Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (the New York Public Library)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=478dAAAAMAAJ&dq
(the New York Public Library)
[Illustration: "She must have seen everything."--_Page 13_
_Frontispiece_
_The Corner House_]
THE CORNER HOUSE
By _Fred M. White_
Author of "The Crimson Blind," "The Weight of the Crown"
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, _Publishers_
18 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY
Copyright 1906
BY
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
_"The Corner House"_
THE CORNER HOUSE
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR.
II. HETTY.
III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
IV. WEAVING THE NET
V. IN THE MORNING ROOM.
VI. A VISITOR.
VII. AT THE CORNER HOUSE.
VIII. PAUL PROUT.
IX. THE MISSING NOTES.
X. A POLICY OF SILENCE.
XI. THE NOTES ARE TRACED.
XII. PROUT IS PUZZLED.
XIII. SECOND SIGHT.
XIV. "CROWNER'S QUEST."
XV. LAWRENCE PROPHESIES AGAIN.
XVI. MR. CHARLTON SPEAKS.
XVII. THE GAMBLERS.
XVIII. LAWRENCE IS MYSTERIOUS.
XIX. STOLEN!
XX. "UNEASY LIES THE HEAD----"
XXI. PERIL.
XXII. FOR LOVE AND DUTY.
XXIII. TEN MINUTES PAST TWELVE.
XXIV. TREASURE TROVE.
XXV. A CHECK.
XXVI. THE BLACK MOTOR.
XXVII. A GLASS OF WINE.
XXVIII. BAFFLED!
XXIX. A KNOCK AT THE DOOR.
XXX. PROUT GETS A CLUE.
XXXI. AN URGENT CALL.
XXXII. TOUCH AND GO.
XXXIII. THE WAY BLOCKED.
XXXIV. A CLEVER MOVE.
XXXV. A POWERFUL ALLY.
XXXVI. A FAINT CLUE.
XXXVII. THE TALK OF THE TOWN.
XXXVIII. MAITRANK STRIKES.
XXXIX. LAWRENCE SHOWS HIS HAND.
XL. ANOTHER COIL.
XLI. PROUT IS INDISCREET.
XLII. FEAR!
XLIII. A SLICE OF LUCK.
XLIV. AT LAST.
XLV. A CHASE
XLVI. HETTY LEARNS SOMETHING.
XLVII. FLOWN.
XLVIII. HETTY SPEAKS OUT.
XLIX. IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT.
L. THREATENED RUIN.
LI. THE WOLF IS UNCHAINED.
LII. THE CAGE IS OPENED.
LIII. FACE TO FACE.
LIV. A STAB IN THE DARK.
LV. THE CORNER HOUSE AGAIN.
LVI. NOW THEN!
LVII. A WAY OUT.
LVIII. NEARING THE END.
LIX. LIGHT IN THE CORNER HOUSE.
LX. NARROWED DOWN.
LXI. LOGIC.
LXII. CONFESSION.
LXIII. A FINAL VERDICT.
CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR
A brilliant light streamed from the open doorway of No. 1, Lytton
Avenue, making a lane of flame across the pavement, touching pinched
gaunt faces that formed a striking contrast to the dazzling scene
within. Outside it was cold and wet and sodden, inside was warmth, the
glitter of electrics on palms and statuary and flowers, a sliding
kaleidoscope of beautiful dresses. A touch of this grateful warmth
came soft and perfumed down the steps, and a drawn Lazarus huddled in
his rags and shivered.
"What's all this mean?" he growled to an equally indigent neighbour.
There was a clatter and clash of harness as carriage after carriage
drove up. "This ain't quite Park Lane, guv'nor."
"Anyway, it's the fashion," the other growled hoarsely. "I ought to
know because I used to be one of them before the accursed drink--but
that is another story. Ever heard of the Countess Lalage?"
"Oh, that's it. Lovely woman with a romantic history. Rich as
thingamy, been proposed to by all the dukes what ain't married
already. Read it in one of the evening papers."
Poverty and want were jostling with well dressed content on the
pavement. It was one of the strangest and most painful contrasts that
can be seen in the richest city in the world. And the contrast was
heightened by the meanness of the Corner House.
Black, dark, deserted, grimy shuttered windows--a suggestion of
creeping mystery about it. Time ago the Corner House was the centre of
what might have been a thrilling tragedy. Some of the older neighbours
could tell of a cry in the night, of the tramping of feet, of a
beautiful woman with the poison still in her hand, of the stern, dark
husband who said never a word, though the shadow of the scaffold lay
heavily upon him.
Since then the Corner House looked down with blank shuttered eyes on
the street. None had ever penetrated its mystery, nobody had crossed
its threshold from that day to this. The stern dark man had
disappeared; he had locked up his house and gone, leaving not so much
as a caretaker behind.
Strange that this dark, forbidding house should stand cheek by jowl
with all that was modern and frivolous and fashionable. Even in the
garden behind Lytton Avenue the corner house frowned with sightless
eyes out of its side windows, eerie and creeping in the daytime.
But the heedless throng of fashionables recked nothing of this. The
Countess Lalage was their latest craze. Who she was or where she came
from nobody knew nor cared. She was young and wonderfully beautiful in
a dashing Southern way, her equipages were an amazement to the park;
she must have been immensely rich, or she would never have entertained
as she did. There must have been a Count Lalage at one time, for
generally a pretty little girl rode with the Countess, and this child
was her daughter. The Countess spoke casually of large South American
concessions and silver mines, so that Oxford Street and Regent Street
bowed down and worshipped her.
She had purchased No. 1, Lytton Avenue, just as it stood from an
American millionaire who had suddenly tired of Society. Paragraphs in
the cheap Society papers stated with awe that the sale had been
settled in five minutes, so that on the spot this wonderful Countess
Lalage had signed a cheque for more than two hundred thousand pounds.
She stood now at the head of the marble staircase, a screen of palms
behind her, receiving her guests. If she were an adventuress, as some
of the critics hinted, she carried it off wonderfully well. If so she
was one of the finest actresses in the world. A black silk dress
perfectly plain showed off her dark flashing beauty to perfection. She
wore a diamond spray and tiara; a deep red rose at her breast looked
like a splash of blood. Truly, a magnificent woman!
She had an easy word and a graceful speech for every one. An old
diplomatist, watching her earnestly, went away muttering that she must
be to the manner born. Her smile was so real and caressing, but it
deepened now, and the red lips quivered slightly as a bright-eyed,
square-headed young man came up the steps and bowed over her hand.
"So you came, after all, Dr. Bruce?" she said playfully. She pressed
his hand gently, her eyes were soft and luminous on his face. Any man
whose affections had not been pledged elsewhere would have felt his
pulses leaping. "Why?"
"Need you ask?" Gordon Bruce said gallantly. "You are my patroness,
you know. Your word is final in everything. And since you declared at
a fashionable gathering that Dr. Gordon Bruce was the man for
nerve-troubles I have found it necessary to hire a second horse."
The dark eyes grew more caressing. A more vain man would have been
flattered. To be the husband of Countess Lalage meant much, to be
master of all this wealth and splendour meant more. But the quiet
elation in Bruce's tones was not for the Countess, if she only knew
it.
The flowing tide of satin and silks and lace sweeping up the staircase
swept young Gordon Bruce along. He passed through the glittering rooms
faint with the perfume of roses. There was a dim corridor full of
flowers and shaded lights. Gordon Bruce looked anxiously about him. A
glad light came into his eyes.