/For/ a moment they stared at one another, she fearful, he amazed.
Olga Crewe!
Then he became conscious that he was still gripping the arm, and let
it drop. The arm fascinated Mr. Reeder: he scarcely looked at anything
else.
“I am very sorry,” said Mr. Reeder. “Where did you come from?”
Her lips were quivering; she tried to speak, but no words came. Then
she mastered her momentary paralysis and began to speak, slowly,
laboriously.
“I--heard--a noise--in--the--corridor--and--came--out. A
noise--I--was--frightened.”
She was rubbing her arm mechanically; he saw a red weal where his hand
had gripped. The wonder was that he had not broken her arm.
“Is--anything--wrong?”
Every word was created and articulated painfully. She seemed to be
considering its formation before her tongue gave it sound.
“Where is the light-switch in the hall?” asked Mr. Reeder. This was a
more practical matter--he lost interest in her arm.
“Opposite my room.”
“Turn it on,” he said, and she obeyed meekly.
Only when the corridor was illuminated did he step out of his room,
and even then in some doubt, if the Browning in his hand meant
anything.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked again. By now she had taken command of
herself. A little colour had come to her white face, but the live eyes
were still beholding terrible visions.
“Did you see anything in the passage?” he answered.
She shook her head slowly.
“No, I saw nothing--nothing. I heard a noise and I came out.”
She was lying: he did not trouble to doubt this. She had had time to
pull on her slippers and find the flimsy wrap she wore, and the fight
had not lasted more than two seconds. Moreover, he had not heard her
door open; therefore it had been open all the time, and she had been
spectator or audience of all that had happened.
He went down the corridor, retrieved his rubber truncheon, and came
back to her. She was half standing, half leaning against the
door-post, rubbing her arm. She was staring past him so intently that
he looked round, though there was nothing to be seen.
“You hurt me,” she said simply.
“Did I? I’m sorry.”
The mark on the white flesh had gone blue, and Mr. Reeder was
naturally a sympathetic man. Yet, if the truth be told, there was
nothing of sorrow in his mind at that moment. Regret, yes. But the
regret had nothing to do with her hurt.
“I think you’d better go to your bed, young lady. My nightmare is
ended. I hope yours will end as quickly, though I shall be surprised
if it does. Mine is for the moment; yours, unless I am greatly
mistaken, is for life!”
Her dark, inscrutable eyes did not leave his face as she spoke.
“I think it must have been a nightmare,” she said. “It will last all
my life? I think it will!”
With a nod she turned away, and presently he heard her door close and
the lock fasten.
Mr. Reeder went back to the far side of his bed, pulled up a chair and
sat down. He did not attempt to close the door. Whilst his room was in
darkness and the corridor lighted, he did not expect a repetition of
his bad and substantial dream.
The rubber truncheon was a mistake, he admitted regretfully. He wished
he had not such a repugnance to a noisier weapon. He laid the pistol
on the cover of the bed within reach of his hand. If the bad dream
came again----
Voices!
The murmur of a whispered colloquy and a fierce, hissing whisper that
dominated the others. Not in the corridor, but in the hall below. He
tiptoed to the door and listened.
Somebody laughed under his breath, a strange blood-curdling little
mutter of a laugh; and then he heard a key turn and a door open and a
voice demand:
“Who is there?”
It was Margaret. Her room faced the head of the stairs, he remembered.
Slipping the pistol into his pocket, he ran round the end of the bed
and into the corridor. She was standing by the banisters, looking down
into the dark. The whispering voices had ceased. She saw him out of
the corner of her eye and turned with a start.
“What is wrong, Mr. Reeder? Who put the corridor light on? I heard
somebody speaking in the vestibule.”
“It was only me.”
His smile would in ordinary circumstances have been very reassuring,
but now she was frightened, childishly frightened. She had an insane
desire to cling to him and weep.
“Something has been happening here,” she said. “I’ve been lying in bed
listening, and haven’t had the courage to get up. I’m horribly scared,
Mr. Reeder.”
He beckoned her to him, and as she came, wondering, he slipped past
her and took her place at the banisters. She saw him lean over and the
light from a hand-lamp sweep the space below.
“There’s nobody there,” he said airily.
She was whiter than he had ever seen her.
“There _was_ somebody there,” she insisted. “I heard their feet moving
on the tiled paving after you put on your flash-lamp.”
“Probably Mrs. Burton,” he suggested. “I thought I heard her
voice----”
And now came a newcomer on the scene. Mr. Daver had appeared at the
end of the corridor. He wore a flowered silk dressing-gown buttoned up
to his chin.
“Whatever is the matter, Miss Belman?” he asked. “Don’t tell me that
he tried to get into _your_ window! I’m afraid you’re going to tell me
that! I hope you’re not, but I’m afraid you will! Dear me, what an
unpleasant thing to happen!”
“What has happened?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“I don’t know, but I have an uncomfortable feeling that somebody has
been trying to break into this house,” said Mr. Daver.
He was genuinely agitated; the girl could almost hear his teeth
chatter.
“I heard somebody trying the catch of my window and looked out, and
I’ll swear I saw--something! What a dreadful thing to happen! I have
half a mind to telephone for the police.”
“An excellent idea,” murmured Mr. Reeder, suddenly his old deferential
and agreeable self. “You were asleep, I suppose, when you heard the
noise?”
Mr. Daver hesitated.
“Not exactly asleep,” he said. “Between sleeping and waking. I was
very restless to-night for some reason.”
He put his hand to his throat, his dressing-gown had gaped for a
second. He was not quite quick enough.
“You were probably restless,” said Mr. Reeder softly, “because you
omitted to take off your collar and tie. I know of nothing more
disturbing.”
Mr. Daver made a characteristic grimace.
“I dressed myself rather hurriedly----” he began.
“Better to undress yourself hurriedly,” chided Mr. Reeder, almost
playfully. “People who go to bed in stiff white collars occasionally
choke themselves to death. And there is sorrow in the home of the
cheated hangman. Your burglar probably saved your life.”
Daver made as though to speak, suddenly retreated and slammed the
door.
Margaret was looking at Mr. Reeder apprehensively.
“What is the mystery--was there a burglar?--Oh, please tell me the
truth! I shall get hysterical if you don’t!”
“The truth,” said Mr. Reeder, his eyes twinkling, “is very nearly what
that curious man told you--there was somebody in the house, somebody
who had no right to be here, but I think he has gone, and you can go
to bed without the slightest anxiety.”
She looked at him oddly.
“Are you going to bed too?”
“In a very few moments,” said Mr. Reeder cheerfully.
She held out her hand with an impulsive gesture. He took it in both of
his.
“You are my idea of a guardian angel,” she smiled, though she was near
to tears.
“I’ve never heard,” said Mr. Reeder, “of guardian angels with
side-whiskers.”
It was a mean advantage to take of her, yet he was ridiculously
pleased as he repeated his little _jeu d’esprit_ to himself in the
seclusion of his room.