ACCESSARY AFTER THE FACT
At the foot of the stairs Sally paused in the entry-hall, thoughtfully
considering the front door, the pale rectangle of whose plate-glass
was stenciled black with the pattern of a lace panel. But she decided
against risking that avenue of escape; it would be far less foolhardy
to steal away _via_ the basement, unostentatiously, that the
always-possible passer-by might more readily take her for a servant.
Turning back, then, toward the basement staircase, she began to grope
her way through blinding darkness, but had taken only a few uncertain
steps when, of a sudden, she stopped short and for a little stood like
a stricken thing, quite motionless save that she quaked to her very
marrow in the grasp of a great and enervating fear.
If she could not have said what precisely it was that she feared, her
fright was no less desperately real. She could see nothing; she had
heard no sound; her hands had touched nothing more startling than
the banister-rail, and yet . . .
It was as if sensitive filaments of perceptions even finer than sight,
touch, and hearing had found and recoiled from something strange and
terrible skulking there, masked by the encompassing murk.
Probably less than twenty seconds elapsed, but it seemed a long minute
before her heart stirred anew, leaping into action with a quickened
beat, and she was able to reassert command of her reason and--
reassured, persuaded her fright lacked any real foundation--move on.
Five paces more brought her to the elbow of the rail; here, in the
very act of turning to follow it down to the basement, she halted
involuntarily, again transfixed with terror.
But this time her alarm had visible excuse; that there was something
wrong in that strange house, so strangely deserted, was evident beyond
dispute.
She stood facing the dining-room door, the door to the library on her
left; if not in any way evident to her senses, she could fix its
position only approximately by an effort of memory. But through the
former opening her vision, ranging at random, instinctively seeking
relief from the oppression of blank darkness, detected a slender beam
of artificial light no thicker than a lead-pencil--a golden blade that
lanced the obscurity, gleaming dull upon a rug, more bright on
naked parquetry, vivid athwart the dust-cloth shrouding the
dining-table.
For a moment or two the girl lingered, unstirring, fascinated by that
slender, swerveless ray; then, slowly, holding her breath, urged
against her will by importunate curiosity, she crossed the threshold
of the dining-room, following the light back to its source--a narrow
crack in the folding doors communicating with the library.
Now Sally remembered clearly that the folding doors had been wide open
at the time of her first tour of investigation; as, indeed, had the
door between the library and hall--now tight shut, else this light
would have been perceptible in the hall as well.
It was undeniable, then, that since she had closeted herself up-stairs
another person had entered the house--some one who had shut himself up
there in the library for a purpose apparently as clandestine as her
own. Or why such pains to mask the light, and why such care not to
disturb the silence of the house?
To have gone on and made good an escape without trying to read this
riddle would have been hardly human of the girl, for all her
misgivings; she stole on to the folding doors with less noise than a
mouse had made and put an eye to the crack, which, proving somewhat
wider than she had imagined, afforded a fair view of the best
part of the other room.
An electric chandelier was on full-blaze above the broad and heavy
centre-table of mahogany, beyond which, against the farther wall,
stood on the one hand a bookcase, on the other a desk of the roll-top
type--closed. Above each of these the wall was decorated with trophies
of ancient armour; between them hung a huge canvas in a massive gilt
frame--the portrait of a beautiful woman beautifully painted. And
immediately beneath the portrait stood a young man, posed in profound
abstraction, staring at the desk.
He rested lightly against the table, his back square to Sally's view,
revealing a well-turned head thatched with dark hair, clipped snugly
by well-formed ears, and the salient line of one lean, brown cheek.
But even so, with his countenance hidden, something conveyed a strong
impression to the girl of a perplexed and disconcerted humour.
She was frankly disappointed. For some reason she had thought to
discover a burglar of one or another accepted type--either a dashing
cracksman in full-blown evening dress, lithe, polished, pantherish, or
a common yegg, a red-eyed, unshaven burly brute in the rags and
tatters of a tramp. But this man wore unromantic blue serge upon a
person neither fascinating nor repellent. She could hardly
imagine him either stealing a diamond tiara or hopping a freight.
But that he was of a truly criminal disposition she was not permitted
long to doubt; for in another moment he started from his pensive pose
with the animation of one inspired, strode alertly to the wall,
stepped up on the seat of a chair beside the desk, and straining on
tiptoes (though tolerably tall) contrived to grasp the handle of a
short-bladed Roman sword which formed part of one of the trophies.
With some difficulty and, in the end, a grunt of satisfaction, he
worked the weapon loose and, jumping down, turned to the desk, thrust
the point of the sword between the writing-pad and the edge of the
roll-top, forced the blade well in, and bore all his weight upon the
haft of this improvised jimmy. Promptly, with a sound of rending wood,
the top flew half-way up.
At this the man released the sword, which fell with a thump to the rug
at his feet, pushed the top as far back as it would go, and, bending
over the desk, explored its rack of pigeonholes and drawers. One of
the latter eventually yielded the object of his search; he took from
it first a small automatic pistol, which he placed carelessly to one
side, then a small leather-bound book whose pages he thumbed in
nervous haste, evidently seeking some memorandum essential to his
ends. This found, he paused, conned it attentively for an
instant, then turned and took the book with him across the room beyond
the bookcase, thus vanishing from the field of Sally's vision.
Now was her chance to slip down-stairs and, undetected, away. But,
surprisingly enough, she proved of two minds about advantaging herself
of the opportunity. To begin with, she was no more afraid--at least,
not to any great extent. What, she argued scornfully, was one man,
after all?--especially one who had no more lawful business than she
upon those premises! She wasn't afraid of men; and even were this one
to catch her watching him (something Sally meant to take good care he
shouldn't) he could hardly denounce her to the police. Besides, what
_was_ he up to, anyhow, over there in that corner, out of sight? She
simply had to know the meaning of those noises he was making.
They were difficult to diagnose--an odd whirring sound broken by
repeated muffled clanks and by several others as baffling, notably a
muted metallic knocking and rattling.
She experienced an exasperating effect of trying to see round a
corner.
But in the end she identified those sounds beyond mistake: the man was
fretting the combination of a safe, pausing now and again to try the
handle. For what, indeed, had he forced that desk if not to find
the combination?
In due course the noises ceased and the malefactor re-appeared,
bringing with him a morocco-bound box of good size. She made no doubt
whatever that this was a jewel-case, and took his smile for
confirmation of her surmise, though it was really less a smile than
satisfaction twitching the full lips beneath his dark little moustache
(one of those modishly flat affairs so widely advertised by
collarmakers).
For now the miscreant was facing Sally as he bent over the table and
fumbled with the lock of the jewel-case, and she made good use of this
chance to memorise a countenance of mildly sardonic cast, not
unhandsome--the face of a conventional modern voluptuary,
self-conscious, self-satisfied, selfish--rather attractive withal in
the eyes of an excited young woman.
But a moment later, finding the case to be fast-locked, the burglar
gave utterance to an exclamation that very nearly cost him his appeal
to her admiration. She couldn't hear distinctly, for the impatient
monosyllable was breathed rather than spoken, but at that distance it
sounded damnably like "_Pshaw!_"
And immediately the man turned back to the desk to renew his
rummaging--in search of a key to fit the case, she guessed. But his
business there was surprisingly abbreviated--interrupted in a
fashion certainly as startling to him as to her who skulked and spied
on the dark side of the folding doors.
Neither received the least intimation that the door from the library
to the hall had been opened. Sally, for one, remained firmly persuaded
that they two were alone in the silent house until the instant when
she saw a second man hurl himself upon the back of the first--a
swift-moving shape of darkness, something almost feline in his grim,
violent fury that afforded the victim no time either to turn or to
lift a hand in self-defence. In a twinkling the two went headlong to
the floor and disappeared, screened by the broad top of the table.
There, presumably, Blue Serge recovered sufficiently from the shock of
surprise to make some show of fighting back. Confused sounds of
scuffling and hard breathing became audible, with a thump or two
deadened by the rug; but more than that, nothing--never a word from
either combatant. There was something uncanny in the silence of it
all.
For an instant Sally remained where she was, rooted in fright and
wonder; but the next, and without in the least understanding how she
had come there, she found herself by the open door in the entry-hall,
just beyond the threshold of the library, commanding an unobstructed
view of the conflict.
Apparently this neared its culmination. Though he had gone down
face forward, Blue Serge had contrived to turn over on his back, in
which position he now lay, still struggling, but helpless, beneath the
bulk of his assailant--a burly, blackavised scoundrel who straddled
the chest of his prey, a knee pinning down either arm, both hands busy
with efforts to make an unappetising bandana serve as a gag.
Pardonably rewarded for this inconsiderate treatment, the fat one
suddenly snatched one hand away, conveyed a bitten finger to his
mouth, instantly spat it out together with a gust of masterful
profanity and, the other taking advantage of the opportunity to renew
his struggles, shifted his grip to Blue Serge's throat and, bending
forward, strove with purpose undoubtedly murderous to get possession
of the short Roman sword.
It lay just an inch beyond his reach. He strained his utmost toward
it, almost touched its haft with eager finger-tips.
At this a strange thing happened--strangest of all to Sally. For she,
who never in her life had touched firearm or viewed scene of violence
more desperate than a schoolboy squabble, discovered herself inside
the library, standing beside the desk and levelling at the head of the
heavy villain the automatic pistol that had rested there.
Simultaneously she was aware of the sound of her own voice, its
accents perhaps a bit shaky, but none the less sharp, crying: "Stop!
Don't you dare! Drop that sword and put up your hands! I say, put up
your hands!"
The stout assassin started back and turned up to the amazing
apparition of her a ludicrous mask of astonishment, eyes agoggle,
mouth agape, pendulous beard-rusty chin aquiver like some unsavoury
sort of jelly. Then slowly--thanks to something convincing in the
manner of this young woman, aflame as she was with indignant
championship of the under dog--he elevated two grimy hands to a point
of conspicuous futility; and a husky whisper; like a stifled roar,
rustled past his lips:
"Well, can yuh beat it?"
A thrill of self-confidence galvanised the person of Miss Manvers,
steadying at once her hand and her voice.
"Get up!" she snapped. "No--keep your hands in sight. Get up somehow,
and be quick about it!"
Without visible reluctance, if with some difficulty, like a clumsy
automaton animated by unwilling springs, the fat scoundrel lurched
awkwardly to his feet and paused.
"Very good." She was surprised at the cold, level menace of her tone.
"Now stand back--to the wall! Quick!"
She was abruptly interrupted by a vast, discordant bellow: "Look out,
lady! Look out! That gun might go off!"
And as if hoping by that sudden and deafening roar to startle her off
guard, the man started toward her, but pulled up as quickly, dashed
and sullen. For she did not flinch an inch.
"That's your lookout!" she retorted incisively. "If you're afraid of
it--stand back and keep your hands up!"
With a flicker of a sheepish grin the rogue obeyed, falling back until
his shoulders touched the wall and keeping his hands level with his
ears.
Still holding the pistol ready, the girl shifted her glance to Blue
Serge.
He had already picked himself up, and now stood surveying his ally
with a regard which wavered between amaze and admiration, suspicion
and surprise. Meanwhile he felt gingerly of his throat, as if it were
still sore, and nervously endeavoured to readjust a collar which had
broken from its moorings. Catching her inquiring eye, he bowed
jerkily.
"Thanks!" he panted. "I--ah--good of you, I'm sure--"
She checked him coolly. "Take your time--plenty of it, you know--get
your breath and pull yourself together."
He laughed uncertainly. "Ah--thanks again. Just a minute.
I'm--ah--as dumfounded as grateful, you know."
She nodded with a curtness due to disillusionment; the man was
palpably frightened; and, whatever his excuse, a timid Raffles was a
sorry object in her esteem at that instant. She had anticipated of
him--she hardly knew what--something brilliant, bold, and dashing,
something as romantic as one has every right to expect of a hero of
romantic fiction. But this one stood panting, trembling, "sparring for
wind," for all the world like any commonplace person fresh from rough
handling!
It was most disappointing, so much so that she conceded grudgingly the
testimony of her senses to the rapidity with which he regained his
normal poise and command of resource; for one evidence of which last
she noted that he backed up to the centre-table with a casual air, as
if needing its support, and with a deft, certain, swift gesture
slipped the jewel-case into his coatpocket. And she noted, too, a
flash of anxiety in his eyes, as if he were wondering whether she had
noticed.
At this she lost patience. "Well?" she said briskly. "If you've had
time to think--"
"To be sure," Blue Serge returned easily. "You mean, about this
gentleman? If you ask me, I think he'd be far less potentially
mischievous facing the wall."
"All right," Sally agreed, and added with a fine flourish of the
pistol: "Face about, you!"
With flattering docility the fat rascal faced about. "And now," Blue
Serge suggested, "by your leave--"
Drawing near the girl, he held out his hand for the pistol, and to her
own surprise she surrendered it without demur, suddenly conscious that
he was no more afraid, that he was rapidly assuming comprehensive
command of the situation beyond her to gainsay, and that he knew, and
knew that she knew he knew, that she had never entertained any real
intention of pulling the trigger, however desperate the emergency.
And incontinently, as though he had taken away all her courage,
together with that nickel-plated symbol, she started back, almost
cringing in a panic of sadly jangled nerves.
Happily for her conceit, once he had disarmed her, Blue Serge
transferred his interest exclusively to his late assailant.
Calmly showing the girl his back, he stepped over, poked the pistol's
nose significantly into the folds of the ruffian's neck, and with a
sharp word of warning slapped smartly his two hips; in consequence of
which singular performance he thrust a hand beneath the tail of the
fellow's coat and brought away a bull-dog revolver of heavy calibre.
And then he stepped back, smiling, with a sidelong glance of triumph
for Sally's benefit--a glance that spent itself on emptiness.
For Sally was no more there; her uninstructed fingers were already
fumbling with the fastenings of the front door when Blue Serge
discovered her defection.