SHOWS WHAT HAPPENED IN THE TAPESTRIED CHAMBER
The room that fell to the lot of George Prentiss was a huge one,
square, high ceilinged and hung with rich but faded tapestries. The
furniture was dark and massive; a great four poster bed of mahogany,
with a spreading canopy over it, stood near the door.
There was a wide fireplace, the clean-swept hearth of which showed no
indication of a fire having been lighted in it for some time.
When George had bidden the others good-night he closed the door and
placed his candle upon the table. The light danced grotesquely upon the
walls, dimly illuminating the quaint figures upon the tapestry and the
old paintings that hung here and there. The young man drew the curtains
at the windows so that the flare of the lightning would not disturb
him; there were other candles upon the mantel and having a curiosity to
better view his apartment, he kindled a pair of these and placed them
where they would do the most good.
The tapestry proved to be an ancient French one, and depicted the deeds
of Charles Martel; the portraits were partly of New Amsterdam Dutchmen
and with a good sprinkling of English.
“Ancestors,” mused George as he gazed at these. “I can see the features
of my host in most of them.” His eyes paused upon a large painting at
the far end of the apartment; it was so somber, the shadows played so
upon it, that he took up a candle and went nearer. Holding the light
so that he could view the picture to better advantage, he saw the name
“Dirk Van Camp” upon the heavy frame.
“A burgomaster of the old Dutch days,” said George to himself. “And a
stern, dogged sort of a fellow he must have been, judging by his face.”
The furnishings of the tapestried room were mostly of European make;
Dutch tables and chairs; English sofas and stands; and near to the
fireplace stood a tall French mirror that swung in its frame. George
sat down in a heavy chair before this and began removing his cravat;
his back was turned to that end of the apartment where hung the
portrait of Burgomaster Van Camp, and the light of the candle which
George had left upon a stand near the picture threw the determined,
joyless face into good relief.
“Good shelter and a four poster bed are not to be treated lightly on
a night like this,” the young New Englander told himself, as he threw
the cravat upon a table. Then he removed his short sword and the pistol
which he had kept buttoned under his coat while in the drawing-room;
after this he began tugging at one of his riding boots.
It was while he was so engaged, for the boot was stubborn, that he
caught the reflection of the burgomaster’s portrait in the mirror. The
chair in which George sat hid the greater part of the picture; but the
face was plain, and it was as though it was peering over his shoulder.
“Now, there is a grim old curmudgeon for you,” smiled the youth. “I’ll
venture to say he never laughed in his life save when he had driven a
hard bargain, or gotten the better of some one in another fashion.”
He threw the boot down on the hearth and before he drew off the other,
sat gazing into the mirror at the portrait. Suddenly the smile left
his face and he started a little. The eyes of old Dirk Van Camp were
small and black and deeply-set under heavy brows; George had noticed
them especially a few minutes before, while examining the picture; and
now as he looked into the glass, he saw them glint in a marvelously
lifelike manner.
For an instant it was in his mind to turn and stare at the portrait;
but like a flash he regained control of himself, and sat motionless,
gazing into the mirror. Some few minutes passed in this way; but he
could now detect nothing out of the ordinary. True, the eyes had an
unusually lifelike appearance; but that may have been due to the skill
of the artist, or, perhaps, it was the unsteady light of the candles.
He lay back in the chair in the lounging posture of one entirely at
ease; but never for an instant did his apparently careless glance leave
the pictured eyes. At length he muttered:
“It’s the lights; their flickering gave the appearance of movement;
and the varnish upon the canvas is the cause of the really lifelike
sparkle.”
[Illustration: _THE HAND PAUSED_]
He was about to give the matter up and proceed with his preparations
for retiring when a thought struck him. With the utmost naturalness he
stretched out his hand toward the table, and while so doing, his eyes
remained fixed upon the pictured ones in the mirror. With a thrill
he saw these latter follow the hand; beyond the shadow of a doubt
they turned slowly and keenly; and when the hand paused and clutched
the pistol butt, there was a change in their expression--and their
steadiness wavered.
Calmly George drew the pistol toward him and made a pretense of
examining the lock; all the time his heart was bumping in a tumult;
strange thoughts filled his brain.
“The eyes of the portrait are removable,” he told himself. “There is a
door or a panel behind it, and some one is stationed there watching me.”
He sat for a short space nonplussed; and all the time he saw the eyes
fixed upon him. The situation was an odd one; he did not know how to
meet it.
“It’s a Tory house,” were George’s thoughts, “and there may be those
hidden within its walls of whom I know nothing.” An idea flashed upon
him that made him start. “And yet I might know considerable of them,”
he added; “and I might be suspected of knowing even more than I do.”
This latter idea rapidly took definite form in his mind. As likely as
not Herbert Camp was hidden in the house--perhaps without his uncle’s
knowledge.
“But his sister is aware of it,” was the young man’s further thought,
“and who knows,” bitterly, “but that she still fancies me in pursuit of
him.”
With this his mind was made up; he put the pistol down upon the table,
and then pulled off the other boot. After this he stood up, and
divested himself of coat and waistcoat; he put out two of the candles,
permitting that near the picture of the burgomaster to remain burning.
Drawing a tall leather screen up to the four poster he spread it out
and then with a wide yawn went behind it as though to complete his
disrobing.
Now, as before said, the bed stood near the door, and when George
spread the screen, he hid the door from the view of the peering eyes
behind the portrait. So instead of going on with his preparations for
bed, the young man softly opened the door, and all unarmed as he was,
stepped out into the hall.
This latter was dark and still, and step by step he made his way along,
being careful not to knock against anything that might be in his way.
He had not gone many feet when he saw that the door of the apartment
next his own stood partly open; it was only a trifle and but a trickle
of light showed itself. He approached the door softly. It was in this
apartment that the spy would be hidden, for the portrait was backed
against the wall that divided it from his own. He had all but gained
the door when there came a sharp exclamation and the stir of feet
upon the other side of it; for a moment he feared that he had been
discovered and halting, braced himself for whatever was to come. But
there was nothing save a continued and low-pitched sound of voices.
“There’s more than one,” he murmured softly. This knowledge, however,
did not stay him; once more he made for the door along the edges of
which the light was seeping. The opening was too small to admit of his
gaining a view of even a part of the room; but he could hear the almost
whispered words distinctly.
“It is very annoying to be spied upon,” said a voice which George at
once knew as Major Hyde’s. “And I am surprised that you should stoop
to it. Or, perhaps,” and there was something like a sneer in the tone,
“you will deny that you were spying.”
“No,” came the voice of Peggy Camp, “I do not deny it. I saw you steal
along the hall and followed you.”
“You are quite sure,” and there was a keen note of inquiry in the man’s
voice, “that you were not already in the room when I entered?”
“I am not in the habit of misrepresenting my actions,” returned Peggy,
and the listener fancied her head rearing proudly as she said it.
“Of course not. But at a moment like this! Who knows?”
“I think you do,” returned the girl.
There was a moment’s silence; then Major Hyde spoke.
“What made you think that my actions had anything to do with him?” he
asked.
“I knew from the first that you were laying a trap for him.”
“Ah!” There was a note of surprise in his voice. “You are even keener
than I thought you.”
“You knew that he would be here,” she said. “And you proposed carrying
it through here, of all places.”
“It is not given to us to choose our opportunities,” said the major.
“So I’ll strike when I can.”
“You will not.”
“Of course your feelings in the matter are perfectly natural,” spoke
the man coolly. “I understand them very well. They are to be expected
of you. But is he worthy of all you’d do for him?”
There was no answer.
“He is not. He is a worming, designing villain; there is no truth nor
honor in him. To serve his own ends, he’d sell his friends to their
enemies--he’d sell his cause to----”
“Oh, I know, I know,” cried Peggy, and there was pain in her voice. “I
know it all better than you can tell it. I know it and hate him for
it; and yet I cannot see him harmed.”
“Herbert is concealed in the house, as I suspected,” thought the young
man at the door. “Major Hyde has in some way learned of it, and being
aware of his treachery, is trying to locate his hiding-place.”
The voices within the room now sank even lower than before; George
listened intently, but could not make out what was being said. Some
minutes passed in this way and the voice of Peggy was raised in
gladness.
“You promise me that?”
“I do.”
“Then Herbert is safe,” she whispered thankfully. “I know, I know,” as
though preventing his interrupting her; “he does not deserve it, but I
am happier than I can tell.”
“He is safe from me,” spoke Major Hyde, slowly, “but I am not the only
one. Don’t forget that----”
He said no more, but George Prentiss was as sure that his hand lifted
and his finger pointed to the tapestried chamber as he would have been
had he seen him do it.
There was a gasping cry, smothered and full of fear. Then the girl
replied:
“I know that, too. It is horrible. But,” and her voice suddenly became
clear and sure, “he shall not harm my brother. That he is here seeking
information, I know. But he shall learn nothing--he shall do nothing.”
“Who will prevent him?”
“I will!” she answered and her voice was filled with resolve.
Again their voices sank; then George heard footsteps advancing toward
the door. A tall Dutch clock stood near by, as the inquiring hands of
the young New Englander had learned, and quickly he shrank close to its
side as the room door swung open.
“I’ll bid you good-night, cousin,” said the voice of Major Hyde, “and
advise you to go to your chamber.”
What Peggy’s answer was George did not hear. Then the major shut the
door and passed down the corridor; the soft closing of another door
told the watcher that he entered his own room at the far end.
George waited for some little time, fearing that Peggy would emerge and
discover him. But as she did not do so, he quietly tiptoed to his own
room. Drawing aside the screen he stepped out into the center of the
apartment, yawning and putting back the hair from his eyes, as though
he’d been asleep.
At once his gaze went with studied carelessness to the portrait; there
were the eyes, eager, alert, inquiring, fixed upon him.
“Hello,” said he, with ready art, as he yawned again. “I must have
fallen into a doze.”
Negligently he threw himself once more into the chair before the mirror
and sat looking at the reflected eyes.
“It is she,” he told himself. “There is no one else there. And it’s
been she all along. Hyde was right. She was already in the room when he
entered, as he suspected.”
Then suddenly he became aware that the eye sockets of Burgomaster Van
Camp were empty. Vacantly the portrait stared down from the wall. But
only for a moment. Suddenly a long, black cylinder was thrust through
one of the apertures--there was a puff of smoke, a loud report, and a
pistol bullet whizzed past his head.