I started to my feet as a tall, bearded man swung open the door and
hurled himself impetuously into the room. He wore a silk hat, which
fitted him very ill, and a black frock coat which did not fit him at
all.
“It’s all right, Petrie!” cried the apparition; “I’ve leased the
Gables!”
It was Nayland Smith! I stared at him in amazement
“The first time I have employed a disguise,” continued my friend
rapidly, “since the memorable episode of the false pigtail.” He threw
a small brown leather grip upon the floor. “In case you should care
to visit the house, Petrie, I have brought these things. My tenancy
commences to-night!”
Two days had elapsed, and I had entirely forgotten the strange story of
the Gables which Inspector Weymouth had related to us; evidently it was
otherwise with my friend, and utterly at a loss for an explanation of
his singular behavior, I stooped mechanically and opened the grip.
It contained an odd assortment of garments, and amongst other things
several gray wigs and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
Kneeling there with this strange litter about me, I looked up amazedly.
Nayland Smith, with the unsuitable silk hat set right upon the back of
his head, was pacing the room excitedly, his fuming pipe protruding from
the tangle of factitious beard.
“You see, Petrie,” he began again, rapidly, “I did not entirely trust
the agent. I’ve leased the house in the name of Professor Maxton...”
“But, Smith,” I cried, “what possible reason can there be for disguise?”
“There’s every reason,” he snapped.
“Why should you interest yourself in the Gables?”
“Does no explanation occur to you?”
“None whatever; to me the whole thing smacks of stark lunacy.”
“Then you won’t come?”
“I’ve never stuck at anything, Smith,” I replied, “however undignified,
when it has seemed that my presence could be of the slightest use.”
As I rose to my feet, Smith stepped in front of me, and the steely gray
eyes shone out strangely from the altered face. He clapped his hands
upon my shoulders.
“If I assure you that your presence is necessary to my safety,” he
said--“that if you fail me I must seek another companion--will you
come?”
Intuitively, I knew that he was keeping something back, and I was
conscious of some resentment, but nevertheless my reply was a foregone
conclusion, and--with the borrowed appearance of an extremely untidy
old man--I crept guiltily out of my house that evening and into the cab
which Smith had waiting.
The Gables was a roomy and rambling place lying back a considerable
distance from the road. A semicircular drive gave access to the door,
and so densely wooded was the ground, that for the most part the drive
was practically a tunnel--a verdant tunnel. A high brick wall concealed
the building from the point of view of any one on the roadway, but
either horn of the crescent drive terminated at a heavy, wrought-iron
gateway.
Smith discharged the cab at the corner of the narrow and winding road
upon which the Gables fronted. It was walled in on both sides; on
the left the wall being broken by tradesmen’s entrances to the
houses fronting upon another street, and on the right following,
uninterruptedly, the grounds of the Gables. As we came to the gate:
“Nothing now,” said Smith, pointing into the darkness of the road before
us, “except a couple of studios, until one comes to the Heath.”
He inserted the key in the lock of the gate and swung it creakingly
open. I looked into the black arch of the avenue, thought of the haunted
residence that lay hidden somewhere beyond, of those who had died in
it--especially of the one who had died there under the trees--and found
myself out of love with the business of the night.
“Come on!” said Nayland Smith briskly, holding the gate open; “there
should be a fire in the library and refreshments, if the charwoman has
followed instructions.”
I heard the great gate clang to behind us. Even had there been any moon
(and there was none) I doubted if more than a patch or two of light
could have penetrated there. The darkness was extraordinary. Nothing
broke it, and I think Smith must have found his way by the aid of some
sixth sense. At any rate, I saw nothing of the house until I stood some
five paces from the steps leading up to the porch. A light was burning
in the hallway, but dimly and inhospitably; of the facade of the
building I could perceive little.
When we entered the hall and the door was closed behind us, I began
wondering anew what purpose my friend hoped to serve by a vigil in this
haunted place. There was a light in the library, the door of which was
ajar, and on the large table were decanters, a siphon, and some biscuits
and sandwiches. A large grip stood upon the floor, also. For some reason
which was a mystery to me, Smith had decided that we must assume false
names whilst under the roof of the Gables; and:
“Now, Pearce,” he said, “a whisky-and-soda before we look around?”
The proposal was welcome enough, for I felt strangely dispirited, and,
to tell the truth, in my strange disguise, not a little ridiculous.
All my nerves, no doubt, were highly strung, and my sense of hearing
unusually acute, for I went in momentary expectation of some uncanny
happening. I had not long to wait. As I raised the glass to my lips and
glanced across the table at my friend, I heard the first faint sound
heralding the coming of the bells.
It did not seem to proceed from anywhere within the library, but from
some distant room, far away overhead. A musical sound it was, but
breaking in upon the silence of that ill-omened house, its music was the
music of terror. In a faint and very sweet cascade it rippled; a ringing
as of tiny silver bells.
I set down my glass upon the table, and rising slowly from the chair in
which I had been seated, stared fixedly at my companion, who was staring
with equal fixity at me. I could see that I had not been deluded;
Nayland Smith had heard the ringing, too.
“The ghosts waste no time!” he said softly. “This is not new to me; I
spent an hour here last night and heard the same sound...”
I glanced hastily around the room. It was furnished as a library, and
contained a considerable collection of works, principally novels. I was
unable to judge of the outlook, for the two lofty windows were draped
with heavy purple curtains which were drawn close. A silk shaded lamp
swung from the center of the ceiling, and immediately over the table by
which I stood. There was much shadow about the room; and now I glanced
apprehensively about me, but especially toward the open door.
In that breathless suspense of listening we stood awhile; then:
“There it is again!” whispered Smith, tensely.
The ringing of bells was repeated, and seemingly much nearer to us; in
fact it appeared to come from somewhere above, up near the ceiling of
the room in which we stood. Simultaneously, we looked up, then Smith
laughed, shortly.
“Instinctive, I suppose,” he snapped; “but what do we expect to see in
the air?”
The musical sound now grew in volume; the first tiny peal seemed to be
reinforced by others and by others again, until the air around about us
was filled with the pealings of these invisible bell-ringers.
Although, as I have said, the sound was rather musical than horrible, it
was, on the other hand, so utterly unaccountable as to touch the
supreme heights of the uncanny. I could not doubt that our presence had
attracted these unseen ringers to the room in which we stood, and I knew
quite well that I was growing pale. This was the room in which at least
one unhappy occupant of the Gables had died of fear. I recognized the
fact that if this mere overture were going to affect my nerves to such
an extent, I could not hope to survive the ordeal of the night; a great
effort was called for. I emptied my glass at a gulp, and stared across
the table at Nayland Smith with a sort of defiance. He was standing
very upright and motionless, but his eyes were turning right and left,
searching every visible corner of the big room.
“Good!” he said in a very low voice. “The terrorizing power of the
Unknown is boundless, but we must not get in the grip of panic, or we
could not hope to remain in this house ten minutes.”
I nodded without speaking. Then Smith, to my amazement, suddenly began
to speak in a loud voice, a marked contrast to that, almost a whisper,
in which he had spoken formerly.
“My dear Pearce,” he cried, “do you hear the ringing of bells?”
Clearly the latter words were spoken for the benefit of the unseen
intelligence controlling these manifestations; and although I regarded
such finesse as somewhat wasted, I followed my friend’s lead and replied
in a voice as loud as his own:
“Distinctly, Professor!”
Silence followed my words, a silence in which both stood watchful and
listening. Then, very faintly, I seemed to detect the silvern ringing
receding away through distant rooms. Finally it became inaudible, and
in the stillness of the Gables I could distinctly hear my companion
breathing. For fully ten minutes we two remained thus, each momentarily
expecting a repetition of the ringing, or the coming of some new and
more sinister manifestation. But we heard nothing and saw nothing.
“Hand me that grip, and don’t stir until I come back!” hissed Smith in
my ear.
He turned and walked out of the library, his boots creaking very loudly
in that awe-inspiring silence.
Standing beside the table, I watched the open door for his return,
crushing down a dread that another form than his might suddenly appear
there.
I could hear him moving from room to room, and presently, as I waited
in hushed, tense watchfulness, he came in, depositing the grip upon the
table. His eyes were gleaming feverishly.
“The house is haunted, Pearce!” he cried. “But no ghost ever frightened
me! Come, I will show you your room.”