BOOK IV.

THE JOSS: A REVERSION

A Novel

By

_RICHARD MARSH_

LONDON

F. V. WHITE & CO.

14, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1901

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

UNCLE BENJAMIN.

(Mary Blyth Tells the Story.)

I.--Firandolo’s

II.--Locked Out

III.--The Doll

IV.--An Interview with Mr. Slaughter

V.--The Missionary’s Letter

VI.--Sole Residuary Legatee

VII.--Entering into Possession

VIII.--The Back-door Key

BOOK II.

84, CAMFORD STREET.

(The Facts of the Case According to Emily Purvis.)

IX.--Max Lander

X.--Between 13 and 14, Rosemary Street

XI.--One Way In

XII.--The Shutting of a Door

XIII.--A Vision of the Night

XIV.--Susie

XV.--An Ultimatum

XVI.--The Noise which Came from the Passage

BOOK III.

THE GOD OF FORTUNE.

(Mr. Frank Paine Tells the Story of his Association with the

Testamentary Dispositions of Mr. Benjamin Batters.)

XVII.--The Affair of the Freak

XVIII.--Counsel’s Opinion

XIX.--The Reticence of Captain Lander

XX.--My Client: and Her Friend

XXI.--The Agitation of Miss Purvis

XXII.--Luke

XXIII.--The Trio Return

XXIV.--The God Out of the Machine

BOOK IV.

THE JOSS.

(Captain Max Lander Sets Forth the Curious Adventure which Marked the

Voyage of “The Flying Scud.”)

XXV.--Luke’s Suggestion

XXVI.--The Throne in the Centre

XXVII.--The Offerings of the Faithful

XXVIII.--The Joss Reverts

XXIX.--The Father--and His Child

XXX.--The Morning’s News

XXXI.--The Termination of the Voyage of the “Flying Scud”

XXXII.--The Little Discussion Between the Several Parties

XXXIII.--In the Presence

BOOK V.

AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT.

XXXIV.--How Matters Stand To-day

THE JOSS: A REVERSION.

BOOK I.

UNCLE BENJAMIN.

(MARY BLYTH TELLS THE STORY.)

CHAPTER I.

FIRANDOLO’S.

I had had an aggravating day. In everything luck had been against

me. I had got down late, and been fined for that. Then when I went

into the shop I found I had forgotten my cuffs, and Mr. Broadley, who

walks the fancy department, marked me sixpence for that. Just as I was

expecting my call for dinner an old lady came in who kept me fussing

about till my set came up--and only spent three and two-three after

all; so when I did go down alone there was nothing left; and what was

left was worse than cold. Though I was as hungry as I very well could

be I could scarcely swallow as much as a mouthful; lukewarm boiled

mutton cased in solidified fat is not what I care for. Directly after

I came up, feeling hungrier than ever, Miss Patten did me out of the

sale of a lot of sequin trimming on which there was a ninepenny spiff.

I was showing it to a customer, and before I had had half a chance she

came and took it clean out of my hands, and sold it right away. It

made me crosser than ever. To crown it all, I missed three sales. One

lady wanted a veil, and because we had not just the sort she wanted,

when she walked out of the shop Mr. Broadley seemed to think it was my

fault. He said he would mark me. When some people want a triangular

spot you cannot put them off with a round one. It is no use your

saying you can. And so I as good as told him.

Not twenty minutes afterwards a girl came in--a mere chit--who wanted

some passementerie, beaded. She had brought a pattern. Somehow

directly I saw it I thought there would be trouble. I hunted through

the stock and found the thing exactly, only there were blue beads

where there ought to have been green. As there were a dozen different

coloured beads it did not really matter, especially as ours were a

green blue, and hers were a blue green. But that chit would not see

it. She would not admit that it was a match. When I called Mr.

Broadley, and he pointed out to her that the two were so much alike

that, at a little distance, you could not tell one from the other, she

was quite short. She caught up her old pattern and took herself away.

Then Mr. Broadley gave it to me hot. He reminded me that that was two

sales I had missed, and that three, on one day, meant dismissal. I did

not suppose they would go so far as that, but I did expect that, if I

missed again, it would cost me half-a-crown, at least. So, of course,

there was I, as it were, on tenterhooks, resolved that rather than I

would let anyone else go without a purchase I would force some

elevenpence three-farthing thing on her; if I had to pay for it

myself. And there was Mr. Broadley hanging about just by my stand,

watching me so that I felt I should like to stick my scissors into

him.

But I was doomed to be done. Luck was clean against me. Just as we

were getting ready to close in came an old woman--one of your

red-faced sort, with her bonnet a little on one side of her head. She

wanted some torchon lace. Now, strictly speaking, lace is not in my

department, but as we are all supposed to serve through, and most of

the others were engaged--it is extraordinary how, some nights, people

will crowd into the shop just as we are getting ready to close--Mr.

Broadley planted her on me. She was a nice old party. She did not know

herself what she wanted, but seemed to think I ought to. So far as I

could make out, what she really did want was a four shilling lace at

fourpence--which we could not exactly supply. At last I called Mr.

Broadley to see if he could make her out. On which she actually turned

huffy, and declaring that I would not take the trouble to show her

anything at all, in spite of all that we could do or say, she marched

straight out. Then I had a wigging. Broadley let himself go, before

them all. I could have cried--and almost did.

I was three-quarters of an hour late before I got into the street.

Emily Purvis was tired of waiting, and Tom Cooper was in a red-hot

rage.

“My dear,” began Emily, directly she saw me, “I hope you haven’t

hurried. We’re only frozen to the bone.”

“That’s all right,” said Tom. “It’s just the sort of night to hang

about this confounded corner.”

It was disagreeable weather. There was a nasty east wind, which seemed

to cut right into one, and the pavements were wet and slimy. It all

seemed of a piece. I knew Tom’s overcoat was not too thick, nor

Emily’s jacket too warm either. When I saw Tom dancing about to keep

himself warm, all at once something seemed to go over me, and I had to

cry. Then there was a pretty fuss.

“Polly!” exclaimed Emily. “Whatever is the matter with you now?”

And there, in the open street, Tom put his arm about my waist. I told

them all about it. You should have heard how they went on at Broadley.

It did me good to listen, though I knew it would make no difference to

him. They had not had the best of luck either. It seemed that it had

been one of those days on which everything goes wrong with everyone.

Emily had not got one single spiff, and Tom had had a quarrel with

young Clarkson, who had called him Ginger to his face--and the colour

of his hair is a frightfully delicate point with Tom. Tom had

threatened to punch his head when they went upstairs. I begged and

prayed him not to, but there was a gloomy air about him which showed

that he would have to do something to relieve his feelings. I felt

that punching young Clarkson’s head might do him good--and Clarkson no

particular harm.

I do not think that either of us was particularly happy. The streets

were nearly deserted. It was bitterly cold. Every now and then a

splash of rain was driven into our faces.

“This is, for us, the age of romance,” declared Emily. “You mightn’t

think so, but it is. At our age, the world should be alive with

romance. We should be steeped in its atmosphere; drink it in with

every breath. It should colour both our sleeping and our waking hours.

And, instead of that, here we are shivering in this filthy horrid

street.”

That was the way she was fond of talking. She was a very clever girl,

was Emily, and could use big words more easily than I could little

ones. She would have it that romance was the only thing worth living

for, and that, as there is no romance in the world to-day, it is not

worth while one’s living. I could not quite make out her argument, but

that was what it came to so far as I could understand. I wished myself

that there was a little more fun about. I was tired of the drapery.

“Shivering!” said Tom. “I’m not only shivering; I’m hungry too. Boiled

mutton days I always am.”

“Hungry!” I cried. “I’m starving. I’ve had no dinner or tea, and I’m

ready to drop.”

“No! You don’t mean that?”

I did mean it, and so I told him. What with having had nothing to eat,

and being tired, and worried, and cold, it was all I could do to drag

one foot after another. I just felt as if I was going to be ill. I

could have kept on crying all the time.

“Have either of you got any money?” asked Tom. Neither Emily nor I had

a penny. “Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do; we’ll all three of us go

into Firandolo’s, and I’ll stand Sam.”

I knew he had only enough money to take him home on Sunday, because he

had told me so himself the day before. Cardew & Slaughter’s is not the

sort of place where they encourage you to spend Sunday in. He had been

in last Sunday; and to stop in two Sundays running was to get yourself

disliked; I have spent many a Sunday, loitering about the parks and

the streets, living on a couple of buns, rather than go in to what

they called dinner. And I knew that if we once set foot in Firandolo’s

we should spend all he had. Yet I was so faint and hungry that I did

not want much pressing. I could not find it in my heart to refuse.

Firandolo’s is something like a restaurant. Including vegetables, and

sweets, and cheese, I have counted sixty-seven dishes on the bill of

fare at one time, so that you have plenty of choice. For a shilling

you can get a perfectly splendid dinner. And for sixpence you can get

soup, and bread and cheese and butter; and they bring you the soup in

a silver basin which is full to the brim.

At night it is generally crowded, but it was perhaps because the

weather was so bad that there were only a few persons in the place

when we went in. Directly after we entered someone else came in. He

was a big man, and wore a reefer coat and a bowler hat. Seating

himself at a table immediately opposite ours, taking off his hat, he

wiped his forehead with an old bandanna handkerchief; though what

there was to make him warm on a night like that was more than I could

say. He had a fringe of iron-grey hair all round his head on a level

with his ears. It stood out stiffly, like a sort of crown. Above and

below it he was bald. He wore a bristly moustache, and his eyes were

almost hidden by the bushiest eyebrows I had ever seen. I could not

help noticing him, because I had a kind of fancy that he had been

following us for some time. Unless I was mistaken he had passed me

just as I had come out of Cardew & Slaughter’s; and ever since,

whenever I looked round, I saw him somewhere behind us, as if he were

keeping us in sight. I said nothing about it to the others, but I

wondered, all the same. I did not like his looks at all. He seemed to

me to be both sly and impudent; and though he pretended not to be

watching us, I do not believe he took his eyes off us for a single

moment.

I do not know what he had; he took a long time in choosing it,

whatever it was. We had soup. It was lovely. Hot and tasty; just the

very thing I wanted. It made me feel simply pounds better. But, after

we had finished, something dreadful happened. The bill came altogether

to one and three; we each of us had an extra bread. Tom felt in his

pocket for the money. First in one, then in another. Emily and I soon

saw that something was wrong, because he felt in every pocket he had.

And he looked so queer.

“This is a bit of all right!” he gasped, just as we were beginning to

wonder if he was all pockets. “Blessed if I have a single copper on

me. I remember now that I left it in my box, so that I shouldn’t spend

it.”

He looked at us, and we looked at him, and the waiter stood close by,

looking at us all. And behind him was the proprietor, also with an

observant eye. Emily and I were dumbfounded. Tom seemed as if he had

not another word to say. Just as the proprietor was beginning to come

closer, the stranger who had been following us got up and came to us

across the room, all the time keeping his eyes on me.

“Pardon me if I take a liberty, but might I ask if I’m speaking to

Miss Blyth?”

An odd voice he had; as if he were endeavouring to overcome its

natural huskiness by speaking in a whisper. Of course my name is

Blyth, and so I told him. But who he was I did not know from Adam. I

certainly had never set eyes on him before. He explained, in a

fashion; though his explanation came to nothing, after all.

“I knew a--a relative of yours. A pal, he was, of mine; great pals was

him and me. So I naturally take an interest in a relative of his.” He

turned to Tom. “If so be, sir, as you’ve left your purse at home,

which is a kind of accident which might happen to any gentleman at any

time, perhaps I might be allowed to pay your little bill.”

Tom had to allow him, though he liked it no more than I did. But we

none of us wanted to be sent to prison for obtaining soup on false

pretences, which I have been given to understand might have happened.

Though, for my part, I would almost as soon have done that as be

beholden to that big, bald-headed creature, who spoke as if he had

lost his voice, and was doing all he knew to find it. When he had paid

the one and three, and what were Tom’s feelings at seeing him do it

was more than I could think, because I know his pride, the stranger

came out with something else.

“And now, ladies, might I offer you a little something on my own. What

do you say to a dozen oysters each, and a bottle of champagne? I

believe they’re things ladies are fond of.”

He smiled--such a smile. It sounded tempting. I had never tasted

oysters and champagne; though, of course, I had read of them in books,

heaps of times. And it is my opinion that Emily would have said yes,

if I had given her a chance. But not me. I stood up directly.

“Thank you; but I never touch oysters and champagne--at this time of

night.”

“Might I--might I be allowed to offer a little something else. A Welsh

rarebit, shall we say?”

Now, as it happens, a Welsh rarebit is a thing that I am fond of,

especially when eaten with a glass of stout. I was still hungry, and

my mouth watered at the prospect of some real nice, hot toasted

cheese. It needed some resolution to decline. But I did. Hungry as I

was, I felt as if I had had more than enough of him already.

“I am obliged to you, but I want nothing else. I have had all that I

require.”

It was not true; but it seemed to me that it was a case in which truth

would not exactly meet the situation. The stranger came close to me,

actually whispering in my ear.

“May I hope, Miss Blyth, that you’ll remember me when--when you want a

friend?”

I was as stand-offish as I could be.

“I don’t see how I can remember you when I don’t even know your name.”

He spoke to me across the back of his hand.

“My name is Rudd--Isaac Rudd; known to my friends, of whom, the Lord

be praised, I’ve many, as Covey. It’s a--a term of endearment, so to

speak, Miss Blyth.”

That anyone could apply a term of endearment to such a man as he

seemed to be, was more than I believed to be possible.

“If you will let me take your address, Mr. Rudd, I will see that you

have your one and three.”

“My address? Ah! Now there you have me. I don’t happen to have an--an

address just now. In fact, I’m--I’m moving.”

We were going towards the door. I was beginning to fear that he

intended to accompany us home. Nor did I see how we could prevent him,

since he was at liberty to take such measures as he chose which would

ensure the return of the money he had paid for us. But, as we drew

near the entrance, he started back; and his demeanour changed in the

most extraordinary way.

“Good-night,” he stammered, retreating farther and farther from us.

“Don’t--don’t let me keep you, not--not for another moment.”

We went out. Directly we were in the open air Tom drew a long breath.

“Geewhillikins! A nice scrape I nearly got you in, and myself as well.

A pretty hole we should have been in if that fellow hadn’t turned up

in the very nick of time. He’s the sort I call a friend in need with a

vengeance.”

Emily struck in.

“Polly, why wouldn’t you let us sample his oysters and champagne?

Considering he’s a friend of yours, you seemed pretty short with him.”

“My dear, he’s not a friend of mine, nor ever could be; and as for his

oysters and champagne, they’d have choked me if I’d touched them.”

“They wouldn’t have choked me, I can tell you that. There is some

romance in oysters and champagne, and, as you know very well, romance

is what I live for. There’s precious little comes my way; it seems

hard it should be snatched from my lips just as I have a chance of

tasting it.”

“Hollo! Who on earth----”

It was from Tom the exclamation came. He stopped short, with his

sentence uncompleted. I turned to see what had caused him to speak--to

find myself face to face with the most singular-looking individual I

had ever seen.

CHAPTER II.

LOCKED OUT.

At first I could not make out if it was a man or woman or what it

was. But at last I decided that it was a man. I never saw such

clothes. Whether it was the darkness, or his costume, or what it was,

I cannot say, but he seemed to me to be surprisingly tall. And thin!

And old! Nothing less than a walking skeleton he seemed to me, the

cheekbones were starting through his skin which was shrivelled and

yellow with age. He wore what looked to me, in that light, like a

whole length piece of double width yellow canvas cloth. It was wrapped

round and round him, as, I am told, it is round mummies. A fold was

drawn up over his head, so as to make a kind of hood, and from under

this his face looked out.

Fancy coming on such a figure, on a dark night, all of a sudden, and

you can guess what my feelings were. I thought I should have dropped.

I had to catch tight hold of Tom’s arm.

“Tom,” I gasped, “what--whatever is it?”

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get out of this. Looney, he looks to

me.”

Lunatic or not, he did not mean that we should get away from him quite

so easily. He took Emily by the shoulder--you should have heard the

scream she gave; if it had been louder it would have frightened the

neighbourhood. But the lunatic, or whatever the creature was, did not

seem to be in the least put out. He held her with both his hands, one

on either shoulder, and turned her round to him, and stared at her in

the most disgraceful way. He put his face so close to hers that I

thought he was going to bite her, or something awful. But no; all at

once he thrust her aside as if she was nothing at all.

“It is not she,” he murmured, half to himself, as it seemed, and half

to us.

And before I could guess what he was going to do, he laid his hands on

me. It was a wonder I did not faint right then and there. He gripped

my shoulders so tight that I felt as if he had me screwed in a vice,

and for days after my skin was black and blue. He thrust his face so

close to mine that I felt his breath upon my cheeks. There was an odd

smell about it which made me dizzy. He had little eyes, which were set

far back in his head. I had a notion they were short-sighted, he

seemed to have to peer so long and closely. At last his lips moved.

“It is she,” he said, in the same half-stifled voice in which he had

spoken before. He had a queer accent. There was no mistaking what he

said, but it was certain that his tongue was not an Englishman’s. “You

will see me again--yes! Soon! You will remember me?”

Remember him? I should never forget him, never! Not if I lived to be

as old as Methuselah. That hideous, hollow-cheeked, saffron-hued face

would haunt me in my dreams. I do have dreams, pretty bad ones

sometimes. I should see him in them many a time. My head whirled

round. The next thing I knew I was in Tom’s arms. He was holding me up

against Firandolo’s window. He spoke to me.

“It’s all right now; he’s gone.”

I sighed, and looked round. The wretch had vanished. What had become

of him I did not ask, or care to know. It was sufficient for me that

he had vanished. As I drew myself up I glanced round towards the

restaurant door. Mr. Isaac Rudd’s face was pressed against the glass.

Unless I was mistaken, when he perceived I saw him he drew back

quickly. I slipped my arm through Tom’s.

“Let’s get away from here; let’s hurry home as fast as we can.”

Off we went, we three. Emily began to talk. Tom and I were silent. It

was still as much as I could do to walk; I fancy Tom was thinking.

“It is a wonder I didn’t faint as well as you; if you hadn’t I should.

But when you went I felt that it would never do for two of us to go,

so I held myself tight in. Did you ever see anything like that awful

man? I don’t believe he was alive; at least, I shouldn’t if it wasn’t

for the way in which he pinched my shoulders. I shall be ashamed to

look at them when I’ve got my dress off, I know I shall. My skin’s so

delicate that the least mark shows. What was he dressed in? And who

could the creature be? I believe he was something supernatural; there

was nothing natural about him that I could see. Then his eye! He

looked a thousand years old if he looked a day.”

She ceased. She glanced behind her once or twice. She drew closer to

Tom. When she spoke again it was in a lower tone of voice.

“Mr. Cooper, do you mind my taking your arm? There’s--there’s someone

following us now.”

Tom looked round. As he did so, two men came past us, one by me, the

other one by Emily. The one who passed me was so close that his sleeve

brushed mine; as he went he turned and stared at me with might and

main. He was short, but very fat. He was shabbily dressed, and wore a

cloth cap slouched over his eyes. When he had gone a yard or two the

other man fell in at his side. They talked together as they slouched

along; we could not but see that, while both of them were short, one

was as thin as the other was stout.

“Are you sure they’ve been following us?” whispered Tom to Emily.

“Certain. They’ve been sticking close at our heels ever since we came

away from Firandolo’s.”

The fact was put beyond dispute before we had gone another fifty

yards. The two men drew up close in front of us, in such a way that it

would have been difficult for us to pass without pushing them aside.

“Which of you two ladies is Miss Blyth?” asked the stout man, in the

most impudent manner.

On a sudden I was becoming the object of undesired attention which I

did not at all understand, and liked, if possible, still less. The

fellow looked us up and down, as if we had been objects offered for

sale.

“What has it to do with you?” returned Tom. “Who are you, anyhow?”

The thin man answered; the stout man had spoken in a shrill squeaky

treble, he had the deepest possible bass.

“We’re the young lady’s friends; her two friends. Ain’t that gospel,

Sam?”

“It’s that, William; it’s gospel truth. Truer friends than us she’ll

never have, nor none what’s more ready to do her a good turn.”

“Not if she was to spend the rest of her days sailing round the world

looking for ’em, she’d never find ’em, that she wouldn’t. All we ask

is for her to treat us as her friends.” The thin man spat upon the

pavement. “Now then, out with it; which of you two ladies is Miss

Blyth?”

“I’m not,” cried Emily.

Which I thought was distinctly mean of her, because, of course, it was

as good as saying that I was. Once more the stout man looked me up and

down.

“You’re her, are you? So I thought. The other’s too pretty, by chalks.

You’re a chip of the old block, and there wasn’t no beauty thrown away

on him; plain he was, as ever I saw a man; and plainer.”

The fellow was ruder than ever. I am aware that Emily Purvis is a

beauty, and that I am not, but at the same time one does not expect to

be stopped and told so by two perfect strangers, at that hour of the

night.

“For goodness’ sake,” I said to Tom, “let’s get away from these

dreadful persons as fast as we possibly can.”

I made him come. The fat man called after us--in his squeaky treble.

“Dreadful, are we? Maybe you’ll change your mind before you’ve done.

Don’t you be so fast in judging of your true friends, it don’t become

a young woman. There’s more dreadful persons than us about, as perhaps

you’ll find.”

“It is to be hoped,” I observed to Tom, and paying no attention

whatever to Emily Purvis, who I knew was smiling on the other side of

him, “that we shall meet no more objectionable characters before we

get safely in.”

“They’re friends of yours, my dear.”

This was Emily.

“I don’t see how you make that out, seeing that I never saw them

before, and never want to again.”

“Some of us have more friends than we know, my love.” Her love! “We’ve

seen four of yours already; I shouldn’t be surprised if we saw another

still before we’re in.”

As it happened, in a manner of speaking, it turned out that she was

right; though, of course, to speak of the creature we encountered,

even sarcastically, as a friend of mine, would be absurd. We were

going along the Fenton Road. As we were passing a street, which

branched off upon our right, there popped out of it, for all the world

as if he had been waiting for us to come along, a man in a long black

coat, reaching nearly to his heels, and a felt hat, which was crammed

down so tight, that it almost covered his face as well as his head. I

thought at first he was a beggar, or some object of the tramp kind,

because he fell in at our side, and moved along with us, as some

persistent beggars will do. But one glance at what could be seen of

his features was sufficient to show that he was something more out of

the common than that. He had a round face; almond-shaped eyes which

looked out of narrow slits; a flat nose; a mouth which seemed to reach

from ear to ear. There was no mistaking that this was a case of

another ugly foreigner. The consciousness that he was near made me

shudder; as he trudged along beside us I went uncomfortable all over.

“Go away! Make him go away!” I said to Tom.

Tom stood still.

“Now then, off you go! We’ve nothing for you. The sooner you try it

off on somebody else, the less of your valuable time you’ll waste.”

Tom took him for a beggar. But he was wrong, and I was right; the man

was not a beggar.

“Which is little lady?”

I don’t pretend that was exactly what he said. Thank goodness, I am

English, and I know no language but my own, and that is quite enough

for me, so it would be impossible for me to reproduce precisely a

foreign person’s observations; but that is what he meant. Tom was

angry.

“Little lady? What little lady? There’s no lady here, big or little,

who has anything to do with you; so, now then, you just clear off.”

But the man did nothing of the kind. He hopped to Emily, and back

again to me, peering at us both out of his narrow eyes.

“Which of you is Missee Blyth?”

“Miss Blyth! Is the whole world, all at once, on the look-out for Miss

Blyth? What is the meaning of this little game? You, there, hook it!”

But instead of hooking it, to use Tom’s own language, and gentlemen

will use slang, the man grew more and more insistent. He must have

gone backwards and forwards between Emily and me half-a-dozen times.

“Quick! Tellee me! Which is Missee Blyth? Quick, quick! tellee me! I

have something to give to Missee Blyth.”

“I am Miss Blyth.”

I did not suppose, for an instant, that he really had anything to give

me. But the man seemed to be in such a state of agitation, that I felt

that perhaps the best way to put an end to what was becoming a painful

situation would be for me to declare myself without delay. However, to

my surprise, hardly were the words out of my lips, than the man came

rushing to me, thrusting something into my hand. From what I could

feel of it, it appeared to be something small and hard, wrapped in a

scrap of paper. But I had no chance of discovering anything further,

because, before I had a chance of even peeping, the two short men, the

fat and thin one, came rushing up, goodness only knows from where, and

I heard the thin one call out, in his deep bass voice, to the other:

“He’s given it her--I saw him! At her, Sam, before she has a chance of

pouching it.”

The stout man caught me by the wrist, gave it a twist, which hurt me

dreadfully, and, before I could say Jack Robinson, he had the little

packet out of my hand. It was like a conjuror’s trick, it all took

place so rapidly, and before I had the least notion of what was going

to happen. The foreign person, however, seemed to understand what had

occurred better than I did. Clearly he did not want courage. With a

sort of snarl he sprang at the stout man, and with both hands took him

by the throat, as, I have heard, bulldogs have a way of doing. The

stout man did not relish the attack at all.

“Pull him off me, William,” he squeaked.

The thin man endeavoured to do as he was told. And, in a moment, out

in the open street there, the most dreadful fight was going on. What

it was all about I had not the faintest idea, but they attacked each

other like wild beasts. The foreign person did not seem to be at all

dismayed by the odds of two to one. He assailed them with frightful

violence.

Plainly it would be as much as they could do to deal with him between

them. I certainly expected every second to see someone killed. Emily

went off her head with terror. She rushed, screaming up the street.

Tom dashed after her, whether to stop her or not I could not tell.

And, of course, I rushed after Tom. And the three men were left alone

to fight it out together.

Emily never drew breath till we were quite close to Cardew &

Slaughter’s. Then a church clock rang out. It struck the half-hour. It

might have struck her, she stopped so suddenly.

“Half-past eleven!” she cried. “My gracious! whatever shall we do?”

It was a rule of the firm that the assistants were to be in by

half-past ten. Between the half-hour and the quarter there was a fine

of sixpence, and between the quarter and the hour one of half-a-crown.

After eleven no one was admitted at all. The doors had been closed for

more than half-an-hour! We stood, panting for breath, staring at one

another. Emily began to cry.

“I daren’t stop out in the streets all night--I daren’t!”

“I know a trick worth two of that,” declared Tom. “There’s a way in

which is known to one or two of us; I’ve had to use it before, and I

daresay I can use it again.”

“It’s all very well for you,” cried Emily. “But we can’t climb

windows; and, if we could, there are no windows for us to climb.”

Tom hesitated. I could see he did not like to leave us in the lurch.

The gentlemen slept right up at the other end of the building; there

was no connection between his end and ours. I had heard of what Tom

hinted at before; but then things are always different with gentlemen.

As Emily said, for the ladies there was no way in but the door.

Somehow I felt that, after all we had gone through, I did not mean to

be trampled on.

“You go, Tom, and get in as best you can. Emily and I will get in too,

or I’ll know the reason why.”

Away went Tom; and off started Emily and I to try our luck. She was

not sanguine.

“They’ll never let us in, never!”

“We’ll see about that.”

I gritted my teeth, as I have a trick of doing when I am in earnest. I

was in earnest then. It is owing to the firm’s artfulness that there

are no bells or knockers on the doors leading to the assistants’

quarters. When they are open you can get in; when they are closed

there are no means provided to call attention to the fact that you

require admission. They had been unloading some packing-cases. I

picked up two heavy pieces of wood which had been left lying about;

with them I started to hammer at the door. How I did hammer! I kept it

up ever so long; but no one paid the slightest heed. I began to

despair. Emily was crying all the while. I felt like crying with her.

Instead, I gritted my teeth still more, and I hammered, and I

hammered. At last a window was opened overhead, and the housekeeper,

Mrs. Galloway, put her head out.

“Who’s that making this disgraceful noise at this hour of the night?”

“It’s Miss Purvis and Miss Blyth. Come down and let us in; we’ve been

nearly robbed and murdered.”

“I daresay! You don’t enter this house to-night; you know the rules.

And if you don’t take yourselves off this instant I’ll send for the

police.”

“Send for the police, that’s what we want you to do. The police will

soon see if you won’t let us in.”

Mrs. Galloway’s head disappeared; the window was banged. Emily cried

louder than ever.

“I told you she’d never let us in.”

“We’ll see if she won’t.”

Off I started again to hammer. Presently steps were heard coming along

the passage. Mrs. Galloway’s voice came from the other side of the

door.

“Stop that disgraceful noise! Go away! Do you hear me, go away!”

“If we do it will be to fetch the police. They’ll soon show you if you

can keep us out all night when we’ve been nearly robbed and murdered.”

The door was opened perhaps three inches; as I believed, upon the

chain. I knew Mrs. Galloway’s little tricks. But if it was upon the

chain what occurred was odd. Someone came hurrying up the steps behind

us. To my amazement it was the dreadful old man in the yellow canvas

cloth. I was too bewildered to even try to guess where he had come

from; I had never supposed that he, or anybody else, was near. He

pointed to the door.

“Open!” he said, in that queer, half-stifled voice in which he had

spoken to me before.

The door was opened wide, though how the housekeeper had had time to

remove the chain, if it was chained, was more than I could understand.

Emily and I marched into the passage--sneaked, I daresay, would have

been the better word. As I went the stranger slipped something into my

hand; a hard something, wrapped in a scrap of paper.

CHAPTER III.

THE DOLL.

I do not know what it was, but something prevented Mrs. Galloway

from giving us the sort of talking to I had expected. She is a woman

with as nasty a tongue as you would care to meet. I had never before

known her lose a chance of using it. And there was a chance! But,

instead, there she stood mumchance, and before she had even so much as

said a word, Emily and I were off upstairs. I was on the second floor,

and Emily was on the third. When I stopped to go into my room I called

out to her, “Good night!” but she ran on, and never answered. She was

in such a state of mind, what with the fright, and her crying, and the

cold biting us through and through while we waited on the doorstep,

that all she cared for was to get between the sheets.

In my room most of the girls were wide awake. It was not a large room,

so there were only nine of us, and that was including Miss Ashton. She

was the senior assistant, a regular frump, thirty if a day. She came

to bed a quarter of an hour after we did, and after she had come to

bed no one was supposed to talk. If any girl did talk Miss Ashton

reported her, and the girl was fined, and half the fine, whatever it

was, went into Miss Ashton’s pockets. So, of course--since, sometimes,

her pockets were bulging out with our money--no love was lost between

us.

When I went in, although I knew that most of the girls were awake,

because of Miss Ashton no one spoke a syllable, until Lucy Carr, who

had the next bed to mine, whispered as I stood by her:

“Whatever have you been up to?”

“I’ve been nearly robbed and murdered, that’s what I’ve been up to.”

“Miss Blyth, I shall report you for talking after midnight.”

This was Miss Ashton, cold, and hard, and short as usual. Trust her to

go to sleep while there was a chance to snatch at somebody else’s

penny!

“Very well, Miss Ashton, you can report me, and you can say, at the

same time, that it’s a wonder that I was alive to talk at all, for

what I’ve gone through this day, and this night, I alone can tell.”

I plumped down on my box, and I leaned my back against the wall, and I

had to cry. Then all the girls set off together. Lucy Carr sat up in

bed, and she put her arms about my neck; she was a nice girl, was Lucy

Carr, we hardly ever quarrelled.

“Never mind her, my love; you know what she’s like; she can’t help it,

it’s her nature. Don’t you cry, my dear.”

And then there were such remarks as “It’s a shame!” “Poor dear!” and

“How can people be so cruel?” from the others. But Miss Ashton was not

touched, not she; she simply said, in her cold, hard tones:

“Miss Carr, Miss Sheepshanks, Miss Flick, Miss James, I shall report

you for talking after midnight.”

“That’s right,” said Lucy, “and much good may our money do you. I wish

it would burn a hole in your pocket!”

Then the girls were still. Of course they did not want to lose all

their money, and there was no knowing what the fine might be for

talking at that time of night, and especially for keeping on. So I sat

on my box, and I wiped my eyes; I never do believe much in crying, and

somehow I felt too mad for a regular weep. I should like to have given

Miss Ashton a real good shaking--everything would go wrong!

Just as I was beginning to undress--I actually had unhooked my

bodice--I thought of what the object in the grey canvas cloth had

slipped into my hand. What had become of it? In my agitation I had

forgotten all about it. I was holding it when I came into the room--I

remembered that. What had become of it since? I felt on my knee; it

was not there. I had not put it in my pocket. It must have dropped on

the floor. Intending to start a search I put out my foot and touched

something with my toe. I reached out my hand; it was the scrap of

paper.

As I picked it up I knew quite well that there could be nothing in it

of the slightest consequence. People don’t give things worth having to

perfect strangers, especially such people as that creature in the

canvas cloth. Yet there had been a good deal of fuss. First the man in

the long black coat had given me a scrap of paper; then the thin man

had egged on the stout man to snatch it from me like a hungry lion;

then, to regain it in his possession the black-coated man had attacked

the two others like some mad wild beast; finally, to crown all, the

canvas cloth creature had put into my hand what seemed to be the

identical scrap of paper as I stood on the threshold of the door.

There must be something of interest connected with the thing; or why

had these persons, in spite of what Emily had said, all utter

strangers to me, behaved in such an extraordinary manner?

I was both tired and sleepy, but I was more worried than either. Part

of my worry had to do with that scrap of paper. What was in it? I was

sure I should never sleep until I knew. It was about half an inch

broad, and an inch and a half long. As I pressed it with my fingers, I

could feel that something was inside, something queer-shaped and hard.

The room was pretty dark. All the light there was came through the

sides of the badly fitting blind from the lamp on the opposite side of

the street. I could not get the paper open. It was fastened in some

way I did not understand. As I held it up against the shaft of light

which came through the side of the blind, to make out, if possible,

what the trick of the fastening was, a queer thing took place.

Something moved inside, and tore the paper open. It was only a little

thing, but it took me so completely by surprise that it affected me

almost as much as if the ceiling had fallen in. What could there have

been inside to move? I sat staring, in the darkness, with my mouth

wide open. Suddenly there came Miss Ashton’s voice from the other end

of the room.

“Miss Blyth, are you not going to get into bed at all to-night?”

At that moment I myself could not have told. I was holding in my hand

something which gleamed at me. What it was I could not even guess. I

only knew that two specks of light, which looked like eyes, were

shining at me through the darkness; and that the thing had moved.

There was Miss Ashton’s voice again.

“Do you hear me, Miss Blyth? Are you going to bed? or am I to summon

Mrs. Galloway?”

Without answering her a word I dropped what I was holding on to the

bed. I was convinced that it moved as I did so, as if to cling to my

fingers. It was silly, but I was never so frightened in my life. I saw

the two bright spots of light shining up at me from the counterpane as

if they were watching me. I hardly dared to breathe. I slipped off my

bodice, and the rest of my things, moving as little as I possibly

could, and stood in my night-gown shivering by the bed. Had I not been

afraid, I would have asked Lucy to let me get into bed with her. But I

knew Miss Ashton would hear, and would rout me out again, and then

there would be worse to follow. I should get Lucy into trouble as well

as myself. And there was trouble enough in store for all of us

already. Better face what there was to face alone, than drag anybody

else into the ditch into which I seemed to be continually tumbling.

It was too ridiculous to be afraid to get into bed because that thing

with the shining spots was lying on the counterpane. I was sensible

enough to be aware of that. Yet I was afraid. Was it alive? If I could

only have made sure that it was not, I should not have minded. But it

was too dark to see; and I could not touch it.

“Miss Blyth, are you going to get into bed?”

“Well, Miss Ashton, there’s something on my bed, and I don’t know what

it is.”

“Something on your bed? What do you mean? What nonsense are you

talking?”

“Have you any matches? If you’ll lend me some, I shall be able to see

what it is. I can’t get in until I know.”

“Is it a fresh trick you are playing me? I never heard anything so

ridiculous. Here are some matches. Be quick; and don’t be sillier than

you can help.”

I went and took the box of matches she held out to me. Returning, I

lit one and held it over the counterpane. Some of the girls lifted

their heads to watch me. Lucy Carr leaned right out of her bed towards

mine.

“Whatever is it?” she whispered.

My hand shook so, with the cold, and the state I was in, that it was

all I could do to keep it steady enough to prevent the match from

going out. I held it lower.

“I believe it’s a frog.”

“A frog!” cried Lucy. She drew herself back with a little shriek.

“It’s--it’s something horrid.”

Two or three of the girls sat up, drawing the bedclothes to their

chins.

“Miss Blyth, what is the cause of this confusion? Are we never to have

any sleep to-night?”

Miss Ashton, getting out of bed, came across the room to see what was

the matter. The match went out. The red-hot end dropped on to the

counterpane. I brushed it off with my fingers. As I did so I touched

the thing. My nerves were so strung up that I gave a scream. There

came an echo from the girls. Miss Ashton was at my side before I could

strike another match. She was in a fine rage.

“Give me the box!” She snatched it from me. “Have you been misbehaving

yourself? or are you mad? I’ll soon see what is the cause of all this

nonsense, and then I’ll be sorry for whoever is at the bottom of it.”

The first match she tried would not light. The second burst into vivid

flame. She stooped down.

“What is this thing upon your bed? It’s some painted toy. You impudent

girl!”

Picking it up, she threw it on to the floor into the corner of the

room. Her match went out. There was a sound like a little cry of pain.

“Whatever’s that?” asked Lucy.

“It’s nothing,” replied Miss Ashton. “It was only the thing striking

against the floor.”

“I believe it’s alive,” I said. “It shrieked.”

“I believe you have been drinking.”

“Miss Ashton!”

“I have heard of people who have been drinking seeing things--that

appears to be your condition now. Are you going to get into bed? You

will have something to shriek for when the morning comes.”

I got into bed, feeling so cowed, that I could not even resent, with a

proper show of dignity, her monstrous accusation. That anyone could

have been wicked enough to accuse me of such a thing! I was trembling

all over. I believed that the thing had shrieked, and was haunted by a

horrible doubt that it was alive. Never before was I in such a state

of mind and body. My brain was all in a whirl. I could do nothing but

lie there shivering; my joints and muscles seemed to be possessed by

an attack of twitching spasms, as if I had been suddenly smitten with

some hideous disease.

I heard Miss Ashton return to her own bed. Then a voice whispered in

my ear, so gently that it could have been audible to no one but me--

“Never mind, dear. She’s a beast!”

It was Lucy. I put out my hand. She was leaning over me.

“Kiss me,” I muttered.

She kissed me. It did me good. I held her, for a moment, to me. It

comforted me to feel her face against mine.

“Now go to sleep! and don’t you dream!”

It was easy enough to talk; it was harder to do. I did not often

dream. Not nearly so much as some of the other girls, who were always

telling us of the things they dreamed about. Rubbish it mostly was. I

always said they made up three parts of it, not believing that such

stuff could get into the heads of sensible people, even when they were

asleep. That night I dreamt while I was wide awake. I was overcome by

a sort of nightmare horror, which held me, with staring eyes and

racking head, motionless between the sheets, as if I had been glued to

them. It was as if the thing which Miss Ashton had thrown on the floor

was in an agony of pain, and as if it had communicated its sufferings

to me.

At last I suppose I must have gone to sleep. And then it was worse

than ever. What I endured in my sleep that night no one could

conceive. It was as if I were continually passing through endless

chambers of nameless horrors. With it all were mixed up the events of

the evening. I saw Isaac Rudd, and the creature in the canvas cloth,

and the two short men, and the person in the long black coat. They

kept popping in and out, always in full enjoyment of my tortures.

There were Emily and I, standing at the top of an enormous flight of

steps, in pitch-black darkness, in frightful weather, outside the door

of some dreadful place, and there were those dreadful creatures

jeering at us because no one would let us in. And Tom--I knew that

somewhere near Tom was crying. And the thing which was in the scrap of

paper was with me all the night. It was always on me somewhere; now on

my throat, biting through the skin; now on my breast, drawing the life

right out of me; now on my toes, hampering my feet, so that I could

scarcely lift them up and down; now inside my mouth, filling me with a

horrible choking sense of nausea.

But perhaps the strangest part of it all was that, when I awoke, there

actually was something on my forehead. I felt it against my chin.

Giving my head a sudden shake it slipped off on to the pillow at my

side. I sat up. It was broad day. I saw it as plain as could be. A

little painted thing, tricked out in ridiculously contrasting shades

of green, and pink, and yellow. As Miss Ashton had said, it might have

been a toy. I had seen things not unlike it in the shop, among the

Japanese and Chinese curiosities. Or it might have been a tiny

representation of some preposterous heathen god, with beads for eyes.

CHAPTER IV.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MR. SLAUGHTER.

That was a curious day. More things happened on it than on any day

of my life before. It was the beginning of everything and the end of

some things. From morning to night there was continual movement like

in the transformation scene in a pantomime. When, since one was born,

nothing has taken place, and nothing changed, it makes such a

difference.

I got up feeling dreadfully stale; an up-all-night sort of feeling.

Not that I ever have been up all night; but I know what the sensation

is like because of the descriptions I have read. Miss Ashton was

disagreeable, and the girls were snappish--even Lucy Carr was short;

and, I daresay, I was not too nice. But then there often is a little

show of temper in the morning; it is human nature. They had all begun

when I got down to breakfast, and, of course, I got black looks for

that. I caught sight of Emily Purvis as I sat down. She nodded; but it

struck me that she was not looking brilliant, any more than I was.

Breakfast stuck in my throat. The butter was bad as usual--cheap

margarine just rank enough to make pastry taste. The bread seemed as

if it had been cut for hours, it was so hard and dry. I did manage to

swallow a mouthful of tea; but the water was smoked, and I do not like

condensed milk which is just going off, so I could not do much even

with that. On the whole I did not feel any better for the meal when I

got into the shop. I am not sure that I did not feel worse; and I knew

I should be sinking before dinner came. Mr. Broadley began at me at

once. He set me re-packing a whole lot of stock, which he declared I

had not put tidily away; which was perfectly untrue, because, as a

matter of fact, it was Miss Nichols who had had it last, and it was

she who had put it back again. And, anyhow, some of those trimmings,

when they have been once shown, will not set neatly; they are like

hats, they cannot be made to go just so.

It was past eleven, and I had not had a single customer; it was

miserable weather, and perhaps that had something to do with it,

because scarcely a soul came into the shop. Mr. Broadley kept me at

putting the shelves in order, almost as if I had been stock-taking.

Not that I cared, for I hate doing nothing; especially as, if you so

much as speak to one of the other young ladies, he is fit to murder

you; that is the worst of your married shopwalkers, directly a girl

opens her mouth he jumps down it. Still, I did not like it all the

same; because I was getting tired, and hungry too; and, when you are

hungry, the only way to stave the feeling off is to be kept busy

serving; then you cannot stop to think what you would like to eat.

At last, just as a customer entered the shop, and was coming toward

me, up sailed Mr. Broadley.

“Miss Blyth, you’re wanted in the office.”

My heart dropped down with a thump. I had half expected it all along,

but now that it had come I went queer all over. I had to catch hold of

the counter to keep up straight. Miss Nichols, seeing how it was with

me, whispered as she went past:

“It’s all right, Pollie, don’t you worry, it’s nothing. Buck up, old

girl.”

It was nice of her to try to cheer me up; but there was a choking

something in my throat which prevented me from thanking her. Broadley

was at me again.

“Hurry up, Miss Blyth, don’t stand mooning there. Didn’t you hear me

tell you that you are wanted in the office?”

He was a bully, he was, to the finger-tips. I knew that he was smiling

at me all the time; enjoying my white face, and the tremble I was in.

When I got away from the counter I felt as if my knees were giving way

beneath me. Everyone stared as I went past--I could have cried. They

knew perfectly well that being summoned to the office during working

hours meant trouble.

Outside the office was Emily Purvis. I had been wondering if she would

be there, yet it was a shock to see her all the same. She was quite as

much upset as I was. I knew that her nearest friends were down in

Devonshire, and that she was not on the best of terms with them; so

that if there was going to be serious trouble, she would be just as

badly off as I was, without any friends at all. Her pretty face looked

all drawn and thin, as if she were ten years older than she really

was. It would only want a very little to start her tears. Her voice

shook so that I could hardly make out what she said.

“Pollie, what do you think they’ll do to us?”

“I don’t know. Where’s Tom? Did he get in all right? Has he--been sent

for?”

“How can I tell? I don’t know anything about Mr. Cooper. You know,

Pollie, it was not my fault that I was in late.”

“So far as I know it was neither of our faults. I wonder if Tom got in

all right.”

“Bother Tom! It’s very hard on me. I wonder if they’ll fine us?”

Before I could answer Mr. Slaughter put his head out of the office.

“Come in there! Stop that chattering! Are you the two young women I

sent for?”

We went in, standing like two guilty things. Mr. Slaughter sat at his

desk.

“Which of you is Mary Blyth?”

“I am, sir.”

“Oh, you are, are you?”

He leant back in his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and looked

me up and down, as if he was valuing me. He was a little man, with

untidy hair and a scrubby black beard. I could not have been more

afraid of him if he had been a dozen times as big. He had a way of

speaking as if he would like to bite you; and as if he wished you to

clearly understand that, should he have to speak again, he would take

a piece clean out of you. Everybody about the place was more

frightened of him than of Mr. Cardew. It was he who had made it what

it was. In the beginning it had been nothing; now there were all those

shops. He was a thorough man of business, without a grain of feeling

in him. We all felt that he looked on us assistants as if we were so

many inferior cattle, not to be compared, for instance, to the horses

which drew his vans.

I could have sunk through the ground as he continued to stare at me.

It was more than I could do to meet his eyes; yet something seemed to

say that he did not think much of what he saw. His first words showed

that I was right.

“Well, Mary Blyth, it seems that you’re an altogether good-for-nothing

young woman. From what I find upon this paper it seems that there’s

everything to be said against you, nothing in your favour; no good for

business, no good for anything. And you look it. I can’t make out why

you’ve been kept about the place so long; it points to neglect

somewhere. It appears that you’re habitually irregular; three times

yesterday you missed making a sale, and you know what that means. We

don’t keep saleswomen who send customers away empty-handed; we send

them after the customers. You were impertinent to Mr. Broadley. And,

to crown all, you were out last night till something like the small

hours. On your return you made a riot till they let you in, and more

riot when you were in. Miss Ashton, who is far too gentle, does not

like to say that you had been drinking, but she says that you behaved

as though you had been. In short, you’re just the type of young woman

we don’t want in this establishment. You’ll go and draw whatever is

due to you, if anything is due; and you’ll take yourself and your

belongings off these premises inside of half an hour. That, Mary

Blyth, is all I have to say to you.”

For the moment, when he had finished, I was speechless. It was all so

cruel and unjust; and there was so much to be said in reply to every

word he uttered, that the very volume of my defence seemed to hold me

paralysed. I could only stammer out:

“It is the first time I have been reported to you, sir.”

“As I have already observed, there has evidently been neglect in that

respect. The delay amounts to a failure of duty. I will make inquiries

into its cause.”

“It was not my fault that I was late, sir.”

“No? Was the gentleman to blame?”

My face flamed up. I could have slapped him on the cheek. What did he

mean by his insinuations?

“You have no right to speak to me like that!”

“When young women in my employment misbehave themselves as you have

done I make plain speaking a rule. A man was with you, because one was

seen. You can apportion the blame between you.” I could not tell him

it was Tom; it might have been bad for him. “None of your airs with

me; off you go. Stay! This other young woman heard me talk to you; now

you shall hear me talk to her. Is your name Emily Purvis?”

“Yes, sir. It’s the first time--I never meant it--it wasn’t my fault.”

Emily broke into stammering speech; he cut her short.

“Don’t you trouble yourself to talk; I’ll do all the talking that’s

required. You were out after hours with Miss Blyth. I’m not going to

ask any questions, and I’ll listen to no explanations; young women who

scour the streets at midnight are not the sort I like. We are judged

by the company we keep. You were Mary Blyth’s companion last night;

you’ll be her companion again. With her, you’ll draw what is due to

you; with her, you’ll clear yourself off these premises inside half an

hour. Now, stop it!”

Emily began crying.

“Oh, Mr. Slaughter, I’ve done nothing! it isn’t fair! I’ve nowhere to

go to!”

“Oh, yes, you have, you’ve outside this office to go to. Now, no

nonsense!” He struck a hand-bell; a porter entered. “Take these young

women out of this; let them have what’s due to them; see they’re off

the premises inside half an hour.”

“Oh, Mr. Slaughter!” wailed Emily.

It made me so angry to see her demean herself before that unfeeling

thing of wood, that I caught her by the wrist.

“Come, Emily! don’t degrade yourself by appealing to that cruel,

unjust, hard-hearted man. Don’t you see that he thinks it fine sport

to trample upon helpless girls?”

“Come, none of that.”

The porter put his hand upon my shoulder. Before I knew it we were out

of the office and half a dozen yards away. I turned upon him in a

flame of passion.

“Take your hand from off my shoulder! If you dare to touch me again

you’ll be sorry!”

He was not a bad sort. He seemed scared at the sight of me.

“I don’t want to do anything to you. Only what’s the good of making a

fuss? You know he’s master here.”

“And, because he’s master here, I suppose, if he tells you to behave

like a miserable coward, you would?”

“What’s the use of talking? If he says you’ve got to go, you’ve got

to, and there’s an end of it. You take my advice, and don’t be silly.”

“Silly! Your advice! When I ask you for your advice, you give it, not

before.”

I stood and glared. I do not think he altogether liked the look of me;

I am sure that had he touched me I should have flown at him, and I

rather suspect he knew it. While he hesitated I heard someone speaking

in loud tones in the office from which we had just now been ejected.

It was a man’s voice.

“I want to see Miss Blyth.”

It was Mr. Slaughter who replied.

“I say you can’t see Miss Blyth, so you have my answer, sir.”

“But that is an answer which I am unable to accept. I must see Miss

Blyth, and at once, on a matter of grave importance.”

“Don’t talk to me, sir; my time is valuable. This is neither the hour

nor the place at which we are accustomed to allow a stranger to see

the young women in our employ. And as, in any case, this particular

young woman is no longer in our employ, I repeat that you cannot see

Miss Blyth.”

“Oh, yes, you can--for here is Miss Blyth.”

Darting past the porter, who seemed pretty slow-witted, I was back

again in the office. A stranger was confronting the indignant Mr.

Slaughter. I had just time to see that he was not old, and that he was

holding a top hat, when he turned to me.

“Are you Miss Mary Blyth?”

“I am, Mr. Slaughter knows I am.”

“My name is Paine, Frank Paine. I am a solicitor. If you are the Mary

Blyth I am in search of I have a communication to make to you of

considerable importance.”

“Then make it outside, sir.” This was Mr. Slaughter.

The porter appeared at the door.

“What’s the meaning of this, Sanders? Didn’t I tell you to see this

young woman off the premises?”

“I was just seeing her, sir, when she slipped off before I knew it.”

I flashed round at Sanders.

“You’ve assaulted me once, don’t you dare to assault me again; this

gentleman’s a solicitor. If you’re a solicitor, Mr. Paine, I want you

to help me. Because I was accidentally prevented from returning till a

few minutes after time last night, Mr. Slaughter wishes to send me

away at a moment’s notice, without a character.”

“Is that the case, Mr. Slaughter?”

“What business is it of yours? Upon my word! I tell you again to leave

my office.”

“You appear to wish to carry things off with a high hand.”

“A high hand! Mr. Slaughter thinks that he has only to lift his little

finger to have us all turned into the street.”

“If that is so, he is in error. Miss Blyth is my client. As her

solicitor I would advise you to be sure that you are treating her with

justice.”

“Her solicitor!” Mr. Slaughter laughed. “I wish you joy of the job,

you won’t make a fortune out of her!” He waved his hands. “Any

communication you have to make, you make through the post. For the

last time I ask you to leave my office.”

“Come, Mr. Paine, we will go. He need not ask us again. As he says, we

can communicate with him through the post; and that will not

necessitate our being brought into his too close neighbourhood.”

I shook the dust of the office off my feet. Mr. Paine seemed puzzled.

Outside was Emily, still crying. I introduced her.

“This is Emily Purvis, another victim of Mr. Slaughter’s injustice.

Emily, this is my solicitor, Mr. Paine.”

She stared, as well she might. For all I knew, it might have been a

jest of his, he might not have been a solicitor at all. The truth is I

was quite as anxious to carry things off with a high hand as Mr.

Slaughter could be; so I held my head as high as ever I could.

“Mr. Paine, we are going to draw our salaries. They are sure to get as

much out of us in fines as they can. Will you come and see that they

don’t cheat us more than can be helped?”

“Fines!” Mr. Paine looked grave. “I doubt if they have any right to

deduct fines without your express permission.”

So he told them. That book-keeper had a pleasant time--the wretch! He

made out that the princely sum of fifteen shillings was due to each of

us; and off this, he wanted to dock me nine and six, and Emily five.

Mr. Paine would not have it. He put things in such a way that the

book-keeper referred to Mr. Slaughter. Mr. Slaughter actually sent

back word to say that he was to give us our fifteen shillings and let

us go. Then Mr. Paine handed in his card, and said that if we did not

receive, within four and twenty hours, a quarter’s salary in lieu of

notice, proceedings would be immediately commenced for the recovery of

the same.

So, in a manner of speaking, Emily and I marched off with flying

colours.

CHAPTER V.

THE MISSIONARY’S LETTER.

The question was, what was to become of us? With no friends one

cannot live long on fifteen shillings. Even if we got fresh situations

in a fortnight it would only be with management that the money could

be made to last that time; and, if we did, then we should be more

fortunate than I expected to be.

Mr. Paine, however, postponed the solution of the difficulty by

suggesting that I should arrange nothing until I had had a talk with

him. I was willing; though what he had to do with it was more than I

could guess; unless, like they used to do in the fairy tales, he was

all of a sudden going to turn out to be my fairy godpapa. One thing I

insisted on, that Emily should come with me. So, after I had scribbled

a note to Tom--“Dear Tom, Emily and I have got the sack. Meet me after

closing time at the usual place. Yours, as ever, Pollie. P.S.--Hope

you’re all right”--which Sanders, who was a good sort, promised to see

he got--we all three got into a four-wheeled cab, with our boxes on

top, and away we rattled.

“Good bye, Slaughter!” I said. “And may we never want to see your face

again. And now, Mr. Paine, where are you taking us to?”

“To my offices in Mitre Court. What I have to say to you may take some

time, and require a little explanation, and there we shall have the

necessary privacy.”

It sounded mysterious, and I began to wonder more and more what he had

to say. I daresay I should have put my wonder into words, only just at

that moment, who should I see, peeping at us round the corner of the

street which we were passing, but the man who paid our bill at

Firandolo’s, and who said his name was Isaac Rudd. The sight of him

gave me quite a shock.

“There’s Isaac Rudd!” I cried.

“Isaac--who?” asked Emily. She can be dull.

“Why, the man who paid the bill last night.”

Then she understood. Out went her head through the window.

“Where? I don’t see him.”

“No, and he’ll take care you won’t. Unless I’m mistaken, directly he

knew I saw him he took himself away; but he’s got his eye upon us all

the same.”

I looked at Emily, and she at me. Mr. Paine saw that something was up.

“Who was that you’re speaking of? Someone who has been annoying you?”

“No--nothing. Only there was something a little queer took place last

night.”

I sat silent, thinking of Isaac Rudd; as, I daresay, was Emily too.

Putting two and two together, it was odd that he should be just there

at that particular moment. Especially as, a little farther on, I saw,

standing in the shadow of a doorway, a man in a long black overcoat,

with his hat crushed over his eyes, who bore the most amazing

resemblance to the foreigner who had given me the something in a scrap

of paper.

Suddenly I jumped up from my seat. I was so startled that I could not

help but give a little scream. They both stared at me.

“What is wrong?” asked Mr. Paine.

“Why, look at that!”

There, sitting, as it were, bolt upright on my knee was the something

which had been in the scrap of paper. Mr. Paine eyed it.

“What is it?”

“That’s what I should like to know; also where it’s come from; it

wasn’t there a moment back, and that I’ll swear.”

“May I look at it?”

“Certainly; and throw it out of the window too, for all I care.”

Mr. Paine took it up. He turned it over and over.

“It looks like one of the images, representatives of well known

deities, which are used as household gods on some of the Pacific

coasts. People hang them over their beds, or over the thresholds of

their doors, or anywhere. Imitations are sold in some of the London

shops. Perhaps Messrs. Cardew & Slaughter keep them in stock.”

“That I am sure they don’t. And, if they do, that’s not out of their

stock. That was given to me last night by a foreigner in yellow canvas

cloth. It jumped out of the scrap of paper in which it was

wrapped----”

“Jumped?”

“If it didn’t jump I don’t know what it did do; I can tell you it took

me aback. Miss Ashton threw it on to the floor; yet, when I woke up

this morning, it was on my forehead, though how it got there I know no

more than the dead.”

“Are you in earnest, Pollie?”

“Dead earnest. It’s my belief I left it in the bedroom, though I might

have put it in my pocket, but how it came on to my knee is just what I

can’t say.”

Mr. Paine was dividing his attention between me and the thing.

“This is very interesting, Miss Blyth. Especially as I also have had a

curious experience or two lately. Can you describe the person who gave

it you?”

I described him, to the best of my ability.

“That is--odd.”

His tone seemed to suggest that something in my description had struck

him; though what it was he did not explain.

“You’d better throw that thing out of the window,” I said. “I’ve had

enough of it.”

“Thank you; but, if you have no use for it, if you do not mind, I

should like to retain it in my own possession. It’s a curiosity,

and--I’m interested in curiosities.”

He slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. I noticed that once or twice

he felt with his fingers, as if to make sure that it still was there.

Mr. Paine was very civil to us when we reached his office--a funny,

dark little place it was. He got out some cake, and biscuits, and a

decanter of wine, and Emily and I helped ourselves, for I was

starving. Sitting at a table in front of us, he took some papers out

of a drawer, and began to look at them. Now that I could notice him

more I could see that he was tall and well set up; quite the

gentleman; with one of those clear-cut faces, and keen grey eyes, with

not a hair upon it--I mean upon his face, of course, because I

particularly observed that his teeth and eyelashes were perfect.

“Before I go into the subject on which I have ventured to bring you

here, I am afraid I shall have to ask you one or two questions, Miss

Blyth.”

His manner was just what it ought to have been, respectful, and yet

not too distant.

“Any answers I can give you, Mr. Paine, you are welcome to.”

“What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Mary Ann Batters. She died six years ago next month, when I was

fourteen. My father’s name was Augustus. He was a most superior

person, although unfortunate in business; and though he died five

years before my mother, I’ve heard her say, almost to her last hour,

that she had married above her--which I believe she did.”

“Had your mother any relations?”

“None.”

“Think again.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, there was one; but about him least

said soonest mended; although he was her brother--that is, until she

cast him off.”

“What was his name?”

“Benjamin. Although I do not remember ever hearing her mention it,

and, indeed, she was opposed to speaking of him at all; I learned it

was so through finding some letters of his in one of her boxes after

she was dead, and those letters I have unto this day.”

“That is fortunate; because it is as the representative of Mr.

Benjamin Batters that I am here.”

“Indeed? You don’t mean to say so. This is a surprise.”

And not a pleasant one either. I had heard of Mr. Benjamin Batters,

though not for years and years, but never had I heard anything to his

credit. A regular all-round bad lot he must have been, up to all sorts

of tricks, and worse than tricks. I had reason to believe he had been

in prison more than once, perhaps more than twice. When you have a

relation like that, and have forgotten all about him, and are thankful

to have been able to do it, you do not like to have him come flying,

all of a sudden, in your face. I was not obliged to Mr. Paine for

mentioning his name. If that was all he had to talk about I was sorry

I had come.

“I may take it, then, that Mr. Benjamin Batters is an uncle of yours.”

“In a manner of speaking. Although, considering my mother, his sister,

cast him off, and that I myself never set eyes upon the man, it is

only by a figure of speech that you can call him so.”

“Mr. Benjamin Batters, Miss Blyth, is dead.”

“Then that alters the case. And I can only hope that he died better

than, I have been told, he lived.”

“I should mention that I myself never met Mr. Batters, nor do I,

really, know anything at all about him. My connection with him is

rather an odd one. A little more than a week ago I received this

package.” He held out a bundle of papers. “Its contents rather

surprised me. Among other things was this letter, which, with your

permission, I will read to you. ‘Great Ka Island, lat. 5° South;

long. 134° East’--that is the heading of the letter; the address at

which it purports to have been written. A curious one, you will

perceive it is. There actually is such an island. It lies some three

hundred miles off the western coast of New Guinea, in the Arafura Sea;

and that, practically, is all I have hitherto been able to learn about

it. I have made inquiries, in the likeliest places, for someone who

has ever been there, but I have not, as yet, been able to light on

such a person. Ships, it appears, trade among the islands thereabouts.

To the captain of one of those the letter may have been handed. He may

have transferred it to the captain of an English vessel engaged in the

Australian trade, who bore it with him to England, and then posted it

to me; for that it was posted in London there is the postmark on the

original package to witness. I am informed, however, that letters from

those out-of-the-way corners of the world do reach England by

circuitous routes, so that, in itself, there is nothing remarkable in

that.

“There is a discrepancy, I am bound to add, which, considering what

the letter purports to be, is a distinct misfortune--it is undated.

But I will read it, and then you yourself will see my point.

“‘Dear Sir’, it runs, ‘I write to inform you that this morning, at

10.45, there died here, of enteric fever in my presence, Benjamin

Batters. From what I have heard him say, I believe he was in his

sixty-first year, though, latterly, he looked more, and was, at one

time, of Little Endell Street, Westminster.’”

“That was where mother lived when she was a girl,” I interposed.

Mr. Paine read on:

“‘At his particular request I send you this intimation, together with

the documents which you will find enclosed. Set apart from the world

as here I am I cannot say when an opportunity will arise which will

enable me to despatch you this, nor by what route it will reach you;

but, by the mercy of an All-seeing Providence, I trust that it will

reach you in the end.

“‘Mr. Batters suffered greatly towards the close; but he bore his

sufferings with exemplary patience. He died, as he had lived, at peace

with all men.

“‘I am, Dear Sir, your obedient servant,

“‘Arthur Lennard, Missionary.

“‘P.S.--I may add that I have just buried poor Batters, with Christian

rites, as the shadows lengthened, in our little graveyard which is

within hearing of the sea.’”

Mr. Paine ceased; he looked at us, and we at him.

“That’s a funny letter,” I remarked.

“Funny!” cried Emily. “Pollie, how can you say so? Why, it’s a

romance.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Paine. His voice was a little dry. “It is,

perhaps, because it is so like a romance that it seems--odd.”

I had a fancy that he had meant to use another word instead of “odd;”

I wondered what it was.

“According to that letter my Uncle Benjamin must have changed a good

deal before he died; I never heard of his being at peace with anyone.

Mother used to say that he would fight his left hand against his right

rather than not fight at all.”

“From what you have been telling us a marked alteration must have

taken place in his character. But then, when people are dying, they

are apt to change; to become quite different beings--especially in the

eyes of those who are looking on.” Again there was that dryness in the

speaker’s tone. I felt sure there was a twinkle in his eye. “You will

see, Miss Blyth, that this letter is, to all intents and purposes, a

certificate of your uncle’s death; you will understand, therefore, how

unfortunate it is that it should be undated. We are, thus, in this

position; that, although his death, and even his burial, are

certified, we do not know when either event took place; except that,

as it would appear from the context, he was buried on the same day on

which he died--which, in such a climate, is not unlikely. Our only

means of even remotely guessing at the period of his decease is by

drawing deductions from the date of his will.”

“His will! You don’t mean to say that my uncle Benjamin left a will?”

“He did; and here it is.”

“I expect that that’s all he did leave.”

“You are mistaken; he left a good deal more.”

“To whom did he leave it?”

“It is to give you that very information, Miss Blyth, that I ventured

to bring you here.”

I gasped. This was getting interesting. A cold shiver went down my

back. I had never heard of a will in our family before, there having

been no occasion for such a thing. And to think of Uncle Benjamin

having been the first to start one! As the proverb says, you never can

tell from a man’s beginning what his end will be--and you cannot.

Emily came a little closer, and she took my hand in hers, and she gave

it a squeeze, and she said:

“Never mind, Pollie! bear up!”

I did not know what she meant, but it was very nice of her, though I

had not the slightest intention of doing anything else. But, as my

mother used to say, human sympathy is at all times precious. So I gave

her squeeze for squeeze. And I wished that Tom was there.

CHAPTER VI.

SOLE RESIDUARY LEGATEE.

Mr. Paine unfolded a large sheet of blue paper.

“This is, it appears, the last will and testament of your late uncle,

Benjamin Batters. It is, as, when you have heard it, I think you will

yourself agree, a somewhat singular document. It came with the letter

from Mr. Lennard which I have just now read you. It is, so far as I

know, authentic; but it is my duty to inform you that the whole affair

is more than a little irregular. This document seems to be a

holograph--that is, I take it that it is in your uncle’s own writing.

Do you recognise his handwriting?”

He gave me the paper. I glanced at it. Emily peeped over my shoulder.

“Well, I shouldn’t exactly like to go so far as that, but I have some

letters of his, and, so far as I remember, the writing seems about the

same. But you can see them if you like; then you will be able to

compare it.”

“I should be very much obliged, Miss Blyth, if you would allow me to

do so. A very important point would be gained if we could prove the

writing. As matters stand at present I am in a position in which I am

able to prove absolutely nothing. Mr. Batters was a stranger to me; he

seems, also, to have been a stranger to you; I can find nobody who

knew him. All we have to go upon is this letter from the other end of

the world, from a person of whom no one knows anything, and which may

or may not be genuine. Should another claimant arise we should be

placed in a very awkward situation.”

“Is there going to be another claimant? And what is there to claim?”

“So far as I know there is going to be none; but in legal matters it

is necessary to be prepared for every emergency. As to what there is

to claim, I will tell you.”

I gave him back the blue paper. He began to read. Emily came closer. I

could feel that she was all of a flutter.

“‘This is the last will and testament of me, Benjamin Batters.

“‘On condition that she does as I hereby direct I give and bequeath to

my niece, Mary Blyth, the daughter of my sister, Mary Ann Batters, who

married Augustus Blyth, and who when I last heard tell of her was

assistant at Cardew & Slaughter’s, a life income of Four Hundred and

Eighty Eight Pounds Nineteen Shillings and Sixpence a year, interest

of my money invested in Consols.’”

Mr. Paine stopped.

“I may say that bonds producing that amount were enclosed in the

package. Here they are.”

“Four Hundred and Eighty Eight Pounds Nineteen Shillings and Sixpence

a year!” said Emily. “I congratulate you, Pollie!”

She kissed me, right in front of Mr. Paine. For my part, I felt a

queer something steal all over me. My heart began to beat. To think of

Uncle Benjamin, of all people in the world, leaving me such a fortune

as that! And at the very moment when all my expectations in this world

amounted to exactly fifteen shillings! There need be no more waiting

for Tom and me. We would be married before the year was out, or I

would know the reason why.

Mr. Paine went on.

“The will is by no means finished, ladies. The greater, and more

remarkable part of it is to follow. When you have heard what it is I

am not sure that Miss Blyth will consider herself entitled to

congratulations only.”

What could he mean? Had the old rascal changed his mind in the middle

of his own will?

“‘This money,’ Mr. Batters goes on to say, ‘was earned by hard labour,

the sweat of my brow, and sufferings untold, so don’t let her go and

frivol it away as if it was a case of lightly come and lightly go.’”

“If that’s true, Uncle Benjamin must have altered, because I’ve heard

my mother say, over and over again, that he never could be induced to

do an honest day’s work in all his life.”

“People sometimes do alter--as I have observed. ‘On condition, also,

that she does as I tell her,’ continues Mr. Batters, ‘I bequeath to

her the life tenancy of my house, 84, Camford Street, Westminster,

together with the use of the furniture it contains.’”

“What!” interrupted Emily, “a house and furniture too. Why, Pollie,

what else can you want?”

I wondered myself. But I was soon to know. Mr. Paine read on:

“‘I give and bequeath the above to my niece, Mary Blyth, on these

conditions. She is to live in the house at 84, Camford Street. She is

never to sleep out of it. She is never to be away from it after nine

o’clock at night or before nine o’clock in the morning. She is only to

have one companion, and she must be a woman. They are to have no

visitors, neither she nor her companion. She is to choose a companion,

and stick to her. If the companion dies, or leaves her, she is not to

have another. She is afterwards to live in the house alone. She is not

to let any woman, except her companion, enter the house. She is not to

allow any man, under any circumstances whatever, to come inside the

house, or to cross the doorstep. These are my wishes and orders. If

she disobeys any one of them, then may my curse light on her, and I

will see that it does, and the house, and the income, and everything,

is to be taken from her, and given to the Society for Befriending

Sailors.

“‘Signed, Benjamin Batters.’”

“That, Miss Blyth, is what purports to be your uncle’s will.”

“But,” I gasped, “what is that at the end about stopping in the house,

and letting no one come in, and all the rest of it?”

“Those are the conditions on which you are to inherit. Before,

however, touching on them I should like to point out in what respect

the will seems to me to be most irregular. First of all, it is

undated. There could hardly be a more serious flaw. There is nothing

to show if it was made last week or fifty years ago. In the interim

all sorts of things may have happened to render it null and void. Then

a signature to a will requires two witnesses; this has none. Then the

wording is extremely loose. For instance, should you fail to fulfil

certain conditions, the property is to pass to the Society for

Befriending Sailors. So far as I can learn there is no such society.

Societies for befriending sailors there are in abundance, but there is

not one of that exact name, and it would become a moot point which one

of them the testator had in his mind’s eye.”

“All of which amounts to--what?”

“Well, it amounts to this. You can receive the money referred to, and

live in the house in question, at your own risk, until someone comes

forward with a better title. It will not need a very good title, I am

sorry to say, Miss Blyth, to be better than that which is conferred on

you by this document. I am not saying this by way of advice, but

simply as a statement of the case as it appears to me.”

“What I want to know is, what’s the meaning of those conditions? I

suppose, by the way, there is such a house.”

“There certainly is. Camford Street is an old, and not particularly

reputable street, one end of which leads into the Westminster Bridge

Road. No. 84 is in a terrace. From the exterior--which is as much as I

have seen of it--it looks as if it had not been occupied for a

considerable period of time. Indeed, according to the neighbours, no

one has lived in it for, some say ten, others fifteen, and others

twenty years.”

“That sounds nice,” cut in Emily. “If no one has lived in it for all

that time I shouldn’t be surprised if it wanted a little cleaning.”

“Not at all improbable, from what it looks like outside. The shutters

are up at the window--on that point, I may mention, a man who has a

small chandler’s shop on the opposite side of the road, tells rather a

singular story. He informed me that, to the best of his knowledge and

belief, the last occupant of the house was a man named Robertson. He

was an old man. Mr. Kennard, my informant, says that what became of

him he does not know. He did not move; there was no attempt to let the

place; he simply ceased to be seen about. Nor has a living soul been

seen in the house for years. But, he says, some months ago, he is not

sure how many, when he got up one morning to open his shop, on looking

across the road he saw that all the windows inside were screened by

shutters. He declares that not only were there no shutters there the

night before, but dirty old blinds which were dropping to pieces, but

that he never had seen shutters there before, and, indeed, he doubted

if there were such things at any other house in the terrace. If his

tale is true, it seems an odd one.”

“It sounds,” said Emily, “as if the house were haunted.”

“Without going so far as that, it does seem as if the shutters could

hardly have got there of their own accord, and that someone must have

been inside on that particular night, at any rate. No one, however,

was seen, either then or since. There the shutters are, as one can

perceive in spite of the accumulated grime which almost hides the

windows. No one seems to know who the house belongs to, or ever did

belong to; and I would observe that, since no title deeds were in the

package, or any hint that such things were in existence, we have only

Mr. Batters’ bare word that the property was his. I should hasten to

add that there is a small parcel addressed to Miss Blyth, whose

contents may throw light, not only on that matter, but on others

also.”

He handed me a parcel done up in brown paper. It was addressed, in

very bad writing, “To be given to my niece, Mary Blyth, and to be

opened by her only.” I cut the string, and removed the wrapper. In it

was a common white wood box. Emily leaned over my shoulder.

“Whatever is inside?” she asked.

The first thing I saw when I lifted the lid, gave me a start, and I

own it--there, staring me in the face, was the own brother of the

little painted thing which was in the packet which the foreigner had

slipped between my fingers.

“Why,” I cried, “if there isn’t another!”

“Another!” Mr. Paine gave a jump. “That’s very odd.” He was fishing

about in his waistcoat pocket. “I thought you gave me the one you

had.”

“So I did. You put it in the pocket in which you’re feeling.”

“I thought I did. But--have you noticed me taking it out?”

“You’ve not taken it out, of that I’m sure.”

“But--I must have done. It’s gone.”

His face was a study. I hardly knew whether to laugh or not.

“It strikes me,” he remarked, “that someone is playing a trick on us;

and, as I’m not over fond of tricks which I don’t understand, I’ll put

an end to this little joke once and for all.”

There was a fire burning in the grate. Laying the box down on a chair,

taking the little painted thing between his finger and thumb, off he

marched towards the fireplace. As he was going, all of a sudden he

gave a little jump, as I suppose, loosened his hold, and down the

thing dropped on to the floor. He stood staring at his hand, and at

the place where it had fallen, as if startled.

“Where’s it gone?” he asked.

“It must have rolled under the table.” This was Emily.

But it had not. We searched in every nook and cranny. It had vanished,

as completely as if it had never been.

“This is a pretty state of affairs. If it goes on much longer we shall

begin to take to seeing things. If the rest of the contents of the box

are of the same pattern, you might have kept it, Mr. Paine, for all I

care.”

But they were not. The next thing I took out was a key. It was a

little one, and the queerest shape I ever saw. It was fastened to a

steel chain; at one end of the chain was a padlock. Attached to the

handle of the key was a kind of flying label; on it this was written:

“To Mary Blyth. This is the key of 84, Camford Street. The lock is

high up on the left-hand side of the door. There is no keyhole. You

will see a green spot. Press the key against the spot and it will

enter the lock. Push home as far as it will go, then jerk upwards, and

the door will open. Don’t try to enter when anyone is looking.

Directly you get it, tear off this label and burn it. Then pass the

chain about your waist, underneath your dress, and snap the padlock.

If you lose the key, or let it go for a moment from your possession,

may the gods burn up the marrow in your bones. And they will.”

“That’s cheerful reading,” I observed, when I had read the label to an

end. I passed it to Mr. Paine.

“It is curious,” he admitted. “In which respect it’s of a piece with

all the rest.”

When Emily read it her eyes and mouth opened as wide as they very well

could do.

“I never!” she cried. “Isn’t it mysterious?”

“What shall I do?” I asked, when the chain and key had been returned

to me.

Mr. Paine considered.

“You had better do as instructed--burn the label; that is, after we

have taken a copy. There is nothing said against your doing that; and,

if you have a copy, it will prevent your memory playing you false. As

for the key itself--will it do you any harm to fasten it to your waist

in the manner directed?”

“Except that it’s a bit too mysterious for my taste. Some folks like

mysteries; I don’t.”

“My dear,” cut in Emily, “they’re the salt of life!”

“Then I don’t like salt. Perhaps it’s because I’m a plain person that

I like plain things. Here’s more mystery.”

The only thing left in the box was an envelope. When I took it out I

found that on it this was written:

“This envelope is for Mary Blyth, and is not to be opened by her

till she is inside 84, Camford Street.”

I showed it to Mr. Paine, who was copying the label.

“What shall I do with that?”

“As you are told. Open it when you are in the house, and afterwards,

if it is not expressly forbidden, you can, if you choose, communicate

the contents to me.”

While he copied the label I went with Emily into an inner room, which

turned out to be his bedroom; put the chain about my waist inside my

bodice, and closed the padlock; and it was only when I had done so

that I discovered that it had no key, so that how I was to open it,

and get the chain off again, goodness only knew. Emily kept talking

all the while.

“Pollie, isn’t it all just lovely? In spite of what you say, your

Uncle Benjamin must have been a really remarkable man. It’s like a

romance.”

“I wish my Uncle Benjamin hadn’t been such a remarkable man, then he

might have left me the money and the house without the romance. Bother

your romance, is what I say.”

“You’re a dear,” she affirmed, and she held up her hands--and very

pretty hands they were. “But you have no soul.”

“If that’s what you call soul,” I answered, “I’m glad I haven’t.”

When we got back to Mr. Paine, I began at him again.

“Now let me clearly understand about those conditions. Do you mean to

say that I’m to stop in the house all alone?”

“You may have a companion--who must be a woman.”

“I’ll be your companion! Do let me be your companion, Pollie!”

I looked at Emily, who stood in front of me with flushed cheeks and

eager eyes; as pretty a picture as you could wish to see.

“Done!” We shook hands upon it. “I only hope you won’t have too much

romance before you’ve been my companion long.”

“No fear of that! The more there is the more I’ll like it.”

I was not so certain. She spoke as if she were sure of herself. But,

for my part, I felt that it remained to be seen. I went on:

“What was that about being in before nine?”

“You are never to sleep out of the house. You are always to be in it

before nine at night, and never to leave it before nine in the

morning.”

“That’s a nice condition, upon my word!” I turned to Emily. “What do

you think of that? It’s worse than Cardew & Slaughter’s.”

“It does seem rather provoking. But”--there was a twinkle in her

eye--“there may be ways of getting out of that?”

“What was that about no man being allowed in the house?”

“No man, under any circumstances, is to be allowed to cross the

doorstep; nor, indeed, is anyone, except the lady you have chosen to

be your companion.”

“But what about my Tom?”

“Your--Tom? Who is he?”

“Mr. Tom Cooper is the gentleman to whom I am engaged to be married.”

“I am afraid that, by the terms of the will, no exception is made even

in his favour.”

I did not answer. But I told myself that we would see about that. If,

as Emily hinted, there were ways of getting the better of one

condition, it should not be my fault if means were not found to get

the better of the other too.

Almost immediately afterwards we started for the house; all three of

us again in the four-wheeler which had been waiting for us the whole

of the time. I wondered who was going to pay the fare. It would make a

hole in my fifteen shillings.

CHAPTER VII.

ENTERING INTO POSSESSION.

It was Mr. Paine who settled with the cabman. It had not struck me

that we had been passing through an over-savoury neighbourhood; we

drew up in front of a perfectly disreputable-looking house. Not that

it was particularly small; there were three storeys; but it looked so

dirty. And if there is one thing I cannot stand it is dirt. I could

easily believe that no one had lived in it for twenty years; it was

pretty plain that the windows had not been cleaned for quite as long

as that.

“Well,” I declared as I got out of the cab, “of all the dirty-looking

places I ever saw! If no one is to be allowed to set foot inside

except Emily and me, who do you suppose is going to clean those

windows?”

“That, I am afraid, is a matter which you must arrange with Miss

Purvis; the will makes no exception in favour of window cleaners.”

“Then all I can say is that that’s a nice thing.” I turned to Emily.

“This is going to turn out a pretty sort of romance--charwomen is what

we shall have to commence by being.”

“I’m not afraid of a little work,” she laughed.

I looked at the door.

“That writing on the label said that we were not to go into the house

when anyone was looking. How are we going to manage that? Are you and

the cabman to turn your backs?”

“I don’t think that that is necessary; this shall be an exception.

After you’ve opened the door we’ll hand the luggage to you when you’re

inside.”

Mr. Paine and the cabman were not by any means the only two persons

who were looking. Our stoppage in front of No. 84 had created quite a

wave of interest. People were watching us at doors and through

windows, and a small crowd of children had gathered round us in a

circle on the pavement. As it was out of the question for us to wait

till all eyes were off us, I straightaway disobeyed at least one of

the directions which were on the label.

What looked like an ordinary opening for a latchkey was in its usual

place on the right hand side of the door, but when I slipped my key

into that it turned round and round without producing any visible

effect whatever. So I examined the other side. There, sure enough, so

high up as to be almost beyond my reach, was what looked like a small

dab of green paint. When I pushed the key against it it gave way. The

key went into the apparently solid wood-work right up to the handle. I

gave it an upward jerk; the door was open. However neglected the

windows were, that lock seemed to be in good condition.

The door had opened about an inch. We all stared at it as if something

wonderful had happened. I confess that I was a little startled,

because I had used so little force that it was a wonder to me how it

had come open. The children, giving a sort of cheer, came crowding

close round. Mr. Paine had to order them back. I pressed my hand

against the door. As it swung upon its hinges a bell sounded somewhere

in the house. It seemed to come from upstairs, with a shrill, metallic

clanging.

“There might be someone in already, who wanted to have warning of

anyone’s approach.”

This was Emily. She was staring into the passage as if she expected to

see something strange.

“Come,” said Mr. Paine. “Let me help you in with the luggage; then I

must leave you. People are taking a greater interest in the

proceedings than is altogether desirable. You may find them a nuisance

if you don’t look out.”

The crowd was being reinforced by children of an older growth.

Loiterers were stopping to stare. People were coming out of their

houses. As Mr. Paine said, their interest was becoming too

demonstrative. He helped the cabman to get our boxes into the passage.

Then he went. We shut the door after him in the faces of the crowd.

Emily and I were left alone.

It was an odd sensation which I felt during those first few moments in

which I realised that she and I were alone in my Uncle Benjamin’s old

house. I was conscious of a foolish desire to call the crowd to keep

us company. Emily Purvis was hardly the kind of girl I should myself

have chosen to be my sole companion in a tight place; and I had a kind

of feeling that before very long it might turn out that I was in a

tight place now.

It had all come on me so suddenly. More things had happened in a few

hours than in all my life before. Yesterday I had thought myself a

fixture at Cardew & Slaughter’s; with marriage with Tom in the far-off

distance; when the skies had fallen; or he had become a shopwalker and

I a buyer; or we had saved up enough to start a small shop of our own.

Now, Cardew & Slaughter’s had gone from me for ever. So far as money

went I was free to marry Tom next week. But there was this horrid

house--already I was calling it horrid--and my uncle’s absurd

conditions. If I was to observe them during the rest of my life I

might as well write myself a nun at once, and worse. Better Cardew &

Slaughter’s--or anything.

We could hear the sound of traffic and voices in the street. Within

the house all was still. There was no window over the door. In the

passage it was so dark that it was as much as we could do to make out

where we were. Emily put her hand upon my arm, as if she wished to

make sure that I was close.

“It’s no good our stopping here,” I said. “We’d better light a candle

and look about us. If the whole house is as light as this it must be a

cheerful place to live in.”

Acting on Mr. Paine’s suggestion, as we had come along in the cab we

had bought some candles and matches, and enough provisions to carry us

on to to-morrow. Routing out a box, I struck a match. I gave Emily a

candle and took one myself.

“Now to explore!”

We were brought to a standstill at the very start. In front of us was

a door which led into a room opening out of the passage, or ought to

have done. When I tried the handle I found that it was locked. I shook

it, I even thumped at the panels, I searched for a key; it was no

good. Against us the door was sealed.

“This is a comfortable beginning! If all the doors are locked it will

be really nice. Perhaps Uncle Benjamin intended that I should merely

have the run of the passage and the stairs.”

Such, however, fortunately or otherwise, was not the case. The room

behind the one which was closed was the kitchen; that was open, and a

delightful state it was in. Not only was it inches thick in dust, but

it was in a state of astonishing confusion. Pots and pans were

everywhere. The last person who had used that kitchen to cook a meal

in had apparently simply let the utensils drop from her hand when she

had done with them, and left them lying where they fell. There was a

saucepan here, a frying-pan there, a baking tin in the corner. Another

thing we soon became conscious of--that the place was alive with

cockroaches.

“What is it we are stepping on?” asked Emily.

“Why, it’s beetles.”

She picked up her skirts, she gave a scream, and back she scurried

into the passage. I am not fond of the creatures; I never met anyone

who was; but I am not afraid of them, and I was not going to let them

drive me out of my own kitchen.

“There’s one thing wanted, and that’s light and fresh air. Only let me

get those shutters down, and the window open, and then we’ll see. I

should say from the smell of the place that there has never been any

proper ventilation since the house was built.”

But it was easier said than done. Those shutters would not come down.

How to begin to get them down was more than I could understand. To my

astonishment, when I rapped them with my knuckles, they rang.

“I do believe,” I said, “they’re made of iron--they’re a metal of some

kind. They seem to have been built into the solid wall, as if they had

never intended them to be moved. No wonder the place smells like a

vault, and beetles, and other nice things, flourish, if they’re

fixtures.”

A scullery led out of the kitchen. It was in the same state. One

crunched blackbeetles at every step. There was a shutter before the

window, which had evidently never been meant to be taken down. Where,

apparently, there had been a door leading into a backyard or

something, was a sheet of solid metal. No one was going to get out

that way in a hurry; or in either.

“But what can be the meaning of it all?” I cried. “There must be an

object in all this display of plate armour, or whatever it is. The

place is fortified as if it were meant to stand a siege. I shall begin

to wonder if there isn’t a treasure hidden somewhere in the house; a

great store of gold and precious stones, and that Uncle Benjamin made

up his mind that at any rate thieves should not break through and

steal.”

“Oh, Pollie, do you think there is? Perhaps it’s in the next

room--perhaps that’s why the door is locked.”

“Perhaps so; and perhaps the key’s upstairs, waiting for us to come

and find it. Anyhow we’ll go and see.”

When I rejoined Emily it struck me that she was not looking quite so

happy as she might have done; as if the romance was not taking

altogether the shape she either expected or desired. I led the way

upstairs. There was a carpet on them; but by the illumination afforded

by a guttering candle, it only needed a glance to see that, if you

once took it up, you would probably never be able to put it down

again--it would fall to pieces. We had hardly gone up half-a-dozen

steps when there came a clitter-clatter from above. Emily, who was

behind, caught me by the skirt.

“Pollie! Stop! Whatever’s that? There’s someone there!”

“Rats, most likely. In a house like this there are sure to be all

sorts of agreeable things. Where there aren’t blackbeetles there are

rats; and where there’s either there’s probably both.”

Rats it was. Before we had mounted another tread two or three came

flying down, brushing against our skirts as they passed. You should

have heard Emily scream.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You talk about liking romance, and you make

all that fuss because of a rat or two.”

“It isn’t exactly that I’m afraid of them, but--they startled me so. I

daresay I shan’t mind them when I’ve got used to them, only--I’ve got

to get used to them first.”

She was likely to have every opportunity. Presently two or three more

came down. They seemed to be in a hurry. One, which was not looking

where it was going, struck itself against my foot, and squeaked. Emily

squealed too. When we reached the landing we could hear them

scampering in all directions.

On that floor there were three rooms and a cupboard. The cupboard was

empty. So was one of the rooms; that is, so far as furniture was

concerned. But it was plain where, at any rate, some of the rats were.

When I went into the room I stepped on a loose board. As it gave way

beneath my tread I never heard such an extraordinary noise as came

from under it. Apparently a legion of rats had their habitations

underneath that flooring. I half expected them to rush out and make

for us. I was out of the room quicker than I went in, and took care to

close the door behind me. Emily had turned as white as a sheet.

“I can’t stop in this place--I can’t.”

I was scornful.

“I thought you couldn’t. You’ll remember I told you that you wouldn’t

be my companion long. I knew that was the sort you were.”

“It isn’t fair of you to talk like that--it isn’t. I don’t mind

ordinary things--and I’ll not leave you, you know I won’t. But all

those rats! Did you hear them?”

“I heard them, and they’ll hear me before long. There’s going to be a

wholesale slaughter of rats, and blackbeetles. There’ll soon be a

clearance when they’ve sampled some of the stuff I know of. I’m not

going to be driven out of my own house by trifles.”

One of the other rooms was a bedroom, a sort of skeleton of one. There

was some carpet on the floor, or what had been carpet. There was an

iron bedstead, on which were the remains of what might have been a

mattress. But there were no signs of sheets or blankets; I wondered if

the rats had eaten them.

After what we had seen of the rest of the house, the third room, which

was in front, was a surprise. It was a parlour; not the remnants of

one, but an actual parlour. There was what seemed to be a pretty good

carpet on the floor. There was a round table, with a tapestry cover.

There were two easy chairs, four small ones, a couch. On the sideboard

were plates and dishes, cups and saucers. On the stove, which was a

small kitchener, was a kettle, two saucepans, and a frying pan, all of

them in decent order. Although the usual shutters screened the window,

the place was clean, comparatively speaking. And when I went to a

cupboard which was in one corner, I found that in it there were coals

and wood.

“It is not twenty years since this room was occupied, there’s that

much certain; nor, from the look of it, should I say it was twenty

hours. I should say there had been a fire in that stove this very day,

and there’s water in the kettle now.”

“What’s this?”

Emily was holding out something which she had picked up from the

floor. It was a woman’s bracelet, a gold bangle; though I had never

seen one like it before. It was made of plain, flat gold, very narrow,

twisted round and round; there was so much of it that, when it was in

its place, it must have wound round the wearer’s arm, like a sort of

serpent, from the wrist to the elbow. At one end of it was something,

the very sight of which gave me quite a qualm.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BACK-DOOR KEY.

“Look!” I said. “Look!”

“Look at what? What’s the matter with you, Pollie? Why are you glaring

at me like that?”

“Don’t you see what’s at the end of it?”

She turned the bangle over.

“It isn’t pretty, but--it’s some sort of ornament, I suppose.”

“It’s that thing which was in the scrap of paper, or its double.”

“Pollie! Are you sure?”

“Certain. I’ll back myself to know that wherever it turns up.”

Taking the bracelet from her I eyed it closely. There was no mistaking

the likeness; to one end was attached the very double of that painted

little horror. Emily criticised it as she leant over my shoulder.

“It looks as if it were meant for a man who mostly runs to head. And

what a head it is! Look at his beard, it reaches to what may be meant

for feet. And his hair, it stands out from his scalp like bristles.”

“Don’t forget his eyes, how they shine. They must be painted with

luminous paint, or whatever they call the stuff, which lights up in

the dark. The other night they gleamed so I thought the creature was

alive. And his teeth--talk about dentist’s advertisements! I believe

it’s meant for one of those heathen gods who are supposed to live on

babies, and that kind of thing. He looks the character to the life.

But fancy your picking it up from the floor! That’s not lain there

twenty years. There’s not a speck of rust upon it. It’s as bright as

if it had just come off somebody’s arm.”

“Pollie, do you think there’s anybody in the house besides we two?”

“My dear, I haven’t the faintest notion; you can use your senses as

well as I can, and are quite as capable of putting two and two

together. One fact’s obvious, it’s not long since somebody was in this

room. But we’ve the rest of the house to see; I can tell you more when

we’ve seen it. Come, let’s go upstairs.”

Putting the bracelet on the table, I left the room. Emily seemed

reluctant to follow. I fancy that if she had had her way she would

have postponed the remainder of our voyage to later on--a good deal

later on. And, on the whole, I hardly wondered, because, directly we

began to go upstairs, such a noise came from above, and, indeed, from

everywhere, that you would have thought the whole place was alive; and

so it was--with rats. I had heard of the extraordinary noises the

creatures could make, but I had never realised their capacity till

then. Emily stood trembling on the bottom step.

“I daren’t go up, I daren’t.”

“Very well, then; stop where you are. I dare, and will.”

Off I started; and, as I expected, directly I moved, she rushed after

me.

“Oh, Pollie, don’t leave me, don’t. I’d sooner do anything than have

you leave me.”

On that top floor there were again three rooms. And again, one of them

was empty. It was a sort of attic, at the back. So far as I could make

out it had no window at all; it was papered over if it had one. But

talk of rats! It was a larger room than the one below, and seemed to

be still more crowded. We could not only hear them, we could see them.

There they were, blinking at the candlelight out of the floor and

walls, and even ceiling. It was a cheerful prospect. I had heard of

rats, when they had got rid of everything else, eating human beings.

We two could do nothing against these multitudes; I felt sure that the

mere fright of being attacked would be enough to kill Emily. I said

nothing to her, but I thought of it all the same.

The door next to the attic was fastened. Whether it was locked or not

I could not make out. It felt as solid as if it never had been opened,

and had been never meant to open. When I struck it with my knuckles,

it returned no sound. That it was something else besides a mere wooden

door was obvious.

“Another treasure room!” I laughed.

But Emily did not seem pleased.

“I don’t like these locked-up rooms. What is there on the other side?”

“I thought you were so fond of mystery.”

“Not mystery like this.” She lowered her voice. “For all we know there

may be people inside, who, while we can’t get at them, can get at us

whenever they choose.”

I laughed again; though conscious there was sense in what she said.

“Let’s go and look at the other room and see if that’s locked up too.”

But the door of that yielded at a touch. It, also, had had occupants

less than twenty years ago--a good deal less. It was furnished as a

bedroom. There was a chest of drawers, a washstand, toilet-table,

chairs, and a bed. On the latter the bedding was in disorder; sheets,

blankets, pillows tumbled anyhow, as if somebody, getting out of it in

a hurry, had had no time to put it straight. There was a lamp upon the

toilet table, the blackened chimney of which showed it had been

smoking; even yet the smell of a smoky lamp was in the air. The

drawers were all wide open. One, which had been pulled right out, was

turned upside down upon the floor, as if the quickest way had been

chosen to clear it of its contents.

“It looks,” said Emily, standing in the doorway, looking round her

with doubtful eyes, and speaking as if she were saying something which

ought to have been left unspoken, “as if someone had just got out of

bed.”

Throwing the bedclothes back, I laid my hand against the sheets. It

might have been my imagination, but they seemed warm, as if, since

someone had been between them, they had not had time to cool. Not

wishing to make her more nervous than she was already, I hardly knew

how to answer her; more especially as I myself did not feel

particularly comfortable. If, as appearances suggested, somebody had

been inside that bed, say, within the last half-hour, who could it

have been? and what had become of him or her, or them? Crossing to the

dressing-table, I touched the lamp-glass. It was hot, positively hot.

I could have sworn that it had been burning within the last ten

minutes or quarter of an hour. That was proof positive that someone

had been there--lamps do not burn unless somebody lights them, and

they do not go out unless somebody puts them out. Who could it have

been? The discovery--and the mystery!--so took me aback that it was

all I could do to keep myself from screaming. But, as Emily was nearly

off her head already, and I did not want to send her off it quite, I

just managed to keep my feelings under. All the same, I did not like

the aspect of things at all.

To stop her from noticing too much, I tried my best to keep on

talking.

“This is our bedroom, I suppose. How do you like the look of it? Not

over cheerful, is it?”

“Cheerful?” I could see she shuddered. “Does any light ever get into

the room?”

Where the window ought to have been were the usual massive and

immovable shutters.

“The person who put up those shutters wasn’t fond of either light or

air. But you wait, I’ll have them down, I like plenty of both. You

heard Mr. Paine’s story about the shutters having made their

appearance in a night? If they did, then there was witchcraft used, or

I’m a Dutchman. It took weeks, if not months, to get them there. If

the walls have to be pulled to pieces I’ll have them moved. Give me a

week or two and you won’t know the place. I’ll turn it inside out and

upside down. Because Uncle Benjamin had his ideas of what a house

ought to be like, dark as pitch, and alive with rats, not to name

blackbeetles, it doesn’t follow that his ideas are mine, so I’ll show

him.”

“We can’t do all that, you and I alone together.”

“Catch me trying! Before we’re many hours older I’ll have an army of

workmen turned into the house.”

“What about the conditions? No one is to be allowed to enter except us

two, especially no man.”

“Bother the conditions! Do you think I mind them? Uncle Benjamin must

have been stark staring mad to think that I would. If I’m only to live

in such a place as this on such terms as those, then I’ll live out of

it--that’s all. By the way, where’s the envelope which was in that

box? I took it out of my dress pocket. ‘This envelope is for Mary

Blyth, and is not to be opened by her till she is inside 84, Camford

Street.’ Well, now Mary Blyth is inside 84, Camford Street--a nice,

sweet, clean, airy place she’s found it! So I suppose that now she may

open the envelope. Let’s hope that the contents are calculated to

liven you up, because I feel as if I wanted something a little

chirrupy.”

Inside was a sheet of blue writing paper. It was not over clean, being

creased, and thumb-marked, and blotted too. On it was a letter,

written by somebody who was not much used to a pen. I recognised Uncle

Benjamin’s hand in a moment, especially because I remembered how, in

his letters to mother, which I had in my box, the lines kept getting

more and more slanting, until the last was screwed away in a corner,

because there was no room for it anywhere else. And here was just the

same thing. He began straight enough, right across the page, but, long

before he had reached the bottom, he was in the same old mess.

“I need no ghost to tell me that this is from my venerated uncle. I

remember his beautiful neatness. Look at that, my dear, did you ever

see anything like those lines for straightness?”

I held up the page for Emily to see. She actually smiled, for the

first time since she had been inside that house.

“Now let’s see what the dear old creature says. Do hope it’s something

comforting. What’s this?” I began to read out aloud.

“‘Dear Niece,--Now that you are once inside the house, you will

never sleep out of it again.’ Shan’t I? We shall see. Nice prospect,

upon my word. ‘You may think you will, but you won’t. The spell is on

you. It will grow in power. Each night it will draw you back. At your

peril do not struggle against it. Or may God have mercy on your soul.’

This is--this is better and better. My dear, Uncle Benjamin must have

been very mad. ‘You are surrounded by enemies.’ Am I? I wasn’t till I

had your fortune. I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t have been

better off without it. ‘Out of the house you are at their mercy. They

watch you night and day. When you are out, they are ever at your

heels. Sooner or later they will have you. Then again may God have

mercy on your soul. But in the house you are safe. I have seen to

that. Do not be afraid of anything you may see or hear. _There is That

within these walls which holds you in the hollow of Its hand_.’ That

last line, my dear, is in italics. It strikes me that not only was

Uncle Bennie mad, but that writing novels ought to have been his

trade. As you are so fond of saying, this is something like a romance;

and I wish it wasn’t. Emily, what’s the matter with you now?”

She had come to me with a sudden rush, gripping my arm with both her

hands--I doubt if she knew how hard. I could see that she was all of a

tremble.

“I--I thought I heard someone downstairs.”

“Not a doubt of it--rats.”

“It--it wasn’t rats. It sounded like footsteps in the room beneath.”

“When I’ve finished uncle’s letter we’ll investigate; but I think

you’ll find it was rats--they’ve got footsteps. Let me see, where was

I? Oh, yes--‘_Its hand_. Go out as little as you can.’ To be sure. I’m

not fond of going out--especially with such a house as this to stop

in. ‘Be always back before nine. It is then the hour of your greatest

peril begins. Should you ever be out after nine--which the gods

forbid--let no one see you enter. They will be watching for you in the

front. Go to Rosemary Street at the back. Between thirteen and

fourteen there is a passage. At the end there is a wall. Climb it.

There are two stanchions one above the other on the right. They will

help you. Drop into the yard. Go to the backdoor. You will see a spot

of light shining at you. Put the key in there. Turn three times to the

left. The door will open. Enter and close quickly lest your enemies be

upon you. If they enter with you may God have mercy on your soul. From

your affectionate uncle, Benjamin Batters. P.S.--You will find the

back door key on the parlour table.’ Shall I? That’s story number one

at any rate. I haven’t found any back door key on the parlour table,

and I never saw one there. Did you?”

“There--wasn’t one--I noticed--there was nothing on the table--when

you put that bangle down.”

I wished Emily would not speak in that stammering way, as if there was

a full stop between each word or two. But I knew it was not the

slightest use my saying so just then; that was how she felt.

“Of course. I did leave that bangle on the table, didn’t I? That’s one

thing which we’ve found in uncle’s dear old house which seems worth

having; and one thing’s something. Let’s go and have another look at

it.”

Down the stairs again we went; Emily sticking close to my side as if

she would rather have suffered anything than have let me get a yard

away from her. One of the pleasantest features of my new possession

seemed to be that every time we moved from one room to another about a

hundred thousand rats got flurried; it sounded like a hundred thousand

by the din they made. And Emily did not like them scurrying up and

down the stairs when she was on them; nor, so far as that went, did I

either.

When we reached the parlour, I made a dart at the table.

“Why, where’s that bangle? I put it down just there, I remember most

distinctly. Emily, it’s gone! Whatever’s this? I do believe--it’s that

back-door key!”

It was, at any rate, a key; and bore a family likeness to the one

which was attached to the chain which was about my waist. I stared,

scarcely able to credit the evidence of my own senses. Between our

going from that room and our returning to it a miracle had happened; a

transformation had taken place; a bangle--and such a bangle! had

become a key. Apparently the back-door key of Uncle Benjamin’s “P.S.!”

BOOK II.

84, CAMFORD STREET.

(THE FACTS OF THE CASE ACCORDING TO EMILY PURVIS.)

CHAPTER IX.

MAX LANDER.

Talk about romance! I never could have believed that after wishing

for a thing your whole life long you could have had enough of it in so

short a space of time. In the morning Pollie Blyth heard, for the very

first time, that a fortune and a house had been left to her, and,

before the night of that same day was over, she wished that it had

not. And here had I been looking, ever since I was a teeny-weeny

little thing, for a touch of romance to give existence a real live

flavour, and then, when I got it, the best I could do was to wonder

how I had been so silly as ever to have wanted it.

Poor Pollie! That first night in Camford Street she would go out. She

said she must go and see her Tom. That he would be waiting, wondering

what had become of her, and that nothing should keep her from him.

Nothing did. I could not. And when I suggested that it might be as

well for her to be a little careful what she did that very first

night, she actually proposed that I should stop in that awful house by

myself, and wait in it alone till she returned.

I would not have done such a thing for worlds, and she knew it. As a

matter of fact I could not have said if I was more unwilling to leave

the place, or to stay in it, even with her. The extraordinary

conditions of her dreadful old uncle’s horrible will weighed on me

much more than they seemed to do on her. I felt sure that something

frightful would happen if they were not strictly observed. Nothing

could be clearer than his repeated injunction not to be out after

nine, and her appointment with Mr. Cooper was for half-past eight.

Cardew and Slaughter are supposed to close at eight, but she knew as

well as I did what that really meant. It was a wonder if one of the

assistants got out before nine. Mr. Cooper was in the heavy, and the

gentlemen in that department were always last. If he appeared till

after nine I should be surprised, and, if we were at the other end of

London at that hour, with the uncle’s will staring us in the face,

what would become of us? Being locked out of Cardew and Slaughter’s

was nothing to what that would mean.

But Pollie would not listen to a word. She is as obstinate as

obstinate when she likes, though she may not think it.

“My dear,” she said, “I must see Tom. Mustn’t I see Tom? If you were

in my place, and he was your Tom, wouldn’t you feel that you must see

him?”

There was something in that I acknowledged. It was frightful that you

should be cut off from intercourse with the man you loved simply

because your hours would not fit his. But then there was so much to be

said upon the other side.

“I’m sure he’ll be punctual to-night, he’ll be so anxious. And you

know sometimes he can get off a little earlier if he makes an effort.

You see if he isn’t there at half-past eight. I’ll just speak to him,

then start off back at once. He’ll come with us, we shall be back here

before nine, and then he’ll leave us at the door.”

That was how it was to turn out, according to her. I had my doubts.

When you are with the man to whom you are engaged to be married half

an hour is nothing. It’s gone before you know it’s begun.

It was eight o’clock when we left the house. I thought we should never

have left it at all. We could not open the door. It had no regular

handle; no regular anything. While we were trying to get it open the

house was filled with the most extraordinary noises. If it was all

rats, as Pollie declared, then rats have got more ways of expressing

their feelings than I had imagined. It seemed to me as if the place

was haunted by mysterious voices which were warning us to be careful

of what we did.

“Of course if we’re prisoners it’s just as well that we should know it

now as later on. How do you open this door?”

Just as she spoke the door opened.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” She seemed surprised. “I was just pushing at the thing

when--it came open. There’s a trick about it I expect; we’ll find out

what it is to-morrow, there’s no time now. At present it’s enough that

it’s open; out you go!”

When we were out in the street, and she pulled it to, it shut behind

us with an ominous clang, like the iron gates used to do in the

barons’ castle which we read about in the days of old. We took the

tram in the Westminster Bridge Road, then walked the rest of the way.

It was half-past eight when we arrived. As I expected, of course Mr.

Cooper wasn’t there.

“Pollie, we ought not to stop. We ought to be in before nine this

first night, at any rate. We don’t know what will happen if we’re

not.”

“You can go back if you like, but I must and will see Tom.”

Nine o’clock came and still no Mr. Cooper. I was in such a state I was

ready to drop. It was nearly a quarter-past before he turned up. Then

they both began talking together at such a rate that it was impossible

to get a word in edgeways. When I did succeed in bringing Pollie to

some consciousness of the position we were in, and she asked Mr.

Cooper to start back with us at once, he would not go. He said that he

had had such a narrow escape the night before, and had had such

difficulty in getting in--so far as I could make out he had had to

climb up a pipe, or something, and had scraped a hole in both knees of

his trousers against the wall--that he had determined that it should

be some time before he ran such a risk again, and had therefore made

up his mind that he would be in extra early as a sort of set-off. It

was no good Pollie talking. For some cause or other he did not seem to

be in the best of tempers. And then, when she found that, after all

our waiting, he would not see us home, she got excited. They began

saying things to each other which they never meant. So they

quarrelled.

Finally Mr. Cooper marched off in a rage, declaring that now she had

come into a fortune she looked upon him as a servant, and that though

she had inherited £488 9s. 6d. a year, and a house, he would not be

treated like a lackey. She was in such a fury that she was almost

crying. She assured me that she would never speak to him again until

she was compelled, and that they would both be grey before that time

came. All I wanted to do was to keep outside the quarrel, because they

had behaved like a couple of stupids, and to find myself in safe

quarters for the night.

“I don’t know, my dear Pollie, if you’re aware that it’s past

half-past ten. Do you propose to return to Camford Street?”

“Past half-past ten!” She started. Her thoughts flew off to Mr.

Cooper. “Then he’ll be late again! Whatever will he do?”

“It’s not of what he’ll do I’m thinking, but of what we’re going to

do. After what your uncle said, do you propose to return to Camford

Street at this hour of the night?”

“We shall have to. There’s nowhere else to go. I wish I’d never come

to see him now; it hasn’t been a very pleasant interview, I’m sure.” I

cordially agreed with her--I wished she had not. But it was too late

to shut the stable-door after the steed was stolen. “Let’s hurry.

There’s one thing, I’ve got the back-door key in my pocket, if the

worst does come to the worst.”

What she meant I do not think she quite knew herself. She was in a

state of mind in which she was inclined to talk at random.

We had not gone fifty yards when a man, coming to us from across the

street, took off his hat to Pollie. I had noticed him when she was

having her argument with Mr. Cooper, and had felt sure that he was

watching us. There was something about the way in which he kept

walking up and down which I had not liked, and now that Mr. Cooper had

gone I was not at all surprised that he accosted us. He looked about

thirty; had a short light brown beard and whiskers, which were very

nicely trimmed; a pair of those very pale blue eyes which are almost

the colour of steel; and there was something about him which made one

think that he had spent most of his life in open air. He wore what

looked, in that light--he had stopped us almost immediately under a

gas-lamp--like a navy blue serge suit and a black bowler hat.

“Miss Blyth, I believe, the niece of my old friend Batters. My name is

Max Lander. Perhaps you have heard him speak of me.”

His manner could not have been more civil. Yet, under the

circumstances, it was not singular that Pollie shrank from being

addressed by a stranger. Putting her arm through mine, she looked him

in the face.

“I don’t know you.”

“Have you never heard your uncle speak of me--Max Lander?”

“I never knew my uncle.”

“You never knew your uncle?” He spoke, in echoing her words, almost as

if he doubted her. “Then where is your uncle now?”

“He is dead.”

“Dead?”

“If you knew my uncle, as you say you did, you must know that he is

dead. Come, Emily, let us go. I think this gentleman has made a

mistake.”

“Stop, Miss Blyth, I beg of you. Where did your uncle die?”

“I don’t know where exactly, it was somewhere in Australia.”

“In Australia!” I never saw surprise written more plainly on a

person’s face. “But when?”

“If, as you say, you knew him, then you ought to know better than I,

who never did.”

“When I last saw Mr. Batters he didn’t look as if he meant to die.”

He gave a short laugh, as if he were enjoying some curious little joke

of his own.

“Where did you see him last?”

“On the _Flying Scud_.”

“The _Flying Scud_? What’s that?”

“My ship. Or, rather, it was my ship. The devil knows whose it is

now.”

“Mr. Lander, if that really is your name, I don’t know anything about

my uncle, except that he is dead. Was he a sailor?”

“A sailor?” He seemed as if he could not make her out. I stood close

to him, so that I saw him well; it struck me that he looked at her

with suspicion in his eyes. “He was no sailor. At least, so far as I

know. But he was the most remarkable man who ever drew breath. In

saying that I’m saying little. You can’t know much of him if you don’t

know so much. Then, if he’s dead, where’s Luke?”

He spoke with sudden heat, as if a thought had all at once occurred to

him.

“Luke? What is Luke?--another ship?”

“Another ship? Great Cæsar!” Taking off his hat, he ran his fingers

through his short brown hair. “Miss Blyth, either you’re a chip of the

old block, in which case I’m sorry for you, and for myself too, or,

somewhere, there’s something very queer. Hollo! Who are you?”

While we had been talking a man had been sidling towards us along the

pavement. He had on a long black coat, and a hat crammed over his

eyes. As he passed behind Mr. Lander he stopped. Mr. Lander spun

round. On the instant he tore off as if for his life. Without a

moment’s hesitation Mr. Lander rushed full speed after him. Pollie and

I stood staring in the direction they had gone.

“Whatever is the matter now?” I asked. “What did the man do to Mr.

Lander?”

“Emily, that’s the man who slipped the paper into my hand last

night--you remember? There’s a cab across the road; let’s get into it

and get away from here as fast as we can.”

We crossed and hailed the cabman. As he drew up beside the kerb, and

we were about to enter, who should come tearing over the road to us

again but Mr. Lander. He was panting for breath.

“Miss Blyth, I do beg that you will let me speak to you. If not here,

then let me come with you and speak to you elsewhere.”

“I would rather you did not come with us, thank you, I would very much

rather that you did not.”

He stood with his hand on the apron of the hansom in such a way that

he prevented us from entering.

“Miss Blyth, you don’t look like your uncle--God forbid! You look

honest and true. If you have a woman’s heart in your bosom I entreat

you to hear me. Your uncle did me the greatest injury a man could have

done. I implore you to help me to undo that injury, so far as, by the

grace of God, it can be undone.”

He spoke in a strain of passion which I could see that Pollie did not

altogether relish. I didn’t either.

“I will give you my solicitor’s name and address, then you can call on

him, and tell him all you have to say.”

“Your solicitor! I don’t want to speak to your solicitor; he may be

another rogue like your uncle. I want to speak to you.”

Before Pollie could answer, another man came up. He touched his hat to

Mr. Lander.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but this is the young lady I told you about.

Miss Blyth will remember me, because I was so fortunate as to do her a

small service last night. May I hope, Miss Blyth, that you have not

forgotten me?”

The man spoke in a small, squeaky voice, which was in ridiculous

contrast to his enormous size. It was actually the creature who had

paid the bill for us the night before at Firandolo’s--one shilling and

threepence! My impulse was to take out my purse, give him this money,

and be rid of him for good and all. But, before I had a chance of

doing so, Mr. Lander turned upon him in quite a passion.

“What do you mean by thrusting in your oar? Get out of it, Ike Rudd!”

“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure, if I’m intruding, and the young

lady’s; but, seeing that I was able to do her a little service, I

thought that perhaps she might be willing----”

Mr. Lander cut him short with a positive roar.

“Don’t you hear me tell you to take yourself out of this, you

blundering ass!”

In his anger with Mr. Rudd he moved away from the cab. Without a

moment’s delay Pollie jumped into it, and dragged me after her.

“Drive off, and don’t stop for anyone!”

It was done so quickly that before Mr. Lander had an opportunity to

realise what was happening the driver gave his horse a cut of the

whip. The creature gave a bound which it was a wonder to me did not

upset the hansom, and when his master struck him again he galloped off

as if he were racing for the Derby.

After we had gone a little way--at full pelt!--the driver spoke to us

through the trap-door overhead.

“Where to, miss?”

“Is he following us?”

“Not he. He tried a step or two, but when he saw at what a lick we

were going he jerked it up. He went back and had a row with the other

chap instead, the one who came up and spoke to him I mean. They’re at

it now. Has he been bothering you, miss?”

“I don’t know anything at all about him. He’s a perfect stranger to

me. I think he must be mad. Drive us to the Westminster Bridge Road,

if you are sure that he’s not following.”

“I’ll see that that’s all right, you trust me.” He swung round a

corner. “He’s out of sight now, I should think for good; but if he

does come in sight again I’ll let you know. What part of the

Westminster Bridge Road?”

Pollie hesitated.

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

CHAPTER X.

BETWEEN 13 AND 14, ROSEMARY STREET.

A church clock struck as we rolled along.

“That sounds like nine--a quarter-past eleven. What shall you do if we

can’t get in at all?”

“Not get into my own house? My dear, this is not a case of Cardew and

Slaughter’s. What is going to keep me out of my own house--if I choose

to enter it with the milk!--I should like to know.”

I did not know. I could not even guess. But all the same I had a sort

of feeling that someone could--and might. “My own house” came glibly

from her tongue. That morning there had been ten shillings between her

and the workhouse; already she had become quite the woman of

established means. I might have been the same had the case been mine.

You never know. It must be so nice to have something of your very own.

We were nearing the Westminster Bridge Road. Again the driver spoke to

us from above; he had hardly slackened pace the whole of the way.

“Coast clear, miss; not had a sight of the party since we lost him.

Where shall I put you down?”

“I’ll stop you in a minute; keep on to the left.” Pollie spoke to me.

“What did it say in the letter was the name of the street in which is

the entrance to the back door?”

“Rosemary Street.”

“Of course! I couldn’t remember its stupid name.”

“But I shouldn’t tell him to put us down just there. You don’t know

who may be waiting for us.”

I was leaning over the front of the cab, keeping a sharp look-out.

There were the crowded trams and omnibuses, and many people on the

pavements; but I noticed nothing in any way suspicious.

“Who should be waiting for us? Haven’t we shaken Mr. Lander off?

Didn’t the cabman say so?”

“Yes. But--you never know.”

“What do you mean? What are you driving at?”

“Nothing. Only it’s past nine. The letter said that it was the time

your greatest peril began.”

“What nonsense you do talk! Do you think I pay attention to such

stuff? Lucky I’m not nervous, or you’d give me the fidgets. The sooner

everybody understands that I intend to go in and out of my own house

at any time I please the less trouble there is likely to be. I’m not a

child, to be told at what time I’m to come home.”

I was silent. She spoke boldly enough; a trifle too boldly I thought.

There was an unnecessary amount of vigour in her tone, as if she

wished to impress the whole world with the fact that she was not in

the least concerned. But she acted on the hint all the same--she

stopped the cab before we reached our destination.

“It’s all right now, miss,” said the driver. It was rather a novel

sensation for us to be riding in cabs, and the fare we paid him did

make a hole in one’s purse. It was lucky there was that four hundred

and eighty-eight pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence to fall back

upon. “You’ve seen the last of that fine gentleman, for to-night at

any rate. Good-night, miss, and thank you.”

I was not so sure that it was all right. We might have seen the last

of “that fine gentleman,” as the cabman called Mr. Lander, though

there was nothing particularly “fine” about him that I could see; but

there might be other gentlemen, still less “fine,” who had yet to be

interviewed. When the hansom had driven off, as we walked along the

pavement, I felt more and more uncomfortable, though I would not have

hinted at anything of the kind to Pollie for worlds.

“Have we passed Camford Street?” she wondered. “I don’t know which

side of it is Rosemary Street.”

“I’m sure I don’t. You had better ask.”

We were standing at the corner of a narrow street, a pretty dark and

deserted one it seemed. Pollie turned to make enquiries of some

passer-by. A man came towards us.

“Can you tell me which is Rosemary Street?” she said.

“This way! this way!”

He took her by the arm and led her into a gloomy-looking street, as if

he were showing her the way. She must have been purblind, or

completely off her guard, to have been tricked by him so easily,

because directly he spoke I recognised him as the person in the long

black coat who had fled from Mr. Lander. I myself was taken by

surprise, or I would have called out and warned her. But I suppose

that I was bewildered by his sudden and wholly unexpected appearance,

because, instead of bidding her look out, I went after her into the

narrow lane, for really it seemed to be no more.

The moment we were round the corner two other figures appeared out of

the darkness as if by magic. But by now Pollie had taken the alarm.

“Let me go!” she cried to her conductor. “Take your hand away from my

arm!”

He showed no inclination to do anything of the kind.

“This way! this way!” he kept repeating, as if he were a parrot. He

spoke with a strong foreign accent--as if his stock of English was not

a large one.

But Pollie was not to be so easily persuaded. She stood stock still,

evincing every disposition to shake herself free from his grasp.

“Let me go! let me go!”

The taller of the two newcomers uttered some words in a language which

I had never heard before. Giving Pollie no time to guess what he was

about to do he produced a cloth and threw it over her head. The other

man sprang at her like a wild animal. Between them they began to bear

her to the ground. I was not going to stand quietly by and see that

kind of thing go on. I may not be big, and I do not pretend to be

brave, but I am not an absolute coward all the same.

The smaller of the newcomers had taken me by the arm. I did my best to

make him wish that he had not. I flew at him.

“You villain! Let me go, or I’ll scratch your eyes out!”

The little wretch--he was little; I do not believe he was any bigger

than I was, or perhaps I should not be alive to tell this

tale--actually tried to throw a cloth over my head. When I put up my

arms, and stopped his doing that, he began to dab it against my mouth,

as if to prevent my screaming. There was a nasty smell about that

cloth. It was damp. All of a sudden it struck me that he was trying to

take away my senses with chloroform, or some awful stuff of that kind.

And then didn’t I start shrieking; I should think they might have

heard me on the other side of the bridge.

In less than no time--or so it seemed to me--a policeman came round

the corner. Apparently he was the only one who had heard; but he was

quite enough.

“What’s the matter here?” How I could have kissed him for his dear

official voice. “What’s the meaning of all this?”

Those three cowards did not wait to explain. Really before the words

were out of his lips they were off down the lane like streaks of

lightning. All my man left behind him was the smell of his horrid

cloth. Beyond disarranging my hat and my hair, and that kind of thing,

I knew that he had not damaged me almost before, so to speak, I

examined myself to see.

“Has he hurt you?” asked the constable. “What was he trying to do?”

“He has not hurt me, thanks to you; but in another half second I’m

quite sure he would have done. He was trying to chloroform me, or

something frightful, I smelt it on his cloth.”

“Who’s this on the ground?”

It was Pollie. In my excitement I had quite forgotten to notice what

had become of her. She lay all of a heap. Down I plumped on my knees

beside her.

“Pollie!” I cried. “Has he killed you?”

“No fear,” said the policeman. “She’s only a bit queer. I shouldn’t be

surprised if they’ve played the same sort of trick on her they tried

to play on you.”

It was so. That policeman was a most intelligent man, and quite

good-looking, with a fair moustache which turned up a little at the

ends. They had endeavoured to stupefy her with some drug; the

policemen said he didn’t think it was chloroform, it didn’t smell like

it. I didn’t know--to my knowledge I have never smelt chloroform in my

life, nor do I ever want to. They had so far succeeded that she had

nearly lost her senses, but not entirely. When I lifted her head she

gave several convulsive twitches, so that it was all I could do to

retain my hold. Then she opened her eyes and she asked where she was.

“It’s all right,” I told her. “They’ve gone. I hope they haven’t hurt

you.”

She sat up, and she looked about her. She saw me, and she saw the

constable, which fact she at once made plain.

“Oh, you’re a policeman, are you? It’s as well that there are such

things as policemen after all.” Her meaning was not precisely clear,

but I hardly think it was altogether flattering to the force, which

was ungrateful on her part. “I don’t think they’ve hurt me. I believe

it was the keys they were after, though they’ve left them both behind.

Perhaps that was because they hadn’t time to properly search for

them.” She was feeling in her pocket. “But they have taken Uncle

Benjamin’s letter--the one in which he told us how to get in at the

back door.”

There was a pause. I realised all that the abstraction might mean. If

it had told us how to enter, it would tell them too. It was lucky they

had had to go without the key.

“Do you know the men?” inquired the officer. “You had better charge

them.”

“Charge them?” She put her hand up to her head, as if she were dazed.

I rather fancied she was making as much of her feelings as she could.

Unless I was mistaken she was endeavouring to gain time to consider

the policeman’s words. Under the circumstances it might not be

altogether convenient to charge them, even though they had proved

themselves to be such utter scoundrels. “But I don’t know what men

they were.”

“That doesn’t matter; I daresay we know. You mustn’t allow an outrage

like this to pass unnoticed; they might have murdered you. I’ll take

the charge.”

“Thank you.” She stood up. He had produced his notebook. “I don’t

think I’ll trouble you. There are circumstances connected with the

matter which render it necessary that I should think it over.”

“What’s there to think about? It was an attempt to rob with violence,

that’s what it was; as clear a case as ever I knew. Come, give me your

name, miss, then I’ll have the particulars. What name?”

“I’m afraid you must excuse me. When I’ve thought the matter over you

shall hear from me again, but I cannot act without consideration.

Thank you all the same.”

She carried it off with an air which took the constable aback. He was

not best pleased. He eyed her for a second or two, then he closed his

notebook with a snap.

“Very good. Of course, if you won’t make a charge I can’t take it. All

I can say is, that if you find yourself in the same hole again, it’ll

about serve you right if no one comes to help you. It’s because people

won’t go into court that there’s so much of this sort of thing about.

What’s the good of having laws if you won’t let them protect you.”

Off he strode in a huff. I stared after him a little blankly.

“I don’t think, Pollie, that you need have been quite so short with

him. What he says is true; we might have been murdered if it hadn’t

been for him.”

“I wasn’t short with him; I didn’t mean to be. But I couldn’t charge

them--could I? Besides, I want to get in. I didn’t want to have him

hanging about, for I don’t know how long, watching us.”

“Someone else may be watching us.”

“No fear of that; they’ve had enough of it for to-night.”

“So you said before, and hardly had you said there was nothing to fear

when they had us at their mercy. It’s my belief that what your uncle

said in that letter--which now they’ve got--is true, and that we are

in peril, dreadful peril, and that though we mayn’t know it someone is

watching us all the time. For my part I should like that policeman to

have kept his eye upon us until we were safe indoors.”

“After what my uncle said about allowing no one to see us enter?”

“It’s a pity you are not equally particular about everything your

uncle said, my dear.”

Off we started down the lane, or street, or whatever it was. If I had

had my way, after all that had happened, I would not have attempted to

enter the house until at any rate next morning; I would rather have

wandered about the streets all night. But I could see that she was set

on at least trying to get in. I did not wish to quarrel, or to be

accused of a wish to desert her after promising to be her companion.

So I stuck to her side. Presently she spoke.

“Do you know, Emily, I believe I haven’t got the very clearest

recollection of the directions in uncle’s letter. Didn’t he say

something about a passage?”

“He said that there was one between 13 and 14 Rosemary Street. The

question is, is this Rosemary Street? We don’t know.”

“We’ll soon find out. Which are 13 and 14? It’s so dark it’s hard to

tell.”

It was dark; which fact lent an additional charm to the situation. On

one side were the backs of what seemed like mews; all they presented

to us was a high dead wall. On the other was a row of cottages. If

they were occupied all the inhabitants were in bed. There was not a

light to be seen at any of the windows. Pollie began to peer at the

numbers on the doors.

“This is 26.” She passed on. “And this is 25; so 13 and 14 must be

this way.” We went farther along the street. “Here is 14--and here’s

the passage.”

There was a passage, between two of the mean little houses. But so

narrow an one that, if we had not been on the look-out for it, we

should have passed it by unnoticed. Such was the darkness that we

could not see six feet down it, so that it was impossible to tell

where it led to, or what was at the end. I did not like the idea of

venturing into it at all. I would have given almost anything to have

flown down the street and sought the protection of that nice

policeman. My heart was going pitter patter; I could feel it knocking

against my corsets. I did not know if Pollie really was nervous,

though I do not believe that it was in feminine human nature to have

been anything else; but she behaved as though she wasn’t. I could not

have made believe so well. She apparently did not hesitate about what

was the best, and proper, and only thing to do. There was not even a

tremor in her voice.

“What did uncle say--at the end there is a wall?”

“I--I think he did.”

“Then now for the wall.”

She dashed into the passage. I was afraid to do anything else--and she

did not give me a chance to remonstrate--so I went after her. I am

thankful to say that nothing happened to us as we went, though I

seemed to see and hear all sorts of things. After we had gone what

appeared to be a mile Pollie suddenly stopped.

“Here is the wall. Now to climb it. Didn’t uncle say we should find

two stanchions? Was it on the right or on the left? Here they are, on

the right; at least, I suppose they’re stanchions. They feel like two

pieces of iron driven into the brickwork. Now for a climb. One good

thing--the wall isn’t high.”

Since I could only perceive her dim outline, and didn’t wish to have

her vanish altogether in the darkness, I had kept my hand on her. I

could feel, rather than see, her going through the motions of

climbing. I was conscious she had reached the top.

“Now, Emily, you come. It’s easy; give me your hand.”

I gave her my hand. In a second or two I was beside her, on the crest

of the wall.

“Now let’s go together, it’s nothing of a drop.”

As she said, it was nothing of a drop, and we went together. I suppose

the wall was not much, if at all, over five feet in height. We landed

on what felt like a pavement of bricks.

“It’s a pity it’s so dark. Here it’s worse than ever. I can’t see my

hand before my face, can you?”

I could not. I told her so.

“Well, we’ll have to feel, that’s all; and we’ll hope that we’re in

the right backyard. It would be something more than a joke if we

weren’t; they might take us for burglars. Come on; give me your hand

again; we’ll feel our way--tread carefully whatever you do. Hollo!

here is a door. And--Emily, there’s the spot of light! Do you see it

there upon the door? As uncle says, it shines at us. Whether it’s

luminous paint, or whether it’s something much more wonderful, truly,

it lightens our darkness. Doesn’t it, my dear? Where is that key?”

I could see, straight in front of us, a round spot of something which

gleamed. It was not bigger than a threepenny piece. It might have been

a monster glow-worm. Or, as Polly said, a dab of luminous paint. But

there was no time to ascertain what it was, because, almost as soon as

I saw it, I heard something too.

“Pollie, there’s someone coming along the passage.”

In the silence, there was what was obviously the sound of feet, feet

which were apparently moving as if they did not wish to be heard.

CHAPTER XI.

ONE WAY IN.

I heard her fumbling with her pocket.

“I can’t find the thing; I had it just now; I can’t have dropped it.”

“Oh, Pollie! Quick! they’re at the wall!”

There was a scraping noise from behind; a muffled whispering. It

sounded as if someone was endeavouring to negotiate the obstacle we

had just surmounted. Still Pollie was continuing her researches.

“Where can I have put the thing?”

“Can’t you find it? Oh, Pollie!”

Someone was on the wall; had dropped softly to the ground. The sound

of his alighting feet was distinctly audible. There was a pause, as if

for someone to follow. It was the pause which saved us. As I waited,

with my heart actually banging against my ribs, my legs giving way at

the knees, expecting every second that someone would come darting at

us through the darkness, just in time to save me from toppling in a

heap on to the ground Pollie found the key.

“I’ve got it! What did uncle say I was to do with it? Push it against

the spot of light--and then? I’ve got it into the keyhole; can’t you

remember what uncle said I was to do with it then? It turns round and

round.”

“Pollie!--they’re coming!”

They were. There was the sound of advancing footsteps. Approaching

forms loomed dimly through the darkness. That same instant Pollie

caught the trick of it; the door opened.

“Inside!” she gasped.

I was inside, moving faster than I had ever done in my life before.

And Pollie was after me. The door shut behind us, seemingly of its own

accord, with a kind of groan.

“That was a near thing!”

It could hardly have been nearer. Whoever was upon our heels had

almost effected a simultaneous entrance with ourselves.

“He made a grab at my skirt; I felt his hand!”

But the door had closed so quickly that whoever was there had had no

time to make an attempt to keep it open. It was pitch dark within,

darker almost than it had been without. Pollie pressed close to my

side. The fingers of one of her hands interlaced themselves with mine;

she gripped me tighter than she perhaps thought. Her lips were near my

ear; she spoke as if she were short of breath.

“There’s a good spring upon that door; it moved a bit too fast for

them; it shuts like a rat-trap. Listen!”

There was no need to bid me to do that; already my sense of hearing

was on the strain. Someone, apparently, was trying the door; to see if

it was really shut; or if it could not be induced to open again.

There were voices in whispered consultation.

“There’s more than one; I wondered if there was more than one.”

“There are three,” I said.

Presently someone struck the door lightly, with the palm of the hand,

or with the fist. Then, more forcibly, a rain of blows. Unless I was

mistaken, the assault came from more than one pair of hands; it was

like an attack made in the impotence of childish passion. The voices

were raised, as if they called to us. They were like none which either

of us had ever heard before; there was a curious squeakiness about

them, as if their natural tone was a falsetto. What they said was

gibberish to us; it was uttered in an unknown tongue. The voices

ceased. After an interval, during which, one suspected, their owners

had withdrawn a step or two to consider the situation, one was raised

alone. It had in it a threatening quality, as if it warned us of the

pains and penalties we were incurring. The fact that we were being

addressed in a language which was, to us, completely strange, seemed

at that moment to have about it something dreadful. Audibly, we paid

no heed. Only I felt Pollie’s grip growing tighter and tighter. I

wondered if she knew that she would crush my fingers if she did not

take care.

The single speaker ceased to hurl at us his imprecations. I felt sure

it was bad language he was using. All was still.

“What are they doing?”

So close were Pollie’s lips her whispered words tickled my ear. We had

not long to wait before the answer came--in the shape of a smashing

blow directed against the door.

“They’re trying to break it down; they’ll soon wake up the

neighbourhood if they make that noise. Let’s get farther into the

house. Why--whatever’s that?”

She had turned. In doing so she had pulled me half round with her. Her

words caused me to glance about in the darkness, searching for some

new terror. Nor was I long in learning what had caused her

exclamation. There, glaring at us through the inky blackness in

flaming letters, a foot in length, were the words “_TOO LATE!_”

Beneath them was some hideous creature’s head.

For a second or two, in the first shock of surprise, I imagined it to

be the head of some actual man, or, rather, monster. As it gleamed

there, with its wide open jaws, huge teeth and flashing eyes, it was

like the vivid realisation of some dreadful nightmare. It was as if

something of horror, which had haunted us in sleep, had suddenly taken

on itself some tangible shape and form. So irresistible was this

impression, so unexpected was the shock of discovering it, that I

believe, if Pollie had not caught hold of me with both her hands, and

held me up, I should have fallen to the floor. As it was I reeled and

staggered, so that I daresay it needed all her strength to keep me

perpendicular. It was her voice, addressing me in earnest, half angry,

expostulation which reassured me--at least in part.

“You goose! Don’t you see that it’s a picture drawn with phosphorus,

or luminous paint, or something, on the wall. It won’t bite you;

you’re not afraid of a picture, child.”

It was a picture; and, when you came to look into it, not a

particularly well-drawn one either. Though I could not understand how

we had missed seeing it so soon as we had entered--unless the

explanation was that it had only just been put there. And, if that was

the case, by whom? and how? A brief inspection was enough to show that

the thing was more like one of those masks which boys wear on Guy

Fawkes’ day than anything else. It was just as ridiculous, and just as

much like anything in heaven or earth.

“Let’s get out of this; let’s go into the house; why do you stop in

this horrid place? Where’s the door?”

“That’s the question--Where is it? Uncle Benjamin’s ideas of the

proper way of getting in and out of a house are a little too ingenious

for me; we seem to be in a sort of entry with nothing but walls all

round us. Haven’t you a match? Didn’t you take a box out with you? For

goodness sake don’t say you’ve lost it.”

I had not lost it, fortunately for us. I gave it to her. She struck a

light. As she did so, the face and the writing on the wall grew

dimmer. They were only visible when, standing before the flame, she

cast them into shadow.

“Well, this is a pretty state of things, upon my word! There doesn’t

seem to be a door!”

There did not. The flickering match served to show that we were in

what looked uncommonly like an ingenious trap. We were in what seemed

to be a sort of vault, or cell, which was just large enough to enable

us to turn about with a tolerable amount of freedom, and that was all.

Semblance of a door there was none, not even of that by which we had

entered. So far as could be judged by that imperfect light on all four

sides were dirty, discoloured, bare walls, in not one of which was

there a crack or crevice which suggested a means of going out or in.

As Pollie had said, it was indeed a pretty state of things. It seemed

that we were prisoners, and in a prison from which there was no way

out. Our situation reminded me of terrible stories which I had read

about the Spanish Inquisition; of the sufferings of men and women, and

even girls, who had spent weeks, and months, and years, in hidden

dungeons out of which they had never come alive again.

Just as I had begun to really realise the fact that there did not seem

to be a door, Pollie’s match went out. That same moment there came a

fresh crash from without. And, directly after, another sound, or,

rather, sounds. Something was taking place outside which, to us, shut

in there, sounded uncommonly like a scrimmage, or the beginning of

one, at any rate. Someone else, apparently, had climbed over the wall,

a weighty someone, for we heard him descend with a ponderous flop.

Without a doubt, the first comers had heard him too, with misgivings.

Something fell, with a clatter--perhaps the tool with which they had

been assailing the door. There was a scurrying of feet, as of persons

eager to seek safety in flight. An exclamation or two, it seemed to us

in English; then a thud, as if some soft and heavy body had come in

sudden contact with the ground. A momentary silence. Then what was

unmistakably an official voice, a beautiful and a blessed voice it

sounded to me just then.

“All right, my lads! A little tricky, aren’t you? I daresay you think

you did that very neat. You wait a bit. Next time it’ll be my turn,

then perhaps I’ll show you a dodge or two.”

“Pollie,” I exclaimed, “it’s that nice policeman!”

“Hush! What if it is?”

What if it is? Everything--to me. It meant the flight of mystery, and

an opportunity to breathe again. If I could have had my way I would

have rushed out into the back yard and hugged him. But Pollie was so

cold, and--when she liked and her precious Tom wasn’t concerned--so

self-contained. She froze me. I could hear his dear big feet stamping

across the yard. He thumped against the door--and I perhaps within an

inch of him and not allowed to say a word.

“Inside there! Is there anyone in there?” There was; there was me. I

longed to tell him so, only Pollie’s grasp closed so tightly on my

arm--I knew it would be black and blue in the morning--that I did not

dare. “Isn’t there a bell or a knocker? This seems to be a queer sort

of a house. There’s something fishy about the place, or I’m mistaken.”

I could have assured him that he was not mistaken, and would if it had

not been for Pollie. I could picture him in my mind’s eyes flashing

the rays of his bull’s-eye lantern in search of something by means of

which he could acquaint the inhabitants within of his presence there

without--in his innocence! As if we did not know that he was there.

For some minutes--it seemed hours to me--he prowled about, patiently

looking for what he could not find. Then, giving up the quest in

despair, he strode across the yard, climbed heavily over the wall,

stamped along the passage; we could hear his footsteps even in the

street beyond.

Then I ventured to use my tongue.

“Pollie, why wouldn’t you let me speak to him? Why wouldn’t you let me

tell him we were here?”

“And a nice fuss there’d have been. No, thanks, my dear. Before I call

in the assistance of the police I should like to turn the matter over

in my mind. It begins to strike me that where my Uncle Benjamin had

reasons for concealment, I may have reasons too, at any rate until I

know just what there is to conceal.”

“In the meanwhile, how are we to get out of here? We’re trapped.”

“It’s the ingenuity with which Uncle Ben, or somebody, has guarded the

approach to his, or, rather, my, premises which makes it clear to me

that there may be something about the place on which it may be as well

not to be in too great a hurry to turn the searchlight of a

policeman’s eye. As to getting out of this--we’ll see.”

She struck another match, and saw. Either we had been the victims of

an ocular delusion, or something curious had taken place since she had

struck the first, for where, just now, there was a blank wall, in

which was no sign of any opening, a door stood wide open. I could not

credit the evidence of my own eyes.

“I declare,” I cried, “it wasn’t there just now.”

“It was not visible, at any rate. I tell you what, my dear, we mayn’t

be the only occupants of this establishment, that’s about the truth of

it. It’s possible that there’s someone behind the scenes who’s pulling

the strings.”

I did not like the ideas which her words conjured up at all.

“But--who can it be?”

“That’s for us to discover.”

There was a grimness about her tone which suggested what was, to me, a

new side of Pollie’s character. My impulse was to get away from the

place as fast as ever I could and never return to it again. She spoke

as if she were not only resolved to remain, and defied anyone to turn

her out who could, but as if she had a positive appetite for any--to

put it mildly--disagreeable experiences which her remaining might

involve. The first horror she encountered then and there. If she did

not mind it--I only wish that I could say the same of myself!

“You left the candle in the hall; let’s go and fetch it.”

As soon as we set foot outside that entry there was a pandemonium of

sounds, as of a legion rushing, scrambling, squeaking. It was

rats--myriads. The whole house swarmed with them; they were

everywhere. They were about our feet; I felt them rushing over my

boots, whirling against my skirts. One rat is bad enough, in the

light, but in the dark--that multitude! I had to scream; to stumble

blindfold among those writhing creatures, and keep still, was

altogether too much for my capacity.

“Pollie!--light a match!--quick!--they’re all over me!--Pollie!”

She struck a match. I do not know that it was any better now that we

could see them. The light only seemed to make them more excited. In

fact, their squeaking increased so much that, thinking that it angered

them, I had half a mind to tell Pollie to put it out again. But she

never gave me a chance. Taking me by the arm she dragged me along the

passage so that we were at the front door before I knew it. When we

went out we had left a candle on the floor in the passage so that it

might be ready for us when we came back. Pollie stooped to pick it up.

But, instead of doing so at once, she remained in the same position

for a second or two, as if she were staring at something. Then she

broke into a laugh.

“Well, that beats anything. That was a new candle when we went out;

look at it now.”

I looked; the candle had vanished. In its place what seemed to be a

greasy piece of twine trailed over the side of the candlestick. The

candle itself had been consumed by the rats; they had presented us

with an object lesson, by way of showing us what they could do if they

had a chance. I shuddered. I had heard of their fondness for fat. I am

not thin. I thought of them picking the plumpness off my bones as I

lay sleeping.

“Let’s get out of this awful house. Do, Pollie, do! The rats will eat

us if we stay in it.”

“Let ’em try. They’ll find us tougher morsels than you think. If a rat

once has a taste of me he won’t want another, I promise you that, my

dear.”

It was a frightful thing to say. It made my blood run cold to hear

her. I felt absolutely convinced that if rats once started nibbling at

me they would never rest content till they had had all of me that they

could eat. I was sure that there was not enough that was tough about

me. In that hour of trial I almost wished that there had been.

CHAPTER XII.

THE SHUTTING OF A DOOR.

We went upstairs to get another candle. A pound had been left on the

parlour mantelpiece wrapped up in a stout brown paper. The rats had

climbed up on to the shelf, they alone knew how, torn the paper to

shreds, and made a meal off the contents. Pieces of candle were left,

but not one whole one. Other things had been on that mantelpiece--tea,

butter, bread, sugar, bacon, eggs, all the food we had. Practically

the whole of it was gone. More of the tea was left than anything;

possibly they had not found it altogether to their palates. But the

butter had been entirely consumed; of the bacon, only the rind

remained, and of the eggs the shells. I had heard, and I had read, a

good deal about the voracity of rats, but never had I seen an example

of it before. Pollie seemed to look on it as quite a joke. She only

hoped, she said, that the quality of the provisions was good, so that

they would not give them indigestion. But I could not see the fun at

all. If that was a sample of their appetite, who could doubt that they

would at any rate try to make a meal of us. I had been told of their

devouring people’s toes as if they were toothsome dainties. I did not

want them to stay their stomachs with mine if I could help it. With

such calmness as I could command I did my best to explain my views

upon the matter. But Pollie only laughed. She would not be sensible.

So I then and there made up my mind that, sleep or no sleep, I would

not take off my clothes that night. If I was to be devoured they

should eat their way through my garments before they could get at me.

Pollie lit one of the stumps of the candles. The rest she slipped into

her pocket. If we left them there again, she remarked, they would

probably vanish completely directly our backs were turned, and candles

were precious, which was true enough; but there were other things

which were precious as well as candles. I asked her what she was going

to do.

“Investigate, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to find out

what’s behind those two closed doors. If it’s something alive I’d like

to know. Also, in that case, I’d like to know just what it is. I’m not

partial to rats, but I’m still less partial to strangers, who may be

up to all kinds of tricks for all that I can tell, roaming about my

house while I’m wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, so if anyone’s going

to roam I should like to make their acquaintance before they’re

starting.”

There was something callous in her demeanour, a sort of bravado, which

made me momentarily more uncomfortable. This was quite a new Pollie to

me. She spoke as if we were enjoying ourselves, with an apparently

entire unconsciousness of the frightful situation we actually were in.

I was positively beginning to be afraid of her.

“Do let us go upstairs to the bedroom, Pollie, and lock ourselves in

till the morning comes.”

She glanced at her watch.

“It’s morning now; the midnight chimes have sounded long ago. Would

you like to have your throat cut in the silence of the night?”

“Pollie!”

“It wouldn’t be nice to wake up and find it slit from ear to ear,

would it? So don’t be a goose. There’s a door locked downstairs and

another up. Before I rest I’m going to do my best to find out why

those two rooms are not open to me, their rightful owner. If it’s

because they harbour cut-throats, it’s just as well that we should

know as soon as we conveniently can. So I’m off on a voyage of

discovery. You can go to bed if you like.”

Of course I went with her. It was a choice of two evils--frightful

evils--but, under the circumstances, nothing would have induced me to

go to bed by myself. I would far rather have had my throat cut with

her than be eaten by rats alone. She began to hunt about the room.

“I’m looking for some useful little trifle which might come in handy

in breaking down a solidly-constructed door or two. Here’s a poker,

heavy make--there’s some smashing capacity in that; a pair of tongs; a

fender--there’s a business end to a fender; furniture--I have heard of

chairs being used as battering-rams before to-day. My mother used to

tell of how once, when his landlady locked him out because he wouldn’t

pay the rent of his rooms, my Uncle Benjamin burst his way into the

house with the aid of a chair, snatched off a passing cart which was

laden with somebody else’s goods, so I can’t see how he could object

to my trying the same kind of thing in the house which was once his

own. But I won’t--not yet. To begin with I’ll give the poker a trial,

and you might take the tongs.”

I took the tongs, though the only thing against which I should be

likely to use them would be rats, even if I ventured to touch them.

Indeed, the mere idea of squelching a wriggling, writhing, squeaking

rat between a pair of tongs made an icy shiver go all down my spine.

Pollie whirled the poker round her head with a regular whoop. What had

come to her I could not imagine. Her eyes flamed; her cheeks were

flushed; she was transformed. I verily believe that if half-a-dozen

men had rushed in at the door that very second, she would have flown

at them with a shriek of triumph. I had always known that one of her

worst faults was a fondness for what she called “a bit of a

scrimmage,” and that in an argument very few people got the better of

her; but I had never dreamed that she would go so far as she was going

then. She seemed as if she were perfectly burning for someone to

attack her.

Down the staircase she went, brandishing the poker over her head. I

could not keep so close to her as I should have liked for fear of it.

She stamped so as she descended that near the bottom she put her foot

clean through one of the steps. No doubt the wood was rotten, but

still she need not have insisted on treading as heavily as she

possibly could. And as soon as she reached the passage, without giving

me an opportunity to say a word, she dashed at the door of the room,

which was locked, and hit it with all her might with the end of the

poker. I expected to see her go right through it, but, instead of

that, she gave a sort of groan, and down fell the poker with a clatter

to the floor.

“Pollie, what is the matter? What have you done?”

The expression of her countenance had changed all in an instant. A

startled look, a look almost of pain, had come upon her features. She

was rubbing her arms and feeling her shoulder-blades.

“More than I intended. If you had exerted all your strength to drive a

poker through what seemed a panel of ordinary wood, and discovered

that it was sheet iron instead, you’d find that you’d done more than

you intended--it sort of jars.”

She picked up the poker again, and tapped it, much more gingerly,

against the door. It gave forth a metallic ring.

“Iron, real iron! Not a shadow of a doubt of it. Pity I was not aware

of the fact before I dislocated both my arms. Inside there! Do you

hear me calling? If anyone is inside there, perhaps you’ll be so good

as to let me know. I’m Pollie! Pollie Blyth!”

Not a sound came from within, for which, personally, I was grateful.

She hammered and hammered, but not the slightest notice was taken of

the noise she made, except by the rats, who sounded to me as if they

had gone stark mad. What we should have done if anyone had replied to

her summons from within is more than I can tell. We certainly should

have been no better off than before. We never could have got at them.

Pollie tried all she could to get that door to open, without, so far

as we could judge, producing the least impression of any sort or kind.

She thought of forcing the lock, but when she endeavoured to insert

the end of the poker into the keyhole, it turned out that it was such

a tiny one that nothing very much thicker than a hatpin could be

induced to enter.

“There’s a mystery behind that door. Mark my words, Emily Purvis! It

may take the form of decaying corpses, with their brains dashed out,

and their throats all cut, and their bones all broken, in which case

they’ll haunt us while we slumber, pointing at us spectral fingers as

we lie on our unquiet beds----”

“Pollie!”

“What’s the matter, my dear? They’ll be quite as cheerful anyhow as

rats, and they won’t take bites at us. At least, it’s to be hoped they

won’t. Ugh! Fancy murdered spectres making their teeth meet in your

flesh!”

“Pollie, if you talk like that I shall be ill; I know I shall. It

isn’t fair of you. I wish you wouldn’t. Don’t!”

“Very well, my love, I won’t. I’ve only this remark to make--if the

mystery doesn’t take that form, it takes another, and probably a worse

one. And let me tell you this. My Uncle Benjamin was a curiosity while

he lived--my mother used to say that there never was such a devil’s

limb as he was, and she was his only sister, and disposed to look upon

his eccentricities--and they were eccentricities--with a lenient eye;

and it’s my belief that he was quite as big a curiosity when he died.

There were spots in his eventful life--uncommonly queer ones--which he

would not wish revealed to the public eye. Unless I’m wrong, some of

them are inside there; we’re almost standing in their presence now,

and I wish that we were quite.”

She rattled the poker against the panels as a kind of parting salute.

I had rather she had not. Every time she made a noise--and she kept on

making one--it set my nerves all tingling. What with the things she

said, and the way that she went on, and everything altogether, I was

getting into such a state that I was beginning to hardly know whether

I was standing on my head or heels. As for Pollie, she seemed in the

highest possible spirits. It was incomprehensible to me how she dared.

And the way she kept on talking!

“Before I’m very much older I will get the other side of you, or I’ll

know the reason why; the idea of not being allowed the free run of my

own premises is a trifle more than I can stand. If I have to blow you

down, I’ll get you open.”

Bang, bang, she went at it again.

“It sounds hollow, doesn’t it? Perhaps that’s meant by way of a

suggestion, and is intended to let us understand that it’s only a

hollow mystery after all. Well, we shall see--and you shall see too,

if you have curiosity enough.”

I doubted if I had. I certainly had not just then. I wished, with all

my heart, that she would come away from the horrid door, which

presently she did, though not at all in the spirit I should have

preferred, nor with the intentions I desired.

“There’s a second Bluebeard’s chamber upstairs. I may have better luck

with that; perhaps it’s not guarded with sheet iron. Uncle Benjamin

must have spent a fortune at the ironmonger’s if it is, which fortune

should have been mine. We’ll go and see.”

I endeavoured to expostulate.

“Pollie, let’s leave it till to-morrow. What’s the use of making any

more fuss to-night. I’m dying for want of sleep.”

“Are you?” She looked at me with what struck me as being suspicious

eyes; though what there was to be suspicious about is more than I can

pretend to say. “But don’t you see, my dear, that if you were to have

that sleep for which you’re dying, before you wake from it you may be

dead. That second Bluebeard’s chamber is next our bedroom. Suppose

someone were to come out of it, while we were sunk in innocent repose,

and----” She drew her thumb across her throat with a gesture which

made me shudder. “That wouldn’t be nice, you know.”

“Pollie, if you keep on talking like that I’ll walk straight out of

the house, I don’t care what time of the night it is, and whether

you’ll come with me or whether you won’t.”

“I shouldn’t if I were you. It would seem so irregular for a young

lady to be taking her solitary walks abroad during the small hours,

don’t you know. Now up you go--up those stairs. We’ll continue this

conversation at the top. You vowed to be my companion to the death,

and my companion to the death you’re going to be.”

I had never done anything of the kind, as she was perfectly well

aware. But she did not give me a chance to contradict her. She bundled

me up the staircase as if I were a child, with such impetuosity that I

was breathless when we reached the landing. She was laughing. We might

have been enjoying a romp. As if that were the place or season for

anything of the sort!

“I trod upon a rat. Did you hear it squeal? I think it was its tail. I

believe the little beast turned and flew at me, it felt as if it did.

I hope I scrunched its silly little tail. What is one rat’s tail among

so many? Now for Bluebeard’s Chamber No. 2. This time we’ll beware of

iron.”

She made a preliminary sounding, luckily for her. Even a slight tap

with the poker produced the ring of metal.

“Iron again, so that’s all right. Now what shall we do? Shall we

confess ourselves baffled after all, and leave a formal attack until

the morning, or shall we try the effect of a little more poker

smashing? What ho, within! Is anyone inside there, living or dead? If

so, would you be so very obliging as to just step forth, and let us

see what kind of gentleman you are.”

There was no response, thank goodness. I took her by the arm.

“Pollie, do let’s leave it to the morning, and do let’s go to bed!”

“We’ll go to bed!”

We went; at least we went into the bedroom. I did not feel much

happier when we were there. To begin with, after the way in which she

had been talking, my first thought was to do as much as possible to

keep anyone out who might try to enter. But there was no key in the

lock, the handle was loose, the hasp a bad one, so that the door would

not even keep closed without our propping something up against it. I

wanted Pollie to help me pile up a sort of barricade, consisting of

chairs, the washhand stand, chest of drawers, and everything, as I had

read of people doing in books. She only laughed at me.

“What good will it do? Who do you suppose it will keep out? Spectres?

My dear, spectres will walk through stone walls. They pay no heed to

trivial obstacles. Creatures of flesh and blood? You may take my word

for it that if there are any of that sort alive and kicking in this

house to-night, and they mean to come in here, they’ll come in just

when and how they choose, and they’ll treat your ingenious barricade

as if it wasn’t there.”

“Do you really think that there’s anyone in the house beside

ourselves?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I tell you what I do think, that if I’d known as much before as I do

now, I’d have treated myself to a revolver, and you should have had

one too.”

“A revolver! Whatever should I have done with a revolver?”

“I can’t say what you’d have done. I know what I’d have tried to do. I

only wish that I had something loaded handy at this moment, there’s

more persuasive power in bullets than in your barricade, my dear. If

the worst does come to the worst, and we have to protect ourselves

against goodness alone knows what, if I could only have had my grip

upon a pistol I don’t fancy that all the scoring would have been upon

the other side.”

Whether she talked like that simply to make my hair stand up on end,

or whether she was really in earnest, was more than I was able to

determine. But as I looked at her I felt a curious something creep all

over me. There was an expression on her face, a smile on her lips, a

light in her eyes, which made me think of her Uncle Benjamin, to whose

peculiarities we owed our presence there, and wonder if not only his

blood, but something of his spirit too, was in her veins. I was

persuaded that she perceived something actually agreeable in a

situation in which I saw nothing but horror. And it was I who had

supposed myself to be romantic!

She began to bustle about the room.

“I thought you were dying for want of sleep. Aren’t you going to get

between the sheets? There is a bed, and there are sheets, though I

should hardly like to swear that they have been washed since someone

slept between them last. When are you going to begin to undress?”

“Undress? Do you imagine that I intend to remove so much as a stitch

of clothing while I remain beneath this roof?”

“Do you propose to sleep in your boots then?”

“If I am to sleep at all, and I am more than half disposed to hope

that sleep may not visit my eyelids till I am out of this dreadful

place, I propose to do so in what I stand up in. Pollie, have you ever

heard of people’s hair turning white in the course of a single night?

I shouldn’t be at all surprised if mine did. It feels as if it were

changing colour now.”

She stared as if she could not make me out. I wondered if she was

noting the transformation which was taking place in my hair; if it had

already become so obvious. Then she broke into peal after peal of

laughter. The tears started to my eyes. Just as I was about to really

cry there came a crash which shook the house.

It sounded as if someone had opened a door in the passage and shut it

with a bang.

CHAPTER XIII.

A VISION OF THE NIGHT.

In a second Pollie was across the room, through the door, and on the

landing. Before I could stop her she was tearing down the stairs,

crying,

“Now we’ll see who that is?”

I was in a dreadful position, not wanting to descend and be murdered

as a result of seeing “who that is,” nor daring to remain behind

alone. I did not even venture to call out and try to stay her, not

knowing who might hear my voice below. She had gone off with our only

piece of candle and left me in the dark. All I could do was to steal

after her as quickly as possible, keeping as close to her as I was

able. Pollie was at the bottom almost before I started; she had gone

down with a hop, skip, and a jump; I had to struggle with the darkness

and the rats. Leaning over what was left of the banisters I could see

the gleam of her candle in the passage. I expected to hear her shriek,

and sounds of a struggle. The candle flickered, as if she were moving

here and there in an endeavour to discover the cause of the commotion.

Presently her voice came up to me.

“Emily!”

“Yes?”

I spoke in a much lower tone than she had done.

“No one’s murdered, unless it’s you up there. In case you’re not, you

might come down.”

I went. She appeared disgusted, rather than otherwise, that she had

not been murdered. She was stamping up and down the passage, banging

at the closed door with her clenched fist, peering into the kitchen,

making as much disturbance as was in her power.

“The only thing alive, barring rats, seems to be blackbeetles. We must

have slaughtered thousands when we came in. The kitchen’s black with

them. Come and look.” I declined. “But they can hardly have opened

that door and shut it with a bang. There’s no evidence to show which

door it was, but I believe it was one which leads into Bluebeard’s

chamber.”

“Pollie! How can you tell?”

“I can’t tell, but I can believe. Can’t I believe, my dear? I shall,

anyhow. It is my belief”--she spoke with an emphasis which was meant

for me--“that the mystery it conceals peeped out, then, fearing

discovery, popped back again. It was its hurry to pop back which

caused the bang. I wonder, by the way, if it was anyone who made a

bolt into the street.”

She tried to open the front door, against my wish, and failed. We had

opened it from within easily enough before, when we had gone out to

interview her Tom; but now it appeared to be as hermetically sealed as

the door leading into what she called “Bluebeard’s Chamber.” It was no

use reasoning with her. So soon as she found that it would not open

she made up her mind that it should. For a quarter of an hour or

twenty minutes she tried everything she could to force it. In vain. By

the time we returned to the bedroom she was not in the best of

tempers. And I had resolved that nothing should induce me to stay any

longer alone with her beneath that roof than I could possibly help.

We had something like a quarrel. She said some very cruel things to

me, and, when I told her she was unkind, and that there were aspects

in which she reminded me of her Uncle Benjamin, she said crueller

things still. I announced my intention to spend the night--what was

left of it--upon a chair. She flung herself upon the bed and laughed.

Never shall I forget the remainder of that night, not if I live to be

as old as Methuselah. To begin with, that chair was horribly

uncomfortable, to speak of physical discomfort only. It was a small,

very slippery, wooden Windsor chair; every time I tried to get into an

easy position I began to slip off. I wondered more and more how I

could ever have been so Quixotic as to have volunteered to become

Pollie Blyth’s companion. For one thing I had never suspected that she

could have been so callous, so careless of the feelings of others, so

indifferent to what they suffered on her behalf. Although I was tired

out and out I could see that there would be no sleep for me, and no

rest either, while I continued where I was. So far as I could judge,

so soon as she threw herself upon the bed Pollie was asleep.

It was with quite a sense of shock I realised that this was the case.

It seemed so selfish. The feeling of solitude it conveyed was

frightful. I could hear her gentle breathing coming from the bed; I

myself hardly dared to breathe at all. Half an inch of candle was

guttering on the mantelpiece. By its light I could see that she lay on

her left side, looking towards the wall, and that she did not appear

to have moved since she had first lain down. I called to her:

“Pollie! Pollie! Pollie!” uttering each repetition of her name a

little louder.

My voice seemed to ring out with such uncanny clearness I did not

venture to really raise it. In consequence my modest tones did not

serve to rouse her from her childlike slumber. So sound was her sleep

that, all at once, the noise of her breathing ceased. It faded away.

She was still, strangely still. So still that in the overwrought

condition of my nerves I began to wonder if she was dead. I wished

that she would move, do anything, to show she was alive. I tried, once

more, to call upon her name. But, this time, my throat was parched; it

came as an inarticulate murmur from between my tremulous lips.

I would have given much to have got up and shaken her back to life,

and me. But it was as though I was glued to the seat, and that

although I was continually slipping off. My body was stiff, my limbs

cramped; it was only with an effort I could move them; of that effort

I was not capable. I was conscious that I was passing into a waking

nightmare. I closed my eyes because I was afraid to keep them open;

then opened them again because I was still more afraid to keep them

shut.

The house was full of noises. Pollie had not shut the door. It was

ajar perhaps an inch or two. I wanted to put a chair in front, to shut

it close. Apart, however, from my incapacity to move, I was oppressed

by an uncomfortable fancy that someone, something, was peering through

the interstice. This fancy became, by rapid degrees, a certainty. That

I was overlooked I was sure. By whom, by what, I did not dare to

think. How I knew I could not have told. I did know.

My eyes were fixed upon the door. For a moment, now and then, I moved

them, with a flicker, to the right or to the left. Only for a moment.

Back they went to the door. Once I saw it tremble. I started. It was

motionless again. Then I heard a pattering. The rats were audible

everywhere--under the floor at my feet, in the walls about me, above

the ceiling over my head. The house was full of their clamour. But the

pattering I heard was distinct from all the other sounds. It

approached the room from without, pausing over the threshold as if in

doubt. The door gave a little jerk, ever such a little one, but I saw

it. A rat came in.

So it was a rat after all.

It stopped, just inside the door, peering round, as if surprised at

the illumination which the candle gave. As if satisfied by what it saw

it came in a little further. Close behind it was a second. This was of

a more impatient breed; as soon as it appeared, with a little spring

it ranged itself beside the other. Immediately there came two more.

The four indulged themselves with a feast of observation, as though

they were smelling out the land. After a while their eyes seemed to

concentrate themselves on me, as if they could not make me out.

Perhaps they thought that I was dead, or sleeping. I did not move,

because I could not.

On a sudden the four gave a little forward scamper, as if they had

been hustled from behind. The door was opened another half-dozen

inches. More than a score came in. All at once I became conscious that

rats were peeping at me from all about the room; out of holes and

crannies of whose existence I had not been aware; above, below, on

every side. And I knew that an army waited on the landing, as if

waiting for a signal to make a rush. On whom? On me? Or on Pollie,

asleep upon the bed? I was paralysed. I wanted to shriek and warn

Pollie of what was coming; to let her know that in a second’s time the

room would be a pandemonium of rats, all of them in search of food. My

tongue was tied. I could not speak. I could only wait and watch.

The house was not yet still. Not all had gathered without the door,

many were observing me, with teeth sharp set, from hidden cavities.

There was continually the clamour of their scurrying to and fro. But

some instinct told me that their numbers increased upon the landing. I

could hear their squeals, as if they snapped at each other in the

press. Another score had harried the first score farther forward. They

were so close that where they stood they hid the floor. It seemed so

strange to see so many, all with their eyes on me. Yet what were they

to those who were without? Something told me that those who watched me

in the room had come further out of their holes! that in another

instant they would spring down; and that then the rush would come. I

think that my heart had nearly ceased to beat; that the blood had

turned to water in my veins. I was cold; a chill sweat was on my face.

The hand of death had come quite close.

I but waited for its actual touch; for whose approach the rushing of

the rats should be the signal; when--what was it fell upon my ear?

What sound, coming from below? Not rats? No, not rats. Mechanically I

drew breath; I verily believe it was the first time I had breathed for

I know not how long. The inflation of my lungs roused me. I listened

with keener ears. I knew that what I had heard the rats had also

heard; that it was because of it that the rush had not begun; that

they attended what was next to come with a sense of expectancy; of

doubt; of hesitation.

Moments passed; the sound was not repeated. Had it been a trick of our

imagination; mine and the rats’? All was still, even the scurrying of

their friends below. If I heard nothing, they did; they retreated.

There were fewer within the room; I had not noticed their going, but

they had gone. I felt that their unseen comrades, who were about me,

had drawn back again into their holes. What was it caused that noise?

There was a board that creaked. No rat’s foot had caused that. Again.

Was that a step upon the stairs?

Someone, something, was ascending from below? Who--what--could it be?

An inmate of the Bluebeard’s Chamber? What shape of horror would it

take? Why did Pollie sleep so soundly? In my awful helplessness

inwardly I raged. The rats heard; already they were flying for their

lives. Why did she not hear? Would nothing rouse her from her

slumbers? Danger, the danger she had herself foretold, was stealing on

us. She had boasted of her courage. Why did she not come out of sleep

to prove she was no braggart? What was it bound my limbs with chains,

and kept me from stretching out my arm to touch her where she lay?

What was the choking in my throat, so that when I tried to speak I

seemed to strangle?

Silence again. This seemed to be a jest that someone played: the

sound, then silence; still silence, long drawn out, then again the

sound. If something came, why did it not come quickly? I should not be

so fearful of a thing I saw as of a thing that I did not; I could not

be.

The steps had reached the staircase which led directly to our room.

There were fewer intervals of silence; though, yet, between each,

there was a pause, as if to listen. They were very soft; as if someone

walked velvet footed, being most unwilling to be heard. If I had

sprung to my feet, roused Pollie, rushed to the door, defying all

comers to come on, I wondered what would happen; and should have

dearly liked to see.

But I was a craven through and through.

The footsteps gained the landing: moved towards the door; stayed

without, while their owner listened. It might have been my fancy, but,

so acutely was I listening, that I could have declared that I heard a

hand placed gently against the panel. An interval. Pollie remained

quiet on the bed. She had not moved since first she had lain down.

What kind of sleep was this of hers? Did no warning come to her in

dreams to tell her that there was something strange without? It was

not fair that she should be so utterly at peace, while I had to bear

the burden all alone. She was stronger than I. Why did she not wake

up?

The door came a little forward; perhaps another half-dozen inches.

Again a pause; as if to ascertain if the movement had been observed.

Whoever was without was cautious. Then----

Then something appeared at the opening.

What I had expected to see I could not for the life of me have told.

Some shape of horror, some monster born of the terror I was in; a

diseased imagining of my mental, moral, physical paralysis; a

creature, neither human nor inhuman, but wholly horrible, which should

come stealing, resistless, in, to force me, in my agony, to welcome

death.

What it was I actually saw, at first, I could not tell. It was not

what I expected; that I knew. Something more commonplace; yet,

considering the hour and the place, almost as strange.

When the mist had cleared from before my vision, I perceived it was a

face. What kind of face even yet I could not see; the shock of the

unexpected added to my confusion. It was only after it had remained

quiescent for perhaps the better part of a minute that I realised it

was a woman’s.

A woman’s face!

But not like any woman’s face that I had seen before. As I gazed my

fear began to fade; a sense of wonder came instead. Was I asleep or

waking? I asked myself the question. Were these things happening to me

in a dream? Glancing at me through the partly open door was the kind

of face one reads and dreams about; not the kind one meets in daily

life. At least, in the daily life which I have led. I was vaguely

conscious that it was beautiful; beautiful in so strange a sort; but

most clearly present to my mind was the bewildering fact that it had a

more wonderful pair of eyes than any I had supposed a woman could have

had. It was not only that they were large, nor that they were lovely.

They had in them so odd a lustre. It was as though some living thing

were in them, which kept coming and going, breaking into light, fading

into darkness. They were wild eyes; such as no Englishwoman ever could

have had. This face was brown.

For at any rate some minutes it stayed motionless, watching me. Only

by degrees did it dawn upon me that possibly its owner was nearly as

much startled as I was; that whatever she had anticipated seeing she

had not expected to find me sitting on that chair. She kept her glance

fixed upon my features; only for a second did it wander towards Pollie

sleeping on the bed. I fancy she was endeavouring to determine what it

was that I was doing there; why I was on the chair instead of on the

bed; whether I was asleep or waking, or even dead. I was so huddled up

upon the chair, and remained so very still, that it was quite possible

for her, taken unawares, to suppose that I was dead.

“You sleep?”

She spoke to me; in English, which had a quaintly foreign sound; in a

bell-like whisper, it was so soft and yet so clear.

I did not answer; the knot in my tongue had not yet come untied. I

felt that she did not understand my silence, or the cause of it; and

wondered, hesitated too. Presently she ventured on an assertion,

uttered with a little cadence of doubt, as if it were a question.

“You do not sleep.” Apparently as if still in doubt as to the

correctness of the statement, she endeavoured to fortify herself with

reasons. “Your eyes are open; you do not sleep. We do not sleep when

our eyes are open. Speak to me. Are you afraid?”

Perhaps the suspicion increased in strength that, if I was not

stupefied with fear, there was at least something curious in my

condition. She opened the door nearly to the full, and she came into

the room. I saw that she seemed but a girl, tall above the common,

clad in a gown which, while it was loose and seemingly shapeless, and

made in a fashion which was altogether strange to me, yet draped

itself in graceful folds about her figure. It was made of some stuff

which looked to me like silk alpaca; in colour a most assertive, and

indeed trying, shade of electric blue. It positively warmed one’s eyes

to look at it. And it was covered with what looked more like sequins

than anything else I could think of; though, with every movement of

her body, they gleamed and glittered like no sequins I had ever seen

before. Her hair, of which there was an extraordinary quantity, as

black as jet, was most beautifully done. Even in my condition of

semi-stupor I wondered how she did it. It formed a perfect halo about

her face. And on the top was stuck what seemed to be the very double

of that queer little thing which Pollie said she found in the scrap of

paper which the man had given her. Only, to me, the creature in her

hair seemed alive. Its eyes gleamed; its body inclined this way then

that, as she stood in the open doorway.

She was covered with jewels; at least, I suppose they were jewels.

Though, regarded as ornaments, they were as queer as everything else

about her. Her fingers were loaded with rings; funny looking ones they

seemed. She stood, bending slightly forward, with her hands in front,

so that I could not help but notice them. Bracelets were twined about

her arms; of the oddest design. A jewelled snake was about her throat.

Another, not only a monster, but a monstrosity, was twisted, girdle

fashion, three or four times around her waist. It looked as if it were

alive.

When, having, apparently, sufficiently considered the situation, she

began to advance towards me, to my amazement and abject horror this

creature was set in motion too. It stretched out its evil-looking head

in my direction, with an ugly glitter in its eyes; it opened its jaws;

its fangs shot out. As they seemed to be extending themselves as far

as possible, in order to reach my face, thank God, the guttering

half-inch of candle went out upon the mantelpiece. With it my senses

seemed to go out too. As they were leaving me I was conscious of the

unpleasant odour of a smouldering wick.

CHAPTER XIV.

SUSIE.

I was lying on the floor. There was a light in the room. A woman was

bending over me; the woman with the snake about the waist. The memory

of it recurring with a sudden sense of shock, I started up.

“Where is it?”

She looked as if she did not understand.

“Where is what?”

“The snake.”

She smiled; why, I do not know.

“The snake? Oh, it is gone.”

Apparently it had. In its place was a plain broad band of what seemed

gold. I wondered if it was gold. If so, it was worth a great deal.

Still wondering, I sank back upon the floor. I saw that beside me was

a queer-shaped lamp, which also seemed to be of gold. It was fashioned

something like a covered butter-boat, with a handle, the flame coming

from the lip. I felt drowsy; the hair seemed to be heavy with perfume;

one which was new to me, having a pleasantly soothing effect upon

one’s nerves. Had it not been for the strangeness of my position I

believe that I should then and there have fallen asleep. Turning, I

stared at the stranger, who, kneeling on my left, regarded me in turn.

Silence; which she broke.

“Are many Englishwomen as beautiful as you?”

I was thinking, lazily, how beautiful she was. The appositeness of the

question took me aback; it startled some of the heaviness from my

eyelids. I did not know what to reply. My hesitation did not please

her. A sudden gleam came into her eyes; as if the wild creature which

inhabited them had all at once come to the front.

“Why do you not answer? I am used to being answered. Are many

Englishwomen as beautiful as you?”

“They are much more beautiful. I am not beautiful at all.”

“You are beautiful. You are a liar.”

The plain directness of her speech brought the blood into my cheeks.

She marked my change of colour, as if surprised.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

My tone was meek as meek could be.

“You have gone red.” I went still redder. “How do you do it? Is it a

trick? It becomes you very well; it makes you still more beautiful. Is

it the blood shining through your skin? You are so white, the least

thing shows. To be white I would give all that I am, all that I have.”

She uttered the last words with a simple earnestness which, if she had

only known it, became her much more than my blush did me. I ventured

on an inquiry.

“Who are you?”

She knelt straight up. There came to her an air of dignity which lent

to her a weird and thrilling fascination.

“I am she who inhabits the inner sanctuary of the temple; to whom all

men and women bring their supplications, that I may lay them at the

feet of the Most High Joss.”

I had not the faintest notion what she meant; but her words and manner

impressed me none the less on that account. Which fact she observing

was good enough not to allow it to displease her. She went on, with

the same quaint, yet awe-inspiring simplicity.

“I am she who holds joy and sorrow in the hollow of my hand; ay, life

and death. When I lift it the prayers of the faithful may hope for

answer; when I do not lift it, their petitions are offered up in vain,

for the Great Joss is sleeping; and, when he sleeps, he attends to no

one’s prayers.”

She stopped. I should have liked her to have gone on; or, at least, to

have been a trifle more explicit. But, possibly, she was under the

impression that she had vouchsafed sufficient information, and, in

exchange, would like a little out of me. She put a point blank

question.

“Are you Miss Mary Blyth?”

I motioned with my hand towards the bed.

“That’s Pollie. She’s asleep.”

“Pollie? Who is Pollie? I ask, are you Miss Mary Blyth?”

“That is Mary Blyth upon the bed. I’m a friend of hers, so I call her

Pollie. She’s known to all her friends as Pollie.”

She considered, knitting her brows. I half expected her to again

roundly call me liar; but, instead, she asked a question, the meaning

of which I scarcely grasped.

“Is Susie a name by which one is known unto one’s friends?”

“Susie? Isn’t that the pet name for Susan?”

For some reason my answer seemed to afford her a singular amount of

pleasure. She broke into a soft ripple of laughter; for sheer music I

had never heard anything like it before. The sound was so infectious

that it actually nearly made me smile--even then! She put her hands

before her face, in the enjoyment of some joke which was altogether

beyond my comprehension; then, holding out her arms, extended them on

either side of her as wide as she possibly could.

“It is a pet name; Susie, a pet name! It is the pet name by which one

is known to one’s--friends!”

There was a slight pause before “friends”; as if she hesitated whether

or not to substitute another word. I should have liked to have

inquired what the jest was, but there was something in her bearing

which suggested that it was so personal to herself that I did not

dare. When she had got out of it what perhaps occurred to her as being

sufficient enjoyment, quitting the kneeling posture which she had

occupied till then, she rose to her feet and went to the bed.

By now I was wide awake, my perceptions were well on the alert. The

sense of terror which had so nearly brought me to a condition of

paralysis had grown considerably less. I do not pretend that fear had

altogether vanished, nor that with but a little provocation it would

not have returned with all its former force. But, for the moment,

certainly, curiosity was to the front. My chief anxiety was not to

allow one of my mysterious visitor’s movements, no matter how

insignificant, to escape my notice. I observed with what suppleness

she rose to her feet; how, in the noiseless way in which she passed to

the bed, there was something which reminded me of wild animals I had

seen at the Zoological Gardens. When she bent over the sleeping Pollie

there was something in her pose which recalled them again. For some

seconds she was still; I had a peculiar feeling, as I watched her from

behind, that with those extraordinary eyes of hers she was scorching

the sleeper’s countenance.

“She is not beautiful. No, she is not beautiful, like you. But there

is that in her face which reminds me of another I have seen. She is

clever, strong bodied, strong willed, she knows no fear. When she is

brought face to face with fear she laughs at it. She sleeps sound. It

is like her to sleep sound when no one else could sleep at all.”

Although I could not see the speaker’s face I knew she smiled. “It is

funny it should have been given to her. She will never do as she is

told; it is because she is told that she will never do it. Obedience

is not for her, it is for those with whom she lives to obey.” She

glanced round. “It is for you.”

There was a sting in the little air of malice with which it was said,

although the thing was true. It nettled me to think how soon she had

found me out. She returned to Pollie without deigning to notice how

her words had been received.

“Let her sleep on. So sound a sleep should know no sudden waking.”

Again there was malice in her tone. She passed her hand two or three

times in front of Pollie’s face. “Now she’ll have no evil dreams. It

is funny it should have been given to her; very funny. It should have

been given to you; you are different. But it is like that: things

happen; the world is crooked.”

She had returned towards me.

“Have you a lover?”

Her trick of asking the most delicate questions in the abruptest and

baldest fashion I found more than a little disconcerting. Although I

tried to keep it back, again the blood flamed to my cheeks, all the

more because I half expected to have her repeat her enquiry as to how

I got it there. For some ridiculous reason I thought of Mr. Frank

Paine. It was too absurd. Of course I had only seen him once, and then

I had scarcely looked at him, although I could not help noticing that,

though he had not bad eyes, in other respects he was positively ugly,

and most stilted in his manners. I might never see the man again,

probably never should. I was sure I did not want to. And, anyhow, he

was absolutely nothing to me, nor, under any possible circumstances,

ever could be. It made me wild to think that I should think of him,

especially when I was asked such a question as that.

“No,” I stammered.

“No? That is strange. Since you are so beautiful.”

“I am not beautiful. Why do you say that I am beautiful?”

“Is it possible that you do not know that you are beautiful? You must

be very silly. I knew all about myself long before I was as old as

you. You have the kind of face which, when a man sees, he desires; you

also have the shape. You are not like her.” She jerked her shoulder

towards the bed. “You are a woman; and a fool.”

I did not like the way she spoke to me at all. She might be a walking

mystery--and she certainly was--but that was no reason why she should

be impertinent as well.

“Why do you say such things to me? Is a woman of necessity a fool?”

“If she is wise she is. It is a fool that a man desires; if she is a

fool she will rule him when he has her. The greater fool is governed

by the lesser.”

She had a most astonishing way of talking. Considering her age, and,

in years, I felt convinced that she was the merest slip of a girl, she

professed to have a knowledge of the world which was amazing. I did

not know what to say; not being used to carry on a conversation on the

lines which she seemed to favour. So she asked another question, with

another jerk of her shoulder towards the bed.

“Has she a lover?”

“She has.”

“No! That is stranger still! A real lover? What sort of a man is he?”

“He’s not a bad sort.”

“Not a bad sort? What is that? Is he rich?”

“Rich!” I smiled at the idea of Tom Cooper being rich. “He is very far

from being rich, unfortunately for him, and for Pollie too. He is an

assistant in a shop.”

“A shop? What kind of shop?”

“A draper’s.”

“A draper’s? Isn’t that where they sell things for women to wear? What

kind of a man is he who is in a shop in which they sell things for

women to cover their bodies? Is it his life which he lives there? But,

after all, that is the kind of lover one would have supposed she would

have had. It is he who must obey.” I felt that she was hard on Pollie,

and on Mr. Cooper. It seemed to be her way to be hard on everyone.

“But you--why have you no lover?”

I really did not know what to answer. It was such a difficult

question, to say nothing of its delicacy. Of course I had had lovers,

of a sort. One need not give a list, but there had been incidents. At

the same time it was not easy to enter into particulars, at a moment’s

notice, to a perfect stranger, under such conditions as obtained just

then.

“I hardly know what to say to you. I suppose I am not too old to have

one yet.”

It was a silly remark to make. But it was either that or silence. And

she did not seem to like me not to answer her.

“One should have a lover when one is still a little young.”

“What’s your idea of a little young? Are you inferring that I’m a

trifle old?”

“The day passes; a lover should come in the morning; when the sun is

just lighting the sky.”

There was an air of superiority about her which I did not altogether

relish. She might be somebody wonderful, and I was quite willing to

admit that she was; but one does not care to be snubbed. So far as I

could see she was snubbing me all the time. So I asked her a question

in my turn.

“You speak as if you had had a great deal of experience. May I ask if

you have a lover?”

“Can you not see it in my eyes?”

I could not. Hers were wonderful eyes, especially when the blaze came

into them as it did as she spoke. But one required remarkable powers

of observation to know that she had a lover merely by looking at her

eyes. I hesitated, however, to say as much; and luckily she went on

without rendering it necessary for me to say anything at all.

“Can you not see it in my face? my smile? the way I breathe? the joy

of life that’s in me? Is it that, although you’re white, you’re

stupid? I thought it was plain to all the world; to another woman most

of all. One morning I woke; I was what I was; he had not come. He came

before the sun set; I was what I am now; there were no shadows that

night for me; the sun has not set since.”

Her language was really a little above my head. Though I confess that

I liked the way in which she spoke. It set my heart all beating. And

her words rang like silver trumpets in my ears. And she looked so

lovely as she stood with her beautiful head thrown a little back, and

her hands held out in front as if her heart was in them. Yet, at the

same time, if she had expressed herself in a somewhat different

manner, I should have gathered more exactly what it was she meant. She

had stopped, as if she thought that it was time for me to speak. So I

blundered.

“Was the gentleman a--a countryman of yours?”

“A countryman of mine? What do you mean by a countryman of mine? How

do you know what my country is?”

I was sorry I had asked the question directly the words had passed my

lips, though I never dreamt that she would take it up in the way she

did. She flew at me in a way which gave me quite a start. The wild

animal which was in her eyes came to the front with a sudden rush, as

if it would spring right out at me.

“I’m sure no offence was intended, and I beg your pardon if any has

been given. Because, as you say, I have not the faintest notion what

your country is.”

“England is my country. I am English--all of me!--to there!”

As she put her hands behind her I suppose she meant that she was

English to the backbone. All I could say was that she did not look it,

and she did not sound it either. But not for worlds would I have

mentioned the fact at that moment. She came closer, eyeing me as if

she would have pierced me through and through.

“You think that he is black? You think it? You insult me, the daughter

of the gods, in whose hands are life and death! Shall I tear the heart

out of your body? Shall I kill you? Tell me!--yes or no!”

“No.”

It seemed an unnecessary answer to give, but I felt that I might as

well give expression to my sentiments since she was so insistent.

Though I thought it quite likely that she might at any moment

commence, as she called it, to tear the heart out of my body, while I

waited for the moment to arrive I could not but own that, even in her

rage, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. But it seemed

that she decided that, after all, it would be scarcely worth her while

to soil her fingers just for the sake of tearing me to pieces; so she

emptied the vials of her scorn on me instead.

“Bah! You are a fool--of the fools! That is all you are. You know

nothing, not even what you say. Why should I attend to the witless

when they babble? Listen to me--fool!”

She held her finger up close to my nose. I listened with might and

main. She spoke as if she intended to lay emphasis upon her every

word.

“He is English, my lover, of the English; of the flower of the nation.

He is not one who lives in shops which pretend to help ugly women to

hide their ugliness; he is not that kind. His home is the wide world.

He is tall, and brave, and strong; a ruler of men; handsome beyond any

of his fellows.” She made that last statement as if she dared me to

question it by so much as a movement of my eyelids. “Were you but to

see his picture you would faint for love of him.” I wondered. “With

all women it is so. But, beware! Hide yourself when he is coming; if

he but deigns to look on you I’ll tear you into pieces. I suffer no

woman to stand in his presence, save only I.”

Words and manner suggested not only that she was not by any means too

sure of the gentleman’s affection, but, also, that there was a lively

time in store for him. If she wished to be taken literally, and really

did mean that no woman was to be allowed to stand in his presence

except herself, then the sooner she returned to the particular parts

from which, in spite of all that she might say to the contrary, I felt

sure she came, then the pleasanter it would be for everyone concerned.

I should like to see the man in whose presence I was not to be allowed

to stand.

I said nothing when she stopped; I had nothing to say. Or, rather, if

I had been allowed a moment or two to think it over, and been given

time to get back a little of my breath again, I should have had such a

quantity to say that I should have been at a loss as to which end I

had better begin. Nor do I fancy that her temper would have been

improved wherever I had started.

While she was still glaring as if she would like to eat me, her

finger-nails within an inch or two of my face, and I was thinking, in

spite of my natural indignation, not to speak of other things, that

being in a rage positively suited her, for the second time that night,

there came from below what sounded like the opening of a door. On the

instant she stood up straight. She looked more than ever like one of

the beautiful wild creatures at the Zoo; poised so lightly on her

feet, with every sense on the alert, listening as if she did not

intend to allow the dropping of a pin to escape her. Suddenly she

stooped; waved her hands before my face; caught up the lamp from the

floor; vanished from the room.

CHAPTER XV.

AN ULTIMATUM.

What had happened I could not think, nor where I was. It was pitch

dark. I had been roused from sound sleep, as it seemed, by someone

falling over me, who was making vigorous efforts at my expense to

regain a footing. I remonstrated.

“Who is it? what are you doing?”

“Emily!” returned a voice, in accents of unmistakable surprise.

It was Pollie. She was lying right across me, and, with sundry

ejaculations, was using my body as a sort of lever to assist her in

regaining her perpendicular. She was plainly as much astonished to

find that it was me as I was to find it was her.

“You’ve been lying on the floor. Why have you been doing that?”

“Because I happen to have been lying on the floor that is no reason

why you should tumble over me.”

“That’s good. How was I to see you in the middle of this brilliant

illumination? I called out to you; as you did not answer I was

beginning to be half afraid that the black bogies had swallowed you

up. Have you been there all night?”

“I don’t know.” I wondered myself. “I suppose so.”

Raising myself to a sitting posture I found that I was stiff all over.

I had not been accustomed to quite so hard a mattress. “Have you any

idea what time it is?”

“I wish I had. So far as light is concerned all hours seem the same in

here, but I’ll have that altered before another night comes on. I feel

as if I had slept my sleep right out, so I expect that anyhow it’s

morning.”

Her feelings were not mine. My eyelids were heavy. I felt generally

dull and stupid, unrefreshed. She gave a little exclamation.

“I touched something with my foot. I believe it’s the matches. I

thought I put them in my pocket; if so, they’ve dropped out since;

they’re not there. Well found! It is!” She struck one. “Hallo, where’s

the candle?”

I remembered that the one she had left alight had burned right out.

But there had been others, three or four pieces of varying length.

Every trace of them had vanished.

“Rats,” I suggested.

“That’s it; the little wretches have devoured them, wicks and tallow

and all. When I got off the bed I heard them scurrying in all

directions. Did we leave any ends downstairs?”

“I don’t think so. We brought up all there was to bring.”

“Then that’s real nice. For the present we shall have to live by

matchlight.” As she spoke the one she held went out. “They don’t burn

long; just long enough to scorch the tips of your fingers. Where’s the

door?” She moved towards it by the glimmer of a flickering match. She

tried the handle. “Why, it seems----” There was a pause. “It does

seem----” The match went out, “Emily, it’s locked.”

“Locked!” I echoed the word.

“Yes, locked; I said locked, or--something. And it wasn’t anything

last night.”

“No; I don’t believe it was.”

“You don’t believe! Don’t you remember that because there wasn’t a

key, and the hasp wouldn’t catch, you suggested piling up the

furniture to keep it close? What do you mean, then, by saying that you

don’t believe? you know it wasn’t.”

“Yes; I do know.”

“Well, it’s fastened now.” I could hear her, in the darkness, trying

the handle again. “Sure enough, it’s locked; and, from the feel, it’s

bolted too. Emily, we’re locked in.”

She was silent. I was silent, too, turning things over in my mind. It

seemed, when she spoke again, as if she had been doing the same.

“But--who can have done it? It appears that I was right, that there

was someone in those Bluebeard’s chambers--perhaps in both, for all we

know. If someone could come and lock this door without waking us up,

we ran a good risk of having our throats cut, or worse.” She lit

another match. Apparently my continued silence struck her as peculiar.

“Why don’t you say something--what’s the matter? Don’t you understand

that we’re locked in; prisoners, my dear? Or are you too stupefied

with terror to be able to utter a word?”

She held the match in front of her face. It gleamed on something

white.

“What’s that upon your bodice?”

“My bodice?” She put up her hand. “Why----it’s a piece of

paper----pinned to my bodice! Where on earth----!” Once more the match

went out. “This truly is delightful. Never before did I realise how

much we owe to candles. The thing is pinned as if it had been meant

never to be unpinned. Where can it have come from? It can’t have

fallen from the skies. It’s plain that there are ghosts about. It’s

not easy to do a little job like this in the dark, my dear; but I’ve

managed. I’ve also managed to jab my finger in half-a-dozen places

with the pin. Emily, come here; light a match and hold it while I

examine this mysterious paper. I can’t do everything; and you don’t

seem disposed to do anything at all.”

In endeavouring to do as she requested, I stumbled against her in the

darkness.

“That’s right; knock me over; you’ve made me run the pin into my other

finger. There, my love, are the matches; what you’re grabbing at is my

back hair.”

Taking a match from the box which she thrust into my hand, I tried to

light it at the wrong end; turning it round, a spark leaped into my

eye. I dropped it, to rub my eye.

“Clever, aren’t you? Just the helpful sort of person one likes to be

able to count upon when one is in a bit of a hole. Try again; if at

first you don’t succeed, perhaps you will next time.”

I did. I held the flaming match as conveniently for her as possible;

but, at best, it was not much of a light. Every few moments it went

out; I had to light another. As I fumbled with them now and then, I

was not always so expeditious, perhaps, as I should have been. Pollie

grumbled all the while.

“Can’t you hold it steady? Who do you suppose can see if your hand

keeps shaking?” It was not my hand which shook, it was the flame which

flickered. “It’s queer paper; sort of cigarette paper, it seems to be;

I never saw any like it--at least, so far as I can judge by the light

of that match which you won’t hold steady. I wonder where it came

from, and who it’s from. Emily, someone’s been playing pranks on us

this night; I should like to know just what pranks they were. That’s

right, let the match go out; can’t you keep it alight a little

longer?”

“Thank you; it has burned my fingers as it is.”

I lit another.

“There is writing on it; I thought there was; I can see it now. Hold

that match of yours closer.”

In my anxiety to obey her, I gave it too sudden a jerk, the flame was

extinguished.

“There! I suppose you’ll say that you burned that to an end. If you go

on wasting them at this rate we shall be in a fix indeed. How do you

know that those aren’t all the matches we have got?”

“There are some more upon the mantelpiece--I saw them.”

“You saw the boxes; you didn’t see the matches; they may be empty. For

all you can tell rats may be as fond of matches as they are of

candles. Now, do be careful; don’t let that go out. Nearer; the way

you shiver and shake is trying, my love. I never knew there was so

much flicker in a match before. What’s it say? Someone’s been writing

with the point of a pin; you want a microscope to read it. Of course!

Let it go out just as I was beginning to see. You are a treasure! This

time do try to let us have a light on the subject as long as you can.”

She held the paper within an inch of the tip of her nose, and I held a

match as close as I dared. She began to decipher the writing.

“‘Put the key to the front and the key to the back under the door, and

you shall be released. Until you do you will be kept a prisoner. And

the fate of the doomed shall be yours. You child of disobedience!’

This is pretty; very pretty, on my word. There’s a style about the

get-up of the thing which suggests that the person who got it up

wasn’t taught writing in England; but if it wasn’t written by a woman,

I’m a Dutchman.”

“Then it was she.”

“She? What do you mean? That’s right! By all means let the light go

out at the moment it’s most wanted. Perhaps you’ll tell me what you

mean by ‘she’ in the dark.”

“Pollie, after you had gone to sleep I had a visitor.”

“A visitor! Emily! And you’re alive to tell the tale! And let me sleep

on! And never tried to wake me!”

“At the beginning I was too much afraid, and afterwards I couldn’t.”

“Who was the visitor?”

“Well, that’s more than I can tell you, except that it was a woman.”

“A woman--Emily--came in here after I had gone to sleep! Don’t you

see, or if you can’t see, can’t you feel that I’m on tenterhooks? Will

you go on, or must I take you by the shoulders and shake it out of

you?”

I told her what there was to tell, in the dark. She stood close up to

me. As she said, I could feel she was on tenterhooks. She gripped me

with her hands, as if she were unwilling to let there be so much as an

inch of space between us, for fear of losing a syllable of what I had

to say. As the interest increased her grasp tightened. Yet when I had

to stop and tell her that she was pinching me black and blue, she

resented my remonstrance as if it had been an unnecessary interruption

of my narration. She could not have been more unreasonable had she

tried. And to crown it all, so soon as I had finished she professed to

doubt me.

“You’re sure you’ve been telling me just exactly what took place. I

know your taste for the romantic.”

“I’ve been telling you nothing but the sober facts.”

“Sober, you call them? Staggering facts they seem to me. But why

didn’t you ask the creature who she was?”

“Don’t I tell you that I did? And she replied that she was a daughter

of the gods, and held life and death in her hand.”

“Is that so? She must have been a oner. Emily, I’ll never forgive you

as long as I live for letting me sleep on.”

“Don’t! I wish you wouldn’t pinch. If you’d been in my place, I don’t

believe you’d have done anything different--it’s all very well for you

to talk. Why didn’t you wake up on your own accord? Anyone else in

your place would have done--I should. The truth is, Pollie, you were

sleeping like a grampus.”

“Thank you, my pet. I don’t quite know how a grampus sleeps, and I

don’t believe you do either; but I’m obliged for the compliment all

the same. I suppose it’s meant for a compliment. Of course the thing’s

as plain as a pikestaff. Your daughter of the gods sneaked out of one

of Bluebeard’s chambers, where, no doubt, she is at this identical

moment. Shouldn’t I like to get at her! I will before I’m done. It

seems as if she--or somebody--is discontented with the way I’ve

behaved since I came into my fortune, though it’s early days to be

dissatisfied. And the idea apparently is to get hold of the keys, and

then to get rid of me; on the supposition that when I’m once outside I

shan’t be able, without the keys, to get in again. But I’m not quite

so simple as I look. When she went I expect you fell asleep, though

why you didn’t wake me up, and help chivy her downstairs, is more than

I can understand. I’d have daughter-of-the-gods her! Then she sneaked

back, searched for the keys. Fortunately, the intricacies of a

Christian woman’s costume were too many for her. So she jumped to the

conclusion that they were concealed in some mysterious hiding-place,

quite beyond her finding out, daughter of the gods though she is. She

pinned the piece of paper to my bodice, and she locked the door,

supposing that we’d the spirits of mice, and that we’d give her what

she’s no more right to than the man in the moon, just to unlock it

again. But you’re mistaken, you daughter of the gods! Emily, I can’t

see your face, and you can’t see mine. If you could you’d see

determination written on it, and you’d know she was. I don’t mean to

be kept shut up like a rat in a trap, not much, I don’t. Outside

there! Are you going to open this door, or am I to open it for you?”

Bang, bang she went with her fists against the panels. The noise she

made shook the room.

“One thing’s certain, this door’s not protected with sheet iron, or

any pretty stuff of that kind. If it’s not unlocked it won’t be long

before I’m through it, anyhow. Do you hear, you daughter of the gods?”

Smash, crash went the fists again.

I did not know what to say, still less what to do. It was useless

proffering advice. She never was amenable to that. I was sure she

would resent it hotly then. Yet what she proposed to gain by going on

was beyond my comprehension.

It was becoming pretty plain to me that whatever object her Uncle

Benjamin had in view when he made his will it was not his niece’s

benefit. It seemed as if he had died as he had lived, true to the

character which Pollie gave of him. I was beginning to think that he

had meant to use her as a catspaw, though why, or in what way, I

confess I did not understand. That the house was not a good house I

was sure; that it harboured some dreadful characters I felt convinced;

perhaps coiners, or forgers, or abandoned creatures of some kind.

Pollie might be meant to serve as a sort of cover. Her occupation of

the place might be intended to avert suspicion. People seeing her

going in and out, and being aware she lived there, would think there

was nothing strange about the house. It need not be generally known

that she had only access to a part of it. The prohibition against

allowing anybody but another girl to cross the threshold was evidently

meant as a precaution against allowing that fact to become discovered.

Oh yes! nothing could be plainer than that, so far from Pollie’s being

the lucky heritor of a handsome fortune, she was only the tool of her

wicked old uncle; and that, consciously or unconsciously, as such she

was to hide from the world some one or other of his nefarious schemes

which had to be kept hidden even after he was in his grave.

As such thoughts kept chasing each other through my brain I could keep

them to myself no longer.

“Pollie, do you know what I should do if I were you?”

“Break open the door with a chair, or the leg of the bedstead, my

dear?”

“I should leave the house this moment.”

“Would you indeed? And then?”

“I should go straight to Mr. Paine, and I should renounce the fortune

which your wicked old uncle has pretended to leave you, and refuse to

fall into the trap which he had laid.”

“Emily! Are you insane?”

“No, I’m not insane, and it’s because I’m not that I’m advising you. I

feel sure that your Uncle Benjamin never meant to do you any good when

he made that will of his.”

“So far I’m with you. But it’s just possible that the niece may prove

a match for the uncle; she means to try. This is my house, at present.

I’m mistress here, and I mean to play the mistress; not act as if I

were afraid to raise my voice above a whisper. So don’t you forget it,

or we shall quarrel; and, even if things are as bad as you seem to

think, I don’t see how you’ll be better off for that. Light a match,

and keep on lighting one till I tell you to stop.”

She ordered me as if I were a servant: I obeyed because I could not

see my way to refuse. In the match-light she marched to the

mantelpiece.

“Here’s three boxes of matches for you; I’ll take care of the rest.

The matches are in them, luckily. Now the question is what is the

handiest little article by whose help I can get soonest on the other

side of that door. Ah! here’s the poker. It is not much use against

sheet iron, but I fancy it will work wonders with plain wood.”

Brandishing the poker above her head--exactly in the wild way she had

done the night before--she strode towards the door. As she did so

someone addressed her from without; in a deep rumbling bass, which was

more like a growl than a human voice.

“Beware, you fool, beware! Your life’s at stake, more than your life.

Obey, before it is too late.”

In my most natural surprise and agitation, the match, dropping from my

fingers, was extinguished as it reached the floor. The room was

plunged into darkness. Pollie behaved as if the fault were mine.

“You idiot! Did you do that on purpose?”

She caught me by the arm as if she meant to break it. In her

unreasoning rage I quite expected her to strike me with the poker. As

I waited for it to fall the voice came again.

“Be warned!--for the last time!--obey!”

CHAPTER XVI.

THE NOISE WHICH CAME FROM THE PASSAGE.

Smash, crash, smash! Pollie had thrust me aside. She was battering

at the door with her poker, issuing, as she did so, her instructions

to me.

“Light a match, you idiot! light a match!”

I did. She paused to enable her to learn, by the aid of its uncertain

flicker, what effect her blows had had upon the door.

“Give it to me. Light another! Do as I tell you, keep on lighting one.

I’ll do all that there is to do; all you have to do is to keep a light

upon the scene. Do you hear?--I thought that poker would be equal to a

wooden door.”

She had broken in one of the panels, leaving a hole almost large

enough for her to put her hand through.

“Give me another match; as many as you can; as fast as you can!”

I gave her them as quickly as I could get them lighted. She held half

a dozen between her fingers at at a time. Keeping her face close to

the break in the panel she endeavoured, by their light, to see what

was without.

“Now, Mr. Bogey-man, where are you? Step to the front, don’t be shy!

Let’s see what kind of an article you are. It’s only Pollie Blyth, you

pretty thing; you’re not afraid of Pollie Blyth? Perhaps you’re the

father of the daughter of the gods; if so, I’m sure I should like to

have a peep at you, you must be so good-looking. You see that I’m

obeying. When I reach you I’ll show you how to do some obeying on your

own. I’ll thank you properly for treating the mistress of the house as

if she were the dirt beneath your feet. Emily, my dear, there’s

nothing and no one to be seen; move faster with those matches do! I’m

afraid Mr. Bogey-man is a cur and a coward. He has a big voice, but

that’s all that’s big about him. Perhaps he suspects that this poker

is harder than his head; and, between you, I, and the door post, I

shouldn’t be surprised if he finds he’s right. Keep lively with those

matches. I don’t fancy there’ll be much trouble in dealing with this

curiosity in locks; but I should like to have some idea of what I’m

doing. Now then, stand clear! Here’s to you, Mr. Bogey-man.”

She brought down the poker with a force of which I had never supposed

her capable; this was a new Pollie, whose existence was becoming for

the first time known to me. I wondered what they would have thought of

her at Cardew and Slaughter’s! The rotten old lock started from its

fastenings; the door itself was shaken to its foundations.

“That’s one. There’s not much about this job to try your strength on.

I think we shall manage it in three. Here’s to our early meeting, Mr.

Bogey-man.”

She managed it in three. At the third blow the door was open. I had

not expected it so soon. Taken unawares, before I had time to shield

the light the draught had blown it out. Of course Pollie turned to

rend me.

“That’s you all over; such a sensible thing to do. Don’t let us have a

light when we want it most. How do you suppose that we are going to

see Mr. Bogey-man when we can’t see anything?”

As it happened, her reproach was premature. Just then we could see a

good deal; all that there was to see. As the door swung open the

landing was illumined by a faint white light, which was yet strong

enough to throw all objects into distinct relief. It seemed to ascend

from below. Pollie rushed to the banisters; to discover nothing.

“More tricks, I suppose. What a box of tricks somebody seems to have.

Reminds you of the Egyptian Hall, doesn’t it, my dear? Thank you,

whoever you are, for this magic lantern effect; and for allowing us to

see that there is nothing to be seen. It’s so good of you to show a

trifle of light upon the situation; isn’t it, my sweet?”

She paused; as if for an answer. None came. The light continued. She

turned to me, speaking at the top of her voice, with the obvious

intention of making her words audible to whomsoever the house might

contain.

“Tell me, Emily, what you would advise me to do. Shall I go straight

away to a police station; say that in two rooms in this house are

hidden a pack of thieves; return with an adequate police force, have

the rooms broken open and their inmates arrested? or shall I address

myself to the persons whom we know are in concealment; tell them that

I am Pollie Blyth, the rightful owner of this house; appeal to their

better natures; assuring them that if they will trust in me they shall

not have cause to complain of misplaced confidence; and that I will do

all that an honest woman may to shield them from the consequences of

any offences of which they have been guilty. Which of these two

courses would you advise me to take?”

I hesitated before replying. When I spoke it was in a voice which was

very many tones lower than hers. She objected to its gentleness.

“I would suggest----”

“Speak up. You’re not afraid of being overheard.”

I was, though I was not disposed to admit as much. Clearing my throat,

I tried to speak a little louder. Although the loudness of my voice

startled me, it did not come within miles of her stentorian

utterances.

“I think you had better go straight away to the police station; I feel

sure you had.”

“I believe you are right. But as that would probably mean that anyone

found hiding on my premises would be sent to prison for life; and I do

not wish to have even the worst characters hauled into jail without

giving them a chance to clear themselves, I will listen to the

dictates of mercy first of all. Do you understand?”

Going to the closed door which adjoined the bedroom we had just

quitted she beat a tattoo on it with the end of the poker.

“You may be sure that what I say I mean, so if you are wise you will

be warned in time. Come out, and make a clean breast of why you have

been trying to hide in such a ridiculous manner from the rightful

owner of these premises, and all may yet be well with you. I’m a

forgiving sort of person when I’m taken in the right way. But if you

won’t come out, I’ll have you dragged out by the head and heels, and

then all will be ill with you, very ill indeed. For I’m the hardest

nut you ever cracked if I’m taken in the wrong way. Do you hear, you

daughter of the gods, or whoever you are?”

The inquiry was emphasised by another tattoo with the end of the

poker. At its close she paused for a reply. None came. She was

evidently dissatisfied that her eloquence should have met with so bald

a result.

“Very well, Emily, you will bear me witness that I gave them due and

proper warning. It will be all nonsense for them to pretend that they

haven’t heard. They couldn’t help but hear. See how I’ve shouted. Oh

yes, they’ve all heard right enough! Now they must take the

consequences of their own stupidity. Their blood will be on their own

heads. They’ll have to suffer. Oh, won’t you just have to suffer!”

Another salute from the end of the poker. While she was still

hammering at the door, the mysterious light which had continued

hitherto to illumine the staircase, without any sort of notice died

away.

“Emily!--a match!--quick! I think I hear someone moving.”

I also had thought that I heard a movement; which was not rats. I

struck a light as rapidly as my blundering fingers would permit.

“Come to the banisters, hurry! If anyone is going to act upon my

excellent advice, and is coming up the stairs, let’s have a chance of

seeing who it is.”

In my anxiety not to baulk her impatience I hastened towards her

before the match had properly ignited; as a result, with a little

splutter, it went out.

“You idiot! Don’t you know that life and death may hang upon your

being able to keep a match alight?”

I knew it as well as she did. The knowledge did not lend to steady my

nerves; especially when it was emphasised in such a fashion. I made

several ineffectual efforts to induce a match to burn; with one accord

they refused to do anything. Uttering an angry ejaculation Pollie

struck one of her own.

“Emily, there is someone moving; but they’re not coming up, they’re

going down. Then if they won’t come to me I must go to them, that’s

all. Mr. Bogey-man, or Miss Daughter-of-the-gods, or whoever you are,

if you please, I want a word with you.”

Without giving me a hint of what she intended to do she rushed down

the stairs, half-a-dozen at a time. Of course the match she carried

was immediately extinguished. I could hear her, undeterred by its

extinction, plunging blindly down through the darkness. I succeeded in

getting one of my matches to burn. I leaned over the banisters to let

her have the benefit of any radiance it might afford. I could see

nothing of her. She was on the flight below.

“Pollie! Pollie!” I cried. “Do be careful what you’re doing.”

I could not tell if she heard me. The warning went unheeded if she

did. My match went out. Before I could strike another there arose,

through the darkness, from the passage below, the most dreadful tumult

I had ever heard. Shriek after shriek from Pollie; shrieks as of

mortal terror. A growling noise, as of some wild animal in sudden

rage. The din of a furious struggle. How long the uproar lasted I

cannot say. On a sudden there came a wilder, more piercing scream from

Pollie than any which had gone before; the growling grew more furious;

there was the sound of a closing door, and all was still.

The death-like silence which followed was of evil omen. The contrast

to the discord of a moment back was frightfully significant. I clung

to the banisters to help me stand. What had happened to Pollie? What,

shortly--at any second! might happen to me? I did not dare to try and

think. I felt the handrail slipping from my grasp. Merciful oblivion

swept over me. I was conscious of nothing more.

BOOK III.

THE GOD OF FORTUNE.

(MR. FRANK PAINE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS ASSOCIATION WITH THE

TESTAMENTARY DISPOSITIONS OF MR. BENJAMIN BATTERS.)

CHAPTER XVII.

THE AFFAIR OF THE FREAK.

I have not yet been able to determine if my connection with the

testamentary dispositions of Mr. Benjamin Batters was or was not, in

the first place, owing to what I call the Affair of the Freak in the

Commercial Road. On no other hypothesis can I understand why the

business should have been placed in my hands. While, at the same time,

I am willing to admit that the connection, if any, was of so shadowy

a nature that I am myself at a loss to perceive where it quite comes

in.

What exactly took place was this.

George Kingdon had got his first command. As we have been the friends

of a lifetime, and are almost of an age, he being twenty-seven and I

twenty-eight, the matter had almost as much interest for me as it had

for him. The vessel’s name was _The Flying Scud_. It was to leave the

West India south dock on Tuesday, April 3. He dined with me the night

before. We drank success to the voyage. The following day I went to

see him start. All went well; he had a capital send off; was in the

highest spirits; and the last I saw of him the ship was going down the

river on the tide.

It was, I suppose, about seven o’clock in the evening. It had been a

glorious day; promised to be as fine a night. The shadows were only

just beginning to lengthen. I had had a drink or two with Kingdon, and

felt that a walk would do me good. I strolled along Preston’s Road and

High Street, into the West India Road, and thence into the Commercial

Road. Before I had gone very far I came upon a number of people who

were thronging round one of the entrances into Limehouse Basin. They

were crowding round some central object which was apparently affording

them entertainment of a somewhat equivocal kind. I asked a bystander

what was the matter; a man with between his lips a clay pipe turned

bowl downwards.

“It’s one of Barnum’s Freaks. They’re giving him what for.”

“What’s he done?”

“Done?” The fellow shrugged his shoulders. “He ain’t done nothing so

far as I knows on; what should he ’ave done? They’re only ’aving a

bit o’ fun.”

It was fun of a peculiar sort; humorous from the Commercial Road point

of view only. I doubted if the “Freak” found it amusing. He was being

hustled this way and that; serving as a target for remarks which were,

to say the least, unflattering. All at once there came a dent in the

crowd. The “Freak” had either tumbled, or been pushed, over. Three or

four of his more assiduous admirers had gone down on the top of him.

The others roared. Four or five of those in the front rank were shoved

upon the rest. The joke expanded. Presently the “Freak” was at the

bottom of a writhing heap.

Perceiving that the jest was likely to become a serious one for the

point of it, I forced my way into the centre of the crowd.

“Stand back!” I cried. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! You

ought to pity the man instead of making sport of him. He is as God

made him; it is not his fault that he is not like you.”

Nor, I felt as I looked at the faces which surrounded me, was it,

after all, his serious misfortune either. Unless their looks belied

them, in a moral, mental, and physical sense, the majority of them

were “freaks,” if the word had any meaning. They gave way, however, to

let me pass; it seemed that their temper was thoughtless rather than

cruel. Soon I had extricated the wretched creature from his

ignominious, and even perilous, position. Hailing a passing

four-wheeler I put him into it. I slipped some money into the driver’s

hand, and, bidding him take his fare to Olympia, the man drove off.

The crowd booed a little, and then stared at me. Then, seeing that I

paid them no sort of heed, they were so good as to suffer me to pursue

my way unmolested and alone.

It was only after I had gone some little distance that I realised that

I knew nothing whatever about the creature I had put into the cab. I

had only the clay-piped gentleman’s word for the fact that he, she, or

it was a freak at all. The creature--I call it creature for lack of

more precise knowledge as to what he, she, or it, really was--was so

enveloped in an odd-shaped cloak of some dark brown material, that,

practically, so far as I had been able to see, nothing of it was

visible. For all that I could tell the creature beneath the cloak

might not have been human. There was certainly nothing to show--except

the way in which it was shrouded, and that might have been owing to

the action of the crowd--that it was what is commonly called a freak.

Its connection with the Barnum Show at Olympia might be as remote as

mine. If a mistake had been made I wondered what would happen when it

was discovered. Playing the Good Samaritan in the London streets is

not always a remunerative rôle for any one concerned. In my

blundering haste I had probably done at least as much harm as good. I

smiled, drily, at the reflection. Anyhow, I had given the cabman a

liberal fare. To me, then, as now, a cab fare is a cab fare.

I had turned into Cable Street and was nearing the Tower. By now the

night had fallen. In that part of the world, at that hour--I remember

that a minute or two before I had heard a clock strike nine, so that

either I had been longer on the road, or it had been later at the

start, than I imagined--there were not many people in the streets.

There seemed to be fewer the further I went. At any rate, ere long, I

should have them to myself. I was, therefore, the more surprised when,

as I was reaching Tower Hill, without any sort of warning, someone

touched me on the shoulder from behind. I turned to see who had

accosted me. It was rather dark just there, so that it was a moment or

two before I perceived who it was.

It was a woman, and that was about all which, at first, I could make

out. She, too, was enveloped in a cloak. It was of such ample

dimensions that not only did it conceal her figure, but, drawn over

her head, it almost completely concealed her features. Nearly all that

I could see was a pair of what seemed unusually bright eyes, gleaming

from under its folds. My impulse was to take her for a beggar, or

worse, for a woman of the streets.

“What do you want?”

“Take this, it is for helping him just now.”

Before I could prevent her she had slipped something into my hand. It

felt as if it were something hard, wrapped in a piece of paper.

“For helping whom?”

“The Great God.”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. I had not the vaguest inkling of

her meaning.

“What do you mean?--What is this you have given me?”

“It is the God of Fortune; it will bring you good luck. Tell me your

name.”

“My name? What has my name to do with you? Whatever is this? I cannot

take it from you; thank you all the same.”

I held out to her the little packet she had pressed into my palm. She

ignored it; repeating her inquiry.

“Tell me your name, quick!”

There was a curious insistence in her manner which tickled what I,

with sufficient egotism, call my sense of humour. She spoke as if she

had but to command for me to obey; I obeyed. I furnished her not only

with my name, but, also, with my address. There was no harm done. I am

a solicitor; figure on the law list; advertisement, of some sort, is

to me something very much like bread and cheese. Without thanking me,

or dropping a hint to explain her curiosity, so soon as I had supplied

her with the information she demanded, turning, she flew off down the

street like some wild thing. I doubt if I could have kept pace with

her had I tried. I did not try. I let her go.

“This is a night of adventures,” I said to myself. “What is the

present which the lady’s given me; the money which I paid the

cabman?--Hallo!--That’s queer!”

I was beginning to tear open the piece of paper, and with that intent

had already twisted off a corner, when, hey presto! it opened of its

own accord, just as if a living thing had been inside, and, with a

rapid movement, rent it from top to bottom. I was holding what seemed

to be a curiosity in the way of tiny dolls. The toy, if it was a toy,

was not so long as my forefinger. It seemed to have been cut out of a

piece of wood, and fantastically painted to illustrate some very

peculiar original. It had neither feet nor legs, nor hands or arms.

Its head, which was set between hunched-up shoulders, was chiefly

remarkable for a pair of sparkling eyes, which I concluded to be

beads. I turned it over and over without discovering anything which

pointed to a hidden spring. It looked as if it had never moved, and

never would. There was nothing whatever to show by what means the

paper had come open.

“It’s odd, and ingenious. I suppose there is a spring of some sort;

wood, even when it represents the God of Fortune--I think the lady

mentioned the God of Fortune--does not move of its own volition. I’ll

discover it when I get home.”

I slipped the toy into my waistcoat pocket, meaning to subject it to a

searching examination later on. However, when I reached my chambers I

found letters which demanded immediate attention. They occupied some

time. It was only when I was thinking of a nightcap preparatory to

turning into bed, and was feeling for a penknife with which to cut a

cigar, that I remembered the doll. I tossed it on to the mantelshelf.

There it remained.

As I have said, that was the night of April 3. Since nearly a month

elapsed before the arrival of Mr. Batters’ will, and nothing in any

way suggestive occurred in the interval, it would seem as if the

connection between the will and the events of that evening was of the

slightest. Yet I felt that if it had not been for the Affair of the

Freak in the Commercial Road, or if I had afterwards refused to give

the woman my name and address, I should have heard nothing of Mr.

Batters’ will. I do not pretend to be able to explain the feeling, but

there it was.

I should, perhaps, in fairness add, that a queer little incident which

coincided with the arrival of the will, seemed to point, whimsically

enough, in the same direction.

The document came on a Thursday morning. When I entered the room which

I used as an office, I found that four communications were awaiting

me. The postman had brought them all. The boy I call--to shed dignity

on him and on myself--a clerk, had set them out upon the table. Three

letters in ordinary envelopes. The fourth was an awkward, bulky,

coarse brown paper parcel. On it was the doll which the woman had

given me on the night of April 3, in the lonely street near Tower

Hill.

I had forgotten its existence. I took it for granted that its presence

on that spot was owing to Crumper’s sense of humour. I called to him.

“Crumper!” His head appeared at the door. “What do you mean by putting

this here?” He stared, as if he did not catch my meaning. There are

moments when Crumper finds it convenient to be dull. “You understand

me well enough; what do you mean by putting this doll upon my parcel?”

He still looked as if he did not understand. But Crumper had a

capacity of being able to handle his face as if it were an indiarubber

mask, on which he is able to produce any expression at will.

“Doll, sir? I don’t know anything about a doll, sir.” He came into the

room, pointing with his thumb. “Do you mean that, sir? It wasn’t there

when I left the room just now; to that I’ll take my affidavit.”

It is no use arguing with Crumper. The depth of his innocence is not

to be easily plumbed. I sent him back to his den; knocked the doll

with a fillip of my finger backwards on to the table; opened the brown

paper parcel.

Of its contents I was not able, at first, to make head or tail. After

prolonged examination, however, I arranged them thus:

(_a_) The Missionary’s Letter.

(_b_) The Holograph Will.

(_c_) The Bonds.

(_d_) The Enclosure.

Summed up, the contents of the packet amounted to this.

A certain Benjamin Batters was reported to have died on an island on

the other side of the world of which I had never heard; why I was

advised of the fact, there was nothing to show. His will was entrusted

to my keeping--how my name had travelled through space so as to reach

the cognisance of the Mr. Arthur Lennard who had reported the death of

the said Benjamin Batters there was not the faintest hint.

Bonds--“Goschens”--to the value of £20,000 accompanied the will;

since they were payable to bearer this alone suggested profound

confidence in an apparently perfect stranger. Finally, there was a

smaller parcel which was sealed and endorsed “To be given to my niece,

Mary Blyth, and to be opened by her only.”

The will--which was almost as rudimentary a document of the kind as I

ever lighted on--bequeathed to the said Mary Blyth the income which

was derived from the consols. As to the person in whose name the

capital was to be vested not a word was said, nor did I perceive

anything which would prevent her from dealing with it exactly as she

chose. She was also, under curious and stringent conditions, to become

the life tenant of a house in Camford Street of which, however, no

title-deeds were enclosed, nor was their existence hinted at.

Had it not been for the presence of the bonds I should have set the

whole thing down right away as a hoax. The heading on “Arthur

Lennard’s” letter was “Great Ka Island: Lat. 5° South; Long. 134°

East.” There might be such a place; the description seemed precise

enough, and I had no atlas which would enable me to determine. But, at

any rate, the packet in which it came had not been posted there. The

postmark was Deptford; the date yesterday’s. When I held the paper on

which the letter had been written up to the light I found that the

watermark was “Spiers and Pond. Freshwater Mill Note. London,” which,

under the circumstances, seemed odd.

It was, perhaps, nothing that the will was obviously the production of

an unlettered person. Such persons do make their own wills, and,

probably, will continue to do so to the crack of doom. But it was

something that it was both unwitnessed and undated. And when to this

was added the fact that the letter which told of Mr. Batters’ decease

was undated too, the conjunction struck one a trifle forcibly.

Then the conditions under which Mary Blyth was to inherit were so

puerile, not to say outrageous. She was never to be out of the

precious house in Camford Street after nine at night. She was to

receive no visitors; have only a woman as a companion, and if that

woman left her, was to occupy the premises alone. After I had read it

for the fourth time I threw the paper on to the table.

“Monstrous! monstrous! It consigns the unfortunate woman to an

unnatural existence; she cannot marry; is cut off from her fellows;

sentenced to lifelong imprisonment. Who would care to become even a

millionaire on such conditions? Even if the thing is what it pretends

to be, I doubt if it would be upheld by any court in England. I’m

inclined to think that someone has been having a little joke at my

expense.”

But there were the bonds. My experience of such articles is

regrettedly small; but, such as it was, it went to show that they were

genuine. Bonds for £20,000 are not a joke. They are among the most

solemn facts of life. If, then, they were real, the presumption was

that the will was not less so. In which case my duty was to have it

proved, and to see that its terms were carried out. Anyhow, there were

the bonds on which to draw for payment of my fees. Emphatically, my

practice was not of sufficient extent to permit me to treat so fat a

client with indifferent scorn.

Cogitating such matters, I had been indulging in what is a habit of

mine; pacing, with my hands in my pockets, up and down the room.

Returning to the table, I prepared to subject the supposititious will

to a still more minute examination. It was not till I stretched out my

hand that I noticed that, in the centre of the sheet of blue foolscap

on which it was inscribed, was--the God of Fortune, the doll in

miniature which, once already, I had ejected from a similar position.

How it had returned to it was a problem which, just then, was beyond

my finding out. I had filliped it right to the extreme edge of the

table. No one had been in the room; Crumper had not so much as put up

the tip of his nose inside the door. I had not touched the thing. Yet

there it was, ostentatiously perched on Mr. Batters’ will. I stared at

the doll; I had an odd notion that the doll stared at me; a ridiculous

feeling, indeed, that the preposterous puppet was alive. I scratched

my head.

“I fancy this morning I must be a bit off colour. A penny doll alive,

indeed! I shall begin seeing things if I don’t look out.”

I slipped the doll into my waistcoat pocket; noting, as I did so, that

it was ugly enough to startle the most morbid-minded juvenile admirers

of its kind. I glanced at the three letters which the morning post had

brought me, neither of which proved to be of any account. Slipped the

missionary’s letter, Mr. Batters’ will, and one of the bonds into an

envelope. Locked the enclosure to be given to Mary Blyth and the rest

of the bonds in a drawer; and, with the envelope in my hand, went to

call on Gregory Pryor.

Pryor is a barrister of some years’ standing; a “rising junior”;

hard-working, hard-headed, a sound lawyer, and a man of the world.

What is more, a friend of my father’s who has transferred his

friendship to me. More than once when I have found myself in a

professional quandary I have laid the matter before him; on each

occasion he has given me just that help and advice I needed. I felt

assured that I should lose nothing by asking for his opinion on the

curious case of Mr. Batters’ will.

When, however, I reached his chambers the clerk told me he was out,

engaged in court. I left word that I would return later in the day.

Having nothing on hand of pressing importance, I felt that I could

hardly employ the interval better than by finding out all that I could

with reference to the house in Camford Street which Mr. Batters

claimed as his own. If the claim proved to be well founded, then the

document which purported to be his will was probably no hoax.

CHAPTER XVIII.

COUNSEL’S OPINION.

I should not myself have cared to live in Camford Street, though it

had many residents. It was in the heart, if not exactly of a slum,

then certainly of an unsavoury district. Its surroundings,

residentially speaking, were about as undesirable as they could have

been. Camford Street itself was long, dreary, out-at-elbows, old

enough to look as if it would be improved by being rebuilt. Painters,

whitewashers, people of that kind, had not been down that way for

years; that was obvious from the fronts of the houses. Buildings

stretched from end to end in one continuous depressing row.

Half-a-dozen houses, then a shop; half-a-dozen more, and a blacking

manufactory; three more, and a public-house; another six and a

“wardrobe dealer’s,” doubtful third and fourth hand garments dimly

visible through dirty panes of glass, and so on, for a good half mile.

Eighty-four looked, what it undoubtedly was, an abode of mystery, as

grimy an edifice as the street contained. I know nothing of the value

of property thereabouts; whatever it might have been it was not the

kind of house I should care to have bequeathed to me. Especially if I

had to reside in it. I would rather pass it on to someone who was more

deserving. Shutters were up at all the windows. There was not a trace

of a blind or curtain. At the front door there was neither bell nor

knocker. It seemed deserted. I rapped at the panels with the handle of

my stick; once, and then again. An urchin addressed me from the kerb.

“There ain’t no one living in that ’ouse, guv’nor.”

I thanked him for the information; it never occurred to me to shed a

shadow of doubt on it. I felt sure that he was right. I crossed to a

general shop on the other side of the way.

“Excuse me,” I said to the individual whom I took for the

proprietor--“Kennard” was the name over the shop front--“Can you tell

me who lives at No. 84?”

“No one.”

Mr. Kennard--I was convinced it was he--was a short, paunchy man, with

a bald head and a club foot. He pursed his lips and screwed up his

eyes in a fashion which struck me as rather comical.

“Who is the landlord?”

“No one knows.”

“No one?” I smiled. “I presume you mean that you don’t know. Someone

must; the local authorities, for instance.”

“The local authorities don’t. I’m a vestryman myself, so you can take

that from me. There’s been no rates and taxes paid on that house for

twenty years or more; because no one knows to whom to go for them.”

He thrust his hands under his white apron, protruding his stomach in a

manner which was a little aggressive.

“The last person who lived at Eighty-four was an old gentleman, named

Robertson. He was a customer of mine, and owed me three pound seven

and four when he was missing. It’s on my books to this hour.”

“Missing? Did he run away?”

“Not he; he wasn’t that sort. Besides, there was no reason. He was a

pensioner; he told me so himself. I don’t know what he got his pension

for, but it must have been a pretty comfortable one, because he paid

me regular for over seven years; and I understood at that time, from

what he said, that the house was his own. If it wasn’t I can’t say to

whom he paid rent. The last time I saw him was a Friday night. He came

in here and bought a pound of bacon--out of the back; twelve

eggs--breakfast; five pounds of cheese--I never knew anyone who was

fonder of cheese, he liked it good; a pound of best butter--there was

no margarine nor Australian either in those days; and a pound of

candles. I’ve never seen or heard anything of him since; and, as I

say, that’s more than twenty years ago.”

“But what became of him?”

“That’s more than I can tell you. Perhaps you can tell me. You see, it

was this way.”

Mr. Kennard was communicative. Business was slack just then.

Apparently I had hit upon a favourite theme.

“Mr. Robertson was one of your quiet kind. Kept himself to himself;

lived all alone; seemed to know no one; no one ever came to see him.

He never even had any letters; because, afterwards, the postman told

me so with his own lips; he said he’d never known of his having a

letter all the time he was in this district. Sometimes nothing would

be seen of him for three weeks together. Whether he went away or

simply shut himself up indoors I never could make out. He was the

least talkative old chap I ever came across. When you asked him a

question which he didn’t want to answer, which was pretty well always,

he pretended he was silly and couldn’t understand. But he was no more

silly than I was; eccentric, that was all. Anyhow, when the weeks

slipped by, and he wasn’t seen about, no one thought it odd, his

habits being generally known. When quarter day came round I sent my

little girl, Louisa--she’s married now, and got a family--across with

my bill. She came back saying that she could make no one hear; and,

through my window, I could see she couldn’t. ‘That’s all right,’ I

said, ‘There’s no fear for Mr. Robertson’--I’d such a respect for the

man--‘he’s sure to pay.’ But, if sure, he’s been precious slow; for,

as I say, that three seven four is on my books to this hour.”

“If, as you say, the old gentleman lived alone, he may have been lying

dead in the house all the time.”

“That’s what I’ve felt. And, what’s more, I’ve felt that his skeleton

may be lying there now.”

“You suggest some agreeable reflections. Do you mean to say that,

during all these years, no one has been in the house to see?”

“No one.” He paused; presently adding, in a tone which he intended

should be pregnant with meaning, “At least, until shortly before this

last Christmas. And I’ve no certainty about that. A man can only draw

his own conclusions.”

“What do you mean?”

“You see those shutters? Well, for over twenty years there weren’t any

shutters hiding those windows. One morning I looked across the street,

and there they were.”

“Someone had put them up in the night?”

“That was my impression. But Mrs. Varley, who lives next door to this,

says that she noticed them coming for about a week. Each morning there

was another window shuttered. She never mentioned a word of it to me;

so that I can only tell you that when I saw them first they were all

up.”

“Who was responsible for their appearance?”

“That’s what I should like to know. Directly I clapped eyes on them I

went straight across the road, and knocked at the door; thinking that

if old Robertson had come back--though he’d be pretty ancient if he

had--I might get my money after all; and that if he hadn’t there’d be

no harm done. But no more attention was paid to me than if I hadn’t

been there. I daresay that if I’ve knocked once since I’ve knocked

twenty times; but, though I’ve always felt as if there was someone

inside listening, I’ve never seen a soul about the place, and no one

has ever answered. I tell you what; there’s something queer about that

house. More than once it’s been on the tip of my tongue to warn a

policeman to keep an eye on it. It’s my opinion that London will hear

about it yet.”

Mr. Kennard was oracular. When, however, on quitting his establishment

I glanced at No. 84, I myself was conscious of a queer feeling that

there was an unusual atmosphere about the house, as if something

strange was brooding over it. I told myself that I was still a little

bilious, and imagined things.

While I had been in conversation with Mr. Kennard I had observed a

curious face peering at us through the window of his shop. Now I

noticed a man, who struck me as being the owner of the face, loitering

a few doors up the street. As I came out, turning, so that his back

was towards me, he began to slowly stroll away. Urged by I know not

what odd impulse, I moved quickly after him. Immediately, he crossed

the street. I crossed at his heels. As if seized with sudden fear,

breaking into a run, he tore off down the street at the top of his

speed. I was reminded of the behaviour of the woman who had thrust the

God of Fortune into my hand.

All the way back to my chambers I was haunted by a disagreeable sense

of being followed. I frequently turned in an endeavour to detect my

shadower; each time no one suspicious seemed to be in sight. Yet, so

persistent was the feeling that, on entering, after lingering for a

second or two in the hall, I darted back again into the court; to

cannon against the man who had been loitering in Camford Street. Had I

not gripped him by the shoulders he would have been bowled over like a

ninepin.

There was no mistaking the individual. I had marked his peculiar

figure; the nondescript fashion of his dress--a long black coat, made,

apparently, of alpaca, reaching to his heels; a soft black felt hat so

much too large for his head that it almost covered his eyes. He was a

foreigner, undersized, unnaturally thin.

“Well, my man, what can I do for you?” He did not reply. His

countenance assumed an expression of vacuous imbecility. I shook him

gently, to spur his wits. “Do you hear, what can I do for you? Since

you have taken the trouble to follow me all this way, I suppose there

is important business which you wish to transact with me.”

The fellow said nothing. Whether he understood I could not say. He

evidently wished me to believe that he did not, shaking his head, as

if he had no tongue. I took him for a Chinaman, though he was darker

than I imagine Chinamen are wont to be. His two little bead-like eyes

burned out of two small round holes, in circumference scarcely larger

than a sixpence. Eyebrows or eyelashes he had none. His skin was

scarred by smallpox.

Since, apparently, nothing could be done with him, I let him go. So

soon as my hand was off him he darted into the Strand like some eager

wild thing. After momentary hesitation I went to see what had become

of him. Already the traffic had swallowed him up. He was out of sight.

Gregory Pryor was in when I called the second time. I laid the God of

Fortune down before him on the table.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a joss.”

“A joss?” The promptness of his reply took me aback. “I thought a joss

was an idol.”

“So it is; what you might call an idol. A symbol some would style it.

They’re of all sorts, shapes and sizes; that is one of the waistcoat

pocket kind. I was once in a case for a Chinaman with an

unpronounceable name. He spoke English better than you and I, knew the

ropes at least as well, yet he had one of these things in each of

about twenty-seven pockets. He was a member of one of the thirteen

thousand Taoist sects. He told me that they’d a joss for everything; a

joss for the hearth, another for the roof, another for the chimney;

three for the beard, whiskers and moustache. In every twig of every

tree they saw a joss of some sort. Where did you get yours from?”

I informed him; then spoke of the contents of the parcel which the

morning’s post had brought.

“I can give you one assurance--this bond’s all right. At a shade under

the market price, I can do with any number. As for your missionary’s

letter, let’s see if Great Ka Island is on the map.”

He got down a gazetteer and an atlas.

“The gazetteer’s an old one. There’s no mention of it here, so it

seems that it was either not known when this was published, or it was

too obscure a spot to be worth recording. The atlas is newer. Ah! here

we have it. Arafura Sea--New Guinea--Dutch New Guinea. There’s a group

of Ka Islands--Great Ka, Little Ka, and others. Great Ka’s largish,

nearly one hundred miles long, but narrow; apparently not ten miles at

the broadest part, and tapering to a point. Sort of reef, I fancy. A

good deal out of the way, and not in any steamer route I ever heard

of. A convenient address for a man who wishes to avoid inquiries.”

Leaning back in his chair, pressing the tips of his fingers together,

Pryor regarded the ceiling.

“Letter’s fishy, and, being undated, no use as evidence. Will’s fishy,

too. But there are the bonds So long as a lawyer sees his way to his

fee, what else matters? I take it that there was a Benjamin Batters,

and that there is a Mary Blyth. I also fancy that there’s more in the

matter than meets the eye. It has come to you in an irregular fashion,

and therefore, in the nature of things, it is sniffy. My advice to you

is, move warily. Discover Mary Blyth; hand over the estate to her,

accepting no responsibility; present your bill, get your money; and,

unless you see good reason to the contrary, wipe your hands of her

thenceforward. If you do that you won’t do very far wrong. Now,

good-bye; I’ve got all this stuff to wade through before I dine.”

I left him to the study of his briefs. His advice I turned over in my

mind, finally resolving that I would move even more warily than he

suggested. Before introducing myself to Mary Blyth, I would spend a

day in endeavouring to discover something about the late Benjamin

Batters, and, particularly, I would try to learn how it was that,

after his death, his affairs had chanced to fall into my hands.

I work, live, eat and sleep in my chambers. As it happens I am the

only person on the premises who does so. There used to be others. But

now, with the exception of my set, what were living rooms are used as

offices, and I am the only actual resident the house contains. After

dark--sometimes before--the workers flit away. I have the entire

building to myself until they return with the morning.

My rooms are four: bedroom; an apartment in which I am supposed to

take my meals; one which I use as an office; and the den, opening

immediately on to the staircase, in which Crumper has his being. That

night I was roused suddenly from sleep. At first I could not make out

what had woke me. Then I heard what was unmistakably the clatter of

something falling.

“There’s someone in the office.”

Slipping out of bed, picking up a hockey stick, making as little noise

as possible, I stole officewards. Intuitively I guessed who was there,

and proposed to interview my uninvited visitor.

My hasty conclusions proved, however, to be a little out.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE RETICENCE OF CAPTAIN LANDER.

The office door was ajar. I remembered that I had left it so when I

came to bed. Through the opening a dim light was visible. I peeped in.

I had expected to find that my guest would take the shape of the

individual who had dogged my footsteps home from Camford Street. I

hardly know on what I based my expectation, but there it was. A single

glance, however, was sufficient to show that “guest” should read

“guests,” for they were three. One was the pock-marked gentleman in

question; a second was seemingly his brother--they were as alike as

two peas; the third was as remarkable a person as I had ever yet

beheld. He was of uncommon height and uncommon thinness. I never saw a

smaller head set on human shoulders. My impression was that it was a

monstrously attenuated monkey, which had thrown a yellow dust sheet

about it anyhow. And it was only when I perceived the deftness with

which the contents of my drawers were being emptied out upon the table

that it occurred to me that, man or monkey, it was advisable I should

interfere.

Just as I had decided that it was about time for me to have a finger

in the pie, my beady-eyed acquaintance of the afternoon lighted on the

God of Fortune, which I had tossed upon the table on my return from

Pryor’s. Snatching it up with a curious cry, he handed it to his

monkey-headed friend. That long-drawn-out gentleman, after a rapid

glance at it, held it up with both hands high above his head. At once

his two associates threw themselves down flat on their faces,

grovelling before the penny doll as if it had been an object too

sacred for ordinary eyes to look upon. The man of length without

breadth began to say something in a high pitched monotone, which was

in a language quite unknown to me, but which sounded as if it were a

prayer or invocation. He spoke rapidly, as if he were repeating a form

of words which he knew by heart.

I was getting interested. It seemed that I was surreptitiously

assisting at some sort of religious service in which the doll played a

conspicuous part. As I was momentarily expecting something to happen,

something in the Arabian Nights way, as it were, that stupid hockey

stick, slipping somehow from my grasp, fell with a bang upon the

floor. That concluded the service on the spot. It must needs strike

against the door in falling, driving it further open, so that I stood

revealed to the trio in plain sight.

My impression is that they took me for something of horror; a

demoniacal visitation, for all I know. My costume was weird enough to

astonish even the Occidental mind. Anyhow, no sooner did they get a

glimpse at me than they stood not on the order of their going, but

went at once. Out went the light, and, also, out went they, through

the window by which they had entered, and that with a show of agility

which did them credit. I caught up that wretched stick, rushed after

them in the darkness, and had the satisfaction of giving someone a

pretty smart crack upon the head as he dropped from the sill on to the

pavement below. I am not sure, but I fancy it was the lengthy one.

Striking a light I looked to see what damage had been done. So far as

I could discover the only thing which was missing was the God of

Fortune, to which they were entirely welcome. Apparently they prized

it more than I did. I had a kind of notion, born of I know not what,

that they had been after the Batters’ papers. If so, they were

disappointed, for I had taken them with me into my bedroom, and at

that moment they were reposing on a chair by my bedside.

The greater part of the following day I spent in searching for someone

who knew something about Benjamin Batters, or Great Ka Island, or

Arthur Lennard, missionary--without result. I learned what I was

already aware of, that there were numerous missionary societies, both

in England and America; and acquired the additional information that

to try to find out something about a particular missionary without

knowing by which society he had been accredited, resembled the

well-known leading case of the search for the needle in the haystack.

At the great shipping office at which I made inquiries no one knew

anyone who had ever been to Great Ka Island, or ever wanted to go. And

as for Benjamin Batters, the general impression seemed to be that if I

wanted to know anything about him I had better put an advertisement in

the agony column, and see what came of that.

Altogether, I felt that the day had been pretty well wasted. But as it

would probably have been wasted anyhow, I had the consolation of

knowing that there had not been so much harm done after all. To the

credit side of the account was the fact that I had picked up three or

four odds and ends of curious information which had never come my way

before. And, as luck would have it, shortly after my return I actually

had a client. Or something like one, at any rate.

Crumper was making ready for departure, when he appeared at the door

with a face on which was an unmistakable grievance.

“Gentleman wishes to see you, sir. Told him that the office was just

closing.”

“Did you? Then don’t be so liberal with information of the kind. Show

the gentleman in.”

Crumper showed him in. When I saw him I was not sure that, in the

colloquial sense, he was a gentleman. And yet I did not know.

He was a tall, well set-up man of between thirty and forty, distinctly

good-looking, with fair hair and beard, and a pair of the bluest eyes

I ever saw. He wore a blue serge suit, a turn down collar, and a

scarlet tie. I know something of the sea and of sailors, having

several of the latter among my closest friends. If he was not a sailor

I was no judge of the breed. He brought a whiff of sea air into the

room.

I motioned him to a chair, on which he placed himself as if he was not

altogether at his ease. He glanced at a piece of paper which he had in

his hand.

“You are Mr. Frank Paine?” I inclined my head. “A lawyer?”

I nodded again. He pulled at his beard; observing me with his keen

blue eyes, as if he was thinking that for a lawyer I was rather young.

“I want a lawyer, or rather I want advice which I suppose only a

lawyer can give me. I was speaking about it to George Gardiner, and he

mentioned your name.”

“I am obliged to George; he is my very good friend. To whom have I the

pleasure of speaking?”

“I’m Max Lander.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, as I should any friend of Mr.

Gardiner’s. You, like him, are connected with the sea.”

“How did you find that out? Do I look as if I were?”

“Perhaps only to the instructed eye.” I wondered who, with ordinary

perception, could associate him with anything else. “I am so fortunate

as to have many friends among sailors, therefore I am always on the

look-out for one.”

“That so?”

He kept trifling with his beard, apparently desirous that the burden

of the conversation should rest with me.

“You know Mr. Gardiner well?”

“Not over well.”

“He was my schoolfellow, with another man who is now also a

sailor--another George; George Kingdon.”

“What name?”

“Kingdon. He has lately received his first command; of a ship named

_The Flying Scud_.”

Mr. Lander ceased to play with his beard. His hands dropped on to his

knees. He sat forward on his chair, staring at me as if I were some

strange animal.

“Good Lord!”

He seemed agitated. I had no notion why. Something I had said had

apparently disturbed him.

“You know Mr. Kingdon?”

“Kingdon? Kingdon? Is that his name? Then devil take him! No, I don’t

mean that. Perhaps it’s not his fault after all; it’s the fortune of

war. Still--devil take him all the same.”

“What has Mr. Kingdon done to you, Mr. Lander?”

“Done!--done!” Apparently his feelings were too strong for words.

Rising from his seat he began to stride about the room. Then, resting

both hands upon the table, he glared at me. “What has Mr. Kingdon done

to me? Did you hear my name?”

“I understood you to say it was Lander.”

“That’s it, Lander; Max Lander. Now don’t you know who I am?”

“It may be my stupidity, but I have not the least idea.”

“Do you mean to say that you don’t know George Kingdon’s taken my ship

from me?”

“Taken her from you? I don’t understand. I understood that _The Flying

Scud_ was the property of Messrs. ----”

“Staple, Wainwright and Friscoe; that’s so. That’s the name and title

of the firm; they’re the owners. But I was in command of her the last

three voyages; and when I brought her home I was hoping it was for the

last time.”

“It seems that your hope was justified.”

“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Paine? Because, if you are, take my tip

and don’t. I don’t mind being laughed at in a general way; but this is

a subject on which I bar so much as a smile. I’m too sore, sir, too

sore. Do you know the circumstances under which I got chucked from

_The Flying Scud_?”

“I do not. May I ask if that is the matter on which you are seeking my

advice?”

“Well,” he began, pulling at his beard again, hesitating, as if

fearing to say too much. “What I want to know is, are your sympathies

with the owner, with Kingdon, or with me?”

“Since I know nothing of what you are referring to, what answer do you

expect me to give? So far as I am concerned, you are talking in

riddles.”

“Look here, Mr. Paine, I’ll make a clean breast of the whole thing.

Gardiner told me you were a decent sort, so I’ll take his word for it.

You see before you the best done man in London--in England--in the

world, for all I know. Done all round! I knew I was taking a certain

risk, but I didn’t know it was a risk in that particular direction,

and that’s where I was had. I saw my way to a real big thing. I went

for it, shoved on all steam; brought the ship home, pretty well empty

as she was; then got diddled. So, when I laid the ship alongside, and

the owners found that there was scarcely enough on board to pay

expenses, they didn’t like it. I got my marching ticket, and Mr.

George Kingdon was in command instead. If it hadn’t been that I’d got

a little money of my own, I should have been on my beam ends before

now.”

“Do I gather that you complain of the way in which the owners of _The

Flying Scud_ have treated you?”

“Not a bit of it; nothing of the kind. The only person I complain of

is--we’ll say a party. If I got that, we’ll say, party, alone in a

nice quiet little spot for about ten minutes, after that time I

wouldn’t complain of him. The complaint would be on the other foot.”

“Then do you wish me to assist you in a scheme of assault and

battery?”

“I don’t want that either. The fact is, it’s a queer story. You

wouldn’t believe me if I told it; no one has done yet, so I’m not

going to try my luck again with you. What I want to know is this.

Suppose I ship, we’ll say, a man, and that, we’ll say, man, undertakes

to hand over certain--well, articles, to pay for passage, and deposits

certain other articles by way of earnest money. Before the ship

reaches port that, we’ll say, man, vanishes into air, the articles

which were to have been handed over, vanish with him, and the deposit

likewise. What offence has that, we’ll say, man, been guilty of

against the English law?”

“Your point is a knotty one. Where was the deposit?”

“In a locker in my cabin.”

“Secured by lock and key?”

“Secured by lock and key. And the key was in my pocket.”

“How was it taken out?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“You are sure it was taken out?”

“Dead sure.”

“If you have evidence which will show that the person to whom you

refer made free with the contents of your locker, then I should say

that it was a case of felony. But there may be other points which

would have to be considered. I should have to be placed in possession

of all the facts of the case before I could pronounce an opinion. The

matter may not be so simple as you think.”

“Simple! I think it simple! Good Lord!” He held up his hands, as if

amazed at the suggestion. “There’s another thing I want to know.

Suppose on the strength of that, we’ll say, man’s promises, I make

promises on my own account to certain members of the crew. Being done

by that, we’ll say, man, I was obliged to do them. What is my

position, Mr. Paine, toward those members of the crew?”

“That is a question to which I cannot reply off-hand. It would depend

on so many circumstances. I am afraid you will have to tell me the

whole of your story before I can be of use to you.”

“Ah! That so? I was afraid it would be. I said to myself that you

can’t expect a man, lawyer or no lawyer, to see what’s inside a box

unless you open the lid. But I can’t tell you the story; I can’t. I’m

too sore, sir, too sore. Smarting almost more than I can bear. I’ve

been done out of a fortune, out of my good name, and out of something

I value more than both. That’s a fact. I’ll look round a bit more, and

try to get one of them back, in my own way. Then, if I can’t, perhaps

I’ll come to you again. Sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Paine. What’s

your fee?”

“For what? I’ve been of no use to you. For a pleasant conversation

with my friend’s friend? I charge no fee for that, Mr. Lander.”

“You’re a lawyer. A lawyer’s time is money. I’ve always understood

that a lawyer’s fee is six and eightpence. You’ve found me pretty

trying. So I’ll make it a pound if you don’t mind.”

He laid a sovereign on the table. Without another word he left the

room. I did not try to stop him. To my thinking the whole interview

had verged perilously near to the ridiculous. I took the coin and

locked it in a drawer, proposing, with Gardiner’s assistance, to hunt

up Mr. Lander again. His money should be restored to him, if not in

one form, then in another.

I would dine the man, and make him tell his funny tale.

CHAPTER XX.

MY CLIENT--AND HER FRIEND.

The next day I was engaged. On that following I went up to Fenchurch

Street, to the offices of Messrs. Staple, Wainwright and Friscoe. I

had ascertained that Gardiner was out of town, and actuated by motives

of curiosity thought I would learn where Mr. Lander might be found. As

I was going up the steps an old gentleman came down. I knew him pretty

well. His name was Curtis. He had been, and, indeed, for all I knew,

was still an agent of Lloyd’s. For two or three years we had not met.

After we had exchanged greetings, I put to him my question.

“Do you know a man named Lander, Max Lander?”

“Late of _The Flying Scud_?”

An odd expression came on his face, as it were the suggestion of a

grin.

“That’s the man.”

“Yes, I know something of Max Lander, Captain Max, as he likes to be

called. Though there’s not much of the captain about him just at

present.”

The grin came more to the front.

“He called on me about a matter of which I could make neither head nor

tail. I should like to have another talk with him. Can you tell me

where he’s to be found?”

Mr. Curtis shook his head.

“Just now he’s resting. It’s been a little too hot for him of late. I

fancy he’s lying by till it gets a little cooler.”

“What’s wrong with the man?”

“Nothing exactly wrong, only he’s had a little experience. Sorry I

can’t stay, this cab’s waiting for me.” He stepped into the hansom

which was drawn up by the kerb. “If you want to know what’s wrong with

Lander, you mention to him the name of Batters--Benjamin Batters.”

The cab drove off. Before I had recovered from my astonishment it was

beyond recall.

Batters? Benjamin Batters? My Benjamin Batters? There could hardly be

two persons possessed of that alliterative name. If I had only guessed

that there was any sort of connection between him and Benjamin

Batters, Mr. Lander would not have departed till we had arrived at a

better understanding. Why had the idiot not dropped a hint? Why had

Curtis driven off at that rate at the wrong moment?

I asked at the office for the address of Captain Max Lander. I was

snubbed. The name was evidently not a popular one in that

establishment. The clerk, having submitted my inquiry to someone

elsewhere, informed me curtly that nothing was known of such a person

there, and appeared to think that I had been guilty of an impertinence

in supposing that anything was. When I followed with a request for

information about a Mr. Benjamin Batters, I believe that clerk thought

I was having a game with him. Somewhere in the question must have been

a sting, with which I was unacquainted; for, with a scowl, he turned

his back on me, not deigning to reply.

As I did not want to have an argument with Messrs. Staple, Wainwright

and Friscoe’s staff, I went away. I pursued my inquiries elsewhere,

both for Captain Max Lander and for Mr. Benjamin Batters. But without

success. The scent had run to ground. By the evening I concluded that

I had had about enough of the job. Instead of trying to find out

things about Benjamin Batters, I would seek out Mary Blyth. She should

have the good news. I was not sure that I had not already kept them

from her longer than I was justified in doing. She should learn that

she was the proud possessor of a tumble-down, disreputable house in

Camford Street; though, so far as I could see, she had not a shadow of

a title to it which would hold good in law; but perhaps she was not a

person who would allow herself to be hampered by a trifle of that

description; also of a comfortable income derived from

consols--conditions being attached to both bequests which were

calculated to drive her mad. Having imparted that good news, I would

wash my hands of the Batters’ family for good and all. There was

something about it which was, as Gregory Pryor put it, “sniffy.”

With that design I started betimes the next morning. I had no

difficulty in finding the establishment of Messrs. Cardew and

Slaughter, where Mr. Batters stated in his will that he had last heard

of his niece as an assistant. It was an “emporium,” where they sold

many things you wanted, and more which you did not, from gloves to

fire-irons. After being kept waiting an unconscionable length of time,

asked many uncalled-for questions, and enduring what I felt to be

intentional indignities, I was ushered into the office of Mr.

Slaughter.

That gentleman was disposed to mete out to me even more high-handed

treatment than Messrs. Staple, Wainwright and Friscoe. Under the

circumstances, however, that was more than I was inclined to submit

to. He seemed to regard it as sheer insolence that a stranger should

venture to speak to him--the great Slaughter!--of such a mere nothing

as one of his assistants. As if I had wanted to! We had quite a

passage of arms. In the midst who should come running in but the girl

herself--Mary Blyth.

She had just been dismissed. I had come in the nick of time to prevent

her being thrown--literally thrown--into the street. That was a

partial explanation of Mr. Slaughter’s haughtiness. Pretty badly she

seemed to have been used. And very hot she was with a sense of injury.

She had a companion in misfortune; a prettier girl I had never seen.

The pair had been sent packing at a moment’s notice. If I had been a

minute or two later I should have missed them; they would have gone.

In which case the most striking chapter in my life’s history might

have had to be written in a very different fashion.

When it came to paying the two girls the wretched pittance which was

due to them as wages, an attempt was made to keep back the larger

portion of it under the guise of “fines,” that rascally system by

means of which so many drapers impose upon the helpless men and women

they employ. A few sharp words from me were sufficient to show that

this was an occasion on which that method of roguery could hardly be

safely practised. I judged that the sum paid them--fifteen

shillings--represented their entire fortune. With that capital they

were going out to face the world.

In the cab I had an opportunity of forming some idea of what my client

was like.

Mary Blyth was big, rawboned, and, I may add, hungry looking. She gave

me the impression that she had had a hard life, one in which she had

had not seldom to go without enough to eat. In age I set her down as

twenty-six or seven. She was not handsome; on the other hand she was

not repellent. Her features were homely, but they were not unpleasing,

and there was about them more than a suggestion of honesty and

shrewdness. Her experience of the rougher side of life had probably

given her a readiness of wit, and a coolness of head, which would

cause her to find herself but little at a loss in any position in

which a changeable fate would place her. That was how she struck me. I

liked her clear eyes, her pleasant mouth, her determined nose and

chin. Intellectuality might not be her strongest point; obviously, in

a scholastic sense, her educational advantages had been but small. Her

tongue betrayed her. But, unless I greatly erred, she was a woman of

character for all that. Strong, enduring, clear-sighted, within her

limits; sure and by no means slow. A little prone to impatience,

perhaps; it is a common failing. I am impatient myself at times.

Still, on the whole, on her own lines, a good type of an Englishwoman.

My client’s appearance pleased me better than I feared would have been

the case. I was not so eager to wash my hands of the Batters’

connection as I had been.

But it was my client’s friend who appealed most strongly to my

imagination. She took my faculties by storm. I am not easily

disconcerted. Yet, in her presence, I felt ridiculously ill at ease.

She was only a girl. I kept telling myself that she was only a girl.

I believe that it was because she was only a girl that I was conscious

of such curious sensations. She sat opposite me in the cab. Every time

her knee brushed against mine, I felt as if I was turning pink and

green and yellow. It was not only uncomfortable, it was undignified.

She was just the kind of girl I like to look at; yet, for some reason,

I hardly dared allow my eyes to stray in her direction. I could look

at Miss Blyth; stare at her, indeed, till further notice, in the most

callous, cold-blooded way. But my glances studiously avoided her

friend. Her name was Emily Purvis--the friend’s name, I mean. I had a

general impression that she had big eyes, light brown hair, and a

smile which lit up her face like sunshine. I am aware that this sounds

slightly drivelling; if it were another man I should say that his

language reminded me of a penny novelette. But my mood at the moment

was pronouncedly imbecile; I was only capable of drivel. The girl had

come upon me with such a shock of surprise. I had never expected to

light on anything of that kind when pursuing the niece of Benjamin

Batters.

Miss Purvis was small. I like small women. I am aware that this is an

age of muscularity, and that athletics do cause women to run to size.

But, for my part, I like them little. Bone, muscle, stamina, these

things are excellent. From a physical point of view, no doubt, the

Amazon, when she is fit, in good condition, is all that she should be.

I admire such a one, even when her height is five feet eleven. But I

do not like her; I never could. As to having a woman of that

description for a wife--the saints forbid!

Miss Purvis was little. Not a dwarf, nor insignificant in any sense,

but small enough. I am six foot one, and I judged that the top of her

head would just come above my shoulder. Daintily fashioned, curves not

angles. Exactly the kind of girl ninety-nine men out of a hundred

would feel inclined to take into their arms at sight. The hundredth

man would be a sexless idiot; and, also, most probably, stone blind.

It was astonishing how afraid I felt of her.

It was an odd drive to my chambers. My client talked, Miss Purvis

talked, I only dropped a boobyish remark at intervals. The idea that

such a girl as that should only have fifteen shillings between her and

starvation, and that to keep herself alive she should have to seek

another situation in such a den of roguery, servitude, humiliation, as

that from which she had just escaped, was to me most horrible. I was

irritated, illogically enough, because Benjamin Batters had not left

her a portion of the income which was derived from those bonds of his.

I was conscious of the fact that he had had no cognisance of her

existence. But, at the moment, that was not the point.

Two incidents marked our progress.

The first was when Miss Blyth, putting her head out of the cab window,

recognised, with every appearance of surprise, a man standing on the

pavement whom she called Isaac Rudd. I observed that he saw us, and

the keenness with which his gaze was fastened on us. There was a

seafaring air about the fellow which recalled Max Lander to my mind.

Although I said nothing of it to the ladies, I had a shrewd suspicion

that he was following us in another cab, which he had hailed as soon

as we had passed. Two or three times when I looked out I noticed that

a second four-wheeler seemed to be keeping us in sight. In view of my

recent experiences, had I been alone I should have lost no time in

putting the question to the proof. Not only, however, just then, were

my wits a good deal wanting, but I felt a not unnatural disinclination

to cause my companions uneasiness. Especially as I more than suspected

that Miss Blyth might have enough of that a little later on.

The second incident was a trifle startling.

Shortly after catching sight of the man she called Isaac Rudd, she

gave a sudden exclamation. She was staring at something with wide-open

eyes. I looked to see what it was.

There, on her knee, was my God of Fortune.

Her surprise at its appearance was unmistakably genuine. How it had

come there she was unable to explain. It might have been

“materialised,” as the Theosophists have it, out of the intangible

air. But it seemed that it was not the first time she had encountered

it.

It had been slipped into her hand the night before by a fantastically

attired individual who was evidently my length without breadth

visitor, whom I had interrupted in his pseudo service, and who had

dropped out of my office window with my God of Fortune in his hand.

Although I made no reference to that occurrence, I was none the less

struck by the fashion in which he had chosen to introduce himself to

the niece of Mr. Benjamin Batters. The singularity of the thing went

further. When the doll was slipped into the lady’s hand it was cased

in a piece of paper, as it was when it was slipped into mine, from,

which, again exactly as had happened with me, it forced itself

apparently of its own volition.

I made no comment, but, with Miss Blyth’s permission, I put the doll

into my waistcoat pocket; concluding that it might prove worthy of

more minute examination than I had yet bestowed on it--even to the

breaking of it open to discover “the works.”

This is a sober chronicle. I trust I am a sober chronicler. I wish to

set down nothing which suggests the marvellous. I have an inherent

dislike to wonders, being without faith. When men speak of the

inexplicable I think of trickery, and of some quality which is not

perception. Therefore I desire it to be understood that the following

lines are written without prejudice; and that of what happened there

may be a perfectly simple explanation which escaped my notice.

I trust that there is.

I had read the missionary’s letter, and the will, and had handed to

Miss Blyth the sealed enclosure. When she opened it she found that

within the packet was a little wooden box. On lifting the lid of this

box, the first thing she saw--which we all saw--was my God of Fortune,

or its double. It was just inside the box, staring at her, as it lay

face upwards. Feeling in my waistcoat pocket for the duplicate, I

found that it had gone. It had, apparently, passed into that wooden

box, which had, until that moment, remained inviolate within that

sealed enclosure. How, I do not pretend to say.

It was but a little thing, yet it affected me more than a greater

might have done. A succession of “trifles light as air” may unsettle

the best balanced mind. One begins, by degrees, to have a feeling that

something is taking place, or is about to take place, of a character

to which one is unaccustomed. And under such circumstances the

unaccustomed, particularly when one is unable to even dimly apprehend

the form which it may take, one instinctively resents.

I decided that, at any rate, that should be the last appearance of the

God of Fortune. Taking it from Miss Blyth, who yielded it readily

enough, I walked with it to the fire, intending to make an end of it

by burning. As I went something pricked my fingers so suddenly, and so

sharply, that in my surprise and, I might add, pain, the doll dropped

from my hand. When we came to look for it it was not to be found. We

searched under tables and chairs in all possible and impossible

places, with a degree of eagerness which approached the ludicrous,

without success. The God of Fortune had disappeared.

I am reluctant to confess how much I was disconcerted by so trivial an

occurrence.

I must have been morbidly disposed; still liverish. That is the only

explanation which I can offer why I should all at once have felt so

strongly that everything connected with Mr. Benjamin Batters’

testamentary dispositions wore a malign aspect. I was even

haunted--the word is used advisedly--by a wholly unreasonable

conviction that Miss Blyth was being dragged into a position of

imminent peril.

This foolishness of mine was rendered more ridiculous by the fact that

Miss Blyth’s own mood was all the other way. And in this respect Miss

Purvis was at one with her. Somewhat to my surprise they seemed to see

nothing in the situation but what was pleasant.

Miss Blyth’s attitude was one of frank delight. She had never known

Mr. Batters’ personally; all she knew of him was to the disadvantage

of his character. She was enraptured by the prospect of a fortune and

a house. It seemed she had a lover. In her mind, fortune, house, and

lover were associated in a delightful jumble. She did not appear to

realise that the acceptance of the fortune, if the attached conditions

were to stand, meant the practical ostracising of the lover. Nor, at

the instant, did I feel called upon to go out of the way to make the

whole position plain to her understanding. It would have meant the

spoiling of the happiest hour she had known.

Miss Purvis enjoyed what she regarded as her friend’s good luck to the

full as much as if it had been her own. It was delightful to see her.

I had plucked up courage enough to observe her so long as she did not

know that I was doing so. The moment she became conscious of my

scrutiny, my eyes, metaphorically, sank into my boots; actually they

wandered round the room, as if the apartment had been strange to me.

When she proposed to become Miss Blyth’s companion in that horrible

house in Camford Street my heart thumped against my ribs in such a

manner that I became positively ashamed.

Was I a lawyer, the mere mechanical exponent of an accidental

situation, or was I the intimate of a lifetime? I had to ask myself

the question. What right had I to throw obstacles in the way, to

prevent her doing her friend a service? What right had I to even hint

that she might be running a risk in doing her that service? My fears

might be--were--purely imaginary. So far they certainly had no

foundation in fact. They resembled nothing so much as the nervous

fancies of some timorous old woman. It might be ruinous to my

professional reputation to breathe a syllable which would point to

their existence. People do not want shivery-shakery fools for lawyers.

These two young women knew as much--and as little--about the house as

I did. If they chose to live in it, let them. It was their affair, not

mine. They plainly regarded the prospective tenancy as an excellent

jest. I tried to persuade myself that I had no doubt whatever that

that was just what they would find it.

So they entered into the occupation of No. 84 Camford Street. I went

with them and saw them enter. It was a curious process, that of entry;

an unreasonably, unnaturally curious process. It should be necessary

to enter no honest house like that. The first step suggested,

possibly, that something unsavoury was concealed within, which it was

necessary, at all and any cost, to keep hidden from the light of day.

When they were in, and the door was closed, and they had gone from

sight, an icy finger seemed to be pressed against my spine. I shivered

as with cold. An almost irresistible longing possessed me to batter at

the door and compel them to come out. But I had not sufficient courage

to write myself down an ass.

Instead, I rode home in the cab which had brought us to the house to

which I had taken so cordial a disrelish, oppressed by a sense of

horrible foreboding which weighed upon my brain nearly to the point of

stupefaction.

“Before I go to bed to-night,” I told myself, “I’ll take a dozen of

somebody or other’s antibilious pills. I had no idea I was so

liverish.”

CHAPTER XXI.

THE AGITATION OF MISS PURVIS.

That bachelor’s balm, a night at a music hall, was of no avail in

diverting my mind from the house in Camford Street. In the body I

might be present at a vocal rendering of the latest things in comic

songs; in the spirit I was the other side of the water. Before the

night was over I was there physically, too.

As the ten o’clock “turn” was coming on, and the brilliancy of the

entertainment was supposed to have reached high-water mark, I walked

down the stairs of the Cerulean and out into the street. I strolled

down the Haymarket without any clear idea of where I meant to go.

“You’re an ass,” I told myself. “An ass, sir! If you’d stopped to see

Pollie Floyd she’d have driven the cobwebs out of your head. You pay

five shillings for a seat, and when, at last, there is going to be

something worth looking at, and listening to, you get out of it, and

throw away your money. At this time of night, where do you think

you’re going?”

I knew all the time, although even to myself I did not choose to

confess it--Camford Street. I made for it as straight as I could. It

was past half-past ten when I got there. The street was nearly all in

darkness. The public-houses were open; but, as they were not of the

resplendent order, they were of but little use as illuminants. Mr.

Kennard’s establishment was shut. Lights were visible in but few of

the houses. No. 84, in the prevailing shadows, looked black as pitch.

If the two girls had been obedient to the injunctions laid down in Mr.

Batters’ will--and that first night, at any rate, they would have

hardly ventured to contravene them--they were long since within doors.

Doing what? Asleep? Were both of them asleep? I wondered, if she was

awake, what occupied her thoughts? Was she thinking of--the person in

the street?

Too ridiculous! Absurd! It is amazing of what crass stupidity even the

wisest men are capable. Why should a girl who was a perfect stranger,

be thinking, whether awake or sleeping, at that hour of the night, of

an individual who had been brought into accidental business

association, on one occasion only, with a friend of hers? I kept on

putting such-like brain-splitting questions to myself. Without avail.

I simply shirked them. I only hoped. That was all.

I had some nonsensical notion of hammering at the front door to see

what would happen. But as I was unable to perceive what could result,

except possible scandal--suppose they were in bed! they might think I

was burglars, or Mr. Batters’ ghost--I held my hand. I was not too far

gone to be incapable of realising that frightening a woman into fits

was not the best way of winning her trust and confidence. That she was

of a nervous temperament I thought probable. I like a woman to be

reasonably timorous.

What might have been expected happened. My persistency in strolling

about, and behaving as if I were a suspicious character, at last

succeeded in arousing the attention of the police. An overcoated

constable strode up to me. I stopped him, feeling that it might be

better for me to open the ball.

“Officer, do you know anything about the house opposite--No. 84?”

He eyed me; apparently arriving at a conclusion that I bore no

conspicuous signs of belonging to the criminal classes.

“We call it the haunted house.”

“Haunted? Why haunted?”

It was a horrible idea that she should be sleeping alone, or as good

as alone, in a house which bore the reputation of being haunted. Not

that I placed any credence in such rubbish myself, but when she was

concerned it was a different matter.

“I can’t say why; but it’s known as such, in the force, and, I

believe, among the people in the neighbourhood.”

“Ah! Well, officer, two friends of mine--ladies--young ladies--have

taken up their residence at No. 84, and as they’re all alone I shall

be obliged if you’ll keep an eye upon the house. If you see any ghosts

about the place you run ’em in.”

I gave that policeman half-a-crown. I do not know what he thought of

me. I was completely conscious that if I continued to placate members

of the constabulary force with two-and-sixpence each I should not find

the Batters’ connection a lucrative one. It was all owing to the state

of mind I was in. To have remained in her immediate neighbourhood I

would have showered half-crowns.

Yet I tore myself away, and went straight home to bed. Hardly to

sleep, for such slumber as visited my eyes was troubled by strange

imaginings. It would be incorrect to say that all night I dreamed of

her, for most of my dreams took the shape of nightmare visitations;

but I do not hesitate to affirm that they were caused by her. I had

not been troubled by such things for years. If she was not the cause

of them, what was?

I awoke at some most unseemly hour. Since sleep was evidently at an

end I concluded that it might be as well to have done with what had

been, for the first time for many nights, a bed of discomfort. So I

arose and dressed. It was a fine morning. I could see that the sun was

shining, even from my window. I concluded that I would put into

execution a resolution which I had often formed, and as often broken,

of going for a walk before breakfast. One is constantly being

told--for the most part by people who know nothing about it--how

beautiful London is in the early morning sun.

So soon as I was in Fleet Street I saw something which I had certainly

not expected to see, at least, not there, just then--Miss Purvis.

Fleet Street was deserted; she was the only living thing to be seen;

the sight of her nearly took me off my feet. She had been in my

thoughts. Her sudden, instant presence was like the miraculous

materialisation of some telepathic vision. I felt as if I had heard

her calling me, and had come.

She was distant some fifty yards, and was coming towards me. I was at

once struck by the air of wildness which was about her. It moved me

strangely. She was not attired for the street, having on neither hat

nor bonnet, jacket or gloves. Her hair was in disorder. She looked as

if she had been in some singular affray. My heart jumped so within my

breast that I had, perforce, to stand as if I had been rooted to the

ground. Conscience-stricken, I railed at myself for not having, last

night, broken down the door, instead of lounging idly in the street.

All the while, I knew that there was something wrong. I owned it now,

though I had been reluctant to admit it then.

I think she saw me as soon as I saw her. At sight of me she broke into

a little tremulous run, swaying from side to side, as if she was so

weak that her feet were not entirely under her own control. It was

pitiful to watch. Tearing myself from where I seemed to be rooted, I

ran to her. I had reached her in less than half-a-dozen seconds. When

I was close, stretching out her hands, she cried, in a faint little

voice:--

“It’s you! it’s you! Oh, Mr. Paine!”

She did not throw herself into my arms, she had not so much strength;

she sank into them, and was still. I saw that she had fainted.

I bore her to my rooms. It was the least that I could do. No one was

in sight. And though, no doubt, some straggler might have soon

appeared, I could not tell what kind of person it might prove to be.

I could hardly keep her out there in the street awaiting the advent of

some quite possibly undesirable stranger, even had I been willing,

which I was not. Lifting her in my arms, I carried her to my chambers.

Not once did she move. She was limp as some lay figure. I laid her on

the couch. So far as I could judge, at first she did not breathe.

Then, all at once, she sighed; a tremblement seemed to go all over

her. I expected her to open her eyes, and see me there. I felt as if I

had been guilty of I knew not what, and feared to meet her accusatory

glances. But instead she lay quite still, though I could see that her

bosom rose and fell, moved by gentle respirations. My blood boiled as

I wondered what could have made her cheek so white.

On a sudden her eyes unclosed. For some seconds she looked neither to

the right nor left. She seemed to be considering the ceiling. Then,

with a start, she turned and saw me.

“Where am I?” she exclaimed.

“You are safe in my chambers. You know who I am, do you not?”

“You are Mr. Paine. Oh, Mr. Paine!”

She began to cry. Turning from me, she buried her face in the cushion.

“Miss Purvis! What is wrong? What is the matter? Tell me what has

happened.”

She continued to cry, her sobs shaking her whole frame. I was

beginning to be conscious that the situation was a more delicate one

than had at first appeared. After all, the girl was but a stranger to

me. I had not the slightest right to attempt to offer her consolation.

I remembered to have read somewhere that you ought to know a man

intimately for fifteen years before presuming to poke his fire. If

that were the case the imagination failed to picture how long a man

ought to be acquainted with a girl before venturing to try, with the

aid of a pocket handkerchief, to dry her tears.

She kept on crying. It was a severe trial to one’s more or less misty

sense of what etiquette demanded. Ought I to remain to be a witness of

her tears? She might not like it. She might, very reasonably, resent

being practically compelled to exhibit her grief in the presence of a

stranger. On the other hand, to leave her alone to, as it were, cry it

out, might be regarded, from certain points of view, as the acme of

brutality. What I should have liked to have done would have been to

take her in my arms, and comfort her as if she had been a child. In

the midst of my bewilderment it irritated me to think of the asinine

notions which would enter my head. Did I, I inquired of myself, wish

to make an enemy, a righteous enemy, of the girl for life?

I tried the effect of another inquiry.

“Miss Purvis, I--I wish you would tell me what has happened.”

“Pollie!”

That was all she said; and that utterance was so blurred by a choking

gasp as to render it uncertain if that was what she had said.

“Pollie? Who is Pollie?”

Quite possibly my tone was one of dubiety. Either that or the question

itself affected her in a fashion which surprised me. She stopped as

suddenly as if the fountain of her tears had been worked by some

automatic attachment. Raising herself slightly from the couch, she

looked at me, her eyes swollen with weeping.

“Pollie? You ask me who is Pollie? And you’re her lawyer!”

“Her lawyer?--Pollie’s----? You’re not referring to Miss----? Of

course, how stupid of me! I had forgotten that Miss Blyth’s Christian

name was Mary. I suppose that by her friends she is known as Pollie. I

hope that nothing has happened to Miss Blyth.”

“Do you think that I should be here if nothing had happened to

Pollie?”

The question was put with an amount of vigour which, in one so

fragile, was almost surprising. I was delighted to see in her such a

renewal of vigour. It made me feel more at my ease.

“I am only too fortunate, Miss Purvis, whatever the object of your

visit. If you will permit me I will get you a cup of tea; that’s what

you’re wanting. I live so much alone I’m accustomed to do all sorts of

things for myself. Here’s a gas stove; in five minutes the water will

be boiling; you shall have your tea. It will do you an immensity of

good.”

I had always understood that girls liked tea. But, as I moved about

the room, preparing to set the kettle on the stove, she stared at me

with an apparent want of comprehension.

“Do you suppose that I’ve come through the streets like this just to

get a cup of tea?”

“Never mind for the moment why you’ve come, Miss Purvis; the great

thing is that you have come. Tea first: explanation afterwards. If you

take my advice you’ll let that be the order of procedure. Nothing like

a good brew to promote clarity of exposition.”

I lit the stove.

“Mr. Paine! Mr. Paine!”

She jumped off the couch in quite a passion of excitement.

“Now, Miss Purvis, I do beg you will control yourself. I give you my

word that in less than five minutes the water will be boiling.”

She stamped her foot; rage certainly became her.

“You keep talking about your tea, when Pollie’s killed!”

“Killed--Miss Purvis! You don’t mean that Miss Blyth is--killed?”

“She is!--or something awful--and worse!”

“But”--I placed the kettle on the stove to free my hand--“let me

understand you plainly. Do you wish to be taken literally when you say

that Miss Blyth is--killed?”

“If she isn’t she will be soon.”

“I’m afraid I must ask you to be a little plainer. Where is Miss

Blyth?”

“She’s in one of Bluebeard’s Chambers?”

I began to wonder if her mind was wandering.

“I’m afraid that I still don’t----”

“That’s the name she gave them. In that dreadful house in Camford

Street there are two rooms locked up, and Pollie’s in one.”

“I see.” I did not, though, at the same time, I fancied that I began

to perceive a dim glimmer of light. “But if, as you say, the rooms

were locked, how did she get in, and what happened to her when she was

in?”

In reply Miss Purvis poured out a series of disjointed statements

which I experienced some difficulty in following, and more in

reconciling. As I listened, in spite of her manifold attractions, I

could not but feel that if she should figure in the witness box, in a

case in which I was concerned, I would rather that she gave evidence

for the other side.

“That house was full of wickedness!”

“Indeed. In what sense?”

“There’s a woman in it!”

“A woman? There is a woman? Then that’s all right.”

“All right?”

“I was afraid there wouldn’t be another woman.”

“Afraid! Women are ever so much worse than men. And she’s--awful. She

says she’s the daughter of the gods.”

“A little wanting, perhaps.”

I touched my head. Apparently Miss Purvis did not catch the allusion.

“Wanting! She’s wanting in everything she ought to have. She’s--she’s

not to be described. I thought she was rats.”

“You thought she was rats?”

“The house is full of them--in swarms! They’d have eaten me--picked

the flesh off my bones!--if I’d given them the chance.”

I was becoming more and more persuaded that agitation had been too

much for her. I had never encountered a case of a person being eaten

alive by rats, except the leading one of Bishop Hatto in his rat tower

on the Rhine, and that was scarcely quotable.

“Now, Miss Purvis, the kettle is just on the boil. I do beg you’ll

have a cup of tea before we go any further.”

“With Pollie lying dead?”

“But is she lying dead?”

“I believe she’s eaten!”

“Eaten?--by rats?”

There was a dryness in my tone which was, perhaps, rather more

significant than I had intended.

“Are you laughing at me?--Are you--laughing at me?”

She repeated her inquiry for the second time with a great sob in her

voice, which made me realise what a brute I was.

“I am very far from laughing. I am only anxious that you should not

make yourself ill.”

“You’re not! you’re not!” She stamped her foot again. I gazed at her

with admiration. She was the first beautiful woman I remembered to

have seen whose personal appearance was positively improved by getting

into a temper.

“You’re laughing at me all the time; you haven’t a spark of human

feeling in you!” This was an outrageous charge. At that moment I would

have given a great part of what I possessed to have been able to take

her in my arms. “What I’ve endured this night no tongue can tell, no

pen describe. I’ve gone through enough to make my hair turn white.

Hasn’t it turned white?”

“It certainly hasn’t. It’s lovely hair.”

“Lovely----?” She stopped, to look at me; seeing something in my

countenance--she alone knew what it was--which made her put her hands

up to her face, and burst again into tears. “Oh, Mr. Paine!”

My name, as it came from her lips, was a wail which cut me to the

heart. Her agitation was making me agitated too. I had only one

resource.

“Now, Miss Purvis, this kettle is really boiling.”

“If you say another word about that kettle I’ll knock it over!”

The small virago was facing me, the tears running down her cheeks, her

small fists clenched, as if, on that point at least, she was capable

of being as good as her word.

“Knock it over by all means, Miss Purvis, if it pleases you. I--I only

want to give you pleasure.”

“Mr. Paine!”

Up went her hands again.

“Don’t do that. I--I can’t bear to see you cry.”

“Then why are you so unkind?”

“I don’t know; it’s my stupidity, I suppose; it’s far from my

intention to be unkind.”

“I know! I know! I’m a nothing and a nobody; an impertinent creature

who has come to bother you with a tale which you don’t believe, and

which wouldn’t interest you if you did; and so you just make fun of

me.”

“Don’t say that; not that. Don’t say that to me you are a nothing and

a nobody.”

“I am! I am!”

“You are not.”

“Then, why do you treat me as you do?”

“Treat you! How do I treat you? There is nothing I wouldn’t do for

you--nothing!”

“Mr. Paine!”

“Miss Purvis!”

I do not know how it happened. I protest, in cold blood, and in black

and white, that I have no idea. But, on a sudden, I found that I had

my arms about her. A moment before I had no intention of doing

anything of the kind--that I swear. And I can only suppose that it was

because, in her agitation, she really did not know what was happening,

that she allowed her head to rest against my breast.

It was while it was there that a voice said, proceeding from the

neighbourhood of the door:--

“This is a bit of all right; but where do I come in?”

CHAPTER XXII.

LUKE.

I have only to point out that, despite the interruption, Miss Purvis

continued in the same position, without making the slightest effort to

disengage herself, to make it clear that she, to at least a certain

extent, was unconscious of her surroundings. For my part I held her

somewhat closer, so that I might act as a more efficient protection

against I knew not what.

Glancing in the direction from which the voice had come I perceived

that a distinctly disreputable individual had intruded himself,

uninvited, into the room. He was a tall, shambling fellow, with a

chronic stoop, extending even to the neighbourhood of his knees. His

attire consisted of a variety of odds and ends, all of them

emphatically the worse for wear. A dirty cloth cap, apparently a size

too small, was stuck at the back of his head. His black, greasy hair

formed a ragged, uneven fringe upon his forehead, reaching in one

place nearly to the top of his long, pointed nose. His mouth was too

wide for his face, which was narrow. As he stood there with it open,

in what I presume he intended for a friendly grin, the fact was

revealed that seemingly every alternate tooth in his head was missing.

Even in that moment of agitation I could not help mentally noting that

I had never seen such a collection of fangs in one man’s head before.

“What do you mean, sir, coming in without knocking?”

“What do I mean? That’s what I’m here to tell you. And as for

knocking, I did knock, with my knuckles; but you was too much engaged

to notice my modest knock; so, seeing the door was open, I just come

in.”

“Then you’ll just go out again; and sharp’s the word.”

While the fellow was speaking, Miss Purvis, awaking, for the first

time, to a sense of her delicate position, drew herself away from me.

Turning, she stared at the intruder.

“Sharp’s the word, is it? That’s how it may be. Anyhow, it don’t apply

to me, because I’m here on business.”

“Then come in business hours. I don’t receive clients at this time of

day. Don’t you see that I’m engaged?”

“Engaged, are you? That’s as it should be. I congratulate you.

Likewise the young lady, for having won so outspoken a young

gentleman; and one that’s well spoken of, from all I hear.”

Whether the fellow was intentionally impertinent I could not tell. It

was uncommonly awkward for both of us. Miss Purvis went scarlet. I

felt like knocking him down.

“Now, then, out you go!”

“Softly! softly! You listen to me before the band begins to play. I

don’t allow no one to lay hands on me without laying of ’em back

again.”

The fellow extended, to ward me off, a pair of enormously long arms.

Observing them, I realised that if he would only hold himself upright

his height would be gigantic. I am no bantam; yet as I considered his

evident suppleness, and sinewy build, I thought it possible that in

him I had met my match. Anyhow, I did not wish to indulge in a

rough-and-tumble before Miss Purvis.

“Who are you? And what do you want?”

“What I want first of all is to know who you are. Are you Mr. Frank

Paine?”

“I am.”

“I’m told that you’re making inquiries about a party named Batters;

now I’m making inquiries about a party named Batters, too; and if you

was to tell me what you know, I might tell you what I know.”

“You are quite right, I have been inquiring for a person of the name

of Batters. And if you will come again, say, between ten and eleven, I

shall be glad to hear what you have to say. By that time I shall be

disengaged.”

“You’ll be disengaged, will you? That’s hard on the young lady.

Engaged to her at seven, and disengaged between ten and eleven, all of

the same day.”

“Look here, my man!”

“I’m looking, Mr. Paine, I’m looking; and I do hope I’m looking milder

nor what you are. May I make so bold as to ask if this young lady’s

name is Blyth?”

“It is not.”

“I thought it couldn’t be. It wouldn’t hardly seem natural for a

beautiful young lady like she is to be grafted from a stock like that.

Lovely is what I call her, downright lovely.”

“Oh, Mr. Paine!”

Miss Purvis held out her hand. I took it.

“If you suppose because I have borne with you so far I will bear with

you much further, you’re mistaken. If you take my advice, you’ll be

careful.”

“That’s right, sir; that’s quite right. Careful’s the lay for me.”

“If you have anything to say, be quick about it.”

“Well, I do happen to have something which I wish to say, and that’s a

fact; but as for quickness I’m afraid that I’m not naturally so quick

as perhaps you might desire.” He stopped, to regard me with his bold,

yet shifty eyes, as if he were endeavouring to ascertain what sort of

person I might be. When he spoke again it was to put a question for

which I was unprepared. “Where’s Batters?”

“Mr. Batters--if you are referring to the late Mr. Benjamin

Batters--is dead.”

“Dead? Oh! Late, is he? Ah! He was the sort to die early, was Batters.

Where might he happen to have died?”

“On Great Ka Island.”

“Great Ka Island? Ah! And where might that be?”

“On the other side of the world.”

“That’s some way off, isn’t it? Most unfortunate. I take it most

uncivil of Batters to go and die in a place like that. Especially when

I should like to have a look at his grave. You don’t happen to know

where it is.”

“I do not, except that I have been given to understand that he was

buried where he died.”

“That so? He would be. In the local cemetery, with the flowers growing

all around. In a nice deep grave with a stone on top to keep him from

getting out of it, and some words cut on it, like ‘He lies in peace.’

There’s no doubt about his lying, anyhow, I’ll take my oath to that.”

He emitted a sound which might have been meant for a chuckle. It

startled Miss Purvis. “You don’t happen to know when he died?”

“I do not know the precise date, but it was at any rate some three or

four months ago.”

“That’s odd, very. Because, as it happens, I was with him some three

or four months ago, and I never saw nothing about him that looked like

dying. So far from dying, he was lively, uncommon; fleas wasn’t in it

with the liveliness of Batters. And to think that he should have died

with me looking at him all the time, and yet knowing nothing at all

about it. It shows you that there is such things as miracles.”

“Do I understand you to say that three months ago you were in the

company of Mr. Batters?”

“I was. And likewise four months ago. And I hope to be in his company

again before long, dead or alive. It won’t be my fault if I’m not; you

may go the lot on that.”

There was something about the fellow which struck me as peculiar; it

was not alone his impudence, which belonged to another sort of

singularity. There seemed to be a covert meaning in his manner and his

words. I turned to Miss Purvis.

“If you don’t mind I think I will hear what this person has to say; it

may be of importance to your friend. If you will allow me to leave you

here, I think I may arrive quicker at his meaning if I am alone with

him.”

She signified her consent. I led the way into the office. Without

showing in any way that he objected, the stranger followed.

“Now my man, let us understand each other as clearly as we can, and

keep to the point as closely as you are able. What’s your name?”

“Luke.”

“Luke what?”

“Luke nothing. I’m known to those who knew me best as St. Luke, after

the apostle, being of saintlike character, but in general Luke’s name

enough for me. They was modest where I come from.”

“What are you?”

“A sailor man, late of the good ship _Flying Scud_.”

“_The Flying Scud_?” I stared at him askance, not certain that I had

caught the name correctly. That particular ship seemed in the air.

“Then do you know Captain Lander?”

As I asked the question his manner changed. It became suspicious.

Thrusting his thumbs into his waistcoat armholes he eyed me warily, as

if he had all at once been put upon his guard.

“Now how much do you know about it?”

“What do you mean? How much do I know about what?”

“What’s Captain Lander told you about me?”

“About you? To me Captain Lander has never so much as mentioned your

name.”

A sudden wild thought came into my head. “Are you--are you Benjamin

Batters?”

The fellow’s mouth opened so wide I could see right down his throat.

“Me Benjamin Batters! Good Lord! What made you ask me such a thing as

that?”

“Are you? Are you?” As I watched I doubted more and more. “I believe

you are.”

“I’m not. Good Lord! You ask Captain Lander if I am. You said yourself

just now that he was dead and buried.”

“And you hinted that he was not, but that he was still alive.”

Putting his hand up to his brow he brushed the fringe of hair

partially aside, glancing furtively about the room.

“That’s as may be; that’s another matter altogether. But I don’t like

your asking me if I was Batters. No man would. Have you ever seen

him?”

“Never; unless I see him now.”

“Meaning me? I never came across such a man. What do you mean by

keeping on asking if I’m Batters? What are you driving at? I won’t

have it, whatever it is. Why Batters----” He stopped: then second

thoughts appearing best, changed from heat to cold. “Batters was not

my sort at all.”

The man’s manner puzzled me.

“What was there about Benjamin Batters which makes you resent any

comparison with him?”

He hesitated, putting up his fingers to scratch his head, visibly

perturbed.

“Excuse me, but I came here to put a question or two, not to answer

any. If you’d told me at the first that Captain Lander was a friend of

yours, I should have taken myself off straightway, like as I’m going

to now.”

I stepped between him and the door.

“No you don’t. You stopped at the beginning to please yourself; now

you’ll remain a little longer to please me. Before you leave this room

you’ll give me satisfactory answers to one or two questions.”

“Who says I will?”

“I do. If you decline I send for a policeman. Then I think you’ll find

yourself in Queer Street.”

His disturbance obviously increased.

“Now, Mr. Paine, I’ve done nothing to you to make you behave nasty to

me. If I made a mistake in coming here to make a few inquiries I

apologise, and no man can do more than that, so there’s no harm done

to either side.”

“Was Batters your shipmate?”

“My shipmate?”

“Was he an officer or member of the crew on board _The Flying Scud_?”

“My gracious, no!”

“He was on _The Flying Scud_?”

“He might have been.”

“As passenger?”

“_The Flying Scud’s_ a cargo boat; she don’t carry no passengers.”

“If he was neither officer, sailor, nor passenger, in what capacity

was he there?”

“You ask Captain Lander, he was in command, not me. I’ve had enough of

this bullyragging. You let me go before there’s trouble.”

“Gently, my man, gently! Now, come, be frank with me. What is the

mystery about Benjamin Batters? I see there is one.”

“That’s more than I can tell you, straight it is. I wish it wasn’t. If

you was to ask me I should say he was all mystery, Batters was.”

“I suppose he was a man?”

“A man?” The inquiry, suggested by the fashion in which he persisted

in shuffling with my questions, had an odd effect upon my visitor. He

glanced from side to side, and up and down, as if desirous, at any

cost, to avoid meeting my eye. “It depends on what you call a man.”

“You know very well what I call a man. Was he a man in the sense that

you and I are men?”

He shuddered.

“The Lord forbid that I should be in any way like him; the Lord

forbid!”

“I observed him narrowly, at a loss to make him out. That there was

something very curious about Benjamin Batters I was becoming more and

more persuaded. I had as little doubt that my visitor had at least

some knowledge of what it was. Equally obvious, however, was the fact

that he had reasons of his own for concealing what he knew. How I

could compel him to make a confidant of me against his will I failed

to see. I tried another tack.

“You say that you were in Batters’ company three months ago.”

“I might have been.”

“How long ago is it since you last saw him?”

“I couldn’t exactly say.”

“Where did you last see him?”

“Where?” He looked round and round the room, as if seeking for

information. Then the fashion of his countenance changed, an ugly look

came on it. “I’m not going to tell you when I saw him last, nor where.

It’s no business of yours. You mind your own business, and leave mine

alone. And as for your policeman, I don’t care for no policeman. Why

should I? I’m an honest man. So you get out of my way and let me pass;

and that’s all about it.”

“Have you seen Benjamin Batters within the month?”

“Never you mind!”

“Your words are a sufficient answer. I believe that you have been

conspiring with Benjamin Batters with fraudulent intent. If you do not

furnish me with abundant proof that my suspicions are unfounded I

shall summon a constable, and give you into custody upon that charge.”

It was a piece of pure bluff upon my part, which failed.

“That’s the time of the day, is it? I’ve been conspiring with him,

have I? What have I been conspiring about?”

“I have no doubt that that is a point on which Captain Lander will be

able to show more than sufficient light.”

My words had at last struck home. What lent them especial weight I

could not even guess. But that they had moved him more than anything

which had gone before his behaviour showed.

“He will, will he? So that’s the game you’re after. You’re a lawyer,

and I’m a poor, silly sailor man, so you think you can play just what

tricks with me you please. But there’s something else Captain Lander

can tell you if you ask him, and that’s that I can be disagreeable

when I’m crossed, and if you don’t move away from that door inside a

brace of shakes I’m going to be disagreeable now.”

“Don’t threaten me, my man.”

“Threaten?”

His tone suggested that he scorned being thought capable of

threatening only, and his action proved it.

He came at me with a suddenness for which I was unprepared. Putting

his arms about me while I was still unready he lifted me off my feet.

As he was still holding me aloft, crooking my leg inside his, I bore

on him with all my might, and brought him with a crash to the floor.

Although he lay underneath, his arms still retained their grip.

While I hesitated whether to attack the man in earnest or to

remonstrate with him instead--for Miss Purvis might at any moment look

in, and then a nice opinion she would have of me--someone standing

behind slipped what seemed to be a cord over my head, and drew it so

tight about my throat that in an instant I was all but choked. When,

gasping for breath, I put up my hand to free myself, it was drawn

still tighter. So tight indeed that not only did it cut like a knife,

but I felt as if my tongue was being torn out of my mouth, and I lost

all consciousness.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE TRIO RETURN.

How long I remained unconscious I could not say. When I did come to,

during some seconds I was unable to realise my position. It was like

waking out of an uncomfortably heavy sleep. Consciousness returned by

degrees, and painfully; as it were, by a series of waves, which were

like so many shocks. I was oppressed by nausea, my eyes were dim, my

brain seemed reeling, as if it were making disconcerting efforts to

retain its equilibrium. It was some time before I understood that I

was still in my own room; yet, longer before I had some faint

comprehension of the situation I was in, and of what was taking place

about me.

It was probably some minutes before I completely understood that I was

trussed like a fowl, and that the exquisite pain which I was enduring

was because of the tightness and ingenuity of my bonds. I was on the

floor with my back against the wall. Cords which were about my wrists

were attached to my ankles, passed up my back, then round my throat,

so that each movement I made I bade fair to choke myself. It was a

diabolical contrivance. The cords were thin ones--red-hot wires they

seemed to me to be, they cut my wrists like knives, and burned them as

with fire. My legs were drawn under my body in an unnatural and

uncomfortable position. They were torn by cramp, yet whenever I made

the slightest attempt to ease them I dragged at the cord which was

about my throat. One thing seemed plain, if the worst came to the

worst I should experience no difficulty in committing suicide.

Apparently I had only to let my head forward to be strangled.

By way of making the condition of affairs entirely satisfactory

something sharp had been forced into my mouth, which not only acted as

a gag, effectually preventing my uttering a sound, but which made it

difficult for me to breathe. That it was cutting me was made plain by

the blood which I was compelled to swallow.

As I have said, it was not at first that I had a clear perception of

the personal plight that I was in. When it dawned on me at last I had

a morbid satisfaction in learning that I was not alone in it. Someone

so close on the left as to be almost touching me was in a similar

plight. It was St. Luke. I had mistily imagined that that seafaring

associate of the more and more mysterious Benjamin Batters had been in

some way responsible for my misadventure. Not a bit of it. I had

wronged the honest man. So far as I could perceive, his plight was an

exact reproduction of my own. The same attention had been paid to his

physical comfort; only apparently the gag had been so placed in his

mouth as to leave him more freedom to gasp, and to grunt, and to

groan.

Who, then, was responsible for this pretty performance? What man, or

men, had I so wronged as to be deserving this return? The problem was

a nice one. I looked for the solution.

I found it, and, in doing so, found also something else, which filled

me with such a tumult of passion that I actually momentarily forgot

the egregious position I was in.

Miss Purvis had been served as I had been.

She had either, wondering at my delay, or startled by the noise,

peeped into the office, and so disturbed the ruffians at their work;

or the miscreants, penetrating into the inner room, had found her

there and dragged her out. However it had been, there she was, trussed

and gagged against the wall upon my right. They had shown no respect

for a woman, but had handled her precisely as they had done St. Luke

and me. My brain felt as if it would have burst as I thought of the

indignity with which they must have used her, and of the agony, mental

and bodily, she must have endured, and be enduring still. Her

face--her pretty face!--was white as the sheet of paper on which I

write. Her eyes--her lovely eyes!--were closed. I hoped that she had

fainted, and so was oblivious of suffering and shame. Yet, as I

watched her utter stillness, I half feared she might be dead.

The gentlemen who were responsible for this pleasant piece of work

were three. They were there before me in plain sight. It was with an

odd sense that it was just what I had expected that I recognised the

trio who had already paid me a visit in the silent watches of the

night. There was the imposing, elderly, bald-headed gentleman, who

represented length without breadth; there, also, were his two

attendant satellites. How to account for their assiduous interest in

my unpretending office was beyond my power. Nor did I understand why

it should have been necessary to use quite such drastic measures

against the lady, St. Luke, and myself. Still less--I admit it

frankly--when I observed their conspicuous lack of avoirdupois, did I

gather how they had managed to make of us so easy a prey. Under

ordinary conditions I should have been quite willing to take the three

on single-handed. The truth probably was that St. Luke and I had

unwittingly played into their dexterous hands. Had we not been engaged

in matching ourselves against each other we should have been more than

a match for them. But when they came in, and found the sailor man upon

the floor prisoning me close within his arms, all they had to do was

to slip one cord round my throat, and another round his. We were at

their mercy. No man can show much fight when he is being strangled;

especially when the job is in the hands of a skilled practitioner.

Never mind what the theory is, that is the teaching of experience.

What they wanted, with so much anxiety, in my office, I was unable to

guess. They had already purloined the God of Fortune.

Stay! It had been returned to me again. I had dropped it on the floor;

been unable to find it. Could it be that they were after it a second

time. I wondered. What peculiar significance, what attribute, could

that small plaything have?

Beyond doubt they were treating my belongings with scant regard for

the feelings of their owner? If they failed to find what they were

seeking it would not be for want of a thorough quest. Pretty well

everything the apartment contained they subjected to a minute

examination. They allowed nothing to escape them. It was delightful to

watch them. If I had been suffering a little less physical

inconvenience I should have enjoyed myself immensely. They might be

Orientals; but if they were not professional burglars in their own

country then they ought to have been. They were artists any way.

To note one point--there was such order in their methods. They began

at one corner of the room, and they worked right round it, emptying

boxes, turning out drawers, pulling the books out of their covers, and

the stuffing out of the chairs, and the furniture to pieces generally,

in search of secret hiding-places. Then they began tapping at the

walls, tearing off scraps of paper here and there, to see what was

behind. It beat me to imagine what it was that they were after, though

it was flattering to think what a first-rate hand at concealment they

must be taking me to be. Apparently they were under the impression

that a solicitor had plenty of waste time which he occupied by

secreting odds and ends in solid walls. The rapidity with which they

did all they did do was simply astonishing, particularly when one had

to admit with what thoroughness it was done. But when they came to

dragging the carpet up, and tearing boards from the floor, I began to

wonder if they were going through the house piecemeal.

The litter was beyond description. My practice might not have been a

large one, but my papers were many. When a large number of documents

are thrown down anywhere, anyhow, they are apt to look untidy. Even in

that moment of martyrdom I groaned in spirit as I thought of the

labour which their rearrangement would involve.

One mental note I did take; that, despite the eagerness with which

they turned out papers from every possible receptacle, they seemed to

attach to them but scant importance. That they were after something

connected with Mr. Benjamin Batters I had no doubt. Yet they unearthed

the Batters’ papers among the rest--even the Batters’ bonds!--and

tossed them on one side as if they contained nothing which was of

interest to them. If they were able to read English I could not tell,

but every now and then the tall, thin party glanced at a paper as if

it was not altogether Double Dutch to him.

At last, short of pulling the room itself down about their ears, they

had, apparently to their own entire dissatisfaction, exhausted its

resources. There was a pause in the operations. There ensued a

conclave. The elderly gentleman spoke, while, for the most part, the

others listened. What was being said I had no notion. They were

sparing of gesture, so no meaning was conveyed through the eye to the

brain. I am no linguist. My knowledge of Eastern tongues is nil. I did

not know what language they were speaking; had I known I should have

been no wiser. One fact, however, was unmistakable; their words were

accompanied by glances in my direction, which I did not altogether

relish. If ever I saw cruelty written on a human countenance it was on

the faces of those three gentlemen. Theirs was the love of it for its

own sake. Their faces were rather inhuman masks, expressionless,

impassive, unfeeling. It was not difficult to conceive with what

ingenuity they could contrive tortures with which to rack the nerves

of some promising subject. It was easy to believe that they would put

them into practice with the same composure with which they would

observe the sensations of the object of their curious experiments.

I had already had some experience of their skill in more than one

direction, and I did not desire a practical demonstration of it in yet

another.

And for the present I was to be spared the exhibition. It seemed that

they all at once bethought themselves that there were other apartments

of mine which still remained unsearched. Whereupon off they went to

search them. To us they paid no need. Plainly they were sufficiently

acquainted with the good qualities of their handiwork to be aware that

from us they need fear nothing. That we might be able to free

ourselves without assistance was a million to one chance which it was

unnecessary to consider. Until some one came to loose us we were

bound. Of that they were absolutely sure. So they left us there to

keep each other company, and to console each other if we could, while

they went to overhaul the rest of my establishment. It was a pleasant

thought for me to dwell upon.

Miss Purvis’ eyes were open, but that was about the only sign of life

she showed. They wandered once or twice towards me; wandered was just

the word which expressed the look which was in them. Her face was

white and drawn. There was that about it which made me doubt if even

yet she was conscious of what was being done; I wondered if the pain

which she was suffering had taken effect upon her brain. It would not

have been surprising if it had. It was only by dint of a violent and

continued exercise of will that I myself was able to retain, as it

were, a hold upon my senses. There was, first of all, the torture of

the cramped position. Then there was the way in which the cords cut

into the flesh--what particular kind of cords had been used I could

not make out, but I suspected fiddle-strings. Then there was the fact

that the slightest movement made with a view of obtaining relief

threatened not only strangulation but decapitation too.

I wondered what the time was. A laundress, one Mrs. Parsons, was

supposed to arrive at eight. It must be nearly that. I had been up for

hours; I was convinced that it was hours. It must be after eight. If

the woman had any regard for punctuality, at any moment she might

appear. If she did not arrive within five minutes she should be

dismissed. How could she expect to keep my rooms in proper order if

her habits were irregular? I had long wondered how it was my chambers

did not do me so much credit as they might have done; I had an eye for

such things although she might not think it. Now I understood. If Mrs.

Parsons would only have the sense, the honesty, the decency, to keep

to her engagements and come at once, while those scoundrels were

engaged elsewhere, in a moment I should be free. Then I would show

them.

A clock struck seven. It must be wrong. There was a second, third,

fourth, all striking seven. An hour yet before the woman was even due!

And whoever heard of a laundress who was punctual? Before she came

what might not happen? For another hour, at least, we were at the

mercy of these ingenious adventurers.

They reappeared. What havoc they had wrought in the rooms in which I

lived, and moved, and had my being, I could only guess. Either, from

their point of view, they had not done mischief enough, or the result

of what they had done had not been satisfactory. Plainly, they were

discontented. Their manner showed it. The tall gentleman spoke to his

two associates in a tone which suggested disapprobation of their

conduct. They seemed, with all possible humility, to be endeavouring

to show that the fault was not entirely theirs. This he appeared

unwilling to concede. Finally, flopping down on to their knees,

touching the floor with their foreheads, they grovelled at his feet.

So far from being appeased by this show of penitence, putting out his

right foot, he gave each of them a hearty kick. The effect this had on

them was comical. They sprang upright like a pair of automata,

endeavouring to carry themselves as if they had been the recipient of

the highest honours.

The tall gentleman moved towards Miss Purvis. They meekly hung on his

heels. He addressed to them remarks to which they scarcely ventured to

reply. He eyed the lady. Then glanced towards me. I wondered what was

the connection which he supposed existed between us. Something

menacing was in his air. He hovered above the helpless girl as a hawk

might above a pigeon. Stretching out his cruel-looking hand he thrust

it almost in her face. I expected to see her subjected to some fresh

indignity, and felt that, if she were, then rage might give me

strength to break the bonds which shackled me.

If such had been his intention, it was either deferred, or he changed

his mind. He gave a gesture in my direction. Immediately one of his

familiars, advancing, tilted me back with no more compunction than if

I had been an empty beer cask. Thrusting his filthy fingers into my

mouth he dragged out the gag with so much roughness that it tore my

tongue and palate as it passed. Returning me to the position which

suited him best, out of simple wantonness, with the hand which held

the gag he struck me a vigorous blow upon the cheek; so vigorous that,

as it jerked my head on one side it seemed to cause the thong which

was about my throat to nearly sever my head from my shoulders. Even as

he struck me I recognised in my assailant the individual who had

dogged my steps from Camford Street, and whom afterwards I had treated

to a shaking. This was his idea of crying quits. While the blood still

seemed to be whirling before my eyes I said to myself that, if all

went well, to his quittance I would add another score. The last blow

should not be his.

The removal of the gag did not at once restore to me the faculty of

speech. My mouth was bleeding, I was nearly choked by blood. My tongue

was torn, and sore, and swollen. It felt ridiculously large for the

place it was supposed to occupy. Evidently the attenuated gentleman

understood that there were reasons why I should not be expected to

join in conversation until I had been afforded an opportunity to get

the better of my feelings. He stood regarding me, his parchment-like

visage perfectly expressionless, as if he were awaiting the period

when I might be reasonably required to give voice to my emotions.

When, as I take it, he supposed such a time to have arrived, he

addressed me, to my surprise, in English, which was not bad of its

kind.

“Where is the Great Joss?”

I had no notion what he meant. Had I understood him perfectly I should

have been unable to give him the information he required. So soon as I

attempted to speak I found that my tongue refused, literally, to do

its office. I could only produce those mumbling sounds which proceed,

sometimes, from the mouths of those who are dumb.

In his judgment, however, it seemed that I ought already to have

advanced to perfect clarity of utterance. He repeated his inquiry.

“Where is the Great Joss? I am in haste. Tell me quick.”

“Untie my hands and throat.”

That was my reply. The words, as they came from my lips, assumed a

guise in which they could hardly have been recognisable for what they

were meant to be, so inarticulately were they spoken. Whether he

understood them I could not say, he ignored their meaning if he did.

One of his satellites--the one who had struck me--hazarded an

observation, with a deep inclination of his head, but his superior

paid no heed to him whatever. He persisted in his previous inquiry.

“Tell me, where is the Great Joss?”

With an effort I mumbled an answer.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Evidently the reply did not fall in with his view at all; he

disbelieved it utterly.

“Tell me where is the Great Joss, or the woman shall die.”

His meaning was unmistakable. He stretched out his finger towards Miss

Purvis with a gesture. That he was capable of murder I had not the

slightest doubt. That he would make nothing of having an innocent,

unoffending girl tortured to death before my eyes I believed. Fleet

Street might be within a hop, skip, and a jump; but, for the present,

this spot in its immediate neighbourhood was delivered over to the

methods of the East. If I could not afford this monster, who had

sprung from some unknown oriental haunt of merciless fiends, the

satisfaction he demanded, I might expect the worst to happen before

help could come. With him I felt assured that in such matters one

could rely upon the word being followed by the blow.

I made an effort to appease him.

“I don’t know where your Joss is. It dropped upon the floor.”

My reference, of course, was to the toy which Miss Blyth had given me,

and which, when I had let it fall, I was unable to find. Still my

answer did not seem to be the one he wanted. He scrutinised me in

silence for some seconds before he gave me to understand as much.

“You play with me?”

There was that in his tone which was anything but playful. I made all

possible haste to deny the soft impeachment.

“I don’t. Is it the God of Fortune you are after?”

“The God of Fortune? What do you know about the God of Fortune?”

“It was given to me. I let it drop. When I came to look for it I

couldn’t find it anywhere.”

There was something about my reply which he did not like. I was sure

of it by the way in which he spoke, in that unknown tongue, to his

associates. Instantly they approached Miss Purvis, standing one on

either side of her. Their attitude was ominous.

“Do you wish that she shall die?”

I did not. I could scarcely have more strenuously desired that she

should live. As I told him with such clearness of language as I could

muster. Considering all things I was eloquent.

“What it is you want from me I don’t know; consciously I have nothing

which is yours. But you had better understand this, if you are able to

understand anything at all, that only for a minute or two at most are

we in your power. If you want to be let off lightly you will loose

that lady at once; if you harm so much as a hair of her head the law

of England will make you pay for it dearly.”

In reply the fellow was arrogance itself.

“What do we care for your law? What has your law to do with us? Are we

dogs that you should use us as you choose? You have stolen, and have

hidden, the Great Joss. Return him to us; or as you have shamed us so

we will shame you.”

“Not only have I not stolen the Great Joss, but I don’t even know what

the Great Joss is. The only Joss I’ve seen was one about the size of

my finger, which, as I’ve told you already, I dropped on the floor,

and couldn’t find.”

“You laugh at us.”

“I do not laugh. I am speaking the simple, absolute truth.”

“You lie. The gods have told us that the secret of the hiding-place of

the Great Joss is here. Show it to us quickly, or the woman shall

die.”

“It is your gods who lie, not I.”

The fellow said something to his colleagues. At once, whipping Miss

Purvis from off the floor, just for all the world as if she were a

trussed fowl, they placed her on the table.

“Be careful what you do!” I shouted.

“It is for you to be careful. We come from far across the sea to look

for the Great Joss, which you and yours have stolen, and you make a

mock of us. We are not children that we may be mocked. Give us what is

ours, or we will take what is yours, though we desire it not, and the

woman shall die.”

“I tell you, man, that if anyone has robbed you it isn’t I. I have not

the faintest notion who you are, or what you’re after; and as for your

Great Joss, I’ve not the least idea what a Great Joss is. What I say

is a simple statement of fact; and what reason you suppose yourself to

have for doubting me is beyond my comprehension.”

“That is your answer?”

“Don’t speak as if you suspected me of a deliberate intention to

deceive. What other answer can I give? If, as is possible, you are

suffering from a genuine grievance, I shall be glad to be of any

assistance I can. But you must first give me clearly to understand

what it is you’re after. At present I am completely in the dark.”

“The woman must die.”

The fellow was impervious to reason. He repeated the words with a

passionless calm which added to their significance. Again I screamed

at him:

“You had better be careful!”

He ignored me utterly. Turning to his collaborators he issued an order

which was promptly obeyed. Loosing Miss Purvis’ bonds they stretched

her out upon the table, and tied her on it with a dexterous rapidity

which denoted considerable practice in similar operations. I observed

the proceedings with sensations which are not to be described. I had

hoped that at the last extremity rage would supply me with strength

with which to burst the cords which prevented me from going to her

assistance. I had hoped in vain. The only result of my frenzied

struggles was to increase the tension, and to make my helplessness, if

possible, still clearer.

“Help! help!” I yelled. “Help!”

I was aware that I was the only person who lived in the house, and

that the hour was yet too early for the occupants of offices to have

arrived. But I was actuated by a forlorn hope that my voice might

reach someone who was in a position to render aid. None came. What I

had endured, and was enduring, had robbed my voice of more than half

its power. And though I shouted with what, at the moment, was the full

force of my lungs, I was only too conscious that my utterance was too

inarticulate, too feeble, to allow my words to travel far.

As for that attenuated fiend, who, it was clear, was not by any means

so long as he was wicked, he regarded my maniacal contortions with a

degree of imperturbability which seemed to me to be the climax of

inhumanity. Although it was certain that he both saw and heard me,

since it was impossible that it could be otherwise, not by so much as

the movement of a muscle did he betray the fact. He suffered me to

writhe and scream to my heart’s content. He simply took no notice;

that was all. When the process of tying down Miss Purvis had been

completed, being informed of the fact by one of his assistants, he

turned to examine, with a critical eye, how the work had been done.

Moving round the table, he tried each ligature with his finger as he

passed. Since he found no fault, apparently the way in which the woman

had been laid out for slaughter met with his complete approval.

He condescended once more to bestow his attention upon me.

“For the last time--where is the Great Joss?”

“I can’t tell you--how can I tell you if I don’t know what the Great

Joss is? For God’s sake, man, tell me what it is you’re really after

before you go too far. If you want my help, give me a chance to offer

it. Explain to me what the Great Joss is. It is possible, since you

appear to be so positive, that I do know something of its whereabouts.

Tell me, clearly, what it is, and all I know is at your service. Put

my words to the test, and you will find that they are true ones.”

To me it seemed impossible that even such an addle-headed idiot as the

individual in front of me could fail to see that I was speaking the

truth. But he did, he failed entirely. He had convictions of his own,

of which he was not to be disabused.

“You lie again, making a mock of the gods. To the gods the woman shall

be offered as a sacrifice.”

He spoke with a passionless calm which denoted a set purpose from

which there was no turning him.

I raved, I screamed myself hoarse. He paid no heed. I could do no

more. I could either keep my eyes open and watch what went on, or

close them, and my imagination would present me with pictures more

lurid still. The situation was not rendered more agreeable by the fact

that, although they had not given her back the power of speech, as

they had done me, by the removal of the gag, I was conscious that she

was perfectly cognisant of all that was being said, and especially of

the frenzied appeals which I made on her behalf--in vain.

During the minutes which followed I was as one distraught. Now I

watched, with wide open staring eyes; now I shut them, in a sudden

paroxysm of doubt as to what horror I might be compelled to be an

unwilling witness; then, being haunted by frightful imaginings of what

might be transpiring without my knowledge--for she could make no

sound--I opened them again to see.

The three scoundrels set about their hideous business with a matter of

fact air which suggested that, in their opinion, they were doing

nothing out of the common. And perhaps, in that genial portion of the

world from which they came, such butcheries were the everyday events

of their lives.

The tall man issued some curt instructions. The two shorter ones set

about gathering the papers which were scattered about the room, and

piling them in a heap beneath the table. On these they placed more or

less inflammable fragments of my solider belongings. It seemed to be

their intention to have a bonfire on lines of their own. Unless they

were acquainted with a trick or two in that direction, as well as in

others, how they proposed to keep it alight, after ignition, one was

at a loss to understand.

About the procedure of the principal villain there was no such room

for doubt. There was a frankness in his proceedings which caused me

now to shriek at him in half imbecile, because wholly impotent, rage;

and now to shut my eyes in terror of what he might be doing next.

By way of a commencement he took from some receptacle in his clothing

what turned out to be a curiously shaped lamp. This he placed on the

table at Miss Purvis’ feet. Having lit it by the commonplace means of

a match from a box of mine which was on the mantelpiece, he threw on

it, at short intervals, what was probably some variation of what

firework vendors describe as “coloured fire.” The result was that

surrounding objects assumed unusual hues, and the room was filled with

a vapour, which was not only obscuring, but malodorous. From his bosom

he produced an evil-looking knife. Laying a defiling hand upon his

victim’s throat, partly by sheer force, partly by the aid of his

knife, he tore her garments open nearly to the waist. Bending over

her, he seemed to be marking out some sort of design with the point of

his blade on the bare skin, in the region of the heart. Drawing

himself upright he suffered his voluminous sleeves to fall back, and

bared his arms, as a surgeon might do prior to commencing an

operation.

Then he leaned over her again; his knife held out.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE GOD OUT OF THE MACHINE.

How it all happened I have but a misty notion.

My eyelids were twitching; my eyes were neither shut nor open. I could

not look, nor hide from myself the knowledge of what was being done. I

saw the silent woman, the whiteness of her flesh, the gleam of steel,

the tall figure stooping over her. There were the attendant demons,

one on either side. All was still. My voice had perished, I could no

longer utter a sound. And all that was done by the man with the knife

was done in silence.

So acute was the stillness I listened for the entry of the steel into

the flesh--as if that were audible!

Then, on a sudden, all was pandemonium. Of the exact sequence in which

events occurred, I have, as I have said, but a shadowy impression.

Something struck the fellow with the knife full in the face. What it

was at the moment I could not tell. I learnt afterwards that it was a

soft, peaked sailor’s cap, thrown by a strong wrist, with unerring

aim. The impact was not a slight one. Taken unawares the tall man

staggered; he had been hit clean between the eyes. He put his hand up

to his face, as if bewildered. Before he had it down again he had been

seized by the shoulders, flung to the ground, and the knife wrenched

from him.

His assailant was Captain Lander.

“Lander!” I gasped.

The captain glanced in my direction, then at the woman stretched upon

the table, then at the gentleman upon the floor. Him he appeared to

recognise.

“So it’s you, is it? What devil’s work have you been up to now? This

is not Tongkin! Look out there--stop ’em, my lads!”

The attendant demons, perceiving that a change had come o’er the

spirit of the scene, were making for the window, judging, doubtless,

discretion to be the better part of valour. I then learned that

Captain Lander was not alone. He had three companions. These made

short work of stopping the flight of the ingenuous colleagues. One of

the captain’s companions, a man of somewhat remarkable build, gripping

the pair by the nape of the neck by either hand, banged their heads

together. It was a spectacle which I found agreeable to behold.

The long gentleman was rising from the ground. The captain assisted

him by dragging him up by the shoulder. They observed each other with

looks which were not looks of love. The captain jeered.

“So we’ve met again, have we? It seems as if you and I were bound to

meet. We must be fond of one another.”

The other replied with the retort discourteous.

“You dog! You thief! You accursed!”

He seemed to be nearly beside himself with rage, which under the

circumstances, perhaps, was not surprising.

The words apparently conveyed a taunt which drove the man to madness.

Forgetful of the disparity which existed between them and how little

he was the captain’s match, he flung himself at him with the

unreflecting frenzy of some wild cat. Lander laughed. Putting his arms

about the frantic man, with a grin he compressed them tighter and

tighter till I half expected to see him squeeze the life right out.

When he relaxed his hold the other had had enough. Tottering back

against the wall, he leaned against it, breathless. I had supposed his

face to be a mask, incapable of expression, but perceived my error

when I noted the glances with which he regarded his late antagonist.

Careless of how the other might be observing him, Lander, with a few

quick touches of the tall gentleman’s own knife, released the girl who

had already, in very truth, tasted of the bitterness of death. Seeing

the gag, he withdrew it with a tenderness which was almost feminine.

His own coat he threw over her shoulders. A tremor passed all over

her; she raised herself a little; then, with a sigh, sank back upon

the table.

As if satisfied that with her all would now be well, Lander turned to

me. In a moment my bonds were severed.

“Why, Mr. Paine, how come you in this galley?”

“That is more than I can tell. Is the lady badly hurt?”

“Not she. She’ll be all right in a minute. I came just in time.” He

uttered an exclamation on perceiving the sailor man, Luke, bound, at

my side. “Why, it’s the Apostle! Lads, here’s our friend, Luke! The

trusty soul! Tied hand and foot, just like a common cur--and gagged as

well! Mr. Luke, this is an unexpected pleasure! We’ll have the gag out

at any rate, if only for the sake of hearing your dear old tongue

start wagging. I hope that didn’t hurt you; you must excuse a little

roughness, for old acquaintance, but I think we’ll leave you tied.”

Mr. Luke seemed to experience as much difficulty in recovering the

faculty of speech as I had done. Stammering words came from his

bleeding lips.

“Then--in that case--you’d better--kill me.”

“No: we won’t kill you, not just yet; though I would have killed you

out of hand, if I could have got within reach of you--you know when.

On second thoughts I fancy we’ll untie you. Pray tell us, Mr. Luke,

where’s the Great Joss now?”

Mr. Luke was stretching his limbs, gingerly, apparently finding the

process anything but an agreeable one.

“That’s--what I--want to know,” he mumbled.

“No? Is that so? you done too? Poor Luke! how sad to think your

confidence should have been misplaced. It’s a treacherous world.” The

captain turned to me. “Mr. Paine, I believe you are the only person

who can give us precise information as to the present whereabouts of

the Great Joss.”

“I?”

I stared at him amazed.

“Yes, you. I’ll tell you why I think so.”

BOOK IV.

THE JOSS.

(CAPTAIN MAX LANDER SETS FORTH THE CURIOUS ADVENTURE WHICH MARKED THE

VOYAGE OF THE “FLYING SCUD.”)