THE MAN ON THE TOWER
I quitted Friar's Park unobserved--as I had entered it; walking
quickly across to the shrubbery, I began to work my way back to the
point at which I must strike westward in order to reach the weed-grown
kitchen-garden. At the risk of encountering man-traps I gave the lodge
a wide berth and came out in sight of the wall at a point much nearer
the lawns of the house than that from which I had entered.
What it was that prompted me to turn and take a final look at the
house I cannot say, but before commencing to make my way through the
wilderness of the kitchen-garden, I know that I stood and looked back
towards the ancient Saxon tower which uprose, silvered by the
moonlight, above the trees that obscured from my view all the rest of
the house.
Right to the embrasured crest it was sharply outlined by the brilliant
moon--and as I looked I felt my heart leap suddenly; and then, almost
holding my breath, I crouched, distrusting the very shadows which
afforded me shelter.
For leaning out through one of the embrasures at the top of the tower,
I clearly saw the figure of a man!
At first so whitely was his face lighted up by the moon that I had no
doubt of the figure being that of a man, but he remained so still,
seeming always to look in a fixed way in the same direction, that now,
momentarily I doubted, until a slight movement betrayed the fact that
my first impression had been correct.
Who he was I could not possibly tell from that distance, but of his
occupation I became assured at the moment that he moved; for the
moonlight glittered brightly on the lenses of the binoculars through
which he had been surveying some point visible only from that
elevation.
Still I watched, and again I saw the man of the tower raise his
glasses and resume his scrutiny of that distant object which so
closely engaged his attention. Remembering that a patch of light
touched the top of the wall, spearlike, at the point where I must
cross it in order to reach the fir tree, I abandoned my former
precautions and hurried through the tangled weeds towards the fir
which was my sailing mark.
Hastily I scrambled up the natural ladder formed by the vine, and
without pause climbed down again to the edge of the dry ditch beyond.
To have looked back over the wall would have been useless, since from
that point the tower would have been invisible. Nor indeed had I any
desire to pause in my precarious journey.
That I had avoided man-traps in that hurried retreat through the
weeds, I knew not whether to ascribe to good luck or to the fact that
none were set there, but now in the more open ground, thickly
bestrewn, however, with clumps of undergrowth, I resumed all my old
vigilance, and carefully retraced the path, so well as I could
remember it, by which I had first arrived at the friendly fir.
When at last I found myself once more upon the highroad and free of
the ground of Friar's Park, I stood a while and wondered to find
myself bathed in perspiration.
There was something very eerie in the thought that I had explored
those numerous rooms of the deserted house and had moreover encircled
the entire building habitable and otherwise, whilst that mysterious
watcher all the time had been lurking up there in the tower! I
wondered what his survey portended. If it signified that he had
detected my presence at the moment that I had left the house, why was
his gaze focused upon the distance and not upon the surrounding
grounds? If he had not seen or heard me, then I must compliment myself
upon a very successful burglarious feat.
But assuming the latter explanation to be the correct one, how much
darker became the mystery of the man's presence and purpose. Who was
he? And what did he do at this hour in deserted Friar's Park?
Since I had left the game-keeper deeply engaged in his packing
operations at the lodge, I dismissed the idea that the figure on the
tower might have been that of Hawkins, nor was I in any way assisted
in my attempts to solve the mystery by what I had seen of the man, for
the distance had been too great to allow of my perceiving his face
with anything like clearness.
Presently, then, I set out upon my return journey to the Abbey Inn,
turning over in my mind this added perplexity which had entered the
case. As Gatton had quite recently observed, every new piece of
evidence which came to light in this most bewildering affair seemed
merely to plunge the issue in greater obscurity than ever. My feet
once set upon the slope which led to Upper Crossleys, I allowed this
mood of abstraction to have its way, and the problem with which I
found myself principally engaged was that of the disappearance of Lady
Burnham Coverly.
As I remembered the suave assurances of Dr. Damar Greefe that the
ill-health of Lady Burnham rendered it impossible for her to receive
visitors, I wondered anew at the complex villainy of this formidable
Eurasian. The state of the rooms in Friar's Park clearly demonstrated
the fact that neither Lady Coverly nor any other had resided there for
many months, perhaps many years. What then did it all mean? What was
the purpose of the watch and ward kept by the gipsy game-keeper over
the grounds and approaches to the house?
It could only mean that this was a device of Dr. Damar Greefe's to
prevent any of the neighbors from seeking admittance to the house and
thus learning the strange secret which its emptiness revealed.
Here, in fact, in this old monastic establishment, would seem to
reside the very genius of that spirit of desolation which had touched
me unpleasantly in the hour of my arrival in Crossleys. I determined
to ascertain by inquiries amongst the local tradespeople, none of whom
I had hitherto met, by what means the fact that no one resided at
Friar's Park was concealed from those whose ordinary business
activities would demand their presenting themselves at the house for
orders, etc. But even as the plan suggested itself to me, I thought I
perceived an answer to my question; in all probability, I determined,
Dr. Damar Greefe or the Hawkins's, who were palpably his creatures,
acted as a barrier between the tradespeople and the missing lady of
the Park.
But what it could all portend was a problem beyond the power of my
imagination or deductive reasoning. If Lady Coverly had changed her
residence for some reason, with what object did the Eurasian continue
to lead every one in the neighborhood to suppose that she still
resided at Friar's Park?
It was all a hopeless tangle, and the more I thought about it the more
discouraged did I become. I seemed to get further, too, from that link
for which I sought--the link connecting the mystery with that other
which I always associated with the Red House. The luminous eyes
afforded the visible link; this I could not doubt. But what relation
to the death of Sir Marcus did the disappearance of Lady Burnham
Coverly bear? Secondly, what was Dr. Damar Greefe's place in the
scheme? And thirdly (the most appalling mystery of all) who or what
was the woman with the cat's eyes?
At this point in my meditations I discovered that I had arrived
before the Abbey Inn, now plunged in darkness, and believing that I
detected the sound of footsteps behind me I became eventually the
victim of a sort of panic which perhaps will be forgiven me under the
circumstances. For emerging from these unpleasant reflections and
hearing or believing that I heard sounds of pursuit from the lonely
moon-patched road behind, I know that I hurried forward to the side
door and silently prayed that I should find it unfastened as Martin
had assured me that it would be.
In this particular I was speedily reassured, for the door opened to my
touch--and I became conscious of a wish that there might be some means
of fastening it from within. However, I could find none, but hurrying
upstairs, I determined to take a precaution which hitherto I had not
adopted and that night to lock my bedroom door.
Entering the room, I fumbled for a box of matches in my pocket and
presently discovering them struck one and looked about me for the
candle which usually stood upon a little cabinet beside the bed.
To-night, however, it had been moved for some reason, and put over by
the window on the dressing-table. As I made this discovery the match
smoldered out, and at the moment I was about to strike another the
sound of footsteps which I had formerly detected grew louder and
nearer, so that I could no longer doubt that some one was running
along the road towards the Abbey Inn.
A great curiosity respecting this person seized me, and without
striking a match as I had intended to do, I walked to the window and
looked out into the road. Twenty yards away I saw the figure of a man
who seemed to be come almost to the end of his resources; for I could
hear him panting as he ran. Nor did my wonder decrease when, as he
came nearer and stared up in my direction, I recognized him for the
shabby-looking person whom I had observed that morning sitting on the
bench before the inn door.
Wondering what his presence might portend--for clearly his business
was with _me_--I leaned out of the window, and as he came up to the
door of the inn I saw him stagger and clutch at the post which
supported the sign-board, swaying dizzily. He was clearly almost
exhausted, and his voice when he spoke was a husky whisper:
"Don't light your candle!" he said.
Now, this remark, coming at such a time and in these circumstances,
struck me as so ludicrous that at first I was tempted to laugh; but
the man's earnest sincerity, as evidenced by his exhausted condition
and the urgency of his manner, did not fail to impress me, and:
"Why not?" I asked, still leaning out of the window and filled with a
great wonderment.
"Never mind," he panted. "Don't! Can I come up?"
Something now in the breathless speech of the man below struck me as
oddly familiar. But yet so dense was I that I failed to recognize the
truth of the matter, and:
"Certainly," I said. "I will bring a light down to show you the way,
if you have business with me."
"No light!" he cried hoarsely. "If you value your life, don't strike a
match!"
By this time so bewildered had I become that I scarce knew whether to
descend to meet this apparent madman or to remain where I was.
"Don't hesitate, Mr. Addison!" he cried, now beginning to recover his
breath. "Do exactly as I tell you!"
"Good God!" I exclaimed.
I turned and ran to the door and on downstairs. For at last I had
recognized the voice of this midnight runner. Throwing open the door,
I held out my hand and the shabby-looking man extended his in return.
"_Gatton!"_ I cried excitedly. "Gatton! What on earth does this mean?
Why have you been masquerading in this fashion? I saw you here this
morning and you never gave me the slightest sign of acknowledgment!"
"I never intended to!" panted the Inspector, staggering rather than
walking up the stairs. "But I have performed one of the hardest tasks
of my life to-night and have only succeeded by a few seconds!"
We were now at the door of my room, but:
"Don't go in!" said Gatton shortly. "Let me think what we must do."
"But I don't understand at all!"
"You will understand in a moment!" was the grim reply. "You would have
understood already if you had lighted your candle."
Words failed me altogether. At that we stood in the passage for some
moments in silence; then:
"We have got to risk it," said Gatton, "if my theory is to be put to
the test"
"Risk it?"
"Oh! I can assure you of the risk," he declared. "It will be
touch-and-go. Are you game?"
"Well," I said, laughing in a very forced fashion, "this has been a
night of such intense surprises that I think I can survive one more."
"Very well," replied the Inspector; and there was something strange in
hearing the familiar voice and dimly discerning in the reflected
moonlight, which shone in at a window further along the passage, the
unfamiliar figure before me.
"What have we to do?"
"We have to take a chance of sudden death!" he answered, "but we will
minimize it as much as possible."
Seeing me about to give voice to one of the many questions which
literally burned upon my tongue:
"Explanations can come later," said he. "Where can I find a candle?"
"There is one on the dressing-table just to the left of the window. I
will get it--"
But he grasped my arm roughly, and:
"This is _my_ business! Wait here for me," he rapped tersely.
He heard the rasp of the match upon the box, as I struck a light to
guide him in his search. Whereupon:
"I thought I warned you!" he cried, and struck the match from my hand.
"_No light_!"
With that he pushed open the door, and I saw his square figure
outlined against the moon-bright open window as he crossed the room.
Since he had referred to the peril which hung over us, it was with
bated breath that I awaited his return, not in the least knowing what
to expect. A few moments later he returned with the candlestick.
"Now," said he, carefully reclosing the door, "light the candle."
Awed by something in his voice and manner, I did as he directed
without demur, noting with amazement, in the light thus created, how
simple yet how effective was the disguise which my friend had adopted.
He gave me no time for comment, however, but:
"Listen," said he. "I'm going to put this candle in your room and then
you and I are going to run."
"Run?" I cried.
"Exactly. Run for our lives! Preferably upstairs. Is there any vacant
room above from which we can look out in the same direction as from
your window?"
"The room above is vacant," I replied, "and probably we shall find the
door unlocked."
"We'll risk that, then," said Gatton. "You might start and lead the
way."
"Can I use my electric torch?" I asked.
"On the stairs," replied Gatton; "but you must extinguish it when we
enter the room above."
With that he thrust open the door of my bedroom, ran in and ran out
again, banging the door behind him as though pursued by devils!
Then the pair of us were racing up the stairs madly for the room
above, I vaguely wondering if my companion had taken leave of his
senses. Yet of the verity of the peril which he dreaded came speedy
confirmation.
At the very moment that my hand touched the knob of the door above,
and ere I could open it, the whole fabric of the Abbey Inn was
convulsed--the floor rocked beneath my feet; and there ensued the
sound of a deafening explosion from the room below! An echo, or what
sounded like an echo, sharp and staccato, came from the distant
hills!