THE GAMING-HOUSE
Westerham turned the note about and about in his fingers in the futile
attempt to extract some further information from it.
He realised, of course, that the note boded a new move.
Had the crisis really crept so close? Or was the danger in which Lady
Kathleen stood merely fictitious?
Possibly it was a trap; but that he had to risk. One thing was
certain—he could not ignore the message.
On second thoughts, indeed, he was inclined to regard the summons as a
real and urgent one. The murder at the hotel had shown him that Melun
was not the man to stick at trifles.
Moreover, he recollected that Madame's concern at his becoming
entangled in Melun's toils had without question been genuine. Madame,
he almost persuaded himself, had been his friend from the beginning. He
trusted that she might be now.
Without any further delay, therefore, he walked out into the quiet
little street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square, where he
knew he would be sure to find a cab.
But as he emerged from the door a hansom passed him, and without
thinking, he accepted the invitation of the driver to enter it.
Through the trap-door he told the man to drive to the Laburnum Road;
and then as the vehicle moved along at a smart pace he gave himself up
again to speculating in what way Kathleen might be in peril and from
what motive Mme. Estelle had warned him.
He had come to no conclusion on this point when the hansom swung
sharply round from the Finchley Road into Laburnum Road, which at that
hour of the day was more quiet and deserted than ever.
Then a strange thing happened so suddenly that he had no time to ward
off the danger in which he found himself.
Two steel arms, which had been so secreted in the upholstery of the
cab as to be invisible, suddenly closed round his arms and body with a
snap, and as the hansom was pulled up with a jerk he found himself a
prisoner, so tightly squeezed by the encircling steel arms that he was
unable to do more than wriggle in his seat.
In a moment the driver was off the dicky and had come round to the
front of the cab. With a fascinated gaze Westerham watched him take a
little phial from his pocket and saturate a handkerchief.
He divined the man's intention in a moment, and cried out an inquiry as
to what he was about to do.
But the man made no answer, except to grin and climb on to the step of
the cab.
A moment later he had clapped the handkerchief over Westerham's mouth
and nose and held it there tightly for a few seconds.
Westerham was alike unable to struggle or cry out. For a few moments
he fought against the overpowering odour of chloroform; then his
vision grew dim, his ears began to sing, and he lapsed into complete
unconsciousness.
When he awoke it was to find himself fully dressed and stretched upon
a sofa. It was apparently morning-time, for the table close beside him
was laid out as though for breakfast, and a flood of early sunshine was
pouring in through the open French windows.
He was so astonished at his whereabouts that he closed his eyes again
and endeavoured with a still half-numbed brain to call to mind the
events which had brought him into such strange surroundings.
Slowly, stupidly, he began to remember Mme. Estelle's letter and his
disastrous drive in the cab. But so dazed was he that he had for the
purpose of fully arousing his faculties actually to repeat his name and
address several times before his senses began to assume their normal
condition of alertness.
When his brain was clearer he endeavoured to rise, but he immediately
became dizzy again and sank back on the couch as though exhausted by a
long illness.
So complete was the blank between the time he had been chloroformed and
his awaking that he had not the faintest idea whether he had lain on
the couch on which he found himself for hours or days, or even weeks.
Yesterday seemed to be a long time behind him.
So, finding exertion out of the question, he leant back with almost
contentment among the pillows, and fell to wondering in whose house he
might be. From the shape of the room and the aspect of the garden more
than anything he came to the conclusion that the roof which sheltered
him was that of Mme. Estelle. On this point, however, he could not
quite make up his mind until the door opened softly and Mme. Estelle
herself came into the room.
She walked over to the couch and stood looking down at him pleasantly
and kindly.
Westerham was so astonished at her appearance that he could say nothing
at all.
It was Madame who spoke first, but before doing so she drew a chair to
his side and sat down. Then she said:
“Sir Paul, I owe you a deep apology.”
Westerham contented himself with a slight inclination of his weary
head, and waited for Madame to explain.
“I can speak quite frankly now,” she said, “knowing that there is no
one about to overhear, and I must begin by asking you to forgive me.”
Westerham nodded, but still said nothing, though now he saw plainly
enough that the letter had merely been a blind.
“Yet,” Madame continued, turning her face away from him, “it was not so
great a lie. Lady Kathleen was in peril, and is still in peril, but not
in the peril which I really imagined at the time.”
“What do you mean?” asked Westerham.
Madame glanced uneasily about her, and then shrugged her shoulders.
“I cannot tell you, my friend. I wish I could.”
“She was in peril, is still in peril, but not in the peril in which she
was,” Westerham repeated to himself. He removed his puzzled gaze from
the woman's face and glanced at his feet.
Then he started violently, for the boots which he wore, comfortable
though they were, were not his boots.
Struggling into a half-sitting posture, he looked hastily over his
clothes. They were not his clothes.
He endeavoured to rise and Madame helped him to his feet. On one side
he supported himself by the table, and on the other by Madame's arm.
Then he took a step forward and deliberately surveyed himself in the
glass. And his look of inspection filled him with intense surprise,
though he did not allow himself to so much as utter an exclamation.
Mechanically he began to employ those little tricks of gesture which a
man indulges in when he is anxious to ascertain if his clothes sit well
on him.
To his amazement not one article of attire was his own; yet the blue
serge suit in which he was clad was of such a perfect fit that he might
have been moulded into it. He moved his toes inside his boot and found
that of all the boots he had ever worn these were the most comfortable.
He put his hand to his tie and found that his collar was the exact
size. Quickly and methodically he searched through his pockets; his
handkerchief was where he always carried it; his keys were in his left
trouser pocket; his money and knife in his right. Each in its own
correct waistcoat pocket he found his nail clippers, his sovereign
purse and tiny card-case. His cards were intact.
Plunging his hand into the inner pocket of his coat he discovered that
his notebook was in its place. Almost instinctively he opened it and
turned over the contents; nothing whatsoever had been disturbed.
So utterly dumfounded was he that he sat down heavily again upon the
couch and stared at Mme. Estelle.
Madame laughed, showing her fine teeth.
“You are a little puzzled,” she suggested.
“Truly,” said Westerham, “I was never so puzzled in my life. Can you
tell me what it all means?”
“I would that I were able,” said Madame, earnestly, “but it is quite
impossible.”
“These things,” urged Westerham, stretching out his limbs, “what is the
meaning of it? I can quite understand,” he added bitterly, “that it
might be necessary for Melun to chloroform me for various reasons, but
one of those reasons was apparently not theft.
“Indeed,” he added, with a wry smile, “the captain seems to have been
spending money on me.
“Tell me,” he cried, starting up and then falling back weakly, “tell
me what all this means. I have had my fill of mystery during the last
week.”
“Don't you think,” suggested Madame, quietly, “that it would be best to
begin at the beginning? Surely it would be more reasonable for you to
ask why you were chloroformed and brought here.”
“Well,” said Westerham, “why was it?”
“It was done,” said Mme. Estelle, “because it was necessary to make you
a prisoner for nearly thirty hours—and it was the only way to do it.
You see,” she added lightly, “you are a strong man, and I don't blame
Melun for declining to risk a struggle with you.”
“But I don't understand any better now,” Westerham complained, passing
his hand across his forehead. “Why should I be made a prisoner?”
Mme. Estelle touched his arm and looked earnestly into his face.
“Because,” she said slowly, “it was necessary to ensure that you should
see Lady Kathleen to-night.”
“To see Lady Kathleen to-night,” cried Westerham. “When and where? Not
here, surely?”
“No,” answered Madame, with a little smile, “not here, indeed.
“Events,” she went on, “have taken a very sudden and curious turn.
Yesterday, I tell you frankly, your own life was in considerable
danger. You may think it very cold-blooded and horrible of me to
say such a thing, but I know that Melun had practically come to the
conclusion that you must be put out of the way in order to save trouble.
“But I was averse to that, and, thanks to the plan I suggested, it was
found unnecessary to do you any harm.”
“But why,” urged Westerham, “was it found necessary to play all these
tricks with my clothes? Why, they must have been made from extremely
careful measurements. I should say they had been modelled on one of my
own suits. And the boots are the strangest part of all—they fit me
like gloves.”
“It was intended they should,” said Mme. Estelle. “And be thankful
that they do, for though it is impossible for me to explain, they have
actually saved you from death. I assure you that there is no man this
afternoon more jealous of your safety than Melun.”
“And Lady Kathleen?”
“Lady Kathleen,” said Mme. Estelle, gravely, “is still in great
danger—but it is a danger of a different kind.”
“You don't mean to tell me,” cried Westerham, “that whereas my life has
been spared hers is not safe.”
Mme. Estelle nodded.
“Good Heavens!” cried Westerham. “But this is monstrous—perfectly
monstrous! What does all this juggling mean?”
“Please don't excite yourself, Sir Paul!” said Mme. Estelle. “It can
do no good. Believe me that I bear Lady Kathleen no ill-will, and that
if I can save her I will do so, even at the cost of being a little
disloyal to Melun.”
“But why all this trickery and mystery?” demanded Westerham again. “It
almost amounts to tomfoolery. One would think that Melun had gone crazy
and was indulging in some mad whim.”
“Perhaps it is a whim, but it is a whim with a very serious motive.”
“Come,” she added, “let's try to get some breakfast. I promise you
that if you will only endeavour to get strong during the day you shall
certainly see Lady Kathleen to-night.”
“Where?”
“Where,” said Mme. Estelle, “I don't know. I can only guess. It was
not my business to ask questions on that point. The cab will call for
you to-night at nine.”
“The cab!” exclaimed Westerham. “Do you mean the same vehicle which
brought me here? For if you mean that then I decline to travel in it.”
“Then I fear,” said Mme. Estelle, sharply, “you will have to forego the
satisfaction of seeing Lady Kathleen. The cab will be your only means
of reaching her.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Westerham, who had been so unnerved
by the chloroform as to become a little excited, “do you mean that I am
a prisoner in this house?”
“Only so far as your feelings keep you captive,” was the answer.
“And I know what your feelings will say. They will decide that you
must wait here in patience until the hour comes for you to go to Lady
Kathleen.”
Westerham said no more; it was idle to argue with this woman.
Circumstances were too strong and strange for him.
After breakfast he revived considerably, and Madame left him on the
couch with a pile of magazines to amuse him.
Lunch was served at one, and the afternoon dragged slowly and painfully
away. It was with great impatience that Westerham watched the table
being leisurely and neatly laid for dinner. His irritation grew with
every passing minute.
At dinner he ate but little and drank less, though Madame pleaded that
a second glass of champagne would go far to steady his considerably
shaken nerves.
Westerham, however, declined. He had become so suspicious of everybody
and everything he half imagined that, not content with chloroforming
him, his captors might attempt to drug him also.
At the stroke of nine Westerham heard the rumble of wheels in the
street, and, rising from the table, Mme. Estelle informed him that the
cab had arrived.
As they stood in the hall the woman held out her hand and Westerham put
out his half-way to meet it.
“Some day,” he said, “I shall certainly require an explanation of all
these strange doings. In the meantime, I don't think you should take
my hand unless you are sincere in your determination to reduce Lady
Kathleen's danger in every way you can.”
“Believe me,” declared Madame, most earnestly, “that I am quite
sincere.”
Westerham shook her by the hand.
It was not until the cab was bowling along Oxford Street that Westerham
began to look about him. He had no idea of his destination, and he
considered that it would be just as well to take careful note of the
journey.
Half-way between Oxford Circus and the Tottenham Court Road the cab
turned up to the left. Peering through the glass, Westerham could just
make out Newman Street. At the bottom of the street the cab turned to
the left, then to the right again, then to the left, and once more to
the right. So far as he could tell, Westerham gathered that he must
now be parallel to the top of Tottenham Court Road, and be a good deal
nearer to Portman Street than Oxford Street.
Suddenly the cab drew up with a jingle and a clatter, and the driver,
lifting the trap-door, informed Westerham that he had reached his
destination.
Upon this Westerham stepped out to find himself in a narrow, shabby,
and almost deserted thoroughfare of mean and hang-dog appearance.
In spite of this he recognised that the houses must once have been the
dwellings of well-to-do people, for the railings about the areas were
of finely-wrought iron and the doors were high and massive.
“Knock three single knocks,” said the cab-driver into his ear, and then
jumping on to the dicky the man drove away.
Suddenly Westerham remembered that there was one pocket of his new
clothes which he had not searched. His hand went towards his hip, and
he was surprised to find that his revolver was without question there.
Glancing about to make sure that he was not observed, Westerham drew
it out and felt with his thumb along the back barrels. It was still
loaded. For a second Westerham wondered whether the bullets had been
drawn, but, opening the six-shooter, he satisfied himself that the
cartridges had not been tampered with.
This amazed him not a little, although the discovery considerably
restored his confidence. At least he had to anticipate no further
attack on that night.
And then he remembered the mysterious words of Mme. Estelle: “No man
now is more jealous of your safety than Captain Melun.”
He could not help pondering on this point as he gave three taps with
the heavy old-fashioned knocker.
The door was opened by a man, apparently a German, dressed in the black
coat and white shirt of the traditional English butler.
He said something to him in a foreign tongue which Westerham could
not understand. His gesture, however, was clear enough, and he walked
straight ahead down a dimly-lighted passage till he came to a baize
door. This the man pushed open for him, and he passed on alone, and
heard a bolt drawn behind him.
There was not the slightest doubt as to the way he had to go. There
was no other exit from the place except a flight of stone steps, which
led downwards. At the bottom of the flight of steps there was a second
baize door, and through this Westerham passed along a well-carpeted
corridor faintly lit by electric light. The passage had no windows, and
it suddenly struck Westerham that he was underground.
At the end of the corridor Westerham encountered another baize door,
but as he stepped on the mat which was laid before it he heard an
electric bell ring sharply, and the door opened itself.
As it did so Westerham was almost blinded by a flood of white light.
For a moment he stood quite still, blinking and endeavouring to take
in the scene. But it was the sound of it rather than the sight of it
which instantly told him of the manner of the place in which he stood.
He heard the monotonous cry of croupiers and the sharp click of a
ricochetting roulette ball.
He was most unquestionably in a gambling-hell.
That in itself did not disturb him in the least, and as his eyes grew
accustomed to the light he stepped forward into the room, only to stand
still again and remain motionless, as though turned to stone.
For there, at a long table in the centre of the room, with piles of
gold and notes before her, sat Lady Kathleen.
A little cry which Westerham could not prevent breaking from his lips
drew the eyes of all upon him. Lady Kathleen glanced up, and catching
his gaze upon her turned as pale as death.