IN THE LION'S DEN
It was already dusk when Laurence Carrington stepped briskly out of the
gate of the Manse, and turned into the dark drive that led to the
neighbouring house.
He had been unable to wish Lena "good-bye," for both the Squire and Mrs.
Knox had adjourned with her to the drawing-room at the conclusion of
dinner. He had muttered something about "having a smoke" when he left
them, and looking to his loaded pistol, which was something more than a
mere plaything, he had set out on his important errand, wearing an
ulster which covered his dress suit.
On this occasion he was not left waiting long in the porch, for his pull
at the rusty bell was almost immediately answered by a repetition of the
incidents of the morning. The same shuffling footsteps sounded along the
passage, the same grating noise of bolts being drawn followed, and the
door was opened ajar in order that the janitor might satisfy himself as
to the identity of his late visitor.
The scrutiny through the chink of the door was apparently satisfactory,
for the man inside proceeded to release the chain, after which Laurence
was invited in a surly, gruff tone to "come in."
Pitch darkness reigned supreme within, and the young man found his hand
grasping the small fire-arm in his overcoat pocket as he took one step
into the house, and the door banged upon him.
What little light there had been from the outside world was now shut
out. With a shudder, Laurence realised how completely he had placed
himself in the power of the unknown inhabitants of Durley Dene. In the
gross darkness, what was to prevent this sour-faced porter, who had,
when disguised, encountered him on the previous evening, from plunging a
knife into his back as he stood there unable even to catch a glimpse of
the man's outline?
Even as he thought thus a hand clutched his arm. The young man's fingers
closed simultaneously round the pistol in his pocket, but his companion
only requested him to follow upstairs, and guided him by the arm with an
accuracy that denoted familiarity with the ins and outs of the house, up
several short flights of uncarpeted stairs, until, presumably halfway
down a narrow passage, which must have been on the highest floor in the
house, he stopped short suddenly.
Then he fumbled about for what was evidently a door handle, and a
moment later a flood of pale light burst out from a room on the
threshold of which the two had been standing. The door had been flung
wide open, and with the janitor still holding his arm, Laurence moved
forward into the room, which appeared well furnished, and in the centre
of which sat a man in an arm-chair.
Half-blinded by the glare, Carrington stood for a moment motionless.
Then the door closed behind him, and, turning, he saw that his late
guide had withdrawn. He was in the presence of Major Jones-Farnell.
"A very good evening to you, sir!"
The man in the chair rose as he uttered these words. He was of more than
middle age and height, was clad in a light-coloured shooting suit, and
wore glasses and a grey moustache.
"Well, and so you have bearded the lion in his den?"
The words were those that Lena herself had used earlier in the day!
Could it be that the Major had overheard them, or was it a case of mere
coincidence?
"Come and sit down and let us have a chat," the stranger went on,
beckoning Laurence to a vacant arm-chair.
"Major Jones-Farnell, I suppose?" was Carrington's first remark.
"Yes and no," replied the other; "but that is neither here nor there."
"Indeed! And I believe you wished to see me," said Laurence coldly.
"I do," said the Major, "but pray make yourself at home, as far as it is
possible, in such 'diggings' as mine. Here are some cigars that I think
you will find palatable. Perhaps you will join me in a smoke. There's
nothing so conducive to pleasant conversation as nicotine." And the
master of Durley Dene pushed forward a small box of long cigars, each
wrapped in embossed silver paper.
Now, had Laurence been ushered into the presence of some typical
scoundrel who held a revolver in his hand while conversing, and offered
to murder the young visitor if he actually carried out his threat of
consulting the police, he would not have been in the least surprised,
but he had little expected what he now found.
The room in which he sat was elegantly furnished in decidedly Oriental
style. A magnificent Indian carpet, into which one's feet sank an inch
or so, occupied the best part of the floor, while mats covered the bare
corners of the room. Indian tapestry of fine workmanship hung from the
walls, and many of the small chairs and bric-a-brac ornaments were of
Oriental manufacture. A hookah, with ivory mouthpiece, and brilliantly
worked coiling pipe, stood upon a table at Major Farnell's right hand.
That gentleman's feet were encased in Persian bed slippers. In fact,
little of the furniture but the arm-chairs was of a kind one would
expect to find in England. Even the prevailing odour of the room was
that of incense such as one reads of as pervading Eastern bazaars and
temples. Certainly the Major had a good idea of comfort.
And as Laurence noted these points in connection with the room he
realised how they agreed with the supposition of his that the Squire's
enemy was a "black" man or woman. But the Major gave him little time for
thought.
"Oh, you must take a weed," said Farnell, when Laurence had at first
refused the other's hospitality.
Fearing to displease, Carrington did so, carefully selecting one of the
cigars from the bottom of the box. Why he did this will be quite
evident. He considered it possible that some of them might be drugged.
However, as the owner himself carelessly chose one of the top layer, it
seemed probable that Laurence was over-suspicious. That, however, was no
fault. The circumstances under which he had been brought face to face
with the Major were remarkable enough to raise suspicion.
"And so," said Jones-Farnell, when the two had lighted up, "and so you
thought of sending the police here! May I ask why?"
"I hardly think it necessary to explain to you what I am under the
impression you already know," was the answer.
The Major looked surprised.
"I fear," he said, "that your impression is a mere misapprehension.
Truthfully, I have no idea why you should object to my retiring habits
in a house which is my own in every respect. I am inclined to think
myself a peculiarly desirable kind of neighbour. I am sure no noise
caused by me or my servant has ever disturbed you. I keep no fowls to
wake you up by their crowing at daybreak. Never has either my servant or
myself trespassed upon your grounds. I don't keep a dog----"
"Pardon me, but why, then, did your servant purchase a dog-whip only
last night?"
And when Laurence made this quiet and apparently ordinary remark, he
noticed a sudden flush rise to his host's brow. For a moment the Major
did not reply. Then, affecting an off-hand manner, he said--
"Oh, that was for my Persian cat, Teddy."
But Laurence knew that he lied!