmised that there had been a time when this section held
literature less innocent.
She had finished her work and was browsing about the books, taking
down one after the other and glancing at their contents, when Braime
came in. One glance at the man told her that something unusual had
happened. His face was twitching, and he was evidently labouring under
the stress of great excitement which he had not succeeded wholly in
suppressing.
“Will you go to the dining-room, miss? There’s a gentleman wishes to
see you.”
“A gentleman? Who is it?”
“I don’t know his name,” said the man, “but if he’s not there, will
you wait for him?”
“But who is it, Braime? Didn’t he give his name?”
“No, miss.” The hands clasped before him were trembling, his eyes held
a strange light.
“In the dining-room?” she said as she went out.
“Yes, miss.”
To her surprise, when she looked round, she found he had not
accompanied her. The dining-room was empty, except for Jean, her maid.
The girl was engaged in dusting, and seemed surprised at the arrival
of Lois.
“Braime told me a gentleman was waiting to see me?”
Jean shook her head.
“I don’t know anything about a gentleman, miss, but I do know one
thing,” she said viciously. “_He’s_ no gentleman. I caught him coming
out of the countess’ room just now and I’m going to tell her ladyship.
A sneaking, prying----”
“Please find out who it is wishes to see me,” said the puzzled girl.
“Perhaps he is in the hall.”
Jean went out, but returned in a few minutes, shaking her head.
“Nobody is there, miss. Thomas, the footman, says that there have been
no callers since Dr. Tappatt left. Mr. Praye is with her ladyship in
the drawing-room.”
What did this mean? Lois frowned. Braime’s story was obviously an
excuse to get her out of the room. She hurried back to the library.
The door was closed and she threw it open.
“Braime----” she began, and then stopped and said no more.
The butler lay on his back in the middle of the floor, a silent,
motionless figure, a look of agony on his white face, his lips
distorted in a grimace of agony.