above--and next second there was a click as a key was put into the latch
of the front door.
"Here he is--at last!" the girl whispered. "Now we'll watch!"
They watched together--and by doing so learned some very strange facts.
*CHAPTER VII*
*WHAT HAPPENED IN BRIDGE PLACE*
Together Marigold and her lover crept up the kitchen stairs in the
darkness, and heard Mr. Boyne moving about in the front parlour.
They heard him yawn as he threw off his coat, for the night was sultry,
and there were sounds which showed that he was eating his evening meal.
They heard the loud fizzing as he unscrewed a bottle of beer, and the
noise of a knife and fork upon the plate, for he had left the door open.
After about ten minutes, for he seemed to eat his supper hurriedly, he
flung off his boots, and in his socks crept upstairs to Mrs. Felmore's
door, apparently to satisfy himself that she had retired.
"Hadn't we better get down," suggested Durrant, in a low whisper. "He
may take it into his head to come down and search here."
"No, he never comes into the kitchen. So long as auntie has gone to bed
he does not mind. Let's wait and watch."
This they did. After a few moments Mr. Boyne came down again and walked
along the narrow passage back to his room, satisfied that all was quiet.
He had removed his boots, apparently for some other purpose than to be
able to move about in silence, for however heavily he trod his old
housekeeper would not hear him. Perhaps, however, he feared that her
sense of feeling had been so highly developed that she might have
detected the vibration caused by his footsteps.
He remained for nearly a quarter of an hour in his room, while the pair
stood breathless in the darkness.
"This is just what happened when I last watched," the girl whispered
into the ear of the young man who held her arm affectionately in the
darkness.
"I wonder when he'll come out," remarked young Durrant, highly excited
over the curious adventure. That something remarkable was afoot was
proved by the man's action in ascending the stairs to ascertain that his
housekeeper had retired and would not disturb his movements.
At last they heard a soft movement, and next moment, peering over the
banisters, they saw a tall, ghostly form clad from top to toe in a long,
loose white gown advancing to the stairs.
In one hand he carried a glass jug filled with water, and in the other a
plate piled with bread and other food.
"See!" whispered Durrant. "There is somebody upstairs in that locked
room. He's carrying food and water to his prisoner!"
"Hush!" the girl said softly, and in excitement. "He may hear you! He's
very quick!"
But the strange occupant of the house had already ascended out of view,
and a few moments later they heard a click as he put his key into the
Yale lock of the closed room.
They distinctly heard him open the door, and as distinctly heard him
close it again.
"You wait here, Marigold," the young fellow whispered. "I'll creep up
and see what I can. Perhaps I shall hear them talking."
"Yes, do," she said. "But take the greatest care. Mind the stairs don't
creak. He'll be alarmed in a moment."
"Leave that to me," he replied, and next moment he left her side, and
slowly ascending the few remaining steps, gained the hall, and then the
foot of the stairs which led to the first floor.
Though he had not removed his shoes he made no noise, for he trod slowly
and cautiously, never lifting one foot until the other was down
silently. Thus very slowly he followed the mysterious man in white.
Hardly had he ascended four steps when an electric bell sounded,
apparently in the locked room. He halted, and in an instant decided to
retreat. Scarcely before Marigold had realised that the alarm had
sounded, he sprang down, rejoined her, and whispering:
"Quick! Let's get down!" he descended into the dark kitchen. There,
clutching her by the arm, he felt his way to the door.
Without pausing to listen to the effect of the alarm upon the man
upstairs, the pair passed out into the area, closed the door after them,
hurried up the steps, and out into the street.
"Let's get away before he sees us!" Gerald urged, and they both ran
light-footed along to the corner into King Street, where they escaped.
"There's a trap in that house!" Durrant declared, as after hurrying
breathlessly they walked along in the direction of the Broadway Station.
"Upon one of those stairs is an electrical contact which gives to the
locked room the alarm of an intruder. He switched it on from his room
below!"
"Yes!" said the girl. "I feel sure there is."
"And that shows that there's something very wrong somewhere. Mr. Boyne
has, in secret, a guest who is in hiding upstairs. He takes him food
and water every night--as we have seen with our own eyes. And, further,
he had taken the precaution of installing an electrical alarm in case
anyone followed him upstairs while he was there with his friend."
"True," said the girl. "But why does he disguise himself whenever he
goes up there?"
"That we cannot yet tell. At present it is a complete mystery."
"And a most uncanny one!"
"It is, I can't see the motive of that disguise."
"Is it not weird? He was covered from head to foot in that white cloak,
and only those two slits for his eyes."
"Yes. And he moved as silently as a shadow."
So the pair conversed until they reached the Broadway Station, and left
by the Underground a few moments later.
What they had witnessed that night had increased the mystery a
hundredfold.
In the meantime Bernard Boyne had been startled by the ringing of the
bell, yet in the full knowledge that Mrs. Felmore could hear nothing.
That secret alarm had, as a matter of fact, been installed with his own
hands about two months before, with its switch concealed in the upstairs
room.
On hearing it, he instantly flung off his white cloak and dashed
headlong down the stairs.
In the hall, however, he halted and burst out laughing.
"Fool you are, Bernard!" he exclaimed aloud to himself. "Yes, you are
getting more nervous every day!"
The reason of this was because close to the front door sat Mrs.
Felmore's black cat, waiting to be let out for the night.
"Ah, pussy!" he exclaimed. "So it is you who ran silently down the
stairs and set off the gong, eh?"
And, opening the door, he let out the cat, saying:
"Out you go, Jimmy, and don't do it again."
Then he reascended the stairs to the locked room, perfectly satisfied
with the solution of what a few moments before had caused him very
considerable alarm.
No intruder would be tolerated in that dingy house--the house of great
mystery.
He carried in his hand a small bottle of meat extract which he had taken
from the sideboard in the parlour, and was fully satisfied that it was
the cat who had set off the alarm.
As Gerald and Marigold sat side by side in the train, they could not
converse because of the noise, but at Earl's Court, where they changed,
the girl for Wimbledon Park and her lover bound in the opposite
direction, Marigold halted on the platform, and said:
"I feel worried about auntie, Gerald. There's something wrong in that
house. Don't you think so?"
"Frankly, I do," was the young man's reply. "That he sets an alarm when
he visits the mysterious person concealed in that locked room is in
itself a most remarkable feature of the affair, which is one we must
certainly probe to the bottom."
"But Mr. Boyne is such a nice man. Everyone speaks so well of him. In
all Hammersmith I don't think he has a single enemy, save those who are
jealous of his local popularity. And there are always such."
"As I've said before, Marigold, the men who are deep schemers always
take care to establish a high reputation locally. This Mr. Boyne has,
no doubt, done so with some ulterior motive."
"And that motive we mean to find out," said the girl decisively.
"We will," he said, in a hard voice. "I feel confident that we are on
the track of some very sensational affair."
"Who can be the person who is hiding?"
"Ah! that remains to be seen. It is evidently someone who dare not show
his face--not only in the light of day, but even at night."
"But why does Mr. Boyne wear that hideous robe with slits for the eyes?"
asked Marigold, bewildered, as they walked to the stairs.
"At present, I can't imagine. But we shall know the truth very soon,
never fear," the young man replied. And then, lifting his hat politely,
he shook her hand, and they parted after a very adventurous evening.
As Gerald Durrant travelled back to his home, he reflected deeply upon
the whole affair. Though he had not dared to mention the fact to
Marigold, he was more deeply in love with her than ever. She was the
most dainty and most beautiful girl he had ever met. She was chic to
the finger-tips, and among the many girl clerks he met daily she was
outstanding on account of her refinement, her modesty, and the sweet
expression always upon her countenance.
Yet the problem which she had put forward to him was certainly an
inscrutable one. Boyne, the highly respectable, hard-working insurance
agent, lived in that dingy and rather stuffy house surrounded by meagre
comfort which, in itself, betokened modest means. For every penny
Bernard Boyne gained he worked very hard. Insurance agency is not
highly-paid, for everything is nowadays cut to a minimum, while since
the war the cost of living has soared.
Nevertheless, as he sat in the train taking him westward, he examined
the facts. Boyne employed as housekeeper a woman who was stone-deaf.
Why? Was it because the person confined behind that stout door upstairs
sometimes shouted and made noises which would have attracted the
attention of any person who possessed the sense of hearing?
That this was so he was convinced. Had it not been proved by Boyne
carrying food to the mysterious person who was his captive, or who
remained in voluntary concealment?
If the latter, why did he disguise himself each time he paid him a
visit?
No. Somebody was held there captive against his will, and the reason of
the wearing of that cloak was in order that the captor should remain
unknown and unidentified. Truly, there was an element of sensationalism
in the whole affair!
He was, however, determined to get to the bottom of it. Marigold had,
in her perplexity, consulted him, and he had given his aid. Now, having
witnessed what he had, he meant to carry the affair through, and solve
the mystery of Bernard Boyne and his locked room in Hammersmith.
It occurred to him that perhaps by watching Boyne's movements he might
learn something of interest. The unfortunate part of it was that in his
position he was engaged all day, and could never have any time to devote
to the affair till six or seven o'clock. Nevertheless, he had made a
firm resolve to discover the reason of that locked room, and the
identity of the person concealed within.
Supposing the person to be some relative who was insane, or whose
personal appearance was too horrible to be seen in public--and there are
all sorts of human monstrosities living in concealment in London--then
there could be no reason why Boyne should hide his face when visiting
him. No. Somebody was held there, a prisoner in solitary confinement.
He recollected the heavy door, and the light beneath. Did they not tell
their own tale?
"London contains many mysteries of crime," he said to himself as he
alighted at the station and strolled home. "And here is one, I feel
sure. Boyne is playing some clever game. Perhaps he seeks to inherit
property belonging to the person whom he holds in captivity, and whose
death may indeed have been registered!"
Such a case--and more than one--was on record. Cases of people presumed
by the law to be dead, yet they were still alive, held in confinement by
those who benefited by their money.
Durrant, who had read deeply of the mysteries of crime, recollected the
case of Mrs. Marvin, of Hounslow; of George Charles Pepper, of Richmond;
or Doctor Heaton, of Curzon Street; the celebrated case of the sisters
Tredgold, and others, all of whom were concerned in the holding in
bondage of those whose fortunes they secured.
His inclination led him to go direct to Scotland Yard, and reveal what
he had heard and seen, but Marigold had urged him to refrain from doing
so until they had investigated further. She held Mr. Boyne in such high
esteem, and her aunt held such a comfortable post, that she was most
reluctant to put any suspicions before the police. It was in accordance
with the girl's wishes that he did not go straight to the Criminal
Investigation Department. Yet he knew too well that the police, who
discover so many "mare's nests" daily, are slow to move until a tragedy
occurs. And then it is often too late, for the perpetrators of the
crime have vanished, either abroad, or into one or other of the criminal
bolt-holes which are ever open to those who know.
The public never realise that in the great underworld of London there
are people who make a living--and a very good one, too--by successfully
concealing for weeks, months, nay, years, those for whom the emissaries
of Scotland Yard are in search. The clever criminal knows of these
burrows where he can live quite cosily, and surrounded by comforts,
defying all police inquiries until the hue and cry has died down, and
then as a stoker-fireman, or in some menial capacity, he gets abroad a
free man--free to enjoy the proceeds of his crimes.
At first Gerald Durrant had suspected Bernard Boyne to be one of those
obliging persons who offer safe asylum to criminals, but the wearing of
that ghostly cloak by the owner of the house dispelled any such theory.
No. As he entered the house, after that exciting evening, he was firmly
convinced that Boyne held somebody--man or woman--in captivity.
And he intended, at all hazards, to learn the truth.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*ON LOCH LOMOND*
A bright brilliant day on glorious Loch Lomond, which, with its wooded
islands, is one of the most picturesque of all the Scottish lakes.
The grey little steamer, which that morning had left Balloch Pier at the
southern end of the loch, was slowly threading its way through the green
islets in the afternoon sunshine. Crowded as it always is in fine
weather with visitors from the south, all full of admiration as at every
turn there came into view fresh aspects of the woods and mountains
around Ben Lomond, standing high and majestic, Ben Vane, Ben Vorlick,
the twin peaks of Ben Cruachan, and the tent-shaped Ben More.
The silent grandeur of the loch, where in the deep waters, smooth as
glass, the heron fishes undisturbed, is always impressive. Even on that
unusually clear autumn day--for mists and rains are more often than not
drifting up and down that twenty-five miles or so of picturesque water,
which is sometimes as wide as five miles--those who had come up from
Edinburgh or Glasgow to make the trip, stood open-mouthed at the
ever-changing scene as the steamer wended its way up the loch after
leaving the remote little village of Luss.
Among those on board, seated in a deck-chair and enjoying the beautiful
afternoon, was a well-dressed woman of middle-age, with auburn hair, and
rather sad-faced, but very well preserved. Once or twice her maid, a
short, stout little Scotchwoman, whose speech was that of a Glaswegian,
came to wait upon her, afterwards retiring to another part of the boat.
The lady's eyes were fixed upon the gorgeous panorama. Beside her chair
was a well-worn dressing-bag in dark-green cover, which showed that she
was not a mere day traveller, but had come to Loch Lomond to stay at one
of the unpretentious lakeside hotels, of which there are several at
Tarbet and at Inversnaid. Though she was greatly enjoying the scenery,
it was not in the least fresh to her. Indeed, Mrs. Morrison, of
Carsphairn, was an annual visitor to Loch Lomond, staying a fortnight
each year at the little hotel at Ardlui, a spot which her late husband
had loved so well.
Though an extremely wealthy man, the summer attractions of Harrogate,
Dinard, Aix, or Ostend, had never appealed to him. Bluff and hearty, he
loved Loch Lomond in the days of his prosperity just as when, in his
youth, he used to save his coppers to enable him to have a one-day trip
from Glasgow each summer--red-letter days in his otherwise grey workaday
life.
It had, indeed, been in his mind to build a fine summer residence on the
shore of the loch at Ardlui, and he had actually bought the site--one
that gave a magnificent view of Ben Lomond and a wide-reaching expanse
of the lake--when a sudden illness cut him off, and his wife was left to
mourn his loss.
Augusta Morrison was thinking of the last occasion when she and her
devoted husband had come for the annual fortnight at Ardlui, and of how
daily they walked to the site on the mountain-side where their new home
was to be.
That was four years ago. Yet each year she never failed to pay her
pilgrimage to the spot which they both so loved.
A young couple, evidently Londoners, seated beside her, had been reading
aloud from a guide book the legend of the rocky Craig Royston, where
there is a cave known locally as "Rob Roy's Prison," and then, full of
admiration, had turned to the splendid view afforded of the mountains
around Arrochar.
Just then the steamer slackened, and after some shouting from the
captain, was moored to the pier at Inversnaid, the little loch-side
village with its wooded mountains beyond. There most of the passengers
left the boat to cross by coach or motor that ridge which lies between
Loch Lomond and Loch Katrine, Inversnaid being one of the points of
departure from Loch Lomond to the Trossachs. Therefore, when the boat
went on to the head of the loch at Ardlui, there remained but few
passengers.
At last the steamer drew up at the quaint little landing-stage, the
postal official brought out the last bag of mail for delivery, and, Mrs.
Morrison's maid collecting up all their belongings, they both waited
until the paddles had ceased to revolve.
Scarcely had the widow risen from her chair, when a big, burly Scot
presented himself, and, touching his cap, respectfully bade the lady
welcome.
"Ah! so you're here still, McIntyre!" remarked the widow pleasantly.
"Yes, Mistress Morrison, David McIntyre never leaves Ardlui," laughed
the man, who acted as porter, boots, and general factotum to the
Tillychewan Arms Hotel.
Mistress and maid walked ashore, and were very soon at the little hotel
facing the loch, a very cosy, unpretentious place, where one could get
excellent food, and go mountaineering and fishing to one's heart's
content.
On the threshold Mrs. Morrison was greeted enthusiastically by the
proprietor's wife, a stout, homely woman, and very soon the widow from
Kirkcudbrightshire and her maid were installed in the rooms she annually
occupied, both of which gave magnificent views of water and mountains.
At Ardlui the daily steamer waits for an hour and a half, and then
returns to Balloch, where the express for Glasgow is waiting.
Therefore, when the siren sounded and the boat left on its return
journey, the little place relapsed into its lethargy of rural solitude
and remoteness from the stress of the southern world.
The hotel, half covered with creeper, stood in its well-kept garden,
which ran down to the lake. It was not quite full of visitors. The
guests, however, were all of the better class, mostly Glasgow merchants
and their wives, with a couple of families from London, and the usual
youthful, well-dressed idler which one finds in every hotel the world
over.
At dinner, as Mrs. Morrison sat alone in a corner by the window
overlooking the loch, now crimson in the sunset, she glanced around, but
none of her fellow-visitors appeared to be very interesting. The only
person who attracted her was one woman who, seated alone, was apparently
taking no interest in anyone, for she had propped up before her the
_Glasgow Herald_, which had just arrived by the steamer, and was
absorbed in it.
Augusta Morrison raised her eyes again, and saw that the woman was
exceedingly well, though very quietly, dressed, while there was about
her a distinct air of refinement. She also noticed that she possessed
very remarkable hair.
Suddenly the eyes of the two women met, and the widow, a little confused
for she had been staring hard, turned to look out of the window.
An hour later, when the well-dressed woman had gone out for an
after-dinner stroll in the direction of the landing-stage, Mrs. Morrison
inquired her name of the proprietor's wife.
"Oh!" replied the other. "She's a very nice lady from London. She has
never been up here before. She's a Mrs. Pollen."
Then, referring to the visitors' book, she added: "She lives in Upper
Brook Street, London. She came here about four days ago."
"Is she making a long stay?"
"She took her rooms for a fortnight," was the woman's reply. "She seems
quite nice," she added.
Mrs. Morrison, of Carsphairn, agreed, and then, getting a wrap, went out
into the garden where several of the other visitors were sitting on the
verandah, as the dull red afterglow deepened into twilight.
With one of the women she got into conversation, and, taking the empty
chair next to her, remained there chatting for nearly an hour. Then,
just as darkness was falling, Mrs. Pollen, in a short skirt and carrying
a little ash walking-stick, re-entered the garden and sank into a seat
in the corner to rest.
Next morning after breakfast--the usual Scotch breakfast with cold
grouse and scones--Mrs. Morrison again strolled out into the sunlit
garden after Mrs. Pollen, and broke the ice.
At first Mrs. Pollen preserved a somewhat dignified attitude. She spoke
in her best Mayfair manner, and it was apparent that she considered
herself socially superior to the widow, who, by her speech, was so
palpably Scotch.
"No," said Ena, "I have never been in Scotland before. I find it most
delightful up here, but rather dull when one is alone, as I am."
"I, too, am alone, except for my maid," replied the widow. "But I love
this place. It is so quiet and out of the world. Besides, the scenery
is as grand as any in Scotland. I'm Scottish, and I've travelled the
whole country through with my husband. He was always enchanted with
Ardlui. Indeed," she added, "we bought a site for a home out here at the
back--where one has a lovely view--but unfortunately he died before he
gave the order to build the place."
"How very unfortunate," said Ena Pollen, with quick sympathy, and in
pretence that she knew nothing whatever of her fellow-guest's identity,
or of her past, whereas she knew every fact of importance concerning
her. "I live in London, and though I travel a good deal, mostly on the
Continent or in Egypt, I must say that I think Loch Lomond really
beautiful. I took a long ramble by the lochside yesterday afternoon,
and found it most enjoyable."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Morrison. "You must take the trip over to
Stronachlachar and up Katrine. It is quite pretty, but not so grand as
this. Besides, there are always too many trippers in the Trossachs.
But while you are here you must really go across and see Ellen's Isle."
And so the pair, seated in the garden with the sunlit waters at their
feet, gossiped on, and quickly became good friends.
That same evening, indeed, Mrs. Morrison invited the lady from London up
to her sitting-room to take coffee after dinner, and there they sat
gossiping and smoking cigarettes until it was time to retire.
When Ena Pollen gained her room she locked the door, and, flinging
herself into a small easy chair, exclaimed beneath her breath:
"Thank Heaven! That's over! The first few hours when one cultivates a
friendship are always full of pitfalls. A word in the wrong place, and
the person one seeks to know may instantly conceive a strong dislike.
In this case, however, the woman has approached me. It was a good job I
got up here first."