THE MISSING PAGE
Robert Baxter was the first to hear the good news, and, being a young
man of few words, he lighted a candle and made straight for the wine
cellar. In a few moments he returned empty handed.
"It's mighty funny," he said to Lionel. "There was a whole case last
week--all but one quart, and it's disappeared, case and all! And
what's more, that '66 brandy is gone, too. I'm certain there were at
least half a dozen left. What do you make of it?"
Lionel tugged at his mustache.
"Well, if you ask me, old chap, I don't mind telling you I never did
like the cut of Parker's sidewhiskers."
"Parker!" exclaimed Bob. "It doesn't seem possible. You never saw
such references as he brought. There were two bishops and a prime
minister. It's queer, though," he added, as he relocked the cellar
door.
At the supper table, much to the Storm girl's relief, her services
were not required. There were no more secrets to be learned and
to-morrow she would offer to call at the club for the golf bag. No,
that would look suspicious--well, she would think out a plan, she
would manage it some way.
In a great chair at Horatio's side sat little An Petronia, who, at
the curate's request, had been allowed to join the happy gathering.
Clasped in her hand was a priceless nectarine (too marvelous for
human food) and her watchful eyes were fixed on the door fearful each
moment of the apparition of a beckoning grandmother and the End of
Things.
And now every one was eager to hear the curate's story, all but
Martin Luther, who showed not the slightest interest. It was enough
for him that his dear friend was safe and sound. What more could
anybody want? In recognition of his conspicuous services, Martin
Luther had been awarded a special fish, which now existed only in a
beautiful dream as Martin lay fast asleep in the lap of An Petronia.
The curate's story did not take long to tell. When he walked out of
the dining room this morning to vanish so strangely, his only thought
was to get out of doors and, snatching his hat from the antlers in
the hall, he passed quickly through the open front door. Then,
remembering that Martin Luther had not had any luncheon, he changed
his mind and went straight to the kitchen, entering by the outside
door instead of returning to the house, which accounted for Lionel's
not seeing him.
As Horatio was about to enter the kitchen, he was startled by the
sound of steps. He stood still with his hand on the knob and
listened. Who could be in the kitchen? Every one was upstairs in
the dining room, every one who had any right in the house.
He opened the door quietly. No one was there. Again he listened.
There was somebody in the passage, the dark stone passage that led to
the wine cellar and to the well room further on. Horatio tiptoed
across the kitchen and peered through the archway. There was a faint
yellow flicker in the gloom at the turn of the passage. The curate
wondered what anybody could be doing in the well room. The servants
never went near it. For one thing it had no window and there was
something frightening about the black oblong of the well in the
middle of the stone floor. It reminded Horatio of a picture by Doré
in Dante's "Inferno," and, according to Parker (who claimed to have
read it in a book) it was in that very well that the pious Lady
Ysobel had been drowned. Once he had seen the Gray Lady sitting on
the edge of the well wringing her hands and "weeping and wailing most
orful." It had given him the "willys" for a week.
Keeping close to the wall, the curate crept cautiously along the
passage. The well room door was almost closed. Fearful lest it
should creak, he opened it slowly toward him, inch by inch. At this
point in the story the curate paused to relieve his throat with a
glass of water.
"Weren't you frightened, Daddy Merle?" squeaked An Petronia,
thrilling with delicious terror.
"Yes, my dear," said Horatio. "When I opened that door and saw where
that light came from I am compelled to admit that I was frightened."
Again the curate paused, this time to wipe his lips with the napkin.
Martin Luther opened his eyes and yawned, stretching his fore paws
straight out in front of him, the very image of a sleepy sphinx.
"Isn't that story finished yet?" he mewed, then raising himself
slowly to his feet he stepped over the arm of An Petronia's chair and
curled up to sleep in the curate's lap.
"Well, my dear?" queried Harriet impatiently.
"I say!" cried Lionel, "what about the light?"
"The light came from the well," replied the curate.
Then he related how, as he stared at the well, half expecting to see
the Gray Lady rise slowly out of its depths, there appeared, instead,
a human hand holding--"What do you think it was holding?" he asked
looking at each in turn.
"A dagger, of course," laughed Kate.
"A golden key," came timidly from An Petronia.
"If it wasn't an umbrella, I give it up," said Lionel.
"Go on! Tell us!" urged Harriet.
Robert Baxter had just achieved a perfect smoke ring. He watched it
soar upward and melt away, then questioned quietly. "A bottle of
champagne?"
"My dear Mr. Baxter, that's exactly what it was," said the curate.
Lionel slapped his knee vigorously. "Parker! By Jove! Five to one
it was Parker!"
The curate's eyes blinked with amazement. "Bless my soul! How did
you know that?"
"Oh, I just put two and two together," drawled Lionel, "and it made
Parker."
"Fortunately Parker didn't see me," continued Horatio, "and as he
reached down for another bottle I slipped back into the passage and
behind the door. It was a dreadful moment. You may not believe it,
I suppose I was a little unstrung, but I had an uncontrollable desire
to laugh. I pressed my hands over my mouth, but I fear that only
made it worse--it was like new wine in an old bottle--I simply
exploded."
"Horatio! You didn't laugh?" exclaimed Harriet.
"My dear Harriet, it burst through my fingers. You have often
complained of my laugh, Harriet, but this was much worse. It must
have sounded like that strange cry of the American natives."
Bob looked up, puzzled. "American natives?"
"I take it so," replied Horatio. "I heard it once at Earl's Court at
the Wild West Show. It is apparently produced by a rapid oscillation
of the palm of the hand against the mouth while enunciating with
great force the sound of the fifth vowel."
Bob laughed uproariously. "Oh, yes, of course! That's the sound the
squaws make when they go shopping on Broadway."
"Dear me," exclaimed the curate, "what an interesting custom!
Harriet, love," he turned to his wife, "remind me to make a note of
what Mr. Baxter has just told us about the squaws going shopping on
Broadway."
Bob's laugh took on a doubtful ring--he was never quite sure with
Horatio whether the joke was on himself or on the curate.
"Whatever it sounded like," continued Merle, "the effect was most
astonishing. I could see through the hinge-crack. Parker shot out
of that well like a Jack-in-the-box and flew up the steps and along
the passage as if Beelzebub himself were after him. I don't suppose
he stopped this side of Ippingford."
"Except to pick up your hat," put in Lionel.
"Dear me! Perhaps he did, I left it on the kitchen dresser. Well I
hope it will be a lesson to the man."
And now why on earth did he go back to that wretched cellar?
Parker's candle would have burned itself out in the well and the wine
was safe for the time being anyway. It seemed to Horatio, as if some
irresistible force had dragged him down those steps against his will,
right to the brink of the well. There at the bottom was the candle
burning cheerfully among the bottles, at least a dozen of champagne
and various others. The curate had no trouble in letting himself
down and was already pondering on the best way to climb out again
without soiling his clothes, when his attention was caught by a
peculiarity in the construction of the well. Two sides and one end
were built of small stones about six or eight inches square. The
remaining end was quite different; there were small stones at the top
and bottom and, in the middle, one large stone about three feet
square.
Horatio picked up the candle and carefully examined this stone. In
the lower right hand corner was a half obliterated Latin inscription:
N H L T NGE
O NIA D SCE
A O 1360
He spelled it out slowly. The first word, allowing for the space,
could only be Nihil. The missing "A" of Tange was also quite
evident, so was the "M" of Omnia. He puzzled over the last word for
some time till the light of the candle, held a little to one side and
very close to the stone, showed that what he had taken for the letter
"I" was really the letter "D". Then it was easy, and now Horatio had
the motto complete: NIHIL TANGE OMNIA DISCE it now read: "Touch
nothing, know everything."
When a thing sounds so utterly senseless as that, he reflected, it
generally turns out to mean something very wise, especially if it is
chiseled in stone.
He held the candle close to the date: Anno 1360. Here was something
peculiar. The last figure, the zero, was cut very deep into the
stone--much deeper than any other figure or letter in the whole
inscription. The difference was too marked to be accidental. That
figure "nought," he reasoned, must have some relation to the
inscription. But what? What was there in the inscription about a
zero? Then in a flash it came to him.
Touch nothing--Learn everything. Now it was plain. That figure
"nought" was the key to the mystery. It must be touched, pressed
with the finger. The candlestick shook in his hand, he set it down
on the floor beside him. Then Horatio pressed one finger firmly on
the center of the figure "nought" in the corner of the big stone.
Nothing happened.
He pressed harder, still harder, still with no effect. Then, as he
relaxed the pressure, there came a sharp metallic twang from some
hidden place, and, with a strangely animate whine, the stone swung
slowly away from him revealing a dark aperture.
Carefully guarding the flame of the candle, the curate stepped
through the opening and found himself at the top of a short flight of
stone steps. Before going any further, he placed one of the
champagne bottles on the top step in such a way that its neck
prevented the door from closing.
At the foot of the steps Horatio found himself in a passage which,
from its position, he judged must lead toward the ivy covered ruin
that formed the outer end of the kitchen garden.
In another moment he knew he was right. Directly overhead, at the
further end of the gallery, was an irregular fissure scarcely a foot
in width. The crack continued upward for a little way, and through
the opening Horatio could see far above him a mountain of jagged
stones over which poured a torrent of ivy. Beyond this was a
triangle of blue across which flashed the blackness of a bird's wing.
As the curate was about to return, a sudden draught extinguished his
candle. Moving cautiously, he probed the treacherous blackness, with
outstretched hands, trusting to his sense of direction. Suddenly he
stumbled against the steps and plunged heavily forward with his whole
weight upon the partly open stone door.
Through the crunch and gurgle of the decapitated champagne bottle and
the thud of the door, Merle heard the sharp metallic twang of a
hidden lock.
"Go on," said the curate's wife.
"My dear Harriet, I worked over that door in the pitch darkness for
two blessed hours."
"I thought you had a candle, Daddy Merle," piped An Petronia sleepily.
"I had, my dear, but no matches, not a single match!"
He pushed back his chair.
"I say! Let's all go and kick the life out of that beastly door!"
cried Lionel.
The curate smiled. "I believe I shall sleep better when I know how
it works."
"I should think you'd excommunicate it," said Kate.
Whereupon Martin Luther jumped to the floor and walked stiffly out of
the room. It was exactly as if he said: "I consider that remark in
very bad taste," and everybody laughed. Harriet, however, refused to
countenance such folly as going into the cellar at that time of the
night, and as for An Petronia, the child ought to have been in bed
hours ago!
Ten minutes later when the Reverend Horatio Merle was removing
various articles from his coat pockets, preparatory to folding the
garment for the night, he came across the forgotten page of An
Petronia's novel. As he glanced at it he was astonished to find,
instead of the large childish writing he had seen there, the small
neat hand of a grown person. It was a piece of a torn letter, and An
Petronia had made use of the blank side. Nothing very surprising in
that.
He laid it down on the dressing table so that he would remember to
give it to the little girl in the morning. As he did so, Horatio's
eye caught a startling sentence written across the upper corner of
the page.
"Remember, please, not to address me as Jenny Regan, but as Hester
Storm."
"Jenny Regan! Hester Storm!" he reflected. "Strange! What can that
girl be doing with two names?"
Then Horatio blew out the candle.