"Then you will have to get well, or else we shall never be able to
fathom this business," he said. "The first thing, consequently, I shall
do, is to write a prescription, and get it made up. After that, I mean
to take a survey of the house and grounds."
"Do precisely what you like," I answered. "This is Liberty Hall to the
living as well as to the dead," and I laid my head on the back of the
easy-chair, and went off to sleep.
All that day Munro seemed to feel little need of my society. He examined
every room in the house, and every square inch about the premises. He
took short walks round the adjacent neighbourhood, and made, to his own
satisfaction, a map of River Hall and the country and town thereunto
adjoining. Then he had a great fire lighted in the library, and spent
the afternoon tapping the walls, trying the floors, and trying to obtain
enlightenment from the passage which led from the library direct to the
door opening into the lane.
After dinner, he asked me to lend him the shorthand report I had made of
the evidence given at the inquest. He made no comment upon it when he
finished reading, but sat, for a few minutes, with one hand shading his
eyes, and the other busily engaged in making some sort of a sketch on
the back of an old letter.
"What are you doing, Munro?" I asked, at last.
"You shall see presently," he answered, without looking up, or pausing
in his occupation.
At the expiration of a few minutes, he handed me over the paper, saying:
"Do you know anyone that resembles?"
I took the sketch, looked at it, and cried out incoherently in my
surprise.
"Well," he went on, "who is it?"
"The man who follows me! The man I saw in this lane!"
"And what is his name?"
"That is precisely what I desire to find out," I answered. "When did you
see him? How did you identify him? Why did--"
"I have something to tell you, if you will only be quiet, and let me
speak," he interrupted. "It was, as you know, late last night before I
left here, and for that reason, and also because I was perplexed and
troubled, I walked fast--faster than even is my wont. The road was very
lonely; I scarcely met a creature along the road, flooded with the
moonlight. I never was out on a lovelier night; I had never, even in the
country, felt I had it so entirely to myself.
"Every here and there I came within sight of the river, and it seemed,
on each occasion, as though a great mirror had been put up to make every
object on land--every house, every tree, bush, fern, more clearly
visible than it had been before. I am coming to my story, Hal, so don't
look so impatient.
"At last, as I came once again in view of the Thames, with the moon
reflected in the water, and the dark arches of the bridge looking black
and solemn contrasted against the silvery stream, I saw before me, a
long way before me, a man whose figure stood out in relief against the
white road--a man walking wearily and with evident difficulty--a man,
too, slightly deformed.
"I walked on rapidly, till within about a score yards of him, then I
slackened my speed, and taking care that my leisurely footsteps should
be heard, overtook him by degrees, and then, when I was quite abreast,
asked if he could oblige me with a light.
"He looked up in my face, and said, with a forced, painful smile and
studied courtesy of manner:
"'I am sorry, sir, to say that I do not smoke.'
"I do not know exactly what reply I made. I know his countenance struck
me so forcibly, it was with difficulty I could utter some commonplace
remark concerning the beauty of the night.
"'I do not like moonlight,' he said, and as he said it, something, a
connection of ideas, or a momentary speculation, came upon me so
suddenly, that once again I failed to reply coherently, but asked if he
could tell me the shortest way to the Brompton Road.
"'To which end?' he inquired.
"'That nearest Hyde Park Corner,' I answered.
"As it turned out, no question could have served my purpose better.
"'I am going part of the way there,' he said, 'and will show you the
nearest route--that is,' he added, 'if you can accommodate your pace to
mine,' and he pointed, as he spoke, to his right foot, which evidently
was causing him considerable pain.
"Now, that was something quite in my way, and by degrees I got him to
tell me about the accident which had caused his slight deformity. I told
him I was a doctor, and had been to see a patient, and so led him on to
talk about sickness and disease, till at length he touched upon diseases
of a morbid character; asking me if it were true that in some special
maladies the patient was haunted by an apparition which appeared at a
particular hour.
"I told him it was quite true, and that such cases were peculiarly
distressing, and generally proved most difficult to cure--mentioning
several well-authenticated instances, which I do not mean to detail to
you, Patterson, as I know you have an aversion to anything savouring of
medical shop.
"'You doctors do not believe in the actual existence of any such
apparitions, of course?' he remarked, after a pause.
"I told him we did not; that we knew they had their rise and origin
solely in the malady of the patient.
"'And yet,' he said, 'some ghost stories--I am not now speaking of those
associated with disease, are very extraordinary, unaccountable--'
"'Very extraordinary, no doubt,' I answered; 'but I should hesitate
before saying unaccountable. Now, there is that River Hall place up the
river. There must be some rational way of explaining the appearances in
that house, though no one has yet found any clue to that enigma.'
"'River Hall--where is that?' he asked; then suddenly added, 'Oh! I
remember now: you mean the Uninhabited House, as it is called. Yes,
there is a curious story, if you like. May I ask if you are interested
in any way in that matter?'
"'Not in any way, except that I have been spending the evening there
with a friend of mine.'
"'Has he seen anything of the reputed ghost?' asked my companion,
eagerly. 'Is he able to throw any light on the dark subject?'
"'I don't think he can,' I replied. 'He has seen the usual appearances
which I believe it is correct to see at River Hall; but so far, they
have added nothing to his previous knowledge.'
"'He has seen, you say?'
"'Yes; all the orthodox lions of that cheerful house.'
"'And still he is not daunted--he is not afraid?'
"'He is not afraid. Honestly, putting ghosts entirely on one side, I
should not care to be in his shoes, all alone in a lonely house.'
"'And you would be right, sir,' was the answer. 'A man must be mad to
run such a risk.'
"'So I told him,' I agreed.
"'Why, I would not stay in that house alone for any money which could be
offered to me,' he went on, eagerly.
"'I cannot go so far as that,' I said; 'but still it must be a very
large sum which could induce me to do so.'
"'It ought to be pulled down, sir,' he continued; 'the walls ought to be
razed to the ground.'
"'I suppose they will,' I answered, 'when Miss Elmsdale, the owner,
comes of age; unless, indeed, our modern Don Quixote runs the ghost to
earth before that time.'
"'Did you say the young man was ill?' asked my companion.
"'He has got a cold,' I answered.
"'And colds are nasty things to get rid of,' he commented, 'particularly
in those low-lying localities. That is a most unhealthy part; you ought
to order your patient a thorough change of air.'
"'I have, but he won't take advice,' was my reply. 'He has nailed his
colours to the mast, and means, I believe, to stay in River Hall till he
kills the ghost, or the ghost kills him.'
"'What a foolish youth!'
"'Undoubtedly; but, then, youth is generally foolish, and we have all
our crotchets.'
"We had reached the other side of the bridge by this time, and saying
his road lay in an opposite direction to mine, the gentleman I have
sketched told me the nearest way to take, and bade me a civil good
night, adding, 'I suppose I ought to say good morning.'"
"And is that all?" I asked, as Munro paused.
"Bide a wee, as the Scotch say, my son. I strode off along the road he
indicated, and then, instead of making the detour he had kindly sketched
out for my benefit, chose the first turning to my left, and, quite
convinced he would soon pass that way, took up my position in the
portico of a house which lay well in shadow. It stood a little back from
the side-path, and a poor little Arab sleeping on the stone step proved
to me the policeman was not over and above vigilant in that
neighbourhood.
"I waited, Heaven only knows how long, thinking all the time I must be
mistaken, and that his home did lie in the direction he took; but at
last, looking out between the pillars and the concealing shrubs, I saw
him. He was looking eagerly into the distance, with such a drawn, worn,
painful expression, that for a moment my heart relented, and I thought I
would let the poor devil go in peace.
"It was only for a moment, however; touching the sleeping boy, I bade
him awake, if he wanted to earn a shilling. 'Keep that gentleman in
sight, and get to know for me where he lives, and come back here, and I
will give you a shilling, and perhaps two, for your pains.'
"With his eyes still heavy with slumber, and his perceptions for the
moment dulled, he sped after the figure, limping wearily on. I saw him
ask my late companion for charity, and follow the gentleman for a few
steps, when the latter, threatening him with his stick, the boy dodged
to escape a blow, and then, by way of showing how lightly his bosom's
load sat upon him, began turning wheels down the middle of the street.
He passed the place where I stood, and spun a hundred feet further on,
then he gathered himself together, and seeing no one in sight,
stealthily crept back to his porch again.
"'You young rascal,' I said, 'I told you to follow him home. I want to
know his name and address particularly.'
"'Come along, then,' he answered, 'and I'll show you. Bless you, we all
knows him--better than we do the police, or anybody hereabouts. He's a
beak and a ward up at the church, whatever that is, and he has
building-yards as big, oh! as big as two workhouses, and--'"
"His name, Munro--his name?" I gasped.
"Harringford."
I expected it. I knew then that for days and weeks my suspicions had
been vaguely connecting Mr. Harringford with the mystery of the
Uninhabited House.
This was the hiding figure in my dream, the link hitherto wanting in my
reveries concerning River Hall. I had been looking for this--waiting for
it; I understood at last; and yet, when Munro mentioned the name of the
man who had thought it worth his while to watch my movements, I shrunk
from the conclusion which forced itself upon me.
"Must we go on to the end with this affair?" I asked, after a pause, and
my voice was so changed, it sounded like that of a stranger to me.
"We do not yet know what the end will prove," Munro answered; "but
whatever it may be, we must not turn back now."
"How ought we to act, do you think?" I inquired.
"We ought not to act at all," he answered. "We had better wait and see
what his next move will be. He is certain to take some step. He will try
to get you out of this house by hook or by crook. He has already striven
to effect his purpose through Miss Elmsdale, and failed. It will
therefore be necessary for him to attempt some other scheme. It is not
for me to decide on the course he is likely to pursue; but, if I were in
your place, I should stay within doors at night. I should not sit in the
dark near windows still unshuttered. I should not allow any strangers to
enter the house, and I should have a couple of good dogs running loose
about the premises. I have brought Brenda with me as a beginning, and I
think I know where to lay my hand on a good old collie, who will stay
near any house I am in, and let no one trespass about it with impunity."
"Good heavens! Munro, you don't mean to say you think the man would
_murder_ me!" I exclaimed.
"I don't know what he might, or might not do," he replied. "There is
something about this house he is afraid may be found out, and he is
afraid you will find it out. Unless I am greatly mistaken, a great deal
depends upon the secret being preserved intact. At present we can only
surmise its nature; but I mean, in the course of a few days, to know
more of Mr. Harringford's antecedents than he might be willing to
communicate to anyone. What is the matter with you, Hal? You look as
white as a corpse."
"I was only thinking," I answered, "of one evening last week, when I
fell asleep in the drawing-room, and woke in a fright, imagining I saw
that horrid light streaming out from the library, and a face pressed up
close to the glass of the window on my left hand peering into the room."
"I have no doubt the face was there," he said, gravely; "but I do not
think it will come again, so long as Brenda is alive. Nevertheless, I
should be careful. Desperate men are capable of desperate deeds."
The first post next morning brought me a letter from Mr. Craven, which
proved Mr. Harringford entertained for the present no intention of
proceeding to extremities with me.
He had been in Buckingham Street, so said my principal, and offered to
buy the freehold of River Hall for twelve hundred pounds.
Mr. Craven thought he might be induced to increase his bid to fifteen
hundred, and added: "Miss Blake has half consented to the arrangement,
and Miss Elmsdale is eager for the matter to be pushed on, so that the
transfer may take place directly she comes of age. I confess, now an
actual offer has been made, I feel reluctant to sacrifice the property
for such a sum, and doubt whether it might not be better to offer it for
sale by auction--that is, if you think there is no chance of your
discovering the reason why River Hall bears so bad a name. Have you
obtained any clue to the mystery?"
To this I replied in a note, which Munro himself conveyed to the office.
"I have obtained an important clue; but that is all I can say for the
present. Will you tell Mr. Harringford I am at River Hall, and that you
think, being on the spot and knowing all about the place, I could
negotiate the matter better than anyone else in the office? If he is
desirous of purchasing, he will not object to calling some evening and
discussing the matter with me. I have an idea that a large sum of money
might be made out of this property by an enterprising man like Mr.
Harringford; and it is just possible, after hearing what I have to say,
he may find himself able to make a much better offer for the Uninhabited
House than that mentioned in your note. At all events, the interview can
do no harm. I am still suffering so much from cold that it would be
imprudent for me to wait upon Mr. Harringford, which would otherwise be
only courteous on my part."
"Capital!" said Munro, reading over my shoulder. "That will bring my
gentleman to River Hall--. But what is wrong, Patterson? You are surely
not going to turn chickenhearted now?"
"No," I answered; "but I wish it was over. I dread something, and I do
not know what it is. Though nothing shall induce me to waver, I am
afraid, Munro. I am not ashamed to say it: I am afraid, as I was the
first night I stayed in this house. I am not a coward, but I am afraid."
He did not reply for a moment. He walked to the window and looked out
over the Thames; then he came back, and, wringing my hand, said, in
tones that tried unsuccessfully to be cheerful:
"I know what it is, old fellow. Do you think I have not had the feeling
myself, since I came here? But remember, it has to be done, and I will
stand by you. I will see you through it."
"It won't do for you to be in the room, though," I suggested.
"No; but I will stay within earshot," he answered.
We did not talk much more about the matter. Men rarely do talk much
about anything which seems to them very serious, and I may candidly say
that I had never felt anything in my life to be much more serious than
that impending interview with Mr. Harringford.
That he would come we never doubted for a moment, and we were right. As
soon as it was possible for him to appoint an interview, Mr.
Harringford did so.
"Nine o'clock on to-morrow (Thursday) evening," was the hour he named,
apologizing at the same time for being unable to call at an earlier
period of the day.
"Humph!" said Munro, turning the note over. "You will receive him in the
library, of course, Hal?"