"You have forgotten something, Mr. Trevitt. Surely you do not intend to
carry away with you my key to the bungalow."
"I was thinking of it," I returned lightly. "I am not quite through with
that key." Then before she could recover from her surprise, I added
with such suavity as I had been able to acquire in my intercourse with
my more cultivated clients:
"I have to thank you, Mrs. Carew, for an hour of thrilling interest.
Absorbed though I am in the present mystery, my mind has room for the
old one. Possibly because there is sometimes a marked connection between
old family events and new. There may be some such connection in this
case. I should like the opportunity of assuring myself there is not."
She said nothing; I thought I understood why. More suavely yet, I
continued, with a slight, a very slight movement toward the door:
"Rarely have I had the pleasure of listening to such a tale read by such
an interpreter. It will always remain in my memory, Mrs. Carew. But the
episode is over and I return to my present duty and the bungalow."
"The bungalow! You are going back to the bungalow?"
"Immediately."
"What for? Didn't you see all there was to see?"
"Not quite."
"I don't know what there can be left."
"Nothing of consequence, most likely, but you can not wish me to have
any doubts on the subject."
"No, no, of course not."
The carelessness of her tone did not communicate itself to her manner.
Seeing that my unexpected proposition had roused her alarm, I grew wary
and remarked:
"I was always overscrupulous."
With a lift of her shoulders--a dainty gesture which I congratulated
myself I could see unmoved--she held out her hand in a mute appeal for
the key, but seeing that I was not to be shaken in my purpose, reached
for the wrap she had tossed on a chair and tied it again over her head.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Accompany you," she declared.
"Again? I thought the place frightened you."
"It does," she replied. "I had rather visit any other spot in the whole
world; but if it is your intention to go back there, it is mine to go
with you."
"You are very good," I replied.
But I was seriously disconcerted notwithstanding. I had reckoned upon a
quiet hour in the bungalow by myself; moreover, I did not understand her
motive for never trusting me there alone. Yet as this very distrust was
suggestive, I put a good face on the matter and welcomed her company
with becoming alacrity. After all, I might gain more than I could
possibly lose by having her under my eye for a little longer. Strong as
was her self-control there were moments when the real woman showed
herself, and these moments were productive.
As we were passing out she paused to extinguish a lamp which was
slightly smoking,--I also thought she paused an instant to listen. At
all events her ears were turned toward the stairs down which there came
the murmur of two voices, one of them the little boy's.
"It is time Harry was asleep," she cried. "I promised to sing to him.
You won't be long, will you?"
"You need not be very long," was my significant retort. "I can not speak
for myself."
Was I playing with her curiosity or anxieties or whatever it was that
affected her? I hardly knew; I spoke as impulse directed and waited in
cold blood--or was it hot blood?--to see how she took it.
Carelessly enough, for she was a famous actress except when taken by
surprise. Checking an evident desire of calling out some direction up
stairs, she followed me to the door, remarking cheerfully, "You can not
be very long either; the place is not large enough."
My excuse--or rather the one I made to myself for thus returning to a
place I had seemingly exhausted, was this. In the quick turn I had made
in leaving on the former occasion, my foot had struck the edge of the
large rug nailed over the center of the floor, and unaccountably
loosened it. To rectify this mishap, and also to see how so slight a
shock could have lifted the large brass nails by which it had been held
down to the floor, seemed reason enough for my action. But how to draw
her attention to so insignificant a fact without incurring her ridicule
I could not decide in our brief passage back to the bungalow, and
consequently was greatly relieved when, upon opening the door and
turning my lantern on the scene, I discovered that in our absence the
rug had torn itself still farther free from the floor and now lay with
one of its corners well curled over--the corner farthest from the door
and nearest the divan where little Gwendolen had been lying when she was
lifted and carried away--where?
Mrs. Carew saw it too and cast me a startled look which I met with a
smile possibly as ambiguous as the feeling which prompted it.
"Who has been here?" she asked.
"Ourselves."
"Did we do that?"
"I did; or rather my foot struck the edge of the rug as I turned to go
out with you. Shall I replace it and press back the nails?"
"If you will be so good."
Do what she would there was eagerness in her tone. Remarking this, I
decided to give another and closer look at the floor and the nails. I
found the latter had not been properly inserted; or rather that there
were two indentations for every nail, a deep one and one quite shallow.
This caused me to make some examination of the others, those which had
not been drawn from the floor, and I found that one or two of them were
equally insecure, but not all; only those about this one corner.
Mrs. Carew, who had paused, confused and faltering in the doorway, in
her dismay at seeing me engaged in this inspection instead of in
replacing the rug as I had proposed, now advanced a step, so that our
glances met as I looked up with the remark:
"This rug seems to have been lately raised at this corner. Do you know
if the police had it up?"
"I don't. I believe so--oh, Mr. Trevitt," she cried, as I rose to my
feet with the corner of the rug in my hand, "what are you going to do?"
She had run forward impetuously and was now standing close beside
me--inconveniently close.
"I am going to raise this rug," I informed her. "That is, just at this
corner. Pardon me, I shall have to ask you to move."
"Certainly, of course," she stammered. "Oh, what is going to happen
now?" Then as she watched me: "There is--there _is_ something under it.
A door in the floor--a--a--Mrs. Ocumpaugh never told me of this."
"Do you suppose she knew it?" I inquired, looking up into her face,
which was very near but not near enough to be in the full light of the
lantern, which was pointed another way.
"This rug appears to have been almost soldered to the floor, everywhere
but here. There! it is thrown back. Now, if you will be so very good as
to hold the lantern, I will try and lift up the door."
"I can not. See, how my hands shake! What are we about to discover?
Nothing, I pray, nothing. Suspense would be better than that."
"I think you will be able to hold it," I urged, pressing the lantern
upon her.
"Yes; I have never been devoid of courage. But--but--don't ask me to
descend with you," she prayed, as she lifted the lantern and turned it
dexterously enough on that portion of the door where a ring lay outlined
in the depths of its outermost plank.
"I will not; but you will come just the same; you can not help it," I
hazarded, as with the point of my knife-blade I lifted the small round
of wood which filled into the ring and thus made the floor level.
"Now, if this door is not locked, we will have it up," I cried, pulling
at the ring with a will. The door was not locked and it came up readily
enough, discovering some half-dozen steps, down which I immediately
proceeded to climb.
"Oh, I can not stay here alone," she protested, and prepared to follow
me in haste just as I expected her to do the moment she saw the light
withdrawn.
"Step carefully," I enjoined. "If you will honor me with your hand--"
But she was at my side before the words were well out.
"What is it? What kind of place do you make it out to be; and is there
anything here you--do--not--want--to see?"
I flashed the light around and incidentally on her. She was not
trembling now. Her cheeks were red, her eyes blazing. She was looking at
me, and not at the darksome place about her. But as this was natural, it
being a woman's way to look for what she desires to learn in the face of
the man who for the moment is her protector, I shifted the light into
the nooks and corners of the low, damp cellar in which we now found
ourselves.
"Bins for wine and beer," I observed, "but nothing in them." Then as I
measured the space before me with my eye, "It runs under the whole
house. See, it is much larger than the room above."
"Yes," she mechanically repeated.