Dr. Handyside was too fond of his easy-going seaside existence to be
readily induced to leave home. At the same time, he had not severed all
ties with Glasgow, which ties included a select coterie of kindred
spirits who dined together once a month during the winter in a somewhat
old-fashioned restaurant; and he would have been exceedingly loth to
miss one of their cosy gatherings. But he insisted on sleeping in his
own bed, and accordingly, there being no steamer connection at so late
an hour, it was his custom to return by train to Helensburgh and thence
complete the journey in his car which he drove himself, reaching home
shortly after midnight.
To-night's dinner, however, had seemed hopelessly beyond his reach, owing
to his injured foot, which as yet merely allowed him to hobble a few
yards, and which would have been worse than useless in driving. But we
are never too old to worry over trifles, and in the course of the
morning, while in the garage, he blurted out the difficulty to Caw. It
was really an appeal, and at any other time Caw would have been mildly
amused. Now he was embarrassed, for while anxious to oblige the doctor,
he had no intention of losing all connection with Grey House for several
hours in the middle of the night.
He shook his head. "I only wish I could drive you home to-night, sir," he
said, "but you see--"
"All right, Caw," said Handyside, looking ashamed of himself, and hobbled
off, still hankering, however.
An hour later Caw came to him in the study, and presented an open
telegram. "Will you be pleased to look at this, sir?"
The doctor read:--
"Registered letter received. Best policy.
"BULLARD."
"God bless me, Caw!--the man's in Paris!"
"Quite so, sir. I shall be glad to have your instructions for this
evening, sir. Very thoughtful of Mr. Bullard, if I may say so--damn
him!"--the last inaudible.
"I've been wondering whether he would acknowledge the notes," said
Handyside, brightening up and hobbling to the door. "Marjorie," he
called, "for Heaven's sake see if I've got a decent tie for to-night!"
* * * * *
And now it was midnight. The southerly gale which had broken out late in
the afternoon was booming up the loch, bombarding the house, and gusts of
bitter rain were thrashing the exposed windows.
Marjorie flung a couple of logs on the study fire and returned to her
book. She had prepared sundry comforts for her father and was
awaiting, not without anxiety, his arrival. She was thankful he had
Caw with him. A large portion of the journey was being made in the
very teeth of the tempest.
A tap on the door brought her round with a start. It was only Mrs.
Butters, the housekeeper, or, to be precise, the head and shoulders of
that estimable but slow-witted female, heavily swathed in a couple of
grey shawls.
"What on earth is the matter?" exclaimed Marjorie. "Why aren't you in
bed?"
"Please, miss, do you think I might do something to stop the alarum clock
of that Mr. Caw?" Mrs. Butters was not yet at all sure of Caw. "It's been
ringin' for close on an hour, and I can't--"
The girl was up like a shot--her face set, her hands clenched. What was
she to do? It would take an age to explain to the housekeeper, who, when
she did understand, would in all probability simply howl helplessly.
"Close on an hour," she said to herself. "Oh, Heavens, the thing must
have been done long ago!" Still, she could not be absolutely sure. She
glanced at the clock. No, her father and Caw were not even due yet....
"Mrs. Butters," she managed to say in a fairly steady voice, "please go
back to bed. I--I'll attend to the alarum immediately. Go at once or
you'll catch your death of cold."
Left alone, she grew pale, but within the moment she had crossed to a
bureau--her own--and was taking out a purchase made in Glasgow the
previous day. "Oh, why didn't I practise in the wood this morning, as I
said I would?" she sighed, fumbling with a little ivory-handled
revolver. She shuddered. "Oh, I can't ... I daren't ... I _must_!" And
ran from the room.
Marjorie will never forget that journey through the passage, her light a
flickering taper, for the electric illumination was no longer in
operation. At the end of it she had literally to force her limbs to mount
the narrow stairs. At the top, with her ear to the closed door, she could
hear nothing save her pounding heart. There was no keyhole, no crevice
whereby she might know whether it was light or dark on the other side.
Caw had spoken that morning of making a peep-hole in the door. She would
have given much for one now. And the taper was burning fast.
"They must have gone," she thought, "yet how can I be sure? On such a
night they might be tempted to stay awhile from the storm." Hand with
revolver pressed to breast, she listened again. Not a sound. But the
silence might be explained by the presence of a solitary man, she told
herself, not necessarily one of the two she had seen that other night. A
rough brute, perhaps, who would stick at nothing in that empty house. Yet
the very thought pricked her courage even at the moment when the
descending flame stung her finger. Unlike Caw she was under no obligation
to his late master. If a thief was there, she would shoot before she
would let the Green Box go.
She dropped the taper, trod on it, and gasped to find herself in utter
darkness. Once more she laid her ear against the panel, and this time,
surely, a sound reached the straining nerves--a faint noise of something
solid though not ponderous falling upon something less resonant than
wood, less dulling than carpet. She felt like collapsing. But her will,
her pride, came to the rescue. "If I don't open that door," she said to
herself, "I'll be ashamed of myself for the rest of my days."
Her finger fluttered on the spring-button and pressed; her hand pushed.
As the door gave she perceived that the room _was_ lighted, though not
brilliantly; she heard nothing but a howling of wind and a rattling of
rain. A whiff of smoky coal met her nostrils. The silent moving door was
now half open. She took a couple of steps inwards and halted, her left
hand clinging to the door's edge, her right clutching the pretty weapon.
And she all but screamed....
Under the lights of two candles on the mantel, in an easy-chair drawn up
to the recently kindled fire, reclined a man, his head thrown back, his
eyes closed. His legs were outstretched, his boots on the hearth,
steaming, one of them in dangerous proximity to a large coal evidently
newly fallen. On another chair lay a drenched greatcoat and cap.
The man was young, somewhat slight of build, of fresh and pleasing
countenance, clean shaven, of indeterminate colouring. His crisp hair was
so trim in spite of its dampness as to suggest the attentions of a barber
within the last twelve hours. His hands were rough and bore traces of
scars; the fingers, though slender for a man, might have belonged to a
labourer's; the first and second of the left hand resting on the
chair-arm held a cigarette--unlighted. The expression of his countenance
was happy--contentedly so.
"Oh!" thought Marjorie, "he _couldn't_ steal!" and in the same breath
perceived that he was not asleep. He moved slightly, with a lazy grunt.
His hand wandered to a pocket, felt within, came out empty, and wandered
to another, with like result. "Hang it!" he muttered, and opening his
eyes, tried, absurdly enough, to see what might be on the mantel without
the trouble of rising.
Neither bold nor fearful now, simply fascinated and wondering whether he
would get up or do without matches, Marjorie watched him. And the next
thing she knew was that his eyes were staring into hers. Then fear,
suspicion and sense of duty returned with a rush. The men who had already
attempted to steal the Green Box had been just as well dressed--better,
indeed. She was taking no chances. With firm determination, but also with
a wavering hand, she raised the revolver.
"Great Heaven!" shouted the young man, "be carefull or you'll hurt
yourself!" He wriggled up and sprang to his feet.
"Who--who are you?" Marjorie demanded with a regrettable quaver. "Have
you come after the Green Box? Because, if so--"
"Would you mind," he said very gently, "putting down your pistol? Those
things are so apt to go off unexpectedly, and at the moment you appear to
be aiming at my uncle's best beloved Bone--"
The revolver fell softly on the thick carpet. Marjorie felt like
falling after it.
"Thank you," he said gratefully. "You have mentioned a Green Box, but
having brought no luggage, I don't seem to grasp--"
"Your uncle!" she whispered.
"Mr. Christopher Craig." He regarded her for a moment and his expression
changed. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that he is no longer
tenant of the house? You see, I arrived late, and deciding not to disturb
any one, just proceeded to make myself comfortable for the night, and--"
Marjorie pulled herself together. "You are not--"
At that instant Caw, breathing hard, sprang from the darkness, then
stopped as if shot.
"Well, Caw," said the young man, "I'm jolly glad to see you."
"Oh, my good God!" gasped Caw, "it's Mr. Alan!" He began to shake
where he stood.
"Confound me!" said the young man under his breath, "I clean forgot I was
supposed to be dead a year." He strode over to the servant. "Shake hands,
Caw, just to make sure I'm of ordinary flesh and blood. I'm sorry to have
upset you like this," He turned to the girl. "And to you I make my
apology for having alarmed--"
"You didn't!"
"--for imagining I had alarmed you," he corrected himself with a bow and
twinkling eyes.
The latter drew her smile despite her still jangling nerves. "I suppose I
have to apologise, too," she said, "for taking you for a--a burglar."
"Not at all, because--I may as well confess it at once--no burglar can be
more anxious to avoid discovery than I am--or was."
Caw found his speech. "Mr. Alan, sir, I--I haven't words to express my
feelings at seeing you alive and well--I really haven't." He turned away
with a heave of his shoulders as Dr. Handyside, limping painfully,
appeared in the doorway.
It was his turn to be astounded, but his welcome when it came was of the
heartiest. "I take it," he went on, "that Marjorie, my daughter, and you
have already made each other's acquaintance."
"If Miss Handyside will have it so," said Alan, repressing a smile as
Marjorie, with a decided return of colour, stooped and secured the
revolver which had escaped her parent's eye. "Naturally Miss Handyside
was a little surprised to find me here until I explained who I was." His
gaze travelled to the servant who stood apart in meditative regard of the
clock. "Caw, how is my uncle?"
Handyside prevented a pause. "There is so much to tell you, Mr. Craig,
that I propose an adjournment to my study where we shall find some
refreshment which I fancy you can do with. You are not aware, I believe,
that your uncle had a private passage built between our two houses, which
not only explains our appearance here, but provides a short route to food
and warmth."
"Then my uncle--" began Alan, evidently a little puzzled.
"Your pardon, Mr. Alan," said Caw, coming forward, "but it is necessary
to ask you one question. How did you get into the house?"
The young man laughed. "I suppose you don't think it worth while locking
doors in these unsophisticated parts. After I had rung twice, and was
wondering what was going to happen to me, I found that the outer door was
unfastened and that the inner door was not locked. So I came in and made
myself at home, unwilling to disturb--What's the matter. Caw? And you,
doctor? Why, Miss Handyside, what have I said?"
But none of the gravely concerned faces was looking in his direction.
With a heavy sigh Caw went over to the writing table, stopped and drew
out the deep drawer on the right.
For a moment or two there was no sound save that of the storm. Then, with
a gesture of hopelessness, Caw slowly raised himself.
"Yes," he said, in a small, bitter voice, "it is gone!"