MARGARET PAYS A CALL
The next morning, between eleven o'clock and noon, Margaret went
out visiting. She had paid much attention to her costume, more
than she was wont to do. Her mind travelled back to the day on
which she had been repulsed from Cuthbert Grahame's door; she
endeavoured to recall what on that occasion she had worn. Women
have a mnemonic system of their own; with them clothes and
events are inseparably associated. They recall one by a
reference to the other. Miss Wallace had no difficulty in
recollecting precisely what garments she had worn; she had even
a fair perception of how she had looked in them. She made it her
immediate purpose to look again as much as possible as she had
looked then. Almost providentially, as it seemed, the dress
itself was still in existence, hidden away at the bottom of a
box. She had never worn it since. First, because, although cheap
enough, it was fashioned of very delicate material, and the hot
water which had been poured upon her had blotched it here and
there with stains which she had found it impossible to attempt
to conceal. Then it was connected with an episode which,
whenever she saw it, would instantly recur. The recurrence
afforded her no pleasure. As, after excavating it, she surveyed
its many creases, she meditated.
"It almost looks as if, from the first, I had preserved it with
a particular end in view, with the intention of producing it,
when the mathematical moment arrived, as what the French call a
_piece de conviction_. It's ages behind the fashion, but that
will only serve to impress its significance more forcibly on
her."
She contrived something in the way of head-gear which was
reminiscent of the hat she had worn that day. Her nimble fingers
reproduced the various trifles which in a woman's attire are of
such capital importance; she even dressed her hair in a fashion
which was obsolete. When, fully costumed, she surveyed herself
in a looking-glass, it seemed to her that the results were most
surprising.
"Wonderful how the modes do change! It is not so many years ago,
and I am sure that then I was up-to-date; but now I look as if I
had come out of the ark; I might be in fancy-dress. I shall have
to take a cab; I should never dare to walk through the streets
like this; they'd take me for a guy. When Mrs. Gregory Lamb sees
me, if she's still in anything like the state of mind which that
charming husband of hers described last night, it won't be
wonderful if she takes me for a ghost."
She put in a portfolio certain drawings which she had risen at a
very matutinal hour to make; the portfolio she placed beneath
her arm, and, thus equipped, she sallied forth upon her errand.
The street in which she had her lodging being of modest
pretensions, was but little frequented by cabs. She had a five
minutes' walk before she found one. And during that short
promenade she was the object of so much attention, especially
from the females as she passed, that she was glad when, seated
in a hansom, she was at least partially concealed by the
friendly apron.
She found the door of Mrs. Lamb's residence in Connaught Square
wide open. On the steps stood a shabbily dressed man, with his
hands in his trouser pockets, an ancient bowler pressed tightly
down upon his head, and a clay pipe between his lips. When
Margaret addressed him he moved neither his hat, nor himself,
nor his pipe.
"Is Mrs. Lamb in?"
"From what the governor told me I shouldn't be surprised but
what she's gone back to bed."
Margaret considered the man's words. His manner was not exactly
rude, it was peculiar.
"Which is her bedroom?"
"That's more than I can tell you. I ain't been upstairs myself.
I've got a bad leg, and ain't too fond of going up and down
stairs, especially when there ain't no need of it. But you'll
find it somewhere that way, I expect."
"May I ask who you are?"
"Me?" Taking his pipe out, the man drew the back of his hand
across his lips. "I'm representing the landlord; that's what I
am."
"Representing the landlord? Do you mean that you're a bailiff?"
"A bailiff--that's it! I'm in possession; three quarters'
rent--nearly four. My governor was only just in time. Seems
there's a bill of sale on the furniture. They came up with their
vans as my governor was going over the place; wanted to clear
everything out, they did. Of course my governor soon put a
stopper on that. There was a bit of a talk. I shouldn't be
surprised if they was to pay my governor out. It's a queer
business from what I hear."
"Please let me pass, I want to see Mrs. Lamb."
The man drew well back into the house.
"Certainly; any lady can see Mrs. Lamb for what I care. I expect
you'll find her somewhere about upstairs."
As she ascended the staircase Miss Wallace indulged in inward
comments.
"The house looked very different the night before last; nobody
would have guessed then that the shadow of ruin was already
hovering over it. She must be a curious person to give a party
to all that crowd of people when she knew that at any hour the
brokers might be in for rent. And to talk of financing Harry's
play! and paying him three hundred a year for doing nothing! But
then she is a curious person. The house looks as if nothing had
been touched in it since Mrs. Lamb's reception came to a
premature conclusion--it smells like it too. What have we here?
What a state of things!"
She glanced into the drawing-rooms, which remained in a state of
amazing confusion. Mounting to the floor above she found herself
confronted by two closed doors.
"I wonder if one of these is her bedroom. I'll try this."
She turned the handle of the door which was directly in front of
her, softly, and walked right in. It was the lady's bedroom, and
the lady was in bed. Margaret had entered so quietly that
apparently not the slightest sound had informed the mistress of
the house that any one was there. The girl stood still.
"Pah! what an atmosphere! I'd sooner have every pane of glass
broken than breathe air like this. I shouldn't think the windows
have been open for days." She glanced at the bed. "Is she
asleep?--at this hour?--with the broker's man downstairs?"
Laying her portfolio on a small table, she moved closer to the
bed. Its occupant continued motionless. The girl, leaning
forward, touched her, lightly, on the shoulder. Still no sign of
life. The girl exchanged the light touch for a sudden, vigorous
grip, giving the shoulder a wrench which must have roused the
soundest sleeper. The woman started up in bed.
"Luker! is that you?" she cried.
When freshly roused from slumber, she saw who it was; her first
impression seemed to be that she was still the victim of some
haunting dream. Speechless, she stared at the girl, drawing
farther and farther back the longer she stared. Her whole
frame--her pose, her limbs, the muscles of her face--seemed to
become rigid, set, as if she were afflicted by some new and
awful form of tetanus. She appeared to be incapable of twitching
a lip or of moving an eyelid. Even when Margaret spoke she
persisted in her fixed and dreadful glare, as if she were some
unpleasant statue.
"I am Margaret Wallace--as you are aware. I am she whom you
drove from Cuthbert Grahame's door, pretending you were Nannie
Foreshaw. These are the clothes I was wearing when you drove me
away with lies and with hot water. See--here are the stains of
that hot water still. Your sin has found you out; judgment is
pronounced; your punishment has already begun. Between you and
me it is a duel to the death. It is your choice, not mine, but
since you have forced it on me, I will fight you to the end, and
I shall win. I know all about you--who you are, what you've
done. I know that you were already a wife when you pretended to
marry Cuthbert Grahame; that you committed bigamy. I know that
you got that will from him by means of a trick. I know that so
soon as you had got it you murdered him. You snatched the
pillows from under his head--see! like that!" She caught up the
two pillows which lay upon the bolster and dropped them on the
floor. "Can't you hear the noise he makes in trying to breathe?
He's choking. You've only to leave him like that for a little
while, and he'll be dead. And you left him! I know--I know."
The woman listened to the hot, eager words which streamed from
the girl's lips as if the speaker were some supernatural
visitor, and the accusations were being hurled at her from on
high; and still she never moved a muscle, she even seemed to
cease to breathe.
"You see!--we are in Cuthbert Grahame's bedroom, you and I. I
know it as well as you do--better--and you know it very well.
You'll never forget it--never!--to the last moment of your life.
There is the mantelpiece; it is made of wood--carved wood. It is
old; old as the house itself; beautifully carved. You see there
are two wooden pillars, one on either side, carved so that they
stand out. You are quite right in supposing that there is
something about them which you ought to see, to understand. I
have come to tell you--to show you--what it is."
Taking from her portfolio two drawings she held first one and
then the other in front of the motionless woman.
"I have made a drawing of the mantelpiece, just as you see it,
and as I see it, and as it is. Is it not like it? Here are the
two side-posts; but here"--exchanging one drawing for the
other--"is only one of them. That is a picture of the pillar
which is on the left-hand side of the mantelpiece as you stand
in front of it--you will remember, on the left-hand side. I have
written down an exact description of it in case you should
forget, because there is only one thing which you will never
forget, and that is on the bed. Look closely at the drawing; it
represents the pillar exactly. This long, slender part, which
runs from here to here, is called the shaft. You hold it with
both hands, or, as you are very strong, you will perhaps be
able to manage with one, and you turn it right round in its
socket--completely round. It will probably be a little stiff, as
it has not been touched for so long; but you'll find that you'll
be able to make it move. This narrow piece at the top is called
the neck. After you have turned the column you pull it to the
left. It slides in two grooves. It may be a little stiff, like
the column, but if you push, or pull, hard enough, and long
enough, it will yield. This still narrower piece near the foot
of the column, just above the plinth--the plinth in the bottom
of a column is called the _torus_, or the _tore_ (_torus_
is a Latin word which architects use, and it just means
swelling)--when you have turned the pillar, and slipped the
neck, you get as firm a grip on the top of the torus as you can,
give a smart jerk, and it will fall over on a hinge. Have you
ever read _The Arabian Nights?_ You don't look as if you had
read anything. If you haven't, you never will; you'll never have
a chance. But I suppose you've heard of Ali Baba and the Forty
Thieves; the cave in which they kept their treasure; the
password, 'Open Sesame,' which caused the cave to open. All
these man[oe]uvres of which I have been telling you--turning the
shaft, sliding the neck, pulling forward the torus--are the
'Open Sesame' which will lead you to the place where the
treasure is--greater treasure than was in the cave of the forty
thieves. These performances which you will have gone through
will have unlocked, unbolted and unbarred. All that remains is
that you slide that whole side of the mantelpiece to the left.
You'll have no difficulty. Behind you'll discover a cupboard,
deep though narrow, going far back into the wall, with shelves
laden with treasures. On those shelves is the quarter of a
million of money--I daresay more--which once was Cuthbert
Grahame's, waiting for some one to carry it away! Here are the
two drawings which are the key to the riddle. I present them to
you freely. They were made specially for you. Although the
broker's man is in for rent, and the bill of sale men clamour at
the door, and you are penniless, and ruin stares you in the
face--ruin utter and complete--though your need of it's so
great, you'll not get that money which is hidden in the
mantelpiece--you'll not dare! you'll not dare! Because the bed
still stands in the room--you can see it now!--the bed on which
you murdered Cuthbert Grahame; and Cuthbert Grahame still lies
on it--you can see him too!--waiting and watching for you to
return to where you threw the pillows on the floor--waiting and
watching for you. You'll not dare go back into that room again,
because in it the dead hand is waiting to grip you by the
throat. And after to-morrow it will be too late--Cuthbert
Grahame's money will be there no longer. Here are the drawings.
I will leave them with you, as I said. You will be able to study
them at your leisure, conscious of who is looking over your
shoulder."
Margaret laid the drawings on the coverlet. With her portfolio
again beneath her arm she quitted the room, as noiselessly as
she had entered. All the time Mrs. Gregory Lamb had not moved or
spoken a word.