I rather like surprises; but, as my old friend Jack Costello used to
say, "You can have too dern much of a good thing."
With the telegram in my hand I went inside the house, shutting the
door behind me. The light was full on in the hall, and sitting on
the edge of the table I again read through the curt message:
"Get rid of your new butler immediately."
It had been sent off from Charing Cross at 9.58, and the sender,
whoever he might be, was evidently a person of direct and frugal
mind. The whole wire came to exactly twelve words, while for
crispness of style its phrasing certainly left little to be desired.
I stared at it with mingled feelings of doubt, annoyance, and
amusement. If the warning was genuine, and my new butler was really
lurking behind the coal-scuttle with a dagger in his coat-tail
pocket, who the dickens had taken the trouble to put me on my guard?
It must have been someone acquainted with my movements that morning;
but, so far as I knew, Maurice was the only person who answered that
description. I couldn't exactly see Maurice wading in with a kindly
caution; and in any case, if he had wanted to give me the tip, why
couldn't he have done so when he had been with me?
On the whole, I was more inclined to think that the wire was an
attempt at bluff. It might be that my prompt engagement of another
trustworthy servant in place of Milford had interfered with my
friends' plans, and that they were hoping to frighten me into
clearing him out.
Anyhow, there was obviously only one course to pursue, and that was
to interview the gentleman myself without delay, and see what I
thought of him. So, crossing to the fireplace, I rang the bell, and
took up a dignified but alert attitude on the hearth-rug.
As far as promptness was concerned, Francis left nothing to be
desired. Thirty seconds could hardly have elapsed before he had
entered the hall, and was standing before me with a deferential bow
of greeting.
I looked at him keenly. He was a tall, slim fellow of about
thirty-five, with thick black hair and a rather sallow face.
"Well, I see you've arrived all right, Francis," I observed.
He again inclined his head.
"Yes, sir. I came round with Mr. Seagrave about three o'clock. He
gave the cook your card, sir."
"Have you seen Milford?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. I had a short conversation with him."
"How is he?"
"He seems a little better, sir. He was anxious to go through the
work with me, but I thought it best not to allow him to talk too
much. I think I can manage quite satisfactorily, with what the cook
has told me."
I nodded. "Quite right," I said. "There is really nothing to
discuss. I only want you to look after me and carry out the ordinary
duties of a butler. I'll tell you anything you want to know, if you
come and ask."
He bowed a third time. "Yes, sir--thank you, sir."
"Well, I'm going to bed now," I said. "I shan't want anything else,
except some hot water. You can call me at the usual time--eight
o'clock."
I handed him my hat and stick, and, taking some letters from the
table, sauntered slowly up the big stair-case, which led to the
landing above. At the first bend I purposely dropped a letter, and
then, as though suddenly discovering my loss, turned to pick it up.
The strategy, though ingenious, seemed to be a trifle uncalled-for.
Francis was at the other end of the hall, with his back towards me,
apparently placing my stick in the hat-stand.
With memories of the previous evening in my mind, the first thing I
did on reaching my sitting-room was to walk across to the recess and
pull back the curtain that covered it. Of course I knew it would be
empty, but at the back of my mind I somehow or other had a ridiculous
hope that I should find Mercia standing there, pistol in hand, and
that delicious half-sorrowful, half-scornful expression on her face.
I believe I would willingly have risked ducking another bullet if by
so doing I could have ensured her presence.
But the recess was void--quite undoubtedly and stupidly void; and
with a feeling of disappointment I sat down in a chair and began to
open Northcote's correspondence. It contained nothing of any
particular importance to me, consisting for the most part of bills
and circulars, with one or two business letters that I contented
myself with just glancing through. I had had enough of business for
one day.
As I was looking at the last of them, I heard Francis enter my
bedroom. After moving about for several minutes, apparently putting
things straight for the night, he tapped gently at the sitting-room
door and then opened it.
"Your room is quite ready now, sir," he observed.
"Thank you, Francis," I said. "Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
He withdrew noiselessly and went out through the bedroom, shutting
the door behind him.
I waited until he had had time to reach the basement, and then,
getting up from my chair, I began to take one or two simple steps
towards securing my position. Although in my heart I believed the
wire to be a false alarm, it seemed to me that there would be no harm
in adopting a few obvious precautions.
So, after lighting a pipe, I proceeded to indulge in a thorough
search both of the bedroom and the sitting-room. Having satisfied
myself that there were no strangers or bombs lurking about, I locked
both doors and carefully inspected the fastenings of the windows.
These were quite secure; indeed, so far as I could see, there was no
way, short of gunpowder or a false key, by which anyone could enter
either room without my assistance. To make matters doubly safe,
however, I collected all the fire-irons from the two grates
(reserving only a poker for personal use in case of necessity) and
deposited them in two heaps--one in front of each door. I am a light
sleeper, and I reckoned that anyone making a forcible entrance from
outside would do so to a musical accompaniment that would at once
disturb my slumbers. Then, with a mind relieved, I leisurely
undressed myself and got into bed.
There was an electric lamp on the table beside me, but by way of a
reserve light I stuffed a box of matches beneath my pillow. My
trusty poker I placed down the side of the bed under the top blanket,
ready to my hand should I be unseasonably disturbed.
One last look round satisfied me that my preparations were distinctly
efficient. As I flicked off the light and lay back on my pillow, I
felt a kind of half-hope that there might really be something genuine
in the warning I had received. It seemed a pity to have taken so
much trouble for nothing.
Going to sleep is always a more or less instantaneous business with
me, and, as far as I know, this night was no exception to the rule.
At all events, I have no recollection of anything between the time I
was fingering the handle of my poker in a kind of dreamy satisfaction
and the moment when I started up suddenly in bed with the faint chink
of fire-irons still sounding in my ears.
I woke with all my faculties keenly on the alert. Everything round
me was in utter darkness, and my hand went out instinctively and
closed upon the electric switch. I must have stayed like that for
several seconds. My heart was beating rapidly, but I don't think I
felt the least afraid.
Then I heard the door close very gently, and someone take a step
forward into the room. Without making a sound, I reached under the
clothes with my disengaged hand and stealthily withdrew my trusty
poker. Having secured this, I wriggled over into such a position
that I should be facing the intruder, and then, without further
hesitation, I pressed down the switch.
My intention was either to hurl the poker directly the light went up,
or else to take a flying jump from the bed and land my visitor a good
swipe over the head before he could defend himself. It all depended
upon whether he was carrying a revolver.
Unfortunately, neither of these excellent designs materialised. The
switch went down with a sharp snap, but instead of a blaze of light
flooding the room, everything remained in darkness.
I can tell you I didn't stop to wonder what had happened. The danger
of my position struck me with a bang, and in less time than it takes
to say I had hurled myself sideways off the bed in the opposite
direction from the door.
I was only just in time.
Almost before I reached the floor I heard the crash of an overturning
table, and then something came down on the pillow with a wicked thud
that made the whole bedstead tremble.
I fell heavily full-length on the carpet, but it is extraordinary
what activity danger will occasionally lend one. No cat could have
recovered her feet more nimbly or leaped back into the darkness with
such masterly swiftness. The wall of the room was only about a yard
away, and I fetched up against it with a jar that nearly knocked the
breath out of my body. There I stood, panting and shaken, but with
the poker still gripped affectionately in my right hand.
It was not exactly an inspiriting situation--especially to a man in
pyjamas and bare feet. The only bright spot about it was that my
visitor, having bungled his first shot, was no better off than I was.
Indeed, if, as I imagined, he was none other than my new retainer, I
held the trump card of being a good way the heftier of the two. I
couldn't picture myself being slaughtered by Francis, even in the
dark.
Crouching down against the wall, I peered out into the blackness in
front of me and listened intently. Since his first magnificent slap
at the bed, my visitor had apparently rested on his laurels. I could
hear him breathing quickly, but beyond that there was not the
faintest sound. Not knowing what had happened to me, he was
evidently waiting for inspiration.
I did some rapid but necessary thinking. If I called out for help,
it was just possible that I should be sealing my fate; for should he
be armed with a revolver as well as his other weapon, he would
doubtless blaze away in the direction of my voice. Apart from this,
I felt a very strong desire to settle the matter without assistance
from anyone.
My best plan seemed to be to get to close quarters, trusting to
Providence and the poker that I should get my slam in first. With
this object in view, I began to creep noiselessly along the
wainscoting, keeping my back against the wall. At the third step I
ran against a small picture, which swung sideways and fell from its
nail with a nerve-shaking crash. In a second I had dropped to the
floor, where I crouched breathlessly, waiting the expected shot.
None came, however: only a slight movement from the direction of the
bed told me that my visitor was on the alert. I stayed as I was,
straining my ears to catch the smallest sound; and then, very faint
but just audible to my excellent sense of hearing, came the stealthy
tread of an advancing footstep.
During the next moment my mind worked pretty quickly. It was either
a case of waiting where I was, or else rushing forward and lashing
out blindly into the dark. Which I should have done I can't say, for
it was at that crucial instant that my hand happened to touch the
corner of the picture which had just fallen from the wall.
Never until then had Art properly appealed to me. I clutched that
blessed frame with the gratitude of a starving man who has suddenly
stumbled upon food, and changing the poker over to my left hand, rose
swiftly and joyously to my feet.
At the slight noise which I made, the footsteps stopped. I knew,
however, that my visitor must be desperately near, and for a tense
second we both stood in absolute silence, each of us holding his
breath for fear of betraying himself to the other.
Then out of the blackness ahead of me came the faintest possible
rustle. Like a flash I whipped back my right hand, and hurled the
picture with all the force I could straight at the sound.
I rather think it must have landed on the bridge of my visitor's
nose, since no other point of contact could have produced such a yelp
of surprised agony as that which cleft the darkness. I did not wait
to jeer, but, ducking down again, took a couple of hasty steps to the
left in the direction of the door. He evidently heard me, for,
rushing forward, he landed a vicious smack on the wall, just above my
head, bringing down the plaster in a scattering shower. I retaliated
with a furious swipe at the empty air that nearly put my shoulder
out, and then, feeling that so far I had had all the best of the
duel, I leapt back out of range.
How the contest would have ended Goodness knows, for at that moment
it was cut short by an unexpected interruption. From the passage
outside came the noise of hurrying footsteps; then the door of the
room burst open, admitting a ray of light that seemed almost blinding
after the total darkness. A figure appeared on the threshold--a tall
figure in white, holding a candle in one hand and a stick of some
sort in the other.
I blame myself pretty badly for what happened next. If I had only
had the sense of a caterpillar, I should have dashed for the door, so
cutting off all chance of my visitor's escape. As it was, I'm
blessed if I didn't actually jump away in the opposite direction, I
suppose from some silly idea that I was going to be tackled by a
fresh enemy.
I realised my mistake at once, but it was too late. There was a
swift rush of feet, a wild scuffle on the threshold, and then the
candle went out and I heard Milford's voice shouting for help.
With an oath I hurled myself forward, stumbling blindly over the
scattered fire-irons. There was still a glimmer of light in the
passage, and by its aid I could see two figures locked in a furious
struggle.
Just as I reached the door, one of them collapsed, and the other,
breaking free, leaped wildly for the head of the banisters. I was
after him at once, and we went down that staircase in a way that
would have put the fear of God into a couple of chamois.
If the front door had been locked, I should have had him. As it was,
he just got it open in time, and taking the steps with a flying jump,
landed clear on the pavement outside. With a last effort, I hurled
my poker at him through the gate, only missing him by the merest
fraction. Then he was off, bolting down the street like a rabbit,
and vanishing round the corner before you could count five.