The bathrooms were luxurious in the extreme, a needle-bath, a
shower-bath, two basins of different sizes in each, besides the sunk
pool-tub. The dressing-rooms has each a variety of wardrobes. One or
two we opened, finding in each several suits of little clothes, as if
for a boy under six years old. One closet had shelf above shelf of
small shoes, not much over four inches long.
“Evidently,” Thwaite remarked, “Hengist Eversleigh is a dwarf, whatever
else he is.”
Rivvin left the wardrobes and closets alone after the first few.
Each bedroom had in it nothing but the bed and on each side of it a
sort of wine-cooler, like a pail with a lid, but bigger, set on three
short legs so that its top was level with the bed. We opened most of
them; every one we opened was filled with ice, bedded in which were
several half-pint bottles. Every one of the twelve beds had the covers
carefully turned down. Not one showed any sign of having been occupied.
The wine-coolers were solid silver but we left them where they were. As
Thwaite remarked, it would have taken two full-sized freight cars to
contain the silver we had seen.
In the dressing-rooms the articles like brushes and combs on the
bureaus were all of gold, and most set with jewels. Rivvin began to
fill a bag with those entirely of metal, but even he made no attempt
to tear the backs off the brushes or to waste energy on any other
breakage. By the time we had scanned the twelve suites Rivvin could
barely carry his bag.
The front room on the south side of the building was a library full
of small, showily-bound books in glass-fronted cases all the way to
the ceiling, covering every wall except where the two doors and six
windows opened. There were small, narrow tables, the height of those in
the dressing-rooms. There were magazines on them and papers. Thwaite
opened a bookcase and I another and we looked at three or four books.
Each had in it a book-plate with the device of the angel and the
crocodile.
Rivvin did not find the electric button in the main hallway and we
went down the great broad, curving stair by our electric candles.
Rivvin turned to the left and we found ourselves in the banquet hall
as Thwaite had called it, a room all of forty by thirty and gorgeous
beyond any description.
The diminutive table, not three feet square, was a slab of
crystal-white glass set on silver-covered legs. The tiny armchair, the
only chair in the big room, was solid silver, with a crimson cushion
loose in it.
The sideboards and glass-fronted closets paralyzed us. One had fine
china and cut glass; wonderful china and glass. But four held a table
service of gold, all of pure gold; forks, knives, spoons, plates,
bowls, platters, cups, everything; all miniature, but a profusion
of everything. We hefted the pieces. They were gold. All the pieces
were normal in shape except that instead of wine-glasses, goblets and
tumblers were things like broad gravy-boats on stems or short feet, all
lopsided, with one projecting edge like the mouth of a pitcher, only
broader and flatter. There were dozens of these. Rivvin filled two bags
with what two bags would hold. The three bags were all we three could
carry, must have been over a hundred and fifty pounds apiece.
“We’ll have to make two trips to the wall,” Thwaite said. “You brought
six bags, didn’t you, Rivvin?”
Rivvin grunted.
At the foot of the grand staircase Rivvin found the electric button and
flooded the magnificent stairway with light.
The stair itself was all white marble, the rails yellow marble, and the
paneling of the dado malachite. But the main feature was the painting
above the landing. This was the most amazing of all the paintings we
had come upon.
I remembered something like it, an advertisement of a root-beer or
talcum powder, or some other proprietary article, representing all the
nations of the earth and their rulers in the foreground congratulating
the orator.
This picture was about twenty feet wide and higher than its width.
There was a throne, a carved and jeweled throne, set on an eminence.
There was a wide view on either side of the throne, and all filled
with human figures with animal heads, an infinite throng, all facing
the throne. Nearest it were figures that seemed meant for all the
presidents and kings and queens and emperors of the world. I recognized
the robes or uniforms of some of them. Some had heads taken from their
national coat of arms, like the heads of the Austrian and Russian
eagles. All these figures were paying homage to the figure that stood
before the throne; the same monster we had seen in place of Lincoln or
Washington or Napoleon in the paintings upstairs.
He stood proudly with one foot on a massive crocodile. He was dressed
in a sort of revolutionary uniform, low shoes, with gold buckles, white
stockings and knee-breeches, a red waistcoat, and a bright blue coat.
His head was the same beast-head of the other pictures, triangular and
strange, which I then thought mythological.
Above and behind the throne floated on outspread silver wings the
white-robed angel with the Sir Galahad face.
Rivvin shut off the lights almost instantly, but even in the few
breaths while I looked I saw it all.
The three sacks of swag we put down by the front door.
The room opposite the banquet-hall was a music room, with an organ and
a piano, both with keys and keyboards far smaller than usual; great
cases of music books; an array of brass instruments and cellos and more
than a hundred violin cases. Thwaite opened one or two.
“These’d be enough to make our fortune,” he said. “If we could get away
with them.”
Beyond the music-room was the study. It had in it four desks, miniature
in size and the old-fashioned model with drawers below, a lid to turn
down and form a writing surface, and a sort of bookcase above with a
peaked top. All were carved and on the lids in the carving we read:
JOURNAL
MUSIC
CRITICISM
BUSINESS
Thwaite opened the desk marked BUSINESS and pulled open the drawers.
In pigeon-holes of the desk were bundles of new, clean greenbacks and
treasury notes of higher denominations; five each of fives, tens,
twenties, fifties and hundreds. Thwaite tossed one bundle of each to
me and Rivvin and pocketed the rest.
He bulged.
One drawer had a division down the middle. One half was full of
ten-dollar gold pieces, the other half of twenties.
“I’ve heard of misers,” said Thwaite, “but this beats hell. Think of
that crazy dwarf, a prisoner in this palace, running his hands through
this and gloating over the cash he can never use.”
Rivvin loaded a bag with the coin and when he had them all he could
barely lift the bag. Leaving it where it lay before the desk he strode
the length of the room and tried the door at the end.
It was fast.
Instantly Rivvin and Thwaite were like two terriers after a rat.
“This is where the diamonds are,” Thwaite declared, “and Mr. Hengist
Eversleigh is in there with them.”
He and Rivvin conferred a while together.
“You kneel low,” Thwaite whispered. “Duck when you open it. He’ll fire
over you. Then you’ve got him. See?”
Rivvin tip-toed to the door, knelt and tried key after key in the lock.
There were at least twenty bulbs in the chandelier of that room and the
light beat down on him. His red neck dew-lapped over the low collar of
his lavenderish shirt, his great broad back showed vast and powerful.
On the other side of the doorway Thwaite stood, his finger at the
electric button.
Each had his slung-shot in his left hand. They had spun the cylinders
of their revolvers and stuck them in their belts in front before Rivvin
began work on the lock.