AT THE CORNER HOUSE.
Bruce walked home slowly and thoughtfully. The sound of a church clock
striking the hour of one came vaguely to his ears. As a matter of fact
he was more disturbed by Hetty's disclosures than he cared to admit.
Hetty was not in the least given to hallucinations, and, after all,
there was something mysterious about Countess Lalage. Still, she was
so rich, and she was a favoured guest in some of the best houses.
Bruce put his latchkey in the door and let himself in. As he did so a
motor came up and pulled to the pavement. The whole concern was a dull
black, like silk; it was absolutely the most noiseless machine Gordon
Bruce had ever seen. It came like a ghost out of the darkness; like a
black phantom it stood to command.
The driver was clad in goggles and leather coat, thereby proclaiming
the fact that he was used to a high rate of speed. He placed a note in
Bruce's hand; there was an interrogative gleam in his eyes.
"For me?" Bruce asked.
The man merely made a gesture with his hands. Then followed a sign, by
which Bruce knew that he was speaking to a dumb man, a startling
affliction for a smart chauffeur.
Not that it mattered much, seeing that the letter was addressed to
Bruce. The note inside was evidently dashed off in a violent hurry. It
was an agitated request to the recipient to come in the motor at once;
there was no address, nothing more than this agitated plea. Under the
circumstances there was nothing startling in the presence of the
automobile.
Bruce started off, only staying long enough to get his professional
black bag. He might have satisfied a little of his curiosity on the
way, only his companion's affliction prevented that. He was on
familiar ground presently as the car flew along smoothly as a boat
sails down stream, until at length it pulled up with a jerk at the end
of Lytton-Avenue.
The car had stopped just before the corner house!
Evidently it was going to be a night of surprises. If Bruce had any
astonishment he concealed it behind his professional manner. For the
corner house was dark and deserted no longer. A brilliant light burnt
in the hall. The door was opened presently by a woman who had a
Spanish mantilla over her head. Her hair was down, and in the gleam of
the lamplight Bruce could see that it was wonderfully long and fair
and beautiful. Bruce spoke to her, but she only replied in what he
deemed to be Spanish.
So far as he could see there were no signs of dust or desolation about
the corner house. The hall was clean and bright, there was a thick
carpet on the stairs. Every door was shut save one on the first floor,
into which the fair beauty with the lovely hair led the way. Four or
five gas jets were flaring away with a hissing roar. A draught from
somewhere made them flicker restlessly on a large room absolutely
devoid of furniture save for an old-fashioned four-post bedstead in
the middle. The air was close and stuffy, as if the window had not
been opened for months. There were barred shutters before them.
The Spanish beauty said something, and pointed to the bed. A man in a
deep sleep lay there--so deep a sleep that at first Bruce took him to
be dead. But there was just the slightest flicker of a pulse, a quiver
of the eyelids. On a table close by was a glass containing, from the
odour of it, laudanum. A half-empty phial of it was clenched in the
patient's hand.
A small, twisted man, with a nose all crooked on one side, and fingers
covered with huge orange-coloured freckles! Bruce choked down a cry of
amazement. It was indeed proving a night of surprises.
Here was the very man whom Hetty had seen at the window of the corner
house--the very man whose features, as seen from the morning room, had
been reflected in the mirror. It was impossible that there could be
any coincidence here. Once seen the man could never be forgotten. It
looked as if the new mystery of the corner house was going to be
explained.
Just for a moment Bruce almost lost his self-possession. The beauty
with the fair hair was regarding him curiously. He felt half annoyed
that he had been so near betraying himself. The medical man was
uppermost now. Evidently the patient was in a state of almost collapse
from alcoholic poisoning. As is usual in such instances, sleep had
forsaken the wretched man, and he had had recourse to drugs. He had
taken an overdose and medical aid had been summoned just in the nick
of time.
The corner house, the mystery--everything was now forgotten. Bruce
called for hot water, he made a sign for it, he simulated the mixing
of mustard in a pot. Fortunately his companion's native intelligence
was equal to the strain. She vanished with a quick nod of her head.
The house was wonderfully quiet; not a sound came from anywhere. The
repulsive figure of the man lay there like some new and hideous form
of death. Who he was and why he came there Bruce did not dare to think
for the present. Perhaps the dark owner of the house had returned;
perhaps this was the very man himself. Certainly there was no foul
play here, no audacious criminal invasion of the house, seeing that
the light in the hall could be seen from the street.
Surely they were a long time getting that hot water. In such a case as
this hurry was everything. Bruce crept from the room and looked over
the banisters. The whole place was in darkness!
Bruce caught his breath sharply. He had scarcely time to consider what
it all meant when the light flared up again, and the fair woman
returned with a kettle and basin and a tin of mustard.
The doctor slipped off his dress-coat and turned up his sleeves. In a
prim sort of way his fair attendant took the coat away and hung it up
carefully in the dim recesses of a big cupboard at the far side of the
room. With great care and patience Bruce contrived to coax a quantity
of the hideous mixture of mustard and water down the unconscious man's
throat.
For the next hour the struggle between life and death was a severe
one. Once the strong emetic had done its work something like
consciousness returned. The patient staggered backwards and forwards
across the room on Bruce's arm until the latter was fagged and weary
and the moisture dripped from his forehead. The first faint streaks of
dawn were breaking as Bruce donned his coat and deemed it safe to
proceed home. He made the woman with the golden hair understand that
he would come again.
She shook her head and smiled as she held out three pounds and three
shillings.
Evidently this kind of thing had happened before, and this was the fee
usually paid. Bruce slipped the money in his pocket, feeling that he
had earned it. The guide picked up a Bradshaw from the table and
indicated Dover therein. Two strapped portmanteaus were on the floor.
The meaning of this was all plain enough. Bruce had had his fee and
was dismissed because these strange people were leaving for the
Continent at once, provided the patient was well enough to travel.
Suddenly the hall light went out again, and once more the house was in
darkness. There was the sound of a heavy footfall outside. Bruce put
his back to the wall prepared for eventualities.
A scraping of a match, a flood of light again, a queer half-amused
smile on the Spaniard's face, as she noted Bruce's expression. Then
the front door was opened, and he was bowed out politely. Before he
had time to cross the road the light was out again, and the whole
house in darkness.
The cool morning air was grateful after the stuffy atmosphere of the
corner house. Here was an adventure to think about and ponder over.
Strange coincidence that he of all men should have been called there!
It never occurred to Bruce that the thing could be anything but
coincidence.
Should he keep the whole matter to himself, he wondered. At any rate
he need not tell anybody but Hetty. Perhaps that drunken lunatic was
some relation to the master of the corner house; he might have found
his way into Lytton Square in a state of semi-insanity by favour of a
careless servant. The thing was capable of a very practical solution.
Bruce put the thing out of his mind for the time being. The next
morning was a busy one. When the back of it was broken he drove to
Tottenham Court Road, where he managed to secure the old-fashioned
furniture which had so taken his fancy. He felt pleased with his
bargain, but as he repaired to the Lotus Club to lunch with Gilbert
Lawrence nothing remained of the old Dutchman's banknotes.
Lawrence was deep in the early edition of "The Star." He nodded to
Bruce and looked up from his paper eagerly.
"By Jove, listen to this," he exclaimed. "Here's a strange thing for
you. Some houses seem famed for tragedy, like some men are."
"Something in your line?" Bruce asked.
"Well, I should say so. Listen:"
"'The Tragedy of the Corner House.'"
"'The Corner House keeps up its reputation. A mysterious murder in
Raven Street where an undiscovered crime happened years ago.
"'At a little past twelve today a policeman on duty in Raven Street
saw that the door of an unoccupied furnished house was open, and
proceeded to investigate the premises. In a room upstairs he found the
body of a man with his throat cut and a horrible wound at the back of
his head. Robbery appears to be the motive. The matter is all the more
mysterious as the place called the Corner House has been supposed to
be shut up for years. It was here that the famous "Corner House"
poisoning mystery took place.
"'Later.--The murdered man is described as being of misshapen
appearance, a nose very much hooked on one side, and long hands,
covered with orange-coloured warts----'"
"What?" Bruce cried. "Read that over again."
"Do you mean to say you know anything about it?" Lawrence asked.
"He was my patient," Bruce said hoarsely. "I was with him at
daybreak."
Lawrence dropped "The Star" and gazed at the speaker with absolute
amazement.