THE CHOPIN NOCTURNE.
Claire gave the desired assurance, and rose from the table. She would
have Jack's coffee saved for him in the drawing-room, she said.
Anstruther lit a cigarette, and began to talk of crime. Crime and
criminals had a fine fascination for him. Scotland Yard offered
valuable inspiration for his new book on the criminal instinct, and in
return he had been in a position to give the officials yonder one or
two useful hints. The case he had on hand just now was a most
fascinating one, but, of course, his lips were sealed for the present.
Jack forgot his dislike in the fascination of the present.
"Stay here and finish your cigar," Anstruther said as he rose and
pitched his cigarette into the fire. "I'll go into my study and work
this thing out with the aid of my violin. I may be an hour or so, or I
may be longer. If I have finished before eleven o'clock I'll come up
with my fiddle, and we'll get Claire to play. If you require any more
claret you can ring the bell."
Jack sat there for a time smoking and thinking matters over.
Presently, from the study beyond, came the sound of music. Really,
Anstruther was a wonderful man--he seemed able to do anything. He was
not perhaps a great performer on the violin--his playing was a little
too mechanical, and seemed to lack soul--but the execution was
brilliant enough. Jack opened his cigarette case only to find that it
was empty. There was a fresh supply in the pocket of his overcoat,
which was hanging in the hall. He would be just in time for one more,
and then he would join Claire in the drawing-room. The hall light had
been turned low, so that, as Jack stood in the vestibule fumbling in
his coat pocket, he was not visible, though he could see what was
going on in the hall behind him.
There was a spot of light at the head of the staircase. Somebody was
standing there looking down into the hall--somebody in a rough jacket
buttoned to the throat and wearing a pair of rubber-soled shoes, for
the intruder made not the slightest noise. Jack wondered if some
impudent burglar was raiding the house at this hour. If so, he would
get a warm reception presently. Jack stood there as the figure came
down the stairs and turned along a corridor to the left of the
drawing-room. But there was no challenge and no fight, for the simple
reason that in the hall light, as the stranger passed, Jack recognized
the face of Spencer Anstruther. There was no doubt about it; there was
no possibility of a mistake here.
Inside the study the music once more began. Very gently Jack tried the
handle of the door, but it was locked. Under ordinary circumstances
this would have excited no suspicion; perhaps there was another way
into the room by way of the corridor. But if so that did not explain
why Anstruther was creeping about his own house in the semblance of a
burglar, and wearing rubber-soled shoes. There was something creepy
about the whole business. Jack returned to the vestibule again, and
from there he passed into the garden. The study was at the side of the
house, and a belt of shrubs outside afforded a pretty good cover.
There was the study under with the blinds down and a strong light
inside. Jack noted that it was a French window, a window frequently
used, because the stone step outside had been worn by the pressing of
many feet.
The smooth melody of Chopin was playing on inside. Jack stooped down
to where he could see the lace flowers on the blind, and looked into
the room. There was a little slit in the blind where the sun had worn
it, and by this slit the whole of the room could be seen. The music
had softened down to a _piano_ passage taken very slowly. But Jack was
not thinking of the music now at all, though the strains were soothing
and flowing enough.
He rubbed his eyes to make sure that they did not deceive him. No, the
room was plain enough, so was the sound of the music. And with it all
_the room was absolutely empty!_