Marion’s Peril
The mist, which had been gathering since the early afternoon, began to
thicken ominously as I approached Abbey-road, Hornsey, from Crouch End
Station, causing me to quicken my pace so that I might make my
destination before the fog closed in; for this was my first visit to
Marion D’Arblay’s studio, and the neighbourhood was strange to me. And
in fact I was none too soon; for hardly had I set my hand on the
quaint bronze knocker above the plate inscribed “Mr. J. D’Arblay,”
when the adjoining houses grew pale and shadowy and then vanished
altogether.
My elaborate knock—in keeping with the distinguished knocker—was
followed by soft, quick footsteps, the sound whereof set my heart
ticking in double-quick time; the door opened, and there stood Miss
D’Arblay, garbed in a most alluring blue smock or pinafore, with
sleeves rolled up to the elbow, with a smile of friendly welcome on
her comely face, and looking so sweet and charming that I yearned then
and there to take her in my arms and kiss her. This, however being
inadmissible, I shook her hand warmly and was forthwith conducted
through the outer lobby into the main studio, where I stood looking
about me with amused surprise. She looked at me inquiringly as I
emitted an audible chuckle.
“It is a queer-looking place,” said I; “something between a
miracle-shrine hung with votive offerings from sufferers who have been
cured of sore heads and arms and legs, and a meat emporium in a
cannibal district.”
“It is nothing of the kind!” she exclaimed indignantly. “I don’t mind
the votive offerings, but I reject the cannibal meat-market as a gross
and libellous fiction. But I suppose it does look rather queer to a
stranger.”
“To a what?” I demanded fiercely.
“Oh, I only meant a stranger to the place, of course, and you know I
did. So you needn’t be cantankerous.”
She glanced smilingly round the studio, and for the first time,
apparently, the oddity of its appearance dawned on her, for she
laughed softly and then turned a mischievous eye on me as I gaped
about me like a bumpkin at a fair. The studio was a very large and
lofty room or hall, with a partially glazed roof and a single large
window just below the skylight. The walls were fitted partly with rows
of large shelves, and the remainder with ranks of pegs. From the
latter hung row after row of casts of arms, hands, legs, and
faces—especially faces—while the shelves supported a weird succession
of heads, busts, and a few half-length but armless figures. The
general effect was very strange and uncanny, and what made it more so
was the fact that all the heads presented perfectly smooth, bare
craniums.
“Are artists’ models usually bald?” I inquired, as I noted this latter
phenomenon.
“Now you are being foolish,” she replied; “wilfully and deliberately
foolish. You know very well that all these heads have got to be fitted
with wigs; and you couldn’t fit a wig to a head that already had a
fine covering of plaster curls. But I must admit that it rather
detracts from the beauty of a girl’s head if you represent it without
hair. The models used to hate it when they were shown with heads like
old gentlemen’s, and so did poor Daddy; in fact, he usually rendered
the hair in the clay, just sketchily, for the sake of the model’s
feelings and his own, and took it off afterwards with a wire tool. But
there is the kettle boiling over. I must make the tea.”
While this ceremony was being performed I strolled round the studio
and inspected the casts, more particularly the heads and faces. Of
these latter the majority were obviously modelled, but I noticed a
number with closed eyes, having very much the appearance of death
masks. When we had taken our places at the little table near the great
gas-ring I inquired what they were.
“They do look rather cadaverous, don’t they?” she said, as she poured
out the tea; “but they are not death masks. They are casts from living
faces, mostly from the faces of models, but my father always used to
take a cast from any one who would let him, They are quite useful to
work from, though, of course, the eyes have to be put in from another
cast or from life.”
“It must be rather an unpleasant operation,” I said, “having the
plaster poured over the face. How does the victim manage to breathe?”
“The usual plan is to put little tubes or quills into the nostrils.
But my father could keep the nostrils free without any tubes. He was a
very skilful moulder; and then he always used the best plaster, which
set very quickly, so that it only took a few minutes.”
“And how are you getting on, and what were you doing when I came in?”
“I am getting on quite well,” she replied. “My work has been passed as
satisfactory, and I have three new commissions. When you came in I was
just getting ready to make a mould for a head and shoulders. After tea
I shall go on with it, and you shall help me. But tell me about
yourself. You have finished with Dr. Cornish, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I am a gentleman at large for the time being, but that won’t do.
I shall have to look out for another job.”
“I hope it will be a London job,” she said. “Arabella and I would feel
quite lonely if you went away even for a week or two. We both look
forward so much to our little family gathering on Sunday afternoon.”
“You don’t look forward to it as much as I do,” I said warmly. “It is
difficult for me to realize that there was ever a time when you were
not a part of my life. And yet we are quite new friends.”
“Yes,” she said; “only a few weeks old. But I have the same feeling. I
seem to have known you for years, and as for Arabella, she speaks of
you as if she had nursed you from infancy. You have a very insinuating
way with you.”
“Oh, don’t spoil it by calling me insinuating!” I protested.
“No, I won’t,” she replied. “It was the wrong word. I meant
sympathetic. You have the gift of entering into other people’s
troubles and feeling them as if they were your own; which is a very
precious gift—to the other people.”
“Your troubles are my own,” said I, “since I have the privilege to be
your friend. But I have been a happier man since I shared them.”
“It is very nice of you to say that,” she murmured, with a quick
glance at me and just a faint heightening of colour; and then for a
while neither of us spoke.
“Have you seen Dr. Thorndyke lately?” she asked, when she had refilled
our cups, and thereby, as it were, punctuated our silence.
“Yes,” I answered. “I saw him only a night or two ago. And that
reminds me that I was commissioned to make some inquiries. Can you
tell me if your father ever did any electrotype work for outsiders?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “He used latterly to electrotype most of
his own work instead of sending it to the bronze-founders, but it is
hardly likely that he would do electros for outsiders. There are firms
who do nothing else, and I know that, when he was busy, he used to
send his work to them. But why do you ask?”
I related to her what Thorndyke had told me, and pointed out the
importance of ascertaining the facts, which she saw at once.
“As soon as we have finished tea,” she said, “we will go and look over
the cupboard where the electro moulds were kept—that is, the permanent
ones. The gelatine moulds for works in the round couldn’t be kept.
They were melted down again. But the water-proofed plaster moulds were
stored away in this cupboard, and the gutta-percha ones, too, until
they were wanted to soften down to make new moulds. And even if the
moulds were destroyed, Father usually kept a cast.”
“Would you be able to tell by looking through the cupboard?” I asked.
“Yes. I should know a strange mould, of course, as I saw all the
original work that he did. Have we finished? Then let us go and settle
the question now.”
She produced a bunch of keys from her pocket and crossed the studio to
a large, tall cupboard in a corner. Selecting a key, she inserted it
and was trying vainly to turn it when the door came open. She looked
at it in surprise and then turned to me with a somewhat puzzled
expression.
“This is really very curious,” she said. “When I came here this
morning I found the outer door unlocked. Naturally I thought I must
have forgotten to lock it, though that would have been an
extraordinary oversight. And now I find this door unlocked. But I
distinctly remember locking it before going away last night, when I
had put back the box of modelling wax. What do you make of that?”
“It looks as if some one had entered the studio last night with false
keys or by picking the lock. But why should they? Perhaps the cupboard
will tell. You will know if it has been disturbed.”
She ran her eyes along the shelves and said at once: “It has been. The
things are all in disorder and one of the moulds is broken. We had
better take them all out and see if anything is missing—so far as I
can judge, that is, for the moulds were just as my father left them.”
We dragged a small work-table to the cupboard and emptied the shelves
one by one. She examined each mould as we took it out, and I jotted
down a rough list at her dictation. When we had been through the whole
collection and re-arranged the moulds on the shelves—they were mostly
plaques and medallions—she slowly read through the list and reflected
for a few moments. At length she said:
“I don’t miss anything that I can remember. But the question is, Were
there any moulds or casts that I did not know about? I am thinking of
Dr. Thorndyke’s question. If there were any, they have gone, so that
question cannot be answered.”
We looked at one another gravely, and in both our minds was the same
unspoken question: “Who was it that had entered the studio last
night?”
We had just closed the cupboard and were moving away when my eye
caught a small object half-hidden in the darkness under the cupboard
itself—the bottom of which was raised by low feet about an inch and a
half from the floor. I knelt down and passed my hand into the shallow
space and was just able to hook it out. It proved to be a fragment of
a small plaster mould, saturated with wax and black-leaded on the
inside. Miss D’Arblay stooped over it eagerly and exclaimed: “I don’t
know that one. What a pity it is such a small piece. But it is
certainly part of a coin.”
“It is part of _the_ coin,” said I. “There can be no doubt of that. I
examined the cast that Dr. Thorndyke made and I recognize this as the
same. There is the lower part of the bust, the letters C A—the first
two letters of Carolus—and the tiny elephant and castle. That is
conclusive. This is the mould from which that electrotype was made.
But I had better hand it to Dr. Thorndyke to compare with the cast
that he has.”
I carefully bestowed the fragment in my tobacco-pouch, as the safest
place for the time being, and meanwhile Miss D’Arblay looked fixedly
at me with a very singular expression.
“You realize,” she said in a hushed voice, “what this means. _He_ was
in here last night.”
I nodded. The same conclusion had instantly occurred to me, and a very
uncomfortable one it was. There was something very sinister and horrid
in the thought of that murderous villain quietly letting himself into
this studio and ransacking its hiding-places in the dead of the night.
So unpleasantly suggestive was it that for a time neither of us spoke
a word, but stood looking blankly at one another in silent dismay. And
in the midst of the tense silence there came a knock at the door.
We both started as if we had been struck. Then Miss D’Arblay,
recovering herself quickly, said: “I had better go,” and hurried down
the studio to the lobby.
I listened nervously, for I was a little unstrung. I heard her go into
the lobby and open the outer door. I heard a low voice, apparently
asking a question; the outer door closed, and then came a sudden
scuffling sound and a piercing shriek. With a shout of alarm, I raced
down the studio, knocking over a chair as I ran, and darted into the
lobby just as the outer door slammed.
For a moment I hesitated. Miss D’Arblay had shrunk into a corner, and
stood in the semi-darkness with both her hands pressed tightly to her
breast. But she called out excitedly: “Follow him! I am not hurt”; and
on this I wrenched open the door and stepped out.
But the first glance showed me that pursuit was hopeless. The fog had
now become so dense that I could hardly see my own feet. I dared not
leave the threshold for fear of not being able to find my way back.
Then she would be alone—and _he_ was probably lurking close by even
now.
I stood irresolute, stock-still; listening intently. The silence was
profound. All the natural noises of a populous neighbourhood seemed to
be smothered by the dense blanket of dark yellow vapour. Not a sound
came to my ear; no stealthy footfall, no rustle of movement. Nothing
but stark silence.
Uneasily I crept back until the open doorway showed as a dim rectangle
of shadow; crept back and peered fearfully into the darkness of the
lobby. She was still standing in the corner—an upright smudge of
deeper darkness in the obscurity. But even as I looked, the shadowy
figure collapsed and slid noiselessly to the floor.
In an instant the pursuit was forgotten, and I darted into the lobby,
shutting the outer door behind me, and dropped on my knees at her
side. Where she had fallen a streak of light came in from the studio,
and the sight that it revealed turned me sick with terror. The whole
front of her smock, from the breast downwards, was saturated with
blood; both her hands were crimson and gory, and her face was
dead-white to the lips.
For an instant I was paralyzed with horror. I could see no movement of
breathing, and the white face with its parted lips and half-closed
eyes, was as the face of the dead. But when I dared to search for the
wound, I was a little reassured; for, closely as I scrutinized it, the
gory smock showed no sign of a cut excepting on the bloodstained right
sleeve. And now I noticed a deep gash on the left hand, which was
still bleeding freely, and was probably the source of the blood which
had soaked the smock. There seemed to be no vital wound.
With a deep breath of relief, I hastily tore my handkerchief into
strips and applied the improvised bandage tightly enough to control
the bleeding. Then with the scissors from my pocket-case, which I now
carried from habit, I laid open the blood-stained sleeve. The wound on
the arm, just above the elbow, was quite shallow; a glancing wound,
which tailed off upwards into a scratch. A turn of the remaining strip
of bandage secured it for the time being, and this done I once more
explored the front of the smock, pulling its folds tightly apart in
search of the dreaded cut. But there was none; and now, the bleeding
being controlled, it was safe to take measures of restoration.
Tenderly—and not without effort—I lifted her and carried her into the
studio, where was a shabby but roomy couch, on which poor D’Arblay had
been accustomed to rest when he stayed for the night. On this I laid
her, and fetching some water and a towel, dabbed her face and neck.
Presently she opened her eyes and heaved a deep sigh, looking at me
with a troubled, bewildered expression, and evidently only
half-conscious. Suddenly her eye caught the great blood-stain on her
smock, and her expression grew wild and terrified. For a few moments
she gazed at me with eyes full of horror; then, as the memory of her
dreadful experience rushed back on her, she uttered a little cry and
burst into tears, moaning and sobbing almost hysterically.
I rested her head on my shoulder and tried to comfort her; and she,
poor girl, weak and shaken by the awful shock, clung to me trembling,
and wept passionately with her face buried in my breast. As for me, I
was almost ready to weep, too, if only from sheer relief and revulsion
from my late terrors.
“Marion, darling!” I murmured into her ear as I stroked her damp hair.
“Poor dear little woman! It was horrible. But you mustn’t cry any more
now. Try to forget it, dearest.”
She shook her head passionately. “I can never do that,” she sobbed.
“It will haunt me as long as I live. Oh! and I am so frightened, even
now. What a coward I am!”
“Indeed you are not!” I exclaimed. “You are just weak from loss of
blood. Why did you let me leave you, Marion?”
“I didn’t think I was hurt, and I wasn’t particularly frightened then;
and I hoped that if you followed him he might be caught. Did you see
him?”
“No. There is a thick fog outside. I didn’t dare to leave the
threshold. Were you able to see what he was like?”
She shuddered and choked down a sob. “He is a dreadful-looking man,”
she said. “I loathed him at the first glance: a beetle-browed,
hook-nosed wretch, with a face like that of some horrible bird of
prey. But I couldn’t see him very distinctly, for it is rather dark in
the lobby, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled down over his
brows.”
“Would you know him again? And can you give a description of him that
would be of use to the police?”
“I am sure I should know him again,” she said with a shudder. “It was
a face that one could never forget. A hideous face! The face of a
demon. I can see it now, and it will haunt me, sleeping and waking,
until I die.”
Her words ended with a catch of the breath, and she looked piteously
into my face with wide, terrified eyes. I took her trembling hand and
once more drew her head to my shoulder.
“You mustn’t think that, dear,” said I. “You are all unstrung now, but
these terrors will pass. Try to tell me quietly just what this man was
like. What was his height, for instance?”
“He was not very tall. Not much taller than I. And he was rather
slightly built.”
“Could you see whether he was dark or fair?”
“He was rather dark. I could see a shock of hair sticking out from
under his hat, and he had a moustache with turned-up ends and a beard;
a rather short beard.”
“And now as to his face. You say he had a hooked nose?”
“Yes; a great, high-bridged nose like the beak of some horrible bird.
And his eyes seemed to be deep-set under heavy brows with bushy
eyebrows. The face was rather thin, with high cheek-bones; a fierce,
scowling, repulsive face.”
“And the voice? Should you know that again?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “He spoke in quite a low tone, rather
indistinctly. And he said only a few words—something about having come
to make some inquiries about the cost of a wax model. Then he stepped
into the lobby and shut the outer door, and immediately, without
another word, he seized my right arm and struck at me. But I saw the
knife in his hand, and as I called out I snatched at it with my left
hand, so that it missed my body and I felt it cut my right arm. Then I
got hold of his wrist. But he had heard you coming, and wrenched
himself free. The next moment he had opened the door and rushed out,
shutting it behind him.”
She paused, and then added in a shaking voice: “If you had not been
here—if I had been alone——”
“We won’t think of that, Marion. You were not alone, and you will
never be again in this place. I shall see to that.”
At this she gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and looked into my
face with the pallid ghost of a smile.
“Then I shan’t be frightened any more,” she murmured; and, closing her
eyes, she lay for a while, breathing quietly as if asleep. She looked
very delicate and frail, with her waxen cheeks and the dark shadows
under her eyes, but still I noted a faint tinge of colour stealing
back into her lips. I gazed down at her with fond anxiety, as a mother
might look at a sleeping child that had just passed the crisis of a
dangerous illness. Of the bare chance that had snatched her from
imminent death I would not allow myself to think. The horror of that
moment was too fresh for the thought to be endurable. Instead I began
to occupy myself with the practical question as to how she was to be
got home. It was a long way to North Grove—some two miles I
reckoned—too far for her to walk in her present weak state; and there
was the fog. Unless it lifted it would be impossible for her to find
her way; and I could give her no help, as I was a stranger to this
locality. Nor was it by any means safe; for our enemy might still be
lurking near, waiting for the opportunity that the fog would offer.
I was still turning over these difficulties when she opened her eyes
and looked up at me a little shyly.
“I’m afraid I’ve been rather a baby,” she said, “but I am much better
now. Hadn’t I better get up?”
“No,” I answered. “Lie quiet and rest. I am trying to think how you
are to be got home. Didn’t you say something about a caretaker?”
“Yes; a woman in the little house next door, which really belongs to
the studio. Daddy used to leave the key with her at night, so that she
could clean up. But I just fetch her in when I want her help. Why do
you ask?”
“Do you think she could get a cab for us?”
“I am afraid not. There is no cab-stand anywhere near here. But I
think I could walk, unless the fog is too thick. Shall we go and see
what it is like?”
“I will go,” said I, rising. But she clung to my arm. “You are not to
go alone,” she said, in sudden alarm. “_He_ may be there still.”
I thought it best to humour her, and accordingly helped her to rise.
For a few moments she seemed rather unsteady on her feet, but soon she
was able to walk, supported by my arm, to the studio door, which I
opened, and through which wreaths of vapour drifted in. But the fog
was perceptibly thinner; and even as I was looking across the road at
the now faintly visible houses, two spots of dull yellow light
appeared up the road, and my ear caught the muffled sound of wheels.
Gradually the lights grew brighter, and at length there stole out of
the fog the shadowy form of a cab with a man leading the horse at a
slow walk. Here seemed a chance of escape from our dilemma.
“Go in and shut the door while I speak to the cabman,” said I. “He may
be able to take us. I shall give four knocks when I come back.”
She was unwilling to let me go, but I gently pushed her in and shut
the door, and then advanced to meet the cab. A few words set my
anxieties at rest, for it appeared that the cabman had to set down a
fare a little way along the street, and was very willing to take a
return fare, on suitable terms. As any terms would have been suitable
to me under the circumstances the cabman was able to make a good
bargain, and we parted with mutual satisfaction and a cordial au
revoir. Then I steered back along the fence to the studio door, on
which I struck four distinct knocks and announced myself vocally by
name. Immediately, the door opened, and a hand drew me in by the
sleeve.
“I am so glad you have come back,” she whispered. “It was horrid to be
alone in the lobby even for a few minutes. What did the cabman say?”
I told her the joyful tidings, and we at once made ready for our
departure. In a minute or two the welcome glare of the cab-lamps
reappeared, and when I had locked up the studio and pocketed the key,
I helped her into the rather ramshackle vehicle.
I don’t mind admitting that the cabman’s charges were extortionate;
but I grudged him never a penny. It was probably the slowest journey
that I had ever made, but yet the funereal pace was all too swift.
Half-ashamed as I was to admit it to myself, this horrible adventure
was bearing sweet fruit to me in the unquestioned intimacy that had
been born in the troubled hour. Little enough was said; but I sat
happily by her side, holding her uninjured hand in mine (on the
pretence of keeping it warm), blissfully conscious that our sympathy
and friendship had grown to something sweeter and more precious.
“What are we to say to Arabella?” I asked. “I suppose she will have to
be told?”
“Of course she will,” replied Marion; “you shall tell her. But,” she
added, in a lower tone, “you needn’t tell her everything—I mean what a
baby I was and how you had to comfort and soothe me. She is as brave
as a lion, and she thinks I am, too. So you needn’t undeceive her too
much.”
“I needn’t undeceive her at all,” said I, “because you are”; and we
were still arguing this weighty question when the cab drew up at Ivy
Cottage. I sent the cabman off, rejoicing, and then escorted Marion up
the path to the door, where Miss Boler was waiting, having apparently
heard the cab arrive.
“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “I was wondering how on earth you
would manage to get home.” Then she suddenly observed Marion’s
bandaged hand, and uttered an exclamation of alarm.
“Miss Marion has cut her hand rather badly,” I explained. “We won’t
talk about it just now. I will tell you everything presently when you
have put her to bed. Now I want some stuff to make dressings and
bandages.”
Miss Boler looked at me suspiciously, but made no comment. With
extraordinary promptitude she produced a supply of linen, warm water,
and other necessaries, and then stood by to watch the operation and
give assistance.
“It is a nasty wound,” I said, as I removed the extemporized dressing,
“but not so bad as I feared. There will be no lasting injury.”
I put on the permanent dressing and then exposed the wound on the arm,
at the sight of which Miss Boler’s eyebrows went up. But she made no
remark; and when a dressing had been put on this, too, she took charge
of the patient to conduct her up to the bedroom.
“I shall come up and see that she is all right before I go,” said I,
“and meanwhile, no questions, Arabella.”
She cast a significant look at me over her shoulder and departed with
her arm about the patient’s waist.
The rites and ceremonies abovestairs were briefer than I had
expected—perhaps the promised explanations had accelerated matters. At
any rate, in a very few minutes Miss Boler bustled into the room and
said: “You can go up now, but don’t stop to gossip. I am bursting with
curiosity.”
Thereupon I ascended to my lady’s chamber, which I entered as
diffidently and reverentially as though such visits were not the
commonplace of my professional life. As I approached the bed she
heaved a little sigh of content and murmured:
“What a fortunate girl I am! To be petted and cared for and pampered
in this way! Arabella is a perfect angel, and you, Dr. Gray——”
“Oh, Marion!” I protested. “Not Dr. Gray.”
“Well, then, Stephen,” she corrected, with a faint blush.
“That is better. And what am I?”
“Never mind,” she replied, very pink and smiling. “I expect you know.
If you don’t, ask Arabella when you go down.”
“I expect she will do most of the asking,” said I. “And I have strict
orders not to stop to gossip, so let me see the bandages, and then I
must go.”
I made my inspection without undue hurry, and, having seen that all
was well, I took her hand.
“You are to stay here until I have seen you to-morrow morning, and you
are to be a good girl and try not to think of unpleasant things.”
“Yes; I will do everything that you tell me.”
“Then I can go away happy. Good night, Marion.”
“Good night, Stephen.”
I pressed her hand and felt her fingers close on mine. Then I turned
away, and with only a moment’s pause at the door for a last look at
the sweet, smiling face, descended the stairs to confront the
formidable Arabella.
Of my cautious statement and her keen cross-examination I will say
nothing. I made the proceedings as short as was decent, for I wanted,
if possible, to take counsel with Thorndyke. On my explaining this,
the brevity of my account was condoned, and even my refusal of food.
“But remember, Arabella,” I said, as she escorted me to the gate, “she
has had a very severe shock. The less you say to her about the affair
for the present the quicker will be her recovery.”
With this warning I set forth through the rapidly thinning fog to
catch the first conveyance that I could find to bear me southward.