reseated herself in the summer twilight near the open window.
At half-past eight o'clock Bernard Boyne, having washed and changed his
clothes, went out.
Marigold fell to wondering where he might be going. It had been
arranged that Gerald should be on watch outside the house that night,
but when they had met at lunch, he had told her that he was compelled to
accompany his principal to Birmingham that afternoon, for a conference
was to be held in that city on the following day.
"I may be away for a day or two, dear," he had said. "But in the
meanwhile discover all you can."
Boyne went direct from Hammersmith to Pont Street, where he found that
his wife had gone out to dinner. She would be back soon after ten, the
young man-servant informed him.
Therefore he went to his room and put on evening clothes--a very
smartly-cut suit with white waist-coat and mother-of-pearl and diamond
buttons. As he stood before the long cheval glass, examining himself
after he had tied his cravat and put on his coat, the transformation, he
thought, was surely complete. Nobody meeting him in that luxuriously
furnished house would ever have recognised in him the trudging,
hard-working insurance agent of Hammersmith.
He descended to the drawing-room, but his wife did not return till past
ten. She was in a strikingly handsome gown of black-and-gold tissue,
with a shimmering ornament in her hair, while around her neck was a rope
of splendid pearls.
"Well, Lilla!" he exclaimed pleasantly, as he threw himself lazily into
a soft arm-chair. "I'm glad you're back early. Where are we to meet
Ena?"
"At Murray's, at eleven. Then we go on to the Carlton to supper," was
her reply. "Remember our name to-night is Davidson, and we live at
Welsford Hall, in Northamptonshire. Ena wants to introduce us to Mrs.
Morrison."
"But Mrs. Morrison is likely to meet one of us again, and it might be
awkward," the man remarked, as he slowly lit a cigarette.
"She is not likely to meet us again--except at Ena's house--is she?"
said his wife, with a curious expression in her narrow eyes.
"No, I suppose not--if all goes right, and there is no hitch," he said
reflectively.
"Hitch! How can there be a hitch?" asked Lilla. "Ena will do her part,
while you do yours."
"When does Ena propose that the little affair shall be done?" he asked.
"Next Saturday--if that suits you?"
"Saturday," he repeated again reflectively, as he examined his
cigarette. "It will take about nine to ten days, so on the following
Monday or Tuesday week it should be complete."
"It ought to be, Bernard. We shall soon be wanting more money, you
know. We've been spending freely and investing a lot of late. Ena was
here this afternoon. Mrs. Morrison came up from Brighton this morning
in order to go to the theatre with her, and meet us at supper
afterwards. You can tell her how you hunt with the Fitzwilliam and Lord
Exeter's hounds. She knows nothing of fox-hunting, and it will impress
her."
"Yes. Ena has told me the woman is just the widow of a Glasgow man who
has plenty of money, but who knows practically nothing of English
society."
"Why Ena is so keen that we should meet the woman, I can't think," Lilla
remarked.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I suggested it," was his reply. "When she
invites her to dine we shall be there. It looks better for Ena to have
other guests, especially if--well, if anything happened."
"I hope nothing untoward will happen," she exclaimed quickly.
"No," he laughed. "Don't worry, my dear. It is all plain sailing. We
shall cash a big cheque before long--depend upon it! But time is
getting on. We ought to get along to Murray's and meet them on
arrival."
Therefore the pair put on their coats, and a taxi being called, they
drove to Murray's, where they awaited the arrival of Mrs. Pollen and her
guest.
Ten minutes later they came. The red-haired widow was dressed superbly,
and wore wonderful beads of Chinese jade. Her companion, handsome and
also well-dressed, expressed delight when her hostess introduced her to
her old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Davidson. The latter both became
extremely affable, appearing very pleased when Ena told them, what they
already knew--namely, that she had reserved a table at the Carlton for
supper.
Then the four drove in a taxi to Pall Mall, where they had a very
pleasant meal.
Mrs. Morrison, of Carsphairn, was a hard-headed and sensible woman. She
cared but little for the so-called excitements of society, but that
evening she had greatly enjoyed the play, and now as she gazed around at
the smart crowd coming in and taking the tables allotted to them, the
daring and often magnificent dresses, and the host of good-looking men,
it was something of a novelty to her.
"Before my husband's death I travelled a good deal on the Continent,"
she explained to Mrs. Davidson. "But nowadays I remain mostly in
Scotland. I entertain a few people at Carsphairn for the shooting, but
beyond that I live very quietly."
"So do we," Lilla replied. "We are just country cousins. Our place is
in the wilds of Northamptonshire, and my husband hunts a good deal."
"Ah! Northamptonshire and Leicestershire are the centre of fox-hunting,
are they not?" said the Scotch woman, addressing Mr. Davidson.
"Yes. We have several packs within easy reach, though Welsford, where
we live, is, strictly speaking, in the Fitzwilliam country. I love
hunting," he added.
"My husband even goes cubbing at four o'clock in the morning sometimes,"
laughed Mrs. Davidson.
"Ah! He is evidently an enthusiast!" Mrs. Morrison agreed. "My husband
was a fisherman, and I confess I had to go with him on some very dull
expeditions in the north of Scotland and in Ireland."
"That's the worst of men," Lilla declared. "If they take up hunting,
fishing, or golf, it becomes an obsession. They talk of nothing else."
And so the chatter about hunting and hunting men continued, apparently
to the intense amusement of Ena Pollen--or "Mrs. Morrison" as she was
known to the Manchester solicitor and the doctors who had pronounced her
life to be a "first-class" one.
The orchestra was playing one of the latest waltzes, and the big
restaurant was filled with chatter and laughter. Surely none who sat
there that night and noticed the three ladies and their male companion
as they drank their champagne, and ate that supper dish of the London
restaurants, _mousse de jambon_ served from the ice, would ever have
dreamed that a most diabolical plot was in progress, a conspiracy the
most subtle and fiendish that the evil mind of man could ever devise.
Ena Pollen was, of course, the life and soul of the party. Very
handsome, with her auburn hair and her bizarre dress, she was regarded
by half the people in the restaurant. Some of them knew her by sight as
a regular habituee of the smart restaurants and dance-clubs, for it was
part of the great game which the heartless trio was playing for her to
be remarked and regarded as a woman of outstanding grace and beauty.
Men courted her society, and in more than one instance--if the truth be
whispered--had been hurried to the grave in consequence.
The quartette, after a delightful meal, took their coffee and Cointreau
at a little table set beneath a palm out in the hall. Mrs. Morrison had
become as charmed with Mrs. Davidson as she had been with Ena Pollen.
"You must come up and see me at Carsphairn," she urged Lilla. "No doubt
your husband, living in the country, shoots. I can give him some grouse
in the season. We have a fair amount of game on our moor at
Balmaclellan."
"I shall be delighted, Mrs. Morrison," was Davidson's reply; as he
lifted his eyes to Mrs. Pollen they exchanged significant glances.
Then, after a merry chat, Ena suddenly said:
"Can't all three of you dine with me at home one evening? You are not
going North yet, are you, Mrs. Morrison? Do come. What about next
Saturday?"
"I'm going back to Brighton to-morrow," was her reply.
"But you can easily run up on Saturday. Do. Let us dine early and go to
a show together, eh?" she suggested with her usual enthusiasm. "You'll
come, Lilla, won't you?"
Mrs. Davidson hesitated. She replied that she feared that she had an
engagement that evening, and her husband was certain that he had.
"Oh, now, do come!" urged the Red Widow. "If Mrs. Morrison will come,
you really must come."
Then, after a few half-hearted arguments and protests, Mrs. Morrison
accepted the invitation and the Davidsons did likewise. And so the
quiet little dinner was fixed, Ena promising to get a box at some
theatre.
"Then we will go to Murray's or Giro's afterwards," she added.
Later, when Boyne and his wife were together in a taxi on their way to
Pont Street, Lilla turned to him, and said:
"It all seems to go well if you can be ready by Saturday. If you can't,
then we shall be in the cart!"
"Leave it all to me," he said in a hard, changed voice. "We shall be at
Upper Brook Street on Saturday, and I hope we shall be successful. It
won't be my fault if we fail."
*CHAPTER XII*
*THE PERSON FROM UPSTAIRS*
Marigold Ramsay, still pretending her sudden and unaccountable illness,
lay upon a narrow iron bedstead in the spare room of Bernard Boyne's
house, listening, and unable to sleep. She was there as a watch-dog.
Time after time she heard the bells of St. Paul's, Hammersmith, chiming
the hours, but there was no sound below. Mr. Boyne had not returned.
The night was sultry and her window was slightly open. As she lay
awake, she wondered what strange secret could be hidden in that house of
mystery. Her aunt suspected nothing. That was evident, or she would
have mentioned it to her. To old Mrs. Felmore, Bernard Boyne was a good
and patient master, the persevering honest man which all Hammersmith
judged him to be. None dreamed that he led such a curious double life
of dusty tramping by day, and enjoying himself in the gay haunts of the
West End by night.
It was nearly half-past two when a taxi set him down at the end of
Hammersmith Bridge, and he walked to that house covered with virginia
creeper. Not recollecting the fact that Marigold might still be there,
and knowing that old Mrs. Felmore would not hear him enter, he placed
his key in the latch and entered, closing the door heavily, as was his
wont.
Marigold, on the alert, heard him. He went along the narrow, stuffy
passage into his sitting-room. The girl sprang from her bed, put on the
dressing-gown her aunt had lent her, and opened the door noiselessly.
She heard the click of a lock in the room below, and knew that Boyne was
giving Nibby his food, as he did every night without fail. Mrs. Felmore
always left him something, meat or biscuit, to give the tame rat each
night before he retired.
"Nibby" was Mr. Boyne's weird obsession; Mrs. Felmore hated it, but it
was in its cage living in the cupboard by day, and allowed to run about
the room at night, nibbling the evening newspaper or the old-fashioned
furniture, for it was as destructive as all its race. One day Mrs.
Felmore found that it had gnawed the corner of the carpet, while on the
next she discovered that it had made a hole into the door of the
cupboard opposite that in which it lived. And rat-holes are unsightly,
to say the least.
As Marigold listened she heard Mr. Boyne speaking to his pet.
"Now then, you've had enough, Nibby! Get back, you elusive little
dear!" And she heard him chasing him across the floor.
Then he unlocked another cupboard, and a few minutes later he came out
into the passage and ascended the stairs. In consequence she closed her
own door noiselessly, slipped the bolt, and stood listening. He passed
her door, and then ascended the next flight of stairs, therefore she
reopened her door instantly and, looking out, saw his form disappearing
round the corner of the next landing.
She held her breath. He was dressed in that long hooded cloak of white,
just as she had seen him on that well-remembered night weeks ago. He
was on his way to that locked room, and carried in his hand food for its
imprisoned occupant!
Dare she follow him? She was there at Gerald's suggestion, and it was
for her to discover all she could. As she listened she heard the key
being put into the Yale lock of that strong door at the top of the
stairs. She heard him enter, the latch clicking behind him.
Then she heard strange cries--cries of surprise and rage--human cries!
Summoning courage she crept noiselessly after him, listening intently.
There were no sounds of voices--only those strange cries--though, having
ascended the second flight of stairs, she could see a streak of light
beneath the door, and could hear him moving about within. Suddenly,
just as she was about to ascend the third flight, she heard him approach
the door and open it. Instantly she drew back and flew down into her
room. And none too quickly, for a second later they would have
encountered each other face to face.
Boyne, unsuspicious of being watched, for so occupied was he that he had
forgotten Marigold's presence in the house, returned to his
sitting-room, divested himself of the hideous disguise which he always
wore when visiting the locked room, and then reascended to bed.
The girl lay awake for hours until, wearied out, she fell asleep till
her aunt brought her some tea.
"Don't let Mr. Boyne know that I've stayed here to-night, auntie," she
said, getting up hurriedly. "I'll get away before he comes down. I
don't want him to know I've been so ill."
The old woman read her lips and nodded, saying in a whisper:
"As soon as you're gone, dear, I'll make the bed."
"I don't want any breakfast. I'll get to the City early, and have it
there."
And this she did.
When Boyne came down to breakfast he asked his housekeeper how her niece
was, to which she replied that she had recovered at about ten o'clock on
the previous night and gone home to Wimbledon.
Saturday was always an "off" day with Mr. Boyne. Working people did not
pay their weekly insurance premiums till Monday. Saturday is the
half-day with the working class as Wednesday is with the shop-keeping
community. Now on that particular Saturday Bernard Boyne, at eleven
o'clock in the forenoon, sent Mrs. Felmore to King Street to buy him a
tin of tomato soup. He wrote down the brand on an old envelope. And he
wanted nothing else.
"If one grocer has not got it, another has, no doubt. If you can't get
it in Hammersmith go down to Chiswick or Bedford Park," he said.
"You'll find it somewhere."
And the old woman, whose shopping successes were always marvellous
considering her stone deafness, went forth, little dreaming that such a
brand as that he had written down was non-existent.
So all the morning until well into the afternoon Bernard Boyne had the
house entirely to himself. As soon as she had gone, Boyne put on his
white disguise and, rushing upstairs to the locked room, opened it.
"Now then!" he shouted roughly. "Are you ready? Have you dressed yet?
No--you haven't. Now put it on--quick. Come out and get some air. It's
stifling in this place!"
He waited at the door, whereupon a white figure, dressed exactly the
same as himself, emerged, and slowly and painfully came down the stairs.
The two weird figures, linked arm in arm, descended to Boyne's parlour,
whereupon in an authoritative tone he ordered the strange creature to be
seated.
"Sit there!" he said. "And I'll open the window. You want a bit of air
and exercise."
"Food! Food!" came the words, weak and squeaky behind the hideous mask.
"Very well. I'll go and get you some. But you can't eat it yet. Not
till you're back again in your own room. Food!" he said roughly, with a
sneer. "You're always wanting food and water. Fortunately the cistern
is up there, or I'd have to carry up every drop for you. But your food
I never forget, do I, eh?" he shouted, as though the strange figure was
as deaf as old Mrs. Felmore.
The hooded figure, huddled in the arm-chair, only shrugged its
shoulders.
From the voice it was impossible to tell the sex of the individual. The
tone was weak, squeaky, and quite unnatural.
"Now, tell me, what have you done?" asked Boyne. "How is it
progressing? I know you must be lonely sometimes, but it can't be
helped. You are not fit to mix with us, you know. And you exist upon
my charity. I am always good to you! Understand that!"
"I--I know," squeaked the figure, whose white cloak was soiled and
stained, while those two long slits for the eyes under the pointed hood
gave it a most weird and forbidding appearance.
"I hope you appreciate all I've done for you," Boyne went on. "If I had
not risked all this, where would you have been--tried and executed in
the hangman's noose. But I have done my best--though often you don't
appreciate it."
"I--I do!" cried the voice from behind that strange disguise. "And I do
all that you tell me," it whined.
"Very well," laughed Boyne. "We'll let it rest at that. The failure
you lately had put me right in the cart. We mustn't have another.
Remember that! Let it sink into your brain. You are clever, I know.
But a single slip and both of us will go where we don't want to!"
"I know! I know! Yes--yes," replied the huddled figure. "But it was
the weather--always the weather. And it is so hot under that roof."
"Weather be hanged!" replied Boyne. "This is winter--cold winter!--and
yet you believe it to be summer."
As a matter of fact, it was hot summer weather, yet Boyne was trying to
impress upon his companion that heat was cold, and vice versa.
The two weird figures in white cloaks, with only slits for the eyes,
like Brothers of the Misericordia of Mediaeval Italy, only in white,
instead of black, sat opposite each other. Boyne was giving to his
prisoner a breath of air, and a change in his living room.
A few minutes later the strange occupant of the locked room uttered the
single word:
"Nibby?"
"Oh, yes, dear little Nibby is here," was Boyne's reply.
Rising, he fumbled beneath his cloak, and with his key unlocked the
cupboard and opened the cage, from which the tame rat darted down and
across the room. A second later he was sniffing the cloak of the figure
from upstairs, running around the hem of the cloak with his little pink
nose, while the wearer of the cloak put down a hand to be smelt, saying:
"Nibby, my dear little Nibby, that I have lost so long!"
In all London no scene in broad daylight could have been more weird than
that at noon on a summer morning in Bridge Place, Hammersmith.
Boyne, the mystery man, held in such high esteem from Addison Road to
Kew, sat there with the poor crouching figure as his victim. Behind
those long narrow slits in the white fabric showed a pair of dark,
deep-sunken eyes--eyes that were inhuman and unnatural.
The voice from behind the mask was metallic and squeaky. Whether the
person was a man or a woman could not be conjectured. The high-pitched
note was feminine.
"Am I not good to you to allow you this little relaxation?" asked Boyne.
"You don't often get it, I admit, for the old deaf crone is always
about, and I can seldom get rid of her."
"I--I felt--I felt very ill--last week. Days ago!" croaked the
mysterious occupant of the locked room.
"I go up to you every day. You never complained. You are usually asleep
when I come up."
"You come up at night. But all day I look out from the window over the
roofs towards the river."
"River! What do you mean? There is no river here. It is a desert--a
desert of bricks and mortar. You dream."
"Yes--yes. I dream! I--I'm always dreaming," was the response.
It was evident that Boyne held his half-imbecile prisoner completely in
his power, and that all the orders of the insurance agent were obeyed.
Into the room strayed a ray of summer sunlight across the threadbare
green carpet, lighting up the dingy old place.
The stranger from upstairs saw it, and squeaked:
"Look! It's summer--summer!"
"Summer!" cried the man who held him enthralled. "You're dreaming!
It's winter. We get sun in winter sometimes. Surely you know
that--dense as you are."
"I'm not dense," came the protest. "I do all you ask--fine jobs, too."
"You're dense about sunshine," Boyne repeated.
"Ah! yes. But not about the rats. Where's Nibby?"
Boyne caught the little animal and gave it into the hands of the strange
figure, who stroked its sleek coat.
Suddenly the weird form in the soiled white disguise sprang to its feet
without warning, and, facing its jailer, shrieked:
"Ah! But who are you? Who are you? I'm beginning to realise the truth
at last--_yes--at last_!"
*CHAPTER XIII*
*RELATES A STRANGE CONVERSATION*
"Who _are_ you?" shrieked the weird, hooded figure in the white cloak in
a fierce voice, standing up suddenly above the seated man who was in
exactly similar disguise.
The pair, one seated, and the other having suddenly sprung up, faced
each other. The smaller, and apparently weaker figure had assumed a
distinctly offensive attitude. His eyes shone behind the narrow slits.
"Fool!" laughed Boyne, who was seated. "Sit down, you idiotic fool!"
And he waved his hand in contempt. "If I had not looked after you, and
hidden you here, you would long ago have been given over to the hangman.
Just remember that!" he shouted loudly. "Sink that into your skull,
sleepy brain!"
"But--but," faltered the figure. "But who are you? You are not
Wisden!"
Boyne, disguised in his white cloak with hood--the two presenting the
most weird spectacle in the light of day in that dingy room in
Hammersmith--started, then hesitated for a second.
"Yes," he replied, in a hard voice. "I am Wisden! Now you know!
Wisden, of Twywell! Do you recollect the name?"
"You--Wisden!" gasped the person whose countenance was disguised by that
hideous hood. "I--I----!" And he sank back into his chair.
"Now you know, you accursed fool!" exclaimed the mystery man. "And let
that also sink into your silly noddle. Further, keep a still tongue.
Be silent when you are up there, for people may listen and hear you. If
they do, then you'll be discovered, and your death will be quick.
Recollect that they are waiting for you--the affair isn't forgotten."
"No," sighed the weird figure. "No--I know it hasn't been forgotten.
My crime!--_my crime_!"
"Yes. But don't refer to it. Just keep a level head, my dear Lionel,
as you always do. I will still look after you if you remain silent and
do what I order. I will supply you with everything. But be very
careful that when I carry you up your food you don't speak. Somebody
might overhear. These cursed walls have ears, although the old woman
Felmore is deaf. Do you understand me?" he asked in a more imperative
voice, rising, taking him by the shoulders, and shaking him. "Now tell
me--you understand--eh?"
"Yes, yes!" the other gibbered in a strange tone. "You--Wisden--Willie
Wisden! Oh, yes! I--I see! Dear old Willie, who was with me at Monte
Carlo. Oh, yes! _And that beautiful microscope_?"
"You've got it upstairs. Don't you recollect it? Why, I gave it to you
in the Terminus Hotel, in Marseilles, three years ago. Are you growing
foolish? Surely not!"
"Yes. Oh, yes! I recollect now--the beautiful mike--oh, yes! Oh, what
that instrument must have cost--oh, what a lot!--what a lot of money!"
"It did cost a good bit. And it's yours. So don't worry. I'll look
after you, Lionel. But don't play the fool, or you'll go to the gallows
over that unfortunate little affair--I warn you! Scotland Yard is
looking everywhere for you, and they would have had you long ago if I
hadn't taken you in hand and had pity upon you."
For a few moments the strange figure huddled in the chair remained
silent.
"Yes--I know. And--and Lilla?" he asked.
"She's dead--died a year ago," was Boyne's prompt reply.
"Lilla dead!" sighed the other. "Poor Lilla! She was a very good wife
to you--just as Alice was to me! Poor Lilla!"
"Don't you bother about my personal affairs, Lionel. Just keep your own
end up, and breathe the bit of fresh air now while you can before you go
back to your own quarters. I don't like you getting up through that
trap-door on to the roof. Somebody might see you one night."
"My quarters! My prison, you mean!" he retorted bitterly.
"Prison? Fool, what are you saying? Your room is surely comfortable,
and I do my best for you. If you want to get out--do so. And you'll be
arrested by the first police constable who comes along."
"But it is prison!" replied the mysterious figure in a voice asking for
pity. "Prison!"