THE EMPTY ROOM.
Jack went off, bent upon putting his discovery to the test. There was
not the slightest trouble in ascertaining where Padini had passed the
hours between eleven and one of the previous evening. As Masefield had
anticipated, the artist had been persuaded to lend his services to the
Bohemia Clef Club, where he had been the lion of the evening. The fact
Jack ascertained at the club itself, a musical member affording him
all the information he desired. The previous night's talent had been
of a very middle class nature, so that Padini had found himself in
great request. He had been exceedingly obliging, so Jack's informant
said, and had practically played straight away for a couple of hours.
Jack jotted down the names of the various items executed by Padini,
and on comparing them with the list given him by Claire, found that
they tallied exactly.
"The plot thickens," he murmured, as he walked rapidly away in the
direction of the _Planet_ office, there to lay his most recent
discoveries before Rigby. "What an ingenious rascal we have to deal
with, to be sure!"
Rigby was emphatically of the same opinion. He did not see how it was
possible to better Jack's suggestion that he should dine at
Anstruther's that night and ascertain all he could as to Anstruther's
past, and especially as to whether the latter had ever been in Mexico.
"There is one little thing we have quite overlooked," Jack suggested
as he rose to depart. "We have got to get inside that study.
Anstruther's game is to lock himself in and pretend that his violin
soothes his mind and induces a proper train of thought. That's his
story, of course. I have ascertained that Padini is doing nothing
to-night, but that will not prevent the music going on all the same.
Now if you could hit upon some scheme whereby----"
"I know exactly what you mean," Rigby said; "you want to see the
inside of the study just at the critical moment. I think our game is
to make a diversion outside. I'll just turn over the matter in my
mind, and if I can see a really artistic way of doing it, I will send
you a telegram just before you go to dinner. The diversion, of course,
will come from the outside of the house."
Jack felt sure that the matter was quite safe in the capable hands of
Dick Rigby. He was surer still when a little before eight o'clock his
landlady handed him a telegram containing just three words from Rigby.
Before he slept that night, Jack felt pretty sure that the mystery of
Anstruther's violin practice would be a secret from him no longer.
It was hard work to keep his feelings under control, to sit in the
drawing-room before dinner was announced and exchange commonplaces
with his brilliant host. Anstruther had rarely been in better form; he
had the air and mien of a man with whom the world goes very well
indeed; success seemed to stand out in big letters upon him. Usually
Anstruther was a man of moods; to-night he was merely a society
creature with apparently no heed of the morrow.
If Jack had any misgivings on the subject of Claire's behavior towards
her guardian, his uneasiness was speedily set at rest. The most
critical observer could not have detected the slightest jarring note.
It was all the same through dinner: Anstruther monopolized most of the
conversation, and Claire followed every word with flattering
attention. Dessert was on the table at length before Jack carefully
led up the conversation to foreign travel. He had seen much of the
world himself, so that there were several places of mutual interest to
be discussed with Anstruther.
"There is one part of the world, however," Jack said, as he carelessly
peeled a peach, "that I have always been curious to see. I allude to
the land of the Aztecs, those wonderful ruined cities of Mexico, of
which we know so little and profess to know so much. Now, don't you
think that those people must have been of an exceedingly high state of
civilization?"
The question was so innocently asked, and Jack's artistic deference
was so subtly conveyed, that Anstruther fell headlong into the trap.
"I should say there is not the slightest doubt about it," the host
responded. "I have been there; indeed, I spent a goodish part of my
time in and about Montezuma."
"And about when would that be?" Jack asked.
Anstruther explained, without giving definite dates, that it was about
two years before. Jack proceeded to discuss the matter in a casual
kind of way. He was anxious to know whether any of the old customs of
the Aztecs still prevailed; he had heard that to a great extent the
religion of these people had been built up on freemasonry. Did, for
instance, Anstruther believe in the legends of terrible revenges which
these people used to inflict upon their enemies?
But Anstruther declined to put his head further into the lion's mouth;
he seemed to become suddenly a little uneasy and suspicious and
changed the conversation to safer grounds. Still, Jack had learned
quite as much as he had expected to learn, and Anstruther's very
reticence confirmed Jack in the feeling that his host knew everything
there was to know about the terrible misfortunes of the man or men
called Nostalgo.
It was getting fairly late now, and Jack was beginning to wonder
whether the hour had not yet arrived for Rigby's promised diversion.
If it came now it would be merely wasted, seeing that nothing could be
gained by Rigby's ingenious device until Anstruther was safe in his
study. He showed no signs, however, of any disposition to move; his
face had grown placid again, and he was talking with all his old charm
of manner on various topics of interest.
Jack did not fail to notice the figure of Serena as she flitted
noiselessly about the room. It had not escaped his notice, either,
that the woman had appeared more than usually anxious and eager when
Mexico had been mentioned. Serena disappeared from the room a moment
in her soft, flitting manner, coming back a moment later with a
telegram, which she laid silently by her master's side. Anstruther
opened the envelope carelessly, and glanced at the contents.
Just for an instant his face grew dark as a thunder-cloud, and
something like an oath escaped his lips. It was all like a lightning
flash, but the swift change had not been lost on Jack. Anstruther
twisted up the telegram carefully, and thrust it in one of the shaded
candles before him, as if he needed a light for his cigar. Jack felt
that he would have given much for a sight of that telegram, but
already it was a little pile of gray ashes upon Anstruther's dessert
plate.
"A great nuisance," the latter said airily; "that is the worst of
being a man of science. But I am not going out to-night for anybody. I
have got some new music I want to try over presently."
Jack murmured something appropriate to the occasion. Claire had
already left the table, with the suggestion that perhaps the men would
like coffee in the drawing-room.
"You stay here and smoke." said Anstruther; "you won't mind my leaving
you, of course, especially as I am so anxious to get back to my
music."
So saying, Anstruther pitched his cigar end on the ash tray, and moved
off in the direction of his study. He had a gay, debonair manner now;
he hummed a fragment of an operatic air as he walked along. There was
the jangle of a telephone bell presently; almost immediately
afterwards the study door was heard to shut and lock, and the music
began.
"It seems almost impossible to believe that that can be Anstruther,"
Jack said to himself. "No man could improve like that in so short a
time. I wonder what Rigby is doing. I hope he won't spoil the pretty
scheme by over-haste. Probably in the course of half an-hour he will
deem it time to begin."
Evidently Rigby had been of the same opinion, for a full half-hour
elapsed before a sound came from outside the house. Anstruther was
well into his second theme before there was a sudden knocking and
hammering on the front door, and a stentorian voice burst into cries
of "Fire! Fire!"
So spontaneous and natural was the whole thing, that Jack was taken
absolutely aback for a moment. It occurred to him, of course, that a
fire had broken out inside the house, and that some passer-by had
discovered it. Again came the hammering on the door and the strident
shouts of those outside. Jack made a leap for the hall, and raced
up-stairs to the drawing-room three steps at a time. Claire had
thrown her book aside, and stood, pale and startled, demanding to
know what was the matter.
"Somebody outside is calling 'fire,'" Jack explained hurriedly; "not
that I fancy there is much the matter--the kitchen chimney or
something of that kind. There they go again!"
Once more the hammering and yelling were upraised; a frightened
servant crept across the hall to the front door and opened it. And
yet, despite all this turmoil, the beautiful soft strains of music
below were continuing. Not for a second did they cease; the player was
evidently too wrapped in his music to be conscious of outside
disturbances. Not that the clamor lacked force and volume, for now
that the front door was open the din was absolutely deafening. Through
the break in the disturbance the sweet, liquid strains of music went
on. Fond of his instrument as Anstruther might have been, he could be
wide awake and alert enough on ordinary occasions, as Jack knew only
too well. Why, then, was he so callous on this occasion?
"Had not you better go down and arouse my guardian?" Clare suggested;
"surely he is the proper man to look to a thing like this."
Jack tumbled eagerly down the stairs, and thundered with both fists on
the study door. As he had more than half expected, no response came to
his summons. The music had become still more melodious and dreamy; the
player might have been far away. As Jack turned, he saw that some
half-dozen men were standing in the hall, one of whom gave him a
palpable wink. It was Rigby's wink, and Jack detected it instantly.
"There don't seem to be so very much the matter, sir," Rigby said. "No
more than the kitchen fire. Only we thought we'd drop in and let you
know. You chaps go to the kitchen and see what you can do."
"How on earth did you manage that?" Jack asked.
"Only a matter of burning a little magnesium light by the back door,"
Rigby explained, with a grin; "but it seems to me only part of our
duty to acquaint the master of the house with the fact that something
is wrong. Is that him playing now, Jack?"
"Nobody else," Jack replied. "Isn't it wonderful? Anybody would think
he was a great artist absolutely lost to all sense of his
surroundings. Still, as you say, it is our duty to let him know what
is going on, even if we have to break in the door."
Rigby grinned responsively. Secure in his disguise, he was not afraid
of being taken for anything else but a street loafer eager to earn a
more or less honest shilling. He tried the door and found it locked;
he ran back a pace or two and hurled himself with full force against
the oak door. Crack went the door on its hinges, the woodwork gave
inwardly, and the room was disclosed to view.
The music had not stopped or faltered for an instant, the whole
apartment was flooded with a delicate melody. Jack stood there puzzled
and bewildered, and with a feeling that he would wake presently and
find that it was all a dream.
"Absolutely stupendous!" he cried; "music fit food for the gods, and
not a sign of the player!"
For the room was absolutely empty!