THE YELLOW HAND-BILL.
The suggestion of tragedy brooding in the darkness held Lance back
just for the moment. He was almost afraid to proceed lest he should
find something even worse than he had expected. Then his hand fumbled
along the wall with the switches, and the great room burst into a glow
of light again.
The place was absolutely empty, save for the figure of Lord Ravenspur
huddled up upon the Persian rug. He was absolutely still and silent.
As far as Lance could see he had ceased to breathe.
Naturally enough the young man looked about him for a sign of the
miscreant, but the studio contained no trace of his presence. The
thing was puzzling to the last degree. There was no exit from the room
beyond the door which Walter had broken down, and nobody could
possibly have passed him that way. Besides, the switches were just
inside the door, and the light had been turned on almost immediately.
At any rate, there was nobody there now except the victim of the
attack himself, and Walter feared that he was already past any
explanation of the strange affair.
That would have to keep for the present. Walter bent over and raised
Lord Ravenspur's head and shoulders. He was still alive, for his eyes
were wide open, though no words came from his lips. At the same time
he seemed to be struggling for speech which would not come. Then he
raised a shaking arm and contrived to pull Walter's head down close to
his lips. The words came at length in a faint whisper, a whisper so
low, that Walter had the greatest difficulty in following it.
"Don't let anybody know. It is absolutely necessary that no one should
know," Lord Ravenspur faltered. "If there is any alarm, I pray you go
and allay it at once. Say that I had fallen asleep and was suffering
from nightmare. Say I had a horrible dream. Say anything, so long as
you respect my secret. Now go."
There was nothing to do but to obey this mysterious request. At the
end of the corridor Vera was waiting with an anxious face. It was no
nice thing to prevaricate, it would have to be done. Walter spoke as
lightly as possible.
"There is no occasion for alarm," he said. "Lord Ravenspur says that
he fell asleep and had a horrible nightmare. At any rate, he seems to
be all right now. You had better go to bed. I am sorry that you should
have been so much alarmed."
To Walter's great relief, Vera asked no further questions. She turned
away obediently enough, and he hurried back to the studio. Lord
Ravenspur still lay on the Persian rug, but with Walter's help he
contrived to get into a chair. A little brandy brought some trace of
colour to his face. He seemed more like himself again. "They heard
nothing in the house?" he asked anxiously.
"Only Vera," Walter explained. "She was terribly frightened, but she
believed what I told her, and she has gone up to her room. And now,
perhaps, you will tell me the truth."
"Do you think I have not already done so?"
"My dear uncle, I am sure of it. I know it is possible for people to
make the most hideous noises when they are suffering from nightmare,
but this is quite another matter. You called aloud for help. You were
in imminent danger of losing your life. Before I broke the door down I
distinctly heard somebody give a low chuckle. Of course, you can make
light of this in the morning. You can induce people to laugh at your
absurd situation, but you cannot deceive me. I know there was someone
in the room when I forced the door."
"Then where is he now, Walter?" Lord Ravenspur asked.
"Ah, that I cannot tell; but he was here right enough."
"He passed you in the corridor?"
"That he most certainly did not. Nobody came out that way."
A faint smile came to Lord Ravenspur's lips. He indicated the room
with a wave of his hand.
"I see exactly what you mean," Walter said. "Of course, if you do not
feel inclined to tell me the truth I cannot compel you to do so. But I
have only to look at you, to see that you have lately been through a
desperate struggle with someone who came here to take your life. You
are absolutely exhausted with the severity of it. If I had my own way
I would put the matter in the hands of the police."
"No, no," Ravenspur said vehemently. "If you have the slightest regard
for me you will not venture to say a word to a soul. I want the whole
thing to be forgotten. If I remain in my room all tomorrow under the
plea of indisposition, I shall be all right the next day. You are to
give me your word of honour that you will say nothing of what you have
seen tonight."
"If you wish it so, certainly," Walter said reluctantly.
"My dear uncle, won't you trust me? I would do anything to help you.
And besides, how are you going to guard against this happening again?
"A bloodthirsty ruffian who can enter a house and vanish in this
mysterious fashion, is not likely to be put off, if he knows you are
going to take no steps to guard yourself against a further attack. But
what has become of him?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," Ravenspur said wearily. "I was sitting
in my chair when the light suddenly went out and I heard the door
locked. Then I had to fight for my life, and was nearly done for when
I called out for assistance."
"And you saw nothing of him?" Walter asked.
"Nothing whatever," Ravenspur went on. "I could only feel him. And
after that I recollect no more till you came."
"A most extraordinary thing," Walter said, somewhat impatiently.
"Surely you have some idea as to who the man is. Surely he must be the
same man who mistook Sir James Seton for yourself tonight."
No reply came from Lord Ravenspur. Evidently he desired to say no
more. He seemed anxious to be alone. But Walter, angry and hurt,
walked rapidly about the room seeking for a way whereby the late
visitor had vanished. But he looked in vain. There was no possible
means of exit other than the door, and the fireplace was too narrow to
admit of anybody coming or going. As to the roof, it was of heavy
stained glass, and as impregnable as the walls themselves. The mystery
was maddening. And yet the one man who could have explained it all sat
there silent, and moody, and tongue tied.
"Is there anything more that I can do for you before I go to bed?"
Walter asked. "Are you sure I can't help you?"
"I am afraid not, my boy," Ravenspur said in a dull, mechanical way.
"I know that you won't chatter about this thing. And, perhaps, a
little later on, I shall be able to speak more plainly. I shall be
glad if you will help me up the stairs and get me into bed. I have had
a great shock tonight."
It seemed almost cruel to pursue the subject further, and Walter
refrained from questions as he noticed the ghastly whiteness of his
uncle's face. The latter was disposed of at length, and then Walter
came downstairs again. He now had the house practically to himself.
All desire for sleep had forsaken him. Besides that, it was no nice
thought to reflect on the possibility of that ruffian being still on
the premises. Walter had not the slightest doubt in his mind that the
man had left the studio in some secret manner, and that he had come
there through no ordinary channel. What was to prevent him returning
again when the house was asleep and finishing his work? In itself, the
fact of Lord Ravenspur possessing a bitter enemy was remarkable. And
Lord Ravenspur's obstinate silence was more remarkable still. Walter
had given his word to say nothing of these strange events, but that
did not bind him from making inquiries on his own account.
He returned to the studio once more and made a thoroughly searching
examination of the place. Was there some secret door which Lord
Ravenspur used, and of which nobody knew anything? It had never
occurred to Walter till that moment that his uncle might have
turned-down pages in his life, but that conclusion was inevitable now.
Still, though Walter spent the best part of an hour in his search, he
had nothing to show for his pains. He was about to give up the thing
in despair when a piece of yellow paper, lying by the side of the
Persian rug where Lord Ravenspur had fallen, attracted his attention.
It was a small, shabby sheet of paper, folded in four and printed from
worn-out type, in fact, just the class of bill which is circulated
amongst travelling circuses and shows of that kind. It was the last
thing in the world that anyone would have looked for in the studio of
so fastidious a man as Lord Ravenspur. Slowly and thoughtfully Walter
unfolded and read the handbill. It was an advertisement of the
nightly programme of the Imperial Palace Theatre. The name of the
place sounded imposing enough, but the locality of Vauxhall Bridge
Road somewhat detracted from the importance of it. So far as Walter
could judge, the Imperial Palace Theatre was no more than a shady
music hall giving two shows a night, and most of the names on the bill
were absolutely unknown to fame. The star turn appeared to be one
Valdo, who was announced as the flying man who had made such a
sensation throughout the leading halls in Europe.
"I wonder if this is a clue," Walter murmured to himself. "At any
rate, I should like to see this Valdo. I'll go down to the Imperial
Palace tomorrow night and enquire for myself."
Walter folded up the shabby bill and placed it in his pocket, after
which he went thoughtfully to bed.