By the time he reached the castle, the night was dark indeed. He
approached it by the path along the burn, and felt his way cautiously up
the steep zigzags of the hill, and past the servants' quarters, where a
dog barked and gave him an uneasy minute till he found that it was tied
up, and that the noise which issued from a brilliantly lighted
window--which he guessed to be the servants' hall--did not cease or
diminish on account of it.
There were no other lights to be seen, and he edged his way round to the
front of the house, which loomed very black and mysterious against the
liquid darkness of the moonless sky. A little wind had risen, and the
sound of a million leaves rustling gently on the trees of the woods
around was added to the distant murmur of the burn, so that the night
seemed full of noises, and every bush alive and watching.
Keeping on the grass, and with every precaution of silence, Gimblet crept
along till he thought he was outside the drawing-room.
It did not take him long to find the window he had left unlatched that
afternoon, but it was an anxious moment till he made sure that no one had
noticed it and that it was yet unfastened. If a careful housemaid had
discovered it and shut it, he would have to begin housebreaking in
earnest. Luckily it opened easily at his touch, and he lost no time in
climbing in, though it was rather a tight squeeze through the narrow
imitation Gothic mullions, and he was thankful there were no bars as in
the library.
He had more than once during his career found himself obliged to enter
other people's houses in this unceremonious, not to say burglarious
fashion. But it was always an exciting experience; and his heart beat a
trifle faster than usual as he stood motionless by the window, straining
his ears for the sound of any movement on the part of the household.
Nothing stirred, however, and by the help of an occasional gleam from his
pocket electric torch Gimblet made his way to the door, and through the
deserted house to the distant passage leading to the old tower. Once
inside the library he breathed more freely, and when, after holding his
breath for some minutes, he had made certain that the absolute silence of
the place continued unbroken by any suspicion of noise, he felt safer
still. His first act was to draw the curtains, and to fasten them
together in the middle with a large safety-pin he had brought for the
purpose. Then, secure from observation, he switched on his torch, placed
it on the table with its back to the window, and set about what he had
come to do.
As he had not failed to observe, earlier in the day, the book-lined walls
of the library were broken, opposite the window, by a panelled alcove
where a small table stood, beyond which, against the wall, was a very
large and tall grandfather's clock of black and gold lacquer, in
imitation of the Chinese designs so popular in the eighteenth century.
Among Lord Ashiel's last words, "The clock" had been uttered immediately
after the detective's own name. No doubt they formed part of a message he
wished to convey; and, though they might refer to any clock in or out of
the house, it seemed to Gimblet worth while to begin his investigations
with the one nearest at hand, and he turned his attention to it without
loss of time.
Gimblet was a connoisseur of the antique, and a few minutes' examination
proved to him that this was a genuine old clock, untouched by the
restorer's hand, and in an excellent state of preservation. The works
appeared all right as far as he could make out, but through the narrow
half-moon of glass, so often inserted in the cases of old clocks for the
purpose of displaying the pendulum, that article was not to be seen, and
he found that it was missing from inside the case, as were also the
weights, so that it was impossible to set it going. There was one odd
thing about it, which the detective had already remarked: it was firmly
fixed to the wall by large screws, and he thought that there must be some
opening through the back into a receptacle contrived in the panelling
behind it. The case was so large that he was able to get inside it, and
examine inch by inch the wood of the interior, which was lacquered a
plain black.
But his most careful tappings and testings could discover no hidden
spring, nor, even by the help of the electric torch--which he passed all
over the smooth surfaces of the walls--could he discern the slightest
join or crack. Could there be a hiding place up among the wheels of the
motionless works? His utmost endeavours could discover none. The clock
was fully eight feet high, but with the help of a stool, which he put
inside on the floor of the case, he was able to explore even the topmost
corners. All to no purpose.
Presently he abandoned that field of research, replaced the stool whence
he had taken it, and gave his attention to the surrounding walls. He
examined each panel with the most painstaking care, but could find
nothing. There was no sign of secret drawer or cupboard anywhere.
It was disappointing, and he drew back, baffled for the moment
"The clock--eleven--steps."
What was the connection between those broken words?
If eleven o'clock had anything to do with the answer to the riddle, it
could not refer to this particular clock, which pointed unwaveringly to
thirteen minutes past four. Could it be possible that at eleven there
appeared some change in its countenance? Was it controlled by some
invisible mechanism? Well, if so, he would witness the transformation,
but such a solution did not seem likely. Was there no other meaning
applicable to the words? He would try the last ones and assume that
eleven steps from somewhere, the clock, probably, would bring him to the
hiding-place where the precious papers had been deposited.
Placing his heel against the bottom of the black-and-gold case, he walked
forward for eleven paces, which brought him right into the bow of the
window. Here he bent down, and, with the torch in one hand, and a small
magnifying lens that he was never without in the other, searched the
floor eagerly for some join in the boards, which should denote the edge
of a trap-door or an opening of some sort.
He could find none.
Again and again he tried, till at last he had examined the whole flooring
of the embrasure of the window.
No other part of the room was wide enough to allow him to take eleven
steps, and he reluctantly came to the conclusion that he must be on the
wrong tack.
There seemed no more to do but to wait till eleven should strike, in the
faint hope that something would happen then; and Gimblet sat down in one
of the large arm-chairs and prepared for an hour's lonely vigil. He put
his lamp in his pocket and sat in the dark, for he had an uneasy feeling
that Mark might return from the cottage and catch him pursuing his
investigations in a way which might not appeal to the average
householder. True, it seemed unlikely that anyone would come so late to
that side of the castle; but one never knew, and the thought of being
caught at his housebreaking added to the irritation produced by the
failure of his search.
"The clock--eleven--steppes." What had Lord Ashiel been trying to say?
Why in the world had he put off writing till so late? These and like
questions Gimblet asked himself fretfully, as he waited, curled in a deep
arm-chair among the black shapes of furniture which loomed around him,
indefinite and almost invisible, even to eyes accustomed to the darkness,
as his now were.
Suddenly he raised his head and listened, holding his breath in strained
attention. He had caught the sound of distant footsteps.
In an instant he was up and had leapt to the window, where his fingers
fumbled with the safety-pin that held the curtains together. No tell-tale
mark of his presence must be left.
But where should he hide? The sounds were becoming more distinct every
second; no escape seemed possible. There was no help for it, and he was
bound to be discovered; he must put as good a face on it as he could
contrive. The person approaching might, after all, not come into the
library, but go back again along the passage. It might only be some one
coming to see that the door to the garden was properly bolted.
These thoughts flashed through the detective's mind so quickly as to
be practically simultaneous, and then almost at the same moment he
realized that the footsteps did not come from the passage at all, but
from under the room he was waiting in. In a flash he had grasped the
full significance of this unexpected fact, and was tiptoeing across
to the door.
The handle turned noiselessly in his fingers, thanks to the precaution he
had taken of oiling it, and he slipped outside.
In the dark and empty passage he took to his heels and ran swiftly back
to the drawing-room, nor paused till he was outside on the lawn once
more. There he hung for an instant in the wind; bearings must be taken,
the nearest way to the enclosed garden decided on, any dangerous reefs
that lay on the way steered clear of. Then he was off again on the new
tack. This led him round to the back of the holly hedge, and the arched
opening by the gardeners' tool-shed.
He turned in under it and sped silently over the turf, till he found
himself outside the door to the old tower. From the library window a
narrow shaft of light was issuing out on to the flower-bed.
Gimblet took off his coat and threw it on to the bed. He put a foot upon
one sleeve, and, stooping down, spread the other out in front of him as
far as it would go. Then he stepped upon that one and twisted the coat
round under him to repeat the process. In this way he arrived under the
window without leaving any imprint of his boots upon the soft earth. Once
there he raised himself cautiously and peered into the room.
By the writing-table, and so close to him that he could almost have
touched her if they had not been separated by the glass, stood a
young woman.
She held a little electric lantern, much like his own, in her left hand,
while with the other she turned over the leaves of a bundle of papers. An
open drawer in the writing-table betrayed whence they had been taken; and
she was so entirely engrossed in what she was about that the detective
felt little fear of being noticed by her, concealed as he was in the
outer darkness.
He saw that she was short and slight, with a beautiful little head set
gracefully upon her upright slender figure. Her expression was proud and
self-contained, but the large dark eyes that glowed beneath long black
lashes were in themselves striking evidence of a passionate nature
sternly repressed, and an eloquent contradiction to the firm, tightly
compressed lips. Here, thought Gimblet, was a nature which might pursue
its object with cold and calculating tenacity, and then at the last
moment let the prize slip through its fingers at some sudden call upon
the emotions.
For the time being her thoughts were evidently fixed upon her present
purpose, to the exclusion of all considerations such as might have been
expected to obtrude themselves upon the mind of a young girl engaged in a
nocturnal raid. The dark solitude, the lateness of the hour, the
surreptitious manner of her entry into the room, all these, which might
well have occasioned some degree of nervousness in the coolest of
housebreakers, appeared to produce, in her, nothing of the sort. As
calmly as if she were sitting by her own bedside, she examined the
documents in Lord Ashiel's bureau, sorting and folding the contents of
one drawer after another as if it were the most commonplace thing in the
world to go over other people's private papers in the dead of night.
And what was she looking for?
Gimblet felt no doubt on that subject. This could surely be no other than
Julia, the adopted daughter of Countess Romaninov, whom Lord Ashiel had
for so long supposed to be his daughter. In some way or other she must
have discovered the problematic relationship, and now she was hunting for
proof of her birth, or perhaps for the will which should deprive her of
her inheritance. It was even possible that the dead peer had been
mistaken, and that Julia was indeed his daughter and not unaware of the
fact. But what was she doing here, and where did she come from? Surely
Juliet had told him that all the guests had left the castle.
Gimblet had never seen her before; but, as he watched her slow
deliberate movements and quick intelligent eyes, he had an odd feeling
that they were already acquainted. She reminded him of some one; how, he
couldn't say. Perhaps it was the features, perhaps merely the
expression, but if they had never previously met, at least he must have
seen some one she resembled. Rack his brains as he might, he could not
remember who it was. He put the thought aside. Sooner or later the
recollection would come to him.
The night was a warm one, and Gimblet felt no need for his coat, though
he was a little uneasy lest his white shirt should show up against the
dark background if she should chance to look out. Behind him the trees in
the wood stirred noisily and untiringly in the wind, and from time to
time an owl cried out of the gloom; but no sound from within the castle
reached his ears throughout the long hour during which he stood watching
while deftly and methodically the young lady in the library went about
her business. He wondered if this girl, who stealthily, in the night, by
the gleam of a pocket lantern, was engaged in such questionable
employment, were unwarrantably ransacking the belongings of her former
host, or believed herself to be exercising a daughter's right in going
over the papers of a dead parent.
The time came when the last paper was examined, the last drawer quietly
pushed back into its place; then, with every sign of disappointment, she
slowly rose, and taking up her torch made the tour of the room as if
debating whether she had not left some corner unexplored. But the library
was scantily furnished, apart from the books that lined the walls, and
though she drew more than one volume from its place, and thrust a hand
into the back of the shelf, it was with a dispirited air. Soon, with a
glance at her watch, she abandoned the search, and slowly and
hesitatingly moved in the direction of the door and laid her fingers upon
the handle.
She did not turn it, however, but stood irresolute, her eyes on the
floor. After a moment of indecision, the detective saw her mouth compress
firmly, and with a quick movement of the head, as if she were shaking
herself free from some persistent and troublesome thought, she turned
and walked deliberately towards the alcove at the end of the room.
"Now," thought Gimblet, "we shall see where the secret door is
concealed."
Judge of his surprise and excitement, when the girl stopped before the
tall case of the lacquered clock and, opening it, stepped inside and drew
the door to behind her. For five minutes, with nose pressed to the pane
of the window, the detective waited, expecting her to reappear; then an
idea struck him, and he clapped his hand against his leg in his
exasperation at not having guessed before.
He turned immediately, and using the same precautions as before made
good his retreat, and returned by way of the drawing-room window to
the library.
All was silent there, and the empty room displayed no sign of its
nocturnal visitors. Gimblet did not hesitate. He went straight to the
clock and pulled open the door. The black interior was as empty and bare
as when he had previously examined it, but he betrayed neither
astonishment nor doubt as to his next action.
Stooping down he ran his hand over the painted wooden flooring. As he
expected, his fingers encountered a small knob in one of the corners,
and he had no sooner pressed it when the whole bottom of the case fell
suddenly away beneath his touch. As he stretched down the hand that held
the electric torch, the light fell upon an open trap-door and the
topmost step of a narrow flight of stairs, which descended into the
thickness of the wall.
Gimblet stepped into the case, and lowered himself quickly through the
hole at the bottom.
The stairs proved to be but a short flight, ending in a low passage,
which wound away through the wall of the ancient building. The
detective felt little doubt that it led to another concealed opening in
some distant part of the castle. But he had other things to think of
for the moment.
"The clock--eleven--steps." The meaning of Lord Ashiel's dying words was,
he thought, plain enough now.
Running up the stairs again, he descended more slowly, counting the
treads as he went.
There were fifteen.
Gimblet bent down and held his torch so that the light fell bright upon
the eleventh step.
It presented identically the same appearance as the rest, the rough-hewn
stone dipping slightly in the middle as if many feet had trodden it in
the course of the centuries which had elapsed since it was first placed
there, but in every respect the worn surface resembled those of the steps
above and below it, as far as Gimblet could see.
He tapped it, and it gave forth the same sound as its neighbours. Then he
lowered the torch and ran its beams along the front of the step; high up,
under the overhanging edge of the tread above it, it seemed as if there
were a flaw or crack in the stone. He knocked upon it, and it gave back a
different sound to the stone around it.
Clearly it was wood, not stone, though so cleverly painted to imitate its
surroundings that it was a thousand to one against anyone ever noticing
it; and yes, there was a little circular depression in the middle of it.
Gimblet's thumb pressed heavily against the place, and immediately there
was a click, and a long narrow drawer flew out.
In it lay a single sheet of paper, and Gimblet's fingers shook with
excitement as he drew it forth.
A moment's pause while he perused the writing upon it, and then the
exultation on his face dwindled away. He could perceive no meaning in
these apparently random sentences.
"Remember that where there's a way there's a will. Face curiosity and
take the bull by the horn."
Was this the cipher, of which he had never received the key? The papers
he had hoped to find must be hidden elsewhere. No doubt in some place
whose whereabouts was indicated, if he could only understand it, by the
incomprehensible message he held.
He stared at it for some minutes in an endeavour to find the translation;
then, reflecting that this was neither the time nor place for deciphering
cryptograms, he placed it carefully in an inner pocket, and after a hasty
exploration of the passage beyond which did not reveal anything
interesting except from an archaeological point of view, he thoughtfully
mounted to the room above.
Closing the trap-door, and making sure that everything in the library was
left as he had found it, Gimblet made his exit from the castle in the
same manner as he had entered it, and groped his silent way home through
the darkness.
A convenient creeper made it easy to climb on to the porch of Lady Ruth's
house, now wrapped in peaceful slumber; and so in at his own window once
more. The noise of the wind, which had now freshened to the strength of
half a gale, drowned any sound of his return, and he lost no time in
getting to bed and to sleep. The puzzle must keep till to-morrow. It was
one of Gimblet's rules to take proper rest when it was at all possible,
for he knew that his work suffered if he came to it physically exhausted.