The next day was a busy one for Guest. He had to attend court, and in
the afternoon he stole a visit to Miss Jerrold, where, by "the merest
chance," he found Edie, who was also there by "the merest chance," but
they had a long chat about their invalids, as they termed them, and then
Guest spoke of his ideas respecting Brettison.
"And you sit here talking to me?" she said. "Why, you ought to be
having the place searched."
"You think so, too?"
"Of course, and without loss of time. Why, Percy, he may have known all
about Malcolm Stratton's trouble, and now the chance has gone forever."
"Steady, steady!" said Guest, smiling at the girl's impetuosity. "Don't
let your imagination run away with you. It's rather bad sometimes."
He left almost directly, and was half disposed to go straight to the
police-station nearest the inn; but it occurred to him that he had
stirred Stratton a good deal on the previous night, and that if he could
get his friend's interest full upon this matter it would be a good
thing.
"I dare say it will all turn out to be nothing--mere imagination," he
thought; "but, even if it is, it may do something to get the poor fellow
out of this morbid state. After all, Brettison may be there."
But Guest felt so little upon the matter that he did not hurry to his
friend's rooms till after dinner, and, to his surprise, found that he
was either not in or obstinately determined not to be interrupted, for
there was no reply to his knocking.
"I'll get him to let me have a latchkey," he thought, "for he is not fit
to be left alone."
On the chance of Stratton being there he went on to Benchers' Inn, and,
to his surprise and satisfaction, he saw a light in the room.
After a few minutes his knock was responded to, and he was admitted.
"You have come again, then," said Stratton reproachfully.
"Of course," replied Guest, and he snatched at the idea again about
Brettison. "Look here," he said, "I have made up my mind that the
proper thing to do is to have that room entered. Brettison has been
away months, and it ought to be done."
"But you have no authority," said Stratton uneasily.
"You have, as his nearest friend and neighbour."
"No, no, no," said Stratton uneasily.
"I tell you it's right," said Guest. "We'll go to the station quietly,
give notice, and a couple of men will come, and bring a locksmith or
carpenter to open the door."
"Impossible! The publicity: it would be horrible."
"If we found the old fellow lying dead there, yes. But he may not be."
"No, he may not be, so it cannot be done," said Stratton with an
unwonted animation which made Guest the more eager.
"But it can."
"I say no," said Stratton angrily.
"But I say yes."
"You have no right, no business whatever, to interfere in the matter. I
will not have Mr Brettison's place broken open and his things
disturbed. It shall not be done."
"Bravo," thought Guest; "a little more argument of this sort would bring
him round." And full of determination, right or wrong, to persevere he
said distinctly:
"Look here, Stratton, have you any special reason for refusing to listen
to my words?"
"I--I--a reason?" cried Stratton looking startled. "None whatever."
"Oh! You seemed so stubborn."
"The natural feeling of a scientific man against intruders meddling with
his study."
"Mr Brettison made no objection to your breaking in upon him when he
was dangerously ill and would have died without your help."
Stratton was silenced for the moment, but he broke out directly with:
"But I am sure he has not been back."
"How can you be, away as you have been so long?"
"I should have heard him or seen him. He would have come in to me."
"Look here, Stratton," said Guest at last, "if you oppose my wishes so
strongly, I shall think that you have some special reason for it."
Stratton's eyes contracted a little as he looked fixedly at his friend.
"I shall not oppose you, then," he said, after moistening his lips, as
if speaking was an effort. "Have the place examined."
"I will," cried Guest eagerly. "Come on with me to the police-station,
and let's give information."
Stratton shrank back in his seat.
"No, no. Speak to the people at the lodge; the man can open the door."
"No; I am not going to have the matter spread abroad. And I do not
accept the responsibility. No hesitation now; come on."
Stratton was so weakened by ill health and nervous shock that, in spite
of himself, he felt compelled to yield, and ten minutes later they were
in the cold, formal station, where he felt as if in a dream, held there
against his will, and listening while Guest told the inspector on duty
his suspicions as if they were those of his neighbour Stratton, who, of
course, was not sure, only uneasy, and desirous of quietly learning
whether, by any possibility, there was something wrong.
"We'll soon see to that, sir," said the inspector quietly, and sending a
message by a constable, a sergeant was called into the office, the
matter explained to him, and, after a sharp glance at the two strangers,
he proposed to call and get Johnson to come with them, as he would be
home from work and they could pick him up on the way.
The inspector expressed his approval, and then said:
"I hope, gentlemen, you will find it is all a mistake, for your friend's
sake. Good-evening."
As soon as they were outside the sergeant turned to them.
"As you want to make no fuss, gentlemen, and would like the matter kept
quiet, suppose you both go on? I'll join you in ten minutes with my
man. People may notice it, if we all go together."
Guest nodded, and they separated. Then a cab was called, and Stratton's
chambers once more reached.
Here the latter grew strangely excited, and began to protest against the
proceedings.
"Look here," said Guest warmly, "if I had had any doubt about its being
right, I should go on now."
"Why?" cried Stratton wonderingly.
"Because the excitement of another's trouble or suffering is rousing you
up, old fellow, and making you seem something like what you were of
old."
Stratton caught him by the arm, and was about to insist upon the plan
being given up, when there was a sharp rap at the door, and Guest caught
up candle and matches and led the way out on to the landing, followed by
Stratton, who looked as if he were in a dream.
The sergeant was outside with a man of the regular carpenter class, with
a bag swung over his shoulder by a hammer passed through the handles.
"Here we are, gentlemen," said the police officer. "Candle? Shan't
want it, sir; I have a lantern, and it will be handier. You wish it all
to be done quietly, you say, but I'm afraid our friend here will make a
little noise with his tools. People downstairs will hear."
"They are only offices below," said Guest.
"Upstairs, then?"
"No one there in the evening."
"That's right then, sir. Which is the door?"
At a word from Guest, Stratton moved across the landing and turned down
the passage in which Brettison's doorway stood, moving still in the same
dreamy fashion, as his friend's will forced him to act, and as they
reached the doorway the sergeant turned on his lantern, so that the
light played about the keyhole.
"Now, Jem," he said, "have a look at it. What do you say?"
The man slouched up, and the shadow of his head, with its closely
fitting cap, glided about on the door, as he turned from side to side to
get a good look at the little opening.
"Light more this way, matey," he growled, in an ill-used tone. "That'll
do. Steady, please. I don't want to look at the 'inges."
"There you are, then. Well, is it a pick? or a saw-out?"
"Pick," said the man, swinging his bag down on to the floor and opening
it by drawing out the hammer.
There was a faint jingle as the bag was opened, and its owner looked up
in a protesting way.
"Can't work if you make a Jacky Lantern game of it, matey. I want to
see."
The light of the lantern was directed into the bag, revealing a stock, a
box of centre bits, a keyhole saw, and a couple of bunches of attenuated
keys, some of which were merely a steel wire turned at right angles at
the end.
"Nice, respectable looking character this, gentlemen," said the sergeant
dryly. "Supposed to be an honest man; but if a `tec' got hold of him
with a bag like that he'd have to say a great deal before anyone would
believe him. That one do, my lad?"
"No, too big," said the workman huskily, and he began to whistle softly
as he coolly selected another hook-like skeleton key from his bunch;
while Guest stood watching the pair with a strange feeling of
nervousness increasing upon him, caused partly by the weird aspect of
the scene, with all in darkness save the round patch of light on the old
drab-painted oaken door, in which glow the fingers of the workman were
busily engaged, as if they were part of some goblin performance, and
were quite distinct from any body to which they should have belonged.
He began wondering, too, whether there really was any cause for their
operations--whether poor old Brettison really did lie dead in the dusty
room beyond the double doors which held them at bay--dust to dust, the
mortal frame of the gentle old naturalist slowly decaying into the atoms
by which he was surrounded; and whether it was not something like
sacrilege to interfere with so peaceful a repose.
And all the time the little steel pick was probing about among the wards
of the lock with a curious clicking sound, above which Guest could hear
the intermittent, harsh breathing of his friend, who watched the
illuminated door with a stern, fixed gaze.
The second pick was after a time withdrawn.
"No good?" said the sergeant.
"Not a bit," growled the man, and he held his bunch of keys up to the
glass of the bull's-eye lantern.
"Don't worry, old chap," said the sergeant. Then, turning to Guest:
"Look a nice, respectable lot, we do, sir," he said. "If one of your
neighbours was to see us he'd be slipping off to fetch all the police he
could find, to see what we were about."
"Wish you'd hold that there light still," growled his follower. "Who's
to find a pick with your bobbing it about like that?"
"All right. Don't get shirty, my lad;" and then, as a fresh pick was
selected, and the man began operating again, the sergeant placed his
hand beside his mouth, after directing the light full on the keyhole,
and whispered to Guest:
"I'm afraid you're right, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"What you thought, sir. There's somebody lying in there, sure as sure,
or my mate here wouldn't turn like he has."
"Oh, nonsense!" whispered Guest uneasily.
"No, sir; it's right enough. He's like a good dog; has a kind of
feeling when there's something wrong."
"There you go again," growled the operator. "Keyhole ain't on the
ceiling, mate, nor yet on the floor."
"Oh, all right."
"But it ain't all right. I've got only two hands, or I'd hold the
blessed bulls-eye myself."
"There you are, then; will that do?"
"Do? Why, of course it will," growled the fellow. "I don't ask much.
If you can't hold a lantern, let one of the gentlemen."
"Something's rusty," said the sergeant.
"No, it ain't that," said the man, taking the remark literally. "Look's
'ily enough, but it's such a rum un--sort of a double trouble back-fall.
I don't know what people are about, inventing such stupid locks.
`Patent,' they calls 'em, and what for? Only to give a man more
trouble. All locks can be opened, if you give your mind to it, whether
you've got a key or no. It's only a case of patience. That's got him!"
he said exultantly, and a thrill ran through Guest. "No, it ain't; that
blessed tumbler's gone down again. But, as I was a-saying," he
continued, as he resumed his operations, "a man who knows his business
can open a lock sooner or later, so why ain't they all made simple and
ha' done with it?"
"If talking would pick a lock," said the sergeant jocularly, "that one
would have flown open by now."
"And if chucking the light of a bull's-eye everywheres but how a man
wants it would ha' done it, we should ha' been inside ten minutes ago.
Like to have a try yourself, pardner?"
"No, no; go on," said the sergeant sternly; and the man sighed and
selected a fresh pick, one so slight and small that it seemed to be too
fragile for the purpose, as it flashed in the light while being
inserted.
Then ensued a few minutes of clicking and scratching before there came a
faint click, and a sigh of satisfaction from the workman.
"There you are!" he said, as he drew the door toward him, the paint
cracking where it had stuck, and a faint creak coming from one hinge,
while there floated out toward them a puff of dense, thick air,
suggestive of an ancient sarcophagus and the dust of ages and decay.
Then there was a sharp, scampering noise, and, as Stratton stood peering
forward into the dark room, where a faint halo of light spread like a
nimbus about the head of a portrait on the further wall, the workman
said, half nervously, half as if to keep up his courage:
"Rats!"