I have never been able exactly to satisfy my own mind as to the precise
period during my occupation of the Uninhabited House when it occurred to
me that I was being watched. Hazily I must have had some consciousness
of the fact long before I began seriously to entertain the idea.
I felt, even when I was walking through London, that I was being often
kept in sight by some person. I had that vague notion of a stranger
being interested in my movements which it is so impossible to define to
a friend, and which one is chary of seriously discussing with oneself.
Frequently, when the corner of a street was reached, I found myself
involuntarily turning to look back; and, prompted by instinct, I
suppose, for there was no reason about the matter, I varied my route to
and from the Uninhabited House, as much as the nature of the roads
permitted. Further, I ceased to be punctual as to my hours of business,
sometimes arriving at the office late, and, if Mr. Craven had anything
for me to do Cityward, returning direct from thence to River Hall
without touching Buckingham Street.
By this time February had drawn to a close, and better weather might
therefore have been expected; instead of which, one evening as I paced
westward, snow began to fall, and continued coming down till somewhere
about midnight.
Next morning Mrs. Stott drew my attention to certain footmarks on the
walks, and beneath the library and drawing-room windows--the footmarks,
evidently, of a man whose feet were not a pair. With the keenest
interest, I examined these traces of a human pursuer. Clearly the
footprints had been made by only one person, and that person deformed in
some way. Not merely was the right foot-track different from that of the
left, but the way in which its owner put it to the ground must have been
different also. The one mark was clear and distinct, cut out in the snow
with a firm tread, while the other left a little broken bank at its
right edge, and scarcely any impression of the heel.
"Slightly lame," I decided. "Eases his right foot, and has his boots
made to order."
"It is very odd," I remarked aloud to Mrs. Stott.
"That it is, sir," she answered; adding, "I hope to gracious none of
them mobsmen are going to come burglaring here!" "Pooh!" I replied;
"there is nothing for them to steal, except chairs and tables, and I
don't think one man could carry many of them away."
The whole of that day I found my thoughts reverting to those foot-marks
in the snow. What purpose anyone proposed to serve by prowling about
River Hall I could not imagine. Before taking up my residence in the
Uninhabited House, I had a theory that some malicious person or persons
was trying to keep the place unoccupied--nay, further, imagination
suggested the idea that, owing to its proximity to the river, Mr.
Elmsdale's Hall might have taken the fancy of a gang of smugglers, who
had provided for themselves means of ingress and egress unknown to the
outside world. But all notions of this kind now seemed preposterous.
Slowly, but surely, the conviction had been gaining upon me that, let
the mystery of River Hall be what it would, no ordinary explanation
could account for the phenomena which it had presented to tenant after
tenant; and my own experiences in the house, slight though they were,
tended to satisfy me there was something beyond malice or interest at
work about the place.
The very peace vouchsafed to me seemed another element of mystery, since
it would certainly have been natural for any evil-disposed person to
inaugurate a series of ghostly spectacles for the benefit of an
investigator like myself; and yet, somehow, the absence of supernatural
appearances, and the presence of that shadowy human being who thought it
worth while to track my movements, and who had at last left tangible
proof of his reality behind him in the snow, linked themselves together
in my mind.
"If there is really anyone watching me," I finally decided, "there must
be a deeper mystery attached to River Hall than has yet been suspected.
Now, the first thing is to make sure that some one is watching me, and
the next to guard against danger from him."
In the course of the day, I made a, for me, curious purchase. In a
little shop, situated in a back street, I bought half a dozen reels of
black sewing-cotton.
This cotton, on my return home, I attached to the trellis-work outside
the drawing-room window, and wound across the walk and round such trees
and shrubs as grew in positions convenient for my purpose.
"If these threads are broken to-morrow morning, I shall know I have a
flesh-and-blood foe to encounter," I thought.
Next morning I found all the threads fastened across the walks leading
round by the library and drawing-room snapped in two.
It was, then, flesh and blood I had come out to fight, and I decided
that night to keep watch.
As usual, I went up to my bedroom, and, after keeping the gas burning
for about the time I ordinarily spent in undressing, put out the light,
softly turned the handle of the door, stole, still silently, along the
passage, and so into a large apartment with windows which overlooked
both the library and drawing-room.
It was here, I knew, that Miss Elmsdale must have heard her father
walking past the door, and I am obliged to confess that, as I stepped
across the room, a nervous chill seemed for the moment to take my
courage captive.
If any reader will consider the matter, mine was not an enviable
position. Alone in a desolate house, reputed to be haunted, watching
for some one who had sufficient interest in the place to watch it and
me closely.
It was still early--not later than half-past ten. I had concluded to
keep my vigil until after midnight, and tried to while away the time
with thoughts foreign to the matter in hand.
All in vain, however. Let me force what subject I pleased upon my
mind, it reverted persistently to Mr. Elmsdale and the circumstances
of his death.
"Why did he commit suicide?" I speculated. "If he had lost money, was
that any reason why he should shoot himself?"
People had done so, I was aware; and people, probably, would continue to
do so; but not hard-headed, hard-hearted men, such as Robert Elmsdale
was reputed to have been. He was not so old that the achievement of a
second success should have seemed impossible. His credit was good, his
actual position unsuspected. River Hall, unhaunted, was not a bad
property, and in those days he could have sold it advantageously.
I could not understand the motive of his suicide, unless, indeed, he was
mad or drunk at the time. And then I began to wonder whether anything
about his life had come out on the inquest--anything concerning habits,
associates, and connections. Had there been any other undercurrent,
besides betting, in his life brought out in evidence, which might help
me to a solution of the mystery?
"I will ask Mr. Craven to-morrow," I thought, "whether he has a copy of
the _Times_, containing a report of the inquest. Perhaps--"
What possibility I was about to suggest to my own mind I shall never now
know, for at that moment there flamed out upon the garden a broad,
strong flame of light--a flame which came so swiftly and suddenly, that
a man, creeping along the River Walk, had not time to step out of its
influence before I had caught full sight of him. There was not much to
see, however. A man about the middle height, muffled in a cloak, wearing
a cap, the peak of which was drawn down over his forehead: that was all
I could discern, ere, cowering back from the light, he stole away into
the darkness.
Had I yielded to my first impulse, I should have rushed after him in
pursuit; but an instant's reflection told me how worse than futile such
a wild-goose chase must prove. Cunning must be met with cunning,
watching with watching.
If I could discover who he was, I should have taken the first step
towards solving the mystery of River Hall; but I should never do so by
putting him on his guard. The immediate business lying at that moment to
my hand was to discover whence came the flare of light which, streaming
across the walk, had revealed the intruder's presence to me. For that
business I can truthfully say I felt little inclination.
Nevertheless, it had to be undertaken. So, walking downstairs, I
unlocked and opened the library-door, and found, as I anticipated, the
room in utter darkness. I examined the fastenings of the shutters--they
were secure as I had left them; I looked into the strong-room--not even
a rat lay concealed there; I turned the cocks of the gas lights--but no
gas whistled through the pipes, for the service to the library was
separate from that of the rest of the house, and capable of being shut
off at pleasure. I, mindful of the lights said to have been seen
emanating from that room, had taken away the key from the internal tap,
so that gas could not be used without my knowledge or the possession of
a second key. Therefore, as I have said, it was no surprise to me to
find the library in darkness. Nor could I say the fact of the light
flaring, apparently, from a closely-shut-up room surprised me either.
For a long time I had been expecting to see this phenomenon: now, when I
did see it, I involuntarily connected the light, the apartment, and the
stranger together.
For he was no ghost. Ghosts do not leave footmarks behind them in the
snow. Ghosts do not break threads of cotton. It was a man I had seen in
the garden, and it was my business to trace out the connection between
him and the appearances at River Hall.
Thinking thus, I left the library, extinguished the candle by the aid of
which I had made the investigations stated above, and after lowering the
gaslight I always kept burning in the hall, began ascending the broad,
handsome staircase, when I was met by the figure of a man descending the
steps. I say advisedly, the figure; because, to all external appearance,
he was as much a living man as myself.
And yet I knew the thing which came towards me was not flesh and
blood. Knew it when I stood still, too much stupefied to feel afraid.
Knew it, as the figure descended swiftly, noiselessly. Knew it, as,
for one instant, we were side by side. Knew it, when I put out my hand
to stop its progress, and my hand, encountering nothing, passed
through the phantom as through air. Knew, it, when I saw the figure
pass through the door I had just locked, and which opened to admit the
ghostly visitor--opened wide, and then closed again, without the help
of mortal hand.
After that I knew nothing more till I came to my senses again and found
myself half lying, half sitting on the staircase, with my head resting
against the banisters. I had fainted; but if any man thinks I saw in a
vision what I have described, let him wait till he reaches the end of
this story before expressing too positive an opinion about the matter.
How I passed the remainder of that night, I could scarcely tell.
Towards morning, however, I fell asleep, and it was quite late when I
awoke: so late, in fact, that Mrs. Stott had rung for admittance
before I was out of bed.
That morning two curious things occurred: one, the postman brought a
letter for the late owner of River Hall, and dropped it in the box;
another, Mrs. Stott asked me if I would allow her and two of the
children to take up their residence at the Uninhabited House. She
could not manage to pay her rent, she explained, and some kind
friends had offered to maintain the elder children if she could keep
the two youngest.
"And I thought, sir, seeing how many spare rooms there are here, and the
furniture wanting cleaning, and the windows opening when the sun is out,
that perhaps you would not object to my staying here altogether. I
should not want any more wages, sir, and I would do my best to give
satisfaction."
For about five minutes I considered this proposition, made to me whilst
sitting at breakfast, and decided in favour of granting her request. I
felt satisfied she was not in league with the person or persons engaged
in watching my movements; it would be well to have some one in care of
the premises during my absence, and it would clearly be to her interest
to keep her place at River Hall, if possible.
Accordingly, when she brought in my boots, I told her she could remove
at once if she liked.
"Only remember one thing, Mrs. Stott," I said. "If you find any ghosts
in the dark corners, you must not come to me with any complaints."
"I sleep sound, sir," she answered, "and I don't think any ghosts will
trouble me in the daytime. So thank you, sir; I will bring over a few
things and stay here, if you please."
"Very good; here is the key of the back door," I answered; and in five
minutes more I was trudging Londonward.
As I walked along I decided not to say anything to Mr. Craven concerning
the previous night's adventures; first, because I felt reluctant to
mention the apparition, and secondly, because instinct told me I should
do better to keep my own counsel, and confide in no one, till I had
obtained some clue to the mystery of that midnight watcher.
"Now here's a very curious thing!" said Mr. Craven, after he had opened
and read the letter left at River Hall that morning. "This is from a man
who has evidently not heard of Mr. Elmsdale's death, and who writes to
say how much he regrets having been obliged to leave England without
paying his I O U held by my client. To show that, though he may have
seemed dishonest, he never meant to cheat Mr. Elmsdale, he encloses a
draft on London for the principal and interest of the amount due."
"Very creditable to him," I remarked. "What is the amount, sir?"
"Oh! the total is under a hundred pounds," answered Mr. Craven; "but
what I meant by saying the affair seemed curious is this: amongst Mr.
Elmsdale's papers there was not an I O U of any description."
"Well, that is singular," I observed; then asked, "Do you think Mr.
Elmsdale had any other office besides the library at River Hall?"
"No," was the reply, "none whatever. When he gave up his offices in
town, he moved every one of his papers to River Hall. He was a reserved,
but not a secret man; not a man, for instance, at all likely to lead a
double life of any sort."
"And yet he betted," I suggested.
"Certainly that does puzzle me," said Mr. Craven. "And it is all against
my statement, for I am certain no human being, unless it might be Mr.
Harringford, who knew him in business, was aware of the fact."
"And what is your theory about the absence of all-important documents?"
I inquired.
"I think he must have raised money on them," answered Mr. Craven.
"Are you aware whether anyone else ever produced them?" I asked.
"I am not; I never heard of their being produced: but, then, I should
not have been likely to hear." Which was very true, but very
unsatisfactory. Could we succeed in tracing even one of those papers, a
clue might be found to the mystery of Mr. Elmsdale's suicide.
That afternoon I repaired to the house of one of our clients, who had, I
knew, a file of the _Times_ newspapers, and asked him to allow me to
look at it.
I could, of course, have seen a file at many places in the city, but I
preferred pursuing my investigations where no one was likely to watch
the proceeding.
"_Times!_ bless my soul, yes; only too happy to be able to oblige Mr.
Craven. Walk into the study, there is a good fire, make yourself quite
at home, I beg, and let me send you a glass of wine."
All of which I did, greatly to the satisfaction of the dear old
gentleman.
Turning over the file for the especial year in which Mr. Elmsdale had
elected to put a pistol to his head, I found at last the account of the
inquest, which I copied out in shorthand, to be able to digest it more
fully at leisure; and as it was growing dusk, wended my way back to
Buckingham Street.
As I was walking slowly down one side of the street, I noticed a man
standing within the open door of a house near Buckingham Gate.
At any other time I should not have given the fact a second thought, but
life at River Hall seemed to have endowed me with the power of making
mountains out of molehills, of regarding the commonest actions of my
fellows with distrust and suspicion; and I was determined to know more
of the gentleman who stood back in the shadow, peering out into the
darkening twilight.
With this object I ran upstairs to the clerk's office, and then passed
into Mr. Craven's room. He had gone, but his lamp was still burning, and
I took care to move between it and the window, so as to show myself to
any person who might be watching outside; then, without removing hat or
top-coat, I left the room, and proceeded to Taylor's office, which I
found in utter darkness. This was what I wanted; I wished to see without
being seen; and across the way, standing now on the pavement, was the
man I had noticed, looking up at our offices.
"All right," thought I, and running downstairs, I went out again, and
walked steadily up Buckingham Street, along John Street, up Adam Street,
as though _en route_ to the Strand. Before, however, I reached that
thoroughfare, I paused, hesitated, and then immediately and suddenly
wheeled round and retraced my steps, meeting, as I did so, a man walking
a few yards behind me and at about the same pace.
I did not slacken my speed for a moment as we came face to face; I did
not turn to look back after him; I retraced my steps to the office;
affected to look out some paper, and once again pursued my former route,
this time without meeting or being followed by anyone, and made my way
into the City, where I really had business to transact.
I could have wished for a longer and a better look at the man who
honoured me so far as to feel interested in my movements; but I did not
wish to arouse his suspicions.
I had scored one trick; I had met him full, and seen his face
distinctly--so distinctly that I was able to feel certain I had seen it
before, but where, at the moment, I could not remember.
"Never mind," I continued: "that memory will come in due time; meanwhile
the ground of inquiry narrows, and the plot begins to thicken."