MARJORIE AND DONALD MEGBIE
The valet showed Marjorie Poole into Donald Megbie's study.
She wore a coat and skirt of dark green Harris Tweed with leather collar
and cuffs, and a simple sailor hat.
Megbie, who had never met Miss Poole in the country, but only knew her
in London and during the season, had never seen her dressed like this
before. He had always admired her beauty, the admirable poise of her
manner, the evidences of intellectuality she gave.
At the moment of her entry the journalist thought her more beautiful
than ever, dressed as if for covert-side or purple-painted moor. And his
quick brain realized in a moment that she was dressed thus in an
unconscious attempt to escape observation, to be incognito, as it were.
But why had she come to see him? She was in trouble, her face showed
that--it was extraordinary, altogether unprecedented.
Megbie showed nothing of the thoughts which were animating him, either
in his face or manner. He shook hands as if he had just met Miss Poole
in Bond Street.
"Do sit down," he said, "I think you'll find that chair a comfortable
one."
Marjorie sat down. "Of course, Mr. Megbie," she said, "you will think it
very strange that I should come here alone; when I tell you why, you
will think it stranger still. And I don't want any one to know that I
have been here. I shall tell mother, of course, when I get back."
Megbie bowed and said nothing. It was the most tactful thing to do.
"I feel you will not misunderstand my motives," the girl went on, "when
I explain myself. In certain cases, and among certain persons,
conventions are bourgeois. We don't know each other very well, Mr.
Megbie, though we have sometimes had some interesting talks together.
But in a sense I know you better than you know me. You see, I have read
your books and other writings. In common with the rest of the world I
can gather something of your temper of mind, and of your outlook upon
life."
Megbie once more inclined his head. He wondered furiously what all this
might mean. At the moment he was absolutely in the dark. He stretched
out his hand towards a tin of cigarettes that stood on a bracket by the
side of the fireplace, and then withdrew it suddenly, remembering who
was present.
"Oh, do smoke," she said, instantly interpreting the movement. "Now let
me just tell you exactly why I am here, why I _had_ to come here. Of all
the men I know, you are the most likely to understand. You have made a
study of psychical affairs, of what the man in the street calls
'spooks'--you know about dreams."
At that Megbie started forward, every muscle in his body becoming rigid
and tense, his hands gripping the knobs of his chair arms.
"Of course!" he said, in a voice that rippled with excitement. "Go on,
please. I might have known your coming here this morning is all part of
the wonderful and uncanny experiences I had last night. You've come
about Guy Rathbone!"
It was the girl's turn to start. Fear came creeping into eyes which were
not wont to show fear, the proud mouth grew tremulous.
Marjorie stretched out her hands--little hands in tan-coloured gloves.
"Ah!" she cried, in a voice that had become shrill and full of pain,
"then it is true! Things have happened to you too! Mr. Megbie, you and I
have become entangled in some dark and dreadful thing. I dare not think
what it may be. _But Guy is not dead._"
Megbie answered her in the same words.
"No," he said, "Guy Rathbone is not dead." His voice had sunk several
tones. It tolled like a bell.
"Miss Poole," he went on, "tell me, tell me at once what happened to you
last night."
With a great effort of control, Marjorie began her story.
"It was very late when we got home last night after the party," she
said. "I was in a curious state of nerves and excitement. I must touch
upon a personal matter--this is no time for reticence or false shame. I
had been with William Gouldesbrough. You know that we were at one time
engaged--oh, this is horribly difficult for me to say, Mr. Megbie."
"Go on, Miss Poole. I know, I know. But what does it matter in such a
time as this?"
"Nothing at all," she answered in a resolute voice. "I was engaged to
Sir William when I found out that my affection was going elsewhere--Guy,
Mr. Rathbone----"
"You needn't go into the past, Miss Poole," Donald broke in, "tell me
about last night."
"I was with Sir William at supper-time. There was a remarkable scene. It
was a sort of triumph for him, and I was with him, every one included me
in it. It was, obviously, generally assumed that we had become engaged
once more. On the way home, Sir William again asked me to be his wife. I
told him that I could not give him an answer then. I said that I would
tell him to-night. He is coming to Curzon Street to-night."
"I beg you, I implore you to wait."
Megbie's words were so grave, he seemed so terribly in earnest, that the
girl shrank from them, as one would shrink from blows.
The same thought began to lurk in the eyes of the woman and the man, the
same incredible and yet frightful thought.
Marjorie's cheeks were almost grey in colour. To Megbie, as he watched
her, she seemed to have grown older suddenly. The lustre seemed to him
to have gone out of her hair.
"I reached home," she said. "Mother made me take a cup of beef-tea, and
I went to my room. I was preparing for bed, indeed I was brushing my
hair before the mirror, when a curious sense of disturbance and almost
of fear came over me. I felt as if there was another presence in the
room. Now my looking-glass is a very large one indeed. It commands the
whole of the room. The whole of the room is reflected in it without any
part left out, except of course which I could see where I sat. When this
strange feeling of another presence came over me, I thought it was
merely reaction after a terribly exciting night. I looked into the
glass and saw that the room was absolutely empty. Still the sensation
grew. It became so strong at last that I turned round. And there, Mr.
Megbie, I tell you in the utmost bewilderment, but with extreme
certainty, there, though the mirror showed nothing at all, a figure was
standing, the figure of a man. It was not three feet away."
Megbie broke in upon her narrative.
"The figure," he said in a hushed voice, "was the figure of Mr. Eustace
Charliewood, who shot himself at Brighton some little time ago."
She cried out aloud, "Yes! But how did you know?"
"He came to me also, last night. He came to me out of the other world,
which is all round us, but which we cannot see. He was trying to tell me
something about Guy Rathbone."
Marjorie Poole began to sob quietly.
"I knew it," she answered. "Mr. Charliewood in another state sees more
than we see, he knows where Guy is. Oh, my love, my love!"
Megbie went up to her. He had some sal-volatile in his dressing-case,
and he made her take it.
"Be brave," he said; "you have more to tell me yet, as I have more to
tell you. Guy is alive, we are certain of that. But he is in some one's
power. The spirit of this man, Eustace Charliewood, knows where he is.
He is trying to tell us. He is trying to make amends for something. He
must have had something to do with Guy's disappearance."
"Mr. Charliewood," Marjorie said in a whisper, "was William
Gouldesbrough's intimate friend. He was always about the house. When Guy
Rathbone disappeared, Eustace Charliewood killed himself. William was at
Brighton at the time. He was trying to help me and my mother to find
Guy."
"Go on with your story, if you can," Megbie said. "One more effort!"
"I knew that the figure was trying to tell me about Guy. Something told
me that with absolute certainty. But it couldn't tell me. It began to
weep and wring its hands. Oh, it was pitiful! Then suddenly, it seemed
to realize that it was no use. It stood upright and rigid, and fixed its
eyes upon me. Mr. Megbie, such mournful eyes, eyes so full of sorrow and
terrible remorse, were never in a human face. As those eyes stared down
at me, a deep drowsiness began to creep over me. Sleep came flooding
over me with a force and power such as I had never known before. It was
impossible to withstand it. People who have taken some drug must feel
like that. Just as I was, in the chair in front of the dressing-table,
I sank into sleep."
"And your dream?" Megbie said quietly.
She started. "Ah, you know," she said. "The spirit of Eustace
Charliewood could not tell me while I was conscious. But in sleep he
could influence my brain in some other mysterious way. I dreamed that
Guy was in a sort of cell. By some means or other I knew that it was
underground. A man was there, a man whom I have met, a man--a horrible
creature--who is a fellow-worker of Sir William Gouldesbrough. The man
was doing something to Guy. I couldn't see what it was. Then the picture
faded away. I seemed to be moving rapidly in a cold empty place where
there was no wind or air, sound, or, or--I can't describe it. It was a
sort of 'between place.'"
"And then?"
"Then I saw you standing by the side of William Gouldesbrough. It was at
the party--Lord Malvin's party, which we had just left. I saw this as if
from a vast distance. It was a tiny, tiny picture, just as one could see
something going on under a microscope. William was talking to some one
whom I couldn't see. But I knew it was myself, that I was looking at the
exact scene which had happened at the party, when you were going away
with William, and he had stopped on the way to ask me to go into supper
with him. And, strangely enough, in another part of my mind, the
sub-conscious part I suppose, I knew that I was looking at an event of
the past, and that this was the reason why it seemed so tiny and
far-off. The picture went away in a flash--just like an eye winking.
You've been to one of those biograph shows and seen how suddenly the
picture upon the screen goes?--well, it was just like that. Then a voice
was speaking--a very thin and very distant voice. If one could telephone
to the moon, one would hear the voice at the other end just like that, I
should think. And though the voice was so tiny, it was quite distinct,
and it had a note of terrible entreaty. 'Go to Donald Megbie,' it said.
'Go at once to Donald Megbie, the writer. He will help. There is still
time. Go to Donald Megbie. I have been able to communicate with him. He
has the silver--Guy----' And then, Mr. Megbie, the voice stopped
suddenly. Those were the exact words. What they meant, I did not know.
But when I awoke they remained ringing in my ears like the echo of a
bell heard over a wide expanse of country. In the morning I resolved to
come to you. I didn't know where you lived, but I looked you up in
'Who's Who.' And as soon as I could get away without any one knowing, I
came here."
Donald Megbie rose from his chair. He realized at once that it was
necessary to keep the same high tension of this interview. If that were
lost everything would go.
"I know what the poor troubled spirit--if it is a spirit--of the man,
Charliewood, meant by his last words. There is a thing called
psychometry, Miss Poole. In brief, it means that any article which
belongs, or has belonged, to any one, somehow retains a part of their
personality. It may well be that the mysterious thought-vibrations which
Sir William Gouldesbrough has discovered can linger about an actual and
material object. Last night, when Sir William left me to take you in to
supper at Lord Malvin's, he left his cigarette-case behind him in the
conservatory where we had been sitting. I didn't want to bother him
then, so I put it in my pocket, intending to send it to him to-day; here
it is. It belonged to Guy Rathbone. I found it in Sir William's
possession, and I believe that it has been the means--owing, to some law
or force which we do not yet understand--of bringing us together this
morning." He handed her the cigarette-case.
Neither of them could know that this was the case which Eustace
Charliewood had found in the pocket of Rathbone's fur coat, when he had
taken it from the Bond Street coiffeur in mistake.
Neither of them could see how it had been restored by Charliewood to
Rathbone, and had been appropriated by Mr. Guest, when the captive had
been taken to his silent place below the old house in Regent's Park.
And even Sir William Gouldesbrough did not know that he had seen the
thing in his study, just as he was starting for Lord Malvin's house, and
had absently slipped it into his pocket, thinking it was his own.