I was uncertain what to do. Was it best to ascend the steps, knock
boldly at the door, and inquire the reason of that frantic appeal? Or
should I remain silent and watch?
If Kirk had caused the Professor's death, then why had he enlisted my
aid? But was I not a complete novice, in the detection of crime, and
might not all his protestations of friendship be a mere blind, a clever
ruse to cover the truth?
I stood on the pavement, my ears strained to catch any sound within.
But all was silent again.
Those final words of the woman's desperate appeal for help rang in my
ears: "_You've killed me, just as you killed my dear father_!"
The woman who had shrieked could surely have no connection with the
tragedy in Sussex Place, for, alas! Ethelwynn Greer was dead. I had,
with my own eyes, seen her stiff and stark.
Then what did it all mean? Was this an additional phase of the already
inscrutable problem?
I gazed at the window, where no light escaped through the lowered
Venetian blinds. The very darkness struck me as strange, for either
there were closed shutters upon the blinds, or some heavy curtains had
been drawn carefully across to exclude any ray of light from being seen
without.
In the neighbourhood wherein I was, I recollected there were many
mysterious houses--secret clubs where waiters and foreigners of the
lower class danced, drank, and played faro, and were often raided by the
police. Those streets bore a very bad reputation.
After all, I was not exactly certain that the house whence emanated the
shrieks was the actual house into which Kirk had entered. Hence I was
both undecided and bewildered. For that reason I waited, my eyes glued
upon the dark door and house-front.
Suddenly, above the fanlight, I saw the flickering light of a candle
carried down the hall, and a moment later the door opened. In fear of
recognition I sprang back into the roadway, where, at that distance, the
fog obscured me.
Someone descended the steps, and, turning to the left, went in the
direction whence I had come. I followed stealthily for some distance
until I at last made out the figure in the weak light of a street-lamp.
It was not Kirk, only a forbidding-looking old woman in faded bonnet and
shawl--a typical gin-drinking hag of a type one may see in hundreds in
that neighbourhood. I had followed her down into Cleveland Street,
where she turned to the left, when it suddenly occurred to me that, in
my absence, Kirk might make his exit. Therefore I rather foolishly
abandoned pursuit, and retraced my steps.
Judge my chagrin, my utter disgust with myself when, on returning, I
failed to recognise from which house the woman had come! In that
puzzling pall of fog, which grew thicker and more impenetrable every
moment, I hesitated to decide which of three or four houses was the
place whence the woman's cries had emanated.
That hesitation was fatal to my success. In my excitement I had taken
no notice of the number upon the door, and now I paced backwards and
forwards before the railings of four houses, all almost exactly similar,
all in darkness, all equally dingy and mysterious. Which of those
houses held Kershaw Kirk I knew not, neither could I decide from which
of the four had come those despairing cries.
I had been a fool, a very great fool, for not going boldly to the door
and demanding an explanation, even though I might have received a rough
handling, alone and unarmed as I was. So I returned to the street-lamp
and tried to recognise the house from the point where I had stood when
the first cry had fallen upon my ears. But, alas! again I could not
decide.
My impulse to follow the woman had been my undoing, for I somehow felt a
strong conviction that Kirk had escaped during my absence in Cleveland
Street, for though I waited in that dense and choking blackness beneath
the red lamp of a surgery at the further corner for still another hour,
he came not.
Therefore I was compelled very reluctantly to grope my way back into the
Tottenham Court Road, where at last I found a hansom, and with a man
leading the horse, I fell asleep as we went westward, so fagged and
exhausted was I by that long and unpleasant vigil.
The wife of a motorist like myself is used to her husband's late hours,
therefore I had little difficulty in excusing myself to Mabel, yet when
I retired to bed no sleep came to my eyes.
That woman's shrill, despairing cry rang ever in my ears. Those words
of hers were so mysterious, so ominous.
"_You've killed me, just as you killed my dear father_!"
Should I go to the police in the morning and make a clean breast of the
whole affair?
At dawn I found the fog had lifted, therefore, after looking in at the
garage, I called upon Kirk, resolved to pretend ignorance of his visit
to the house off the Tottenham Court Road. But again I was
disappointed, for he had been absent all night. His sister was ignorant
of his whereabouts, but, as she explained, his movements were ever
erratic.
This caused me to make another visit to the house, which, in the light
of day, I found to be in Foley Street, an even more squalid
neighbourhood than I had believed.
At the corner of Cleveland Street was the laundry, the windows of which
were painted grey so that the passer-by could not peer within. The
street seemed to be the play-ground of numberless dirty children, while
the houses, all of which were let in tenements, were smoke-grimed and
dismal.
At some of the windows the cheap lace curtains hung limp and yellow, and
at others the windows had been white-washed to prevent people looking
in. The neighbourhood was one that had sadly decayed, for even the
public-house a little way up the street was closed and to let.
I stood outside the easily recognised surgery in order to take my
bearings, and quickly discovered the three or four houses from one of
which had come that cry in the night.
Yet which house it was, I knew not. Therefore what could I do? To
remain there might attract Kirk's attention if he were within. Hence I
was afraid to loiter, so I passed on into Langham Street, and thus out
into Portland Place.
I had become obsessed by the mystery of it all. I returned to Chiswick,
and tried to give my mind to the details of my business, but all without
avail. I saw that Pelham, my manager, was surprised at my apparent
absent-mindedness. I knew it was incumbent upon me to go to the
police-station, which was only a few hundred yards from me on the
opposite side of the road, and tell the inspector on duty the whole
story. Yet somehow the affair, with all its mysterious features, had
fascinated me, and Kershaw Kirk most of all. The information was mine,
and it was for me to solve this remarkable enigma.
Kirk's absence from home, and his failure to communicate with me, showed
that either he mistrusted me, or that he was purposely misleading me for
the attainment of his own ends.
He had sought my friendship and assistance, and yet next day he had
abandoned me in doubt and ignorance.
I managed to get through the day at the garage, and eagerly bought the
evening paper, anxious to see whether the tragedy had become public
property; but as yet it was unknown. I dined at home, and I suppose my
manner was so preoccupied that Mabel, my wife, asked:
"What's the matter, Harry? You seem unusually worried?"
"Oh! I don't know, dear," I replied, trying to laugh. "I've had a lot
of things to do at the office to-day," I added in excuse; "I've got to
go back this evening."
Mabel pouted, and I knew the reason. I had promised to run her and her
sister over to Teddington to see some friends with whom we had promised
to spend the evening.
But I was in no mood for visiting friends. I went along to Kirk's
house, and, finding him still absent, took the train from Hammersmith to
Baker Street, and walked through Clarence Gate to Sussex Place.
It had just struck nine when I halted at the Professor's door, but I
drew back suddenly when I saw a tall, well-dressed, clean-shaven young
man in hard felt hat and overcoat, standing in the doorway.
He had rung, and was evidently awaiting an answer to his summons.
The place was, I noticed, in darkness. Antonio had evidently omitted to
switch on the light in the hall.
What could that young man want at the house of death?
Unfortunately, I had not been quick enough, for as I halted he turned
upon me, realising that to call there was my intention.
"This is strange!" he remarked to me, "I've been ringing here nearly
half an hour, and can get no reply. Yet when I passed the front of the
house there was a light in the small drawing-room. I've never before
known the place to be left; there are always servants here, even if the
Professor and his daughter are absent."
It occurred to me that Antonio had detected him from within, and that he
might be an unwelcome visitor. I recollected Kirk's strict injunctions
to the faithful Italian.
"Antonio may be out," I suggested.
"But the maids would surely be at home," he argued. "I wonder if
thieves are inside? I somehow suspect it," he whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I distinctly heard a movement in the hall about ten minutes
ago," he answered. "Will you go round to the front and see if there are
lights in any of the rooms, while I remain here? You'll soon see the
house--the first with the long columns at the drawing-room windows."