"I'll get on and have a chat with the policeman, Jack. You follow the
hunchback if he moves away."
"Right-ho," replied my friend, while I sped off, crossing the road and
making a detour until I met the constable.
Having wished him good-night, I inquired the identity of the deformed
youth.
"Oh, sir," he laughed, "that's Mad 'Arry. 'E's quite 'armless. 'E's
out most nights, but we never see 'im in the day, poor chap. I've
known 'im ever since he was about nine."
"Does no work, I suppose?"
"None. 'Ow can 'e? 'E's as mad as a hatter, as the sayin' goes,"
replied the constable, his thumbs hitched in his belt as he stood.
"A kind of midnight wanderer, eh?"
"Yes, 'e's always a-pryin' about at night. Not long ago 'e found
burglars in a 'ouse in Gloucester Terrace, and gave us the alarm. We
copped four of 'em. The magistrate gave 'im a guinea out o' the
poor-box."
"Ah! so he's of use to you?"
"Yes, sir, 'e's most intelligent where there's any suspicious
characters about. I've often put 'im on the watch myself."
"Then he's not quite insane?"
"Not on that point, at any rate," laughed the officer.
"Where does he live?"
"'Is father's a hackney-carriage driver, and 'e lives with 'im up in
Gloucester Mews, just at the back of Porchester Mews--I don't know if
you know it?"
I was compelled to confess ignorance of the locality, but he directed
me.
"Are you on night-duty in Porchester Terrace, constable?" I asked a
few moments later.
"Yes, sir, sometimes. Why?"
"You know Althorp House, of course?"
"Yes, the 'aunted 'ouse, as some people call it. Myself, I don't
believe in ghosts."
"Neither do I," I laughed, "but I've heard many funny stories about
that place. Have you ever heard any?"
"Lots, sir," replied the man. "We're always being told of strange
things that 'ave 'appened there, yet when we 'ave a look around we
never find anything, so we've ceased to trouble. Our inspector's
given us orders not to make any further inquiries, 'e's been worried
too often over idle gossip."
"What's the latest story afloat concerning the place?" I asked. "I'm
always interested in mysteries of that sort."
"Oh, I 'eard yesterday that somebody was seen to get out of a taxi-cab
and enter. And 'e 'asn't been seen to come forth again."
"That's curious," I said. "And haven't you looked over the place?"
"I'm not on duty there. Perhaps my mate 'as. I don't know.
But, funnily enough," added the officer, "Mad 'Arry has been
tellin' me something about it a moment ago--something I can't
understand--something about the garden. I suppose 'e's been a-fancyin'
something or other. Everybody seems to see something in the garden, or
at the windows. Why, about a week ago, a servant from one of the
'ouses in the Terrace came up to me at three o'clock in the afternoon,
in broad daylight, and said as how she'd distinctly seen at the
drawin'-room window the face of a pretty, fair-haired girl a-peerin'
through the side of the dirty blind. She described the girl, too, and
said that as soon as she saw she was noticed the inmate of the place
drew back instantly."
"A fair-haired girl!" I exclaimed, quickly interested.
"Yes; she described her as wearin' a black velvet band on her hair."
"And what did you do?" I asked anxiously.
"Why, nothing. I've 'eard too many o' them kind o' tales before."
"Yes," I said reflectively. "Of course all kinds of legends and
rumours must naturally spring up around a house so long closed."
"Of course. It's all in people's imagination. I suppose they'll say
next that a murder's been committed in the place!" he laughed.
"I suppose so," I said, and then, putting a shilling in his hand,
wished him good-night, and passed along.
Jack and the idiot had gone, but, knowing the direction they had
taken--for the youth was, no doubt, on his way home--I was not long
before I caught up my friend, and then together we retraced our steps
towards the Bayswater Road, in search of a taxi.
I could not forget that curious statement that a girl's face had been
seen at the drawing-room window--a fair-headed girl with a band of
black velvet in her hair.
Could it have been Sylvia Pennington?
It was past three o'clock in the morning before I retraced my steps to
Wilton Street. We were unable to find a cab, therefore we walked down
Park Lane together.
On the way Jack had pressed me to tell him the reason of my visit to
that weird house and the circumstances in which my life had been
attempted. For the present, however, I refused to satisfy his
curiosity. I promised him I would tell him the whole facts of the
case some day.
"But why are you at home now?" he asked. "I can't really make you out
lately, Owen. You told me you hated London, and preferred life on the
Continent, yet here you are, back again, and quite settled down in
town!"
"Well, a fellow must come here for the London season sometimes," I
said. "I feel that I've been away far too long, and am a bit out of
touch with things. Why, my tailor hardly knew me, and the hall-porter
at White's had to look twice before he realized who I was."
"But there's some attraction which has brought you to London," he
declared. "I'm sure there is!"
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him how cleverly the two
scoundrels had used his name wherewith to entrap me on the previous
night. But I refrained. Instead, I asked--
"Have you ever met two men named Reckitt and Forbes, Jack?"
"Not to my knowledge," was his prompt reply. "Who are they? What are
they like?"
I gave him a minute description of both, but he apparently did not
recognize them.
"I suppose you've never met a fellow called Pennington--eh? A
stoutish, dark-haired man with a baldish head and a reddish face?"
"Well," he replied thoughtfully, "I've met a good many men who might
answer to that description. What is he?"
"I don't exactly know. I've met him on the Continent."
"And I suppose some people one meets at Continental hotels are
undesirables, aren't they?" he said.