The boards covering the windows were about an inch thick, but, with the
slovenliness unfortunately too common among British workmen, they had
been nailed up "anyhow," and between the two boards immediately facing
me was a space an inch or more. Through that, I saw the weak light, as
of a candle.
Two rungs higher up I climbed, leant forward, and endeavoured to glue my
eye to this crack, in order to peer into the room.
It was by no means easy to see more than a narrow strip of the room, and
that strip was empty. Guessing, however, that something I should be
able to see must soon happen in the room, I decided to wait. I suppose
I must have waited about five minutes--it seemed like a quarter of an
hour--my eye was beginning to ache, and I had a crick in my neck, when
of a sudden a shadow fell across the bare boards--the strip of floor
that I could see--and then a second shadow. A moment later a man stood
in the room, his back to the window, a light in his hand. At once I
recognised the man by his colossal stature.
It was the dark giant I knew as Davies.
What was he doing? I could not see. Some one was beside him, also with
his back turned. I started. This second man was Sir Charles Thorold,
undoubtedly. They were conversing, but I could not, of course, catch
their words.
Sir Charles was bending down. He seemed to be on all fours. Now Davies
was on all fours too. They were both crawling on all fours about the
floor, as though searching for something.
With breathless interest I watched them. They had passed out of my
range of vision, though a pair of feet were still visible. The feet
remained in sight for quite a long time, ten minutes or more. Then they
too disappeared.
"What on earth are they about?" was my mental comment. "What can they
be seeking?"
It had seemed obvious that they had been trying to find something.
Still on the ladder I waited, hoping that something more might happen,
but I saw nothing more, and presently the light was extinguished. I
judged that some one had carried the candle into another room.
Apparently there was no object in waiting longer on the ladder, so I
cautiously descended to the ground again.
I felt satisfied, and yet dissatisfied, with the result of my
observation.
It was satisfactory to know who the people were who visited the house in
this mysterious way in the small hours. But it was unsatisfactory not
to have found out why they went there at that time of night, and thus
secretively--or why they went there at all.
Just as I reached the ground, thought of the advertisement I had noticed
in the _Morning Post_ floated back into my mind--
"_Meet me_ 2."
Could there be any connexion between that advertisement and these
mysterious visits at two in the morning? It seemed unlikely, and yet it
was somewhat curious.
I did not tell the expectant constable more than I deemed it good that
he should know. I told him I thought I had discovered the presence of
two men in the house, but I did not say they were men I knew and could
identify.
He was pleased with the half-sovereign I gave him, and hinted clearly
that he would always be glad to render me any service in his power. It
always interests me to observe how readily the milk of human kindness
comes oozing out where one least expects it, provided the "source"
whence it springs is "handled" in the right way.
As he had said this, I determined to take him at his word. I had seen
enough to excite my curiosity and to stimulate in me a keen desire
actually to enter the house. But how could this be arranged?
Everything is possible of accomplishment, I find, if you set about it in
the right way. I had obtained from the policeman his private address in
Rodney Street, Walworth Road, and, on the following evening, when he was
off duty, I looked in to see him.
Rarely have I been more welcomed by anybody than I was by that policeman
and his wife, or more hospitably entertained. Plenty of men of about my
own social standing would, I know, think me quite mad if I told them I
had hobnobbed with "a common policeman." The club would have been
shocked. "My dear fellah," I can hear them saying, "you really should
draw the line somewhere, don't you know. A gentleman is a gentleman,
and a policeman is--well, is a policeman--eh, what? He may be an
exceedingly good and honest fellah, and all that sort of thing, don't
you know, but, after all, we must keep to people in our own station of
life, or we shall be dining with each other's valets next, and one's
friend's butler will be asking one to lunch with him at his club. I'm
cosmopolitan myself, up to a point, but really one must keep the classes
distinct, we must keep ourselves aloof from the common people, or where
will it end, don't you know? As I say, a gentleman is a gentleman, and
a man who isn't a gentleman, well, he isn't a gentleman--you can't get
away from that."
To which my only reply would be that, to my knowledge, there are plenty
of "gentlemen" who are not gentlemen, and quite a sensible proportion of
the men we do self-complacently term "bounders" who are men of high
ideals and of great refinement.
During supper, to which he had asked me half-apologetically, the
constable entertained me with many good stories, for he had been
seventeen years in the Metropolitan Police, and had seen much of life in
London during that time. I waited until we had finished supper, and his
wife had retired, before submitting for his approval the proposal I had
come to make.
Mine was quite a simple proposal, though not devoid of risk, yet the
plan could not well be carried out without his help. Briefly, I was
determined to force an entrance to the house in Belgrave Street on the
following night, and the way I had decided to get in was through the
dark cellar-passage which opened on to Crane's Alley.
During the afternoon I had visited the Alley, and examined the lock of
the gate at the end of the iron railings which topped the wall of the
little yard, also the lock of the small door that led into the black
cellar-passage which ultimately led into the house. Both, I saw, could
easily be forced. Indeed, there would be no need to force the lock of
the iron gate. I could climb over the gate, as I had done that day.
All this I told the constable, and he calmly nodded.
"And you want me to abet you in this crime," he said at last, with a
grin, as he loaded his pipe anew.
"I do," I said. "And--I'll make it worth your while."
"Well, it's house-breaking, you know," he observed drily, filling the
room with clouds of smoke. "And you know what the sentence for breaking
into a house at night is?"
"Never mind about the sentence," I answered quickly. "I shall have to
serve that--and not you! But there won't be any sentence, because there
won't be any capture--if you help me. And you are going to help me.
Oh, yes, you are."
We both laughed.
"You are a one, sir--an' no mistake!" he exclaimed. "Well, yes, I'll do
me best and charnce it. I'm a bit of a sport meself when they gives me
arf a charnce."
And so it was settled. It was this policeman's duty to keep an eye on
Crane's Alley, which was included in his beat. Well, he would for once
forget to keep an eye on it, while the sergeant was out of the way.
More, he would lend a hand when the time came to force the lock of the
door in the little yard. After that he would be at liberty to slip back
to Belgrave Street and resume his monotonous tramp.
And all this would happen on the following night, or rather, about two
o'clock next morning.
When I left him it was nine o'clock, and, feeling in high spirits, I
drove to the _Grand_ to tell Vera my plan, for I felt I must tell
somebody. She was alone in the private sitting-room overlooking the
thousand lights of Trafalgar Square, and I sat with my arm about her.
"It is madness--sheer madness," she exclaimed, when I had outlined my
scheme, "and if you will take my advice--you know my advice is generally
sound--you will at once abandon the idea, Dick. It is very well for you
to say that my father is your friend, but you don't know my father--you
don't know him as I know him. There are two sides to his character.
Indeed, I would say he is really two men in one. The man you know is
very different from the other man--my father as you have never seen him,
and as I hope you never will see him. He can become perfectly savage.
He has a temper that is altogether unmanageable when once it gets the
better of him. It doesn't often, but when it does--
"No, don't do it, dear, don't, I beg of you. I ask you not to. I beg
you not to if you really love me."
"I must," I answered, with a firmness that surprised her. "I have gone
too far now to draw back, even if I wanted to, which I don't. I am
going to see this thing through. I'm going to discover the mystery of
that house. I don't care what risks I take, or what happens, but I am
going to see for myself what all this secret business means."
To my surprise she began to laugh.
"Dick," she said, "I sometimes wonder if you are quite `all there.' Why
on earth can't you let people alone, and mind your own business?
Supposing Whichelo should turn upon you--good Heavens, he could squeeze
the life out of you with one hand."
"Whichelo?" I asked, puzzled, still holding her soft hand in mine.
"Yes. You said when you looked in at the window you saw Whichelo with
my father."
Instantly I put two and two together. So the big, dark giant whom I had
known only as Davies was called Whichelo!
At last I had found out!
"And why should this man with the funny name, this Whichelo, want to
`squeeze the life out of me' as you so picturesquely put it?" I
inquired carelessly, rising and crossing to the window, the blinds of
which were not drawn.
"For the simple reason," she answered, "that of course he won't allow
you to reveal the secret that has been kept so well, and so long. He
and my father would stick at nothing to prevent that--believe me. I
tell you again, I know my father."
Somehow, though she spoke calmly, I felt she had some very strong
incentive for not wanting me to enter the house and see what was
happening there. She seemed to dread my carrying out my plan. Yet
apparently she was not anxious on my account. But my mind was now made
up. Nothing, I was determined, should stop me. I believed that I was
on the eve of making discoveries which would lead to the unravelling of
the mystery of Houghton Park, and the mysteries which had followed.
"Good-night, darling," I said, going back to her. I took her in my arms
and kissed her. As I did so, I thought I felt her sob.
"Why, Vera, what is the matter?" I exclaimed, releasing her.
"The matter?" she said, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Oh! nothing at all,
dear. Why?"
"You--you seemed worried."
"Oh, you're mistaken. Why should I be?" She gave vent to a little
hysterical laugh. I kissed her again, and told her to "cheer up." Then
I left her. I did not dare trust myself longer in her presence, lest
she should, after all, persuade me to change my mind.