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THE HOUSE BY THE LOCK
THE HOUSE BY THE LOCK
By
MRS. C. N. WILLIAMSON
_Co-author of
"The Lightning Conductor," "My Lady Cinderella," etc._
NEW YORK
B. W. DODGE AND COMPANY
1906
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I. THE LADY IN THE STAGE BOX 1
II. THE MAN WITH THE PALE EYES 12
III. A DEAD MAN'S HAND 22
IV. THE HOUSE BY THE LOCK 30
V. WAS IT A MYSTERY? 38
VI. AN ADVENTURE IN THE PARK 53
VII. FRIENDS 67
VIII. AN ANNOUNCEMENT 74
IX. TOO LATE 83
X. "IF HE HAD COMMITTED A CRIME" 92
XI. WILDRED SCORES 99
XII. KARINE'S ENGAGEMENT RING 116
XIII. "KISMET AND MISS CUNNINGHAM" 121
XIV. AN EXTRA SPECIAL 133
XV. A MYSTERY OF THE THAMES 136
XVI. INFORMATION LAID BY CARSON WILDRED 143
XVII. A DISAPPOINTMENT 152
XVIII. A DESPERATE REMEDY 166
XIX. "NOT AT HOME" 176
XX. THE QUEST 188
XXI. A PICTURE FROM THE PAST 208
XXII. FACE TO FACE 220
XXIII. A COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT 224
XXIV. FIRE! 232
XXV. "IT'S DOGGED AS DOES IT" 239
XXVI. A TELL-TALE ORNAMENT 246
XXVII. TOO LATE! 269
XXVIII. A WILD-GOOSE CHASE 276
XXIX. AT THE HOUSE BY THE LOCK 284
XXX. CONCLUSION 298
THE HOUSE BY THE LOCK
CHAPTER I
The Lady in the Stage Box
"Hullo, old chap! Who would ever have thought of seeing you here
to-night? What's brought you back to civilisation again?"
I turned suddenly, surprised by the sound of a familiar voice in my ear.
It was the night of Christmas Eve, and I was just entering the lobby of
the St. James's, the first time, as it happened, I had seen the inside
of a theatre for two years.
For the fraction of a moment I could not remember where I had known the
man who addressed me so jovially. My way of knocking about the world
brought me into contact with so many people that it was difficult to
sort my gallery of faces, and keep each one mentally ticketed. But after
a second or two of staring through that convenient medium, my monocle, I
was able to place the man who had accosted me. He was a rich mining king
from Colorado, by the name of Harvey Farnham, whom I had met in Denver,
when I had been dawdling through America three or four years ago.
I pronounced his name with a certain self-satisfaction in having so
readily recalled it, and we shook each other by the hand.
"What's brought me back to civilisation?" I echoed, lazily. "I really
don't know--unless it was because I'd got tired of the other thing.
Adventure--change--that's what I am in search of, my dear Farnham."
"And you come back here from service as war correspondent in Egypt
(where I last read of you in the papers as having been carried down a
cataract for twenty-six miles before a launch ran out and saved you) in
the hope of finding 'adventure' in this workaday close of the nineteenth
century? That's too good."
I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. "Yes; why not? Why should there not
be as great a possibility of obtaining new sensations, or at least old
ones in different form, in London as anywhere else?"
It did not occur to me, as I idly spoke the words, that I was uttering a
prophecy.
"How is it," I went on rather curiously, "that you remembered me,
'honouring my draft on sight,' so to speak? It must be four years since
that very jolly supper you gave me in Denver one night, and I fancy I
have changed considerably since then."
Farnham smiled in his comical American way, which was a humorous
sentence in itself.
"Well, I guess it's not so easy to forget a face like yours. You are a
little browner, your eyes rather keener perhaps, your head held a bit
higher, your shoulders broader and drawn back more like a soldier's than
ever; but, so far as I can see, those are the only changes. You might
easily have forgotten me, and I'm immensely flattered that you haven't.
But the fact is, my dear boy, you are simply the most interesting man I
ever came across, in my own country or any other. You've always seemed
like a sort of hero of a tale of adventure to me; and, you see, one
don't let a chap like that drop out of one's recollection. I've always
eagerly followed your doings, so far as one could follow them in the
newspapers, and I read your African book with the greatest interest; but
somehow I never got to hear much personal gossip about you. Say, are you
married or anything?"
"Many things, but not married," I returned. "I haven't had time to think
of women. Besides, if I had, who would take me? No money, no prospects,
a man who can't be happy for a fortnight in one place! What a life I
should lead a woman!"
"Ah, that's one side of the picture, of course; but here's the other, as
the world sees it. You're a sort of popular hero--African traveller, war
correspondent, writer of books. Polar explorer, and I don't know what
besides, though you can't yet be anywhere near thirty-five. You've got
the figure of a soldier, and just the sort of dark, unreadable face that
women rave about. What does money matter with a chap like that? Nothing.
I wonder you've managed to escape the matchmaking mammas so long.
They're quite as keen on a celebrity, in my country at least, as they
are on a millionaire."
"Nevertheless, they have not given me much trouble," I said, smiling a
little, however, at the remembrance of one or two amusing episodes which
I had not the slightest intention of relating. "There, the way to the
box-office is clear at last. Once that fat old man is out of the way, it
will be my turn. Shall I get your stall for you, and so save time?"
"Yes, by all means, thank you. Are you alone, Stanton?"
"Quite alone. I'd almost forgotten what the theatre was like, and
determined to come and refresh my memory."
"I'm by myself, too. Say, old man, would it be a liberty if I asked you
to try and get stalls for us together?"
"Delighted, I'm sure," I answered, though, as a matter of fact, I was
not quite certain whether I was telling the truth or not. Farnham had
been well enough in Denver, but I did not know whether I should care to
pass in his society a whole evening, which I had meant to be one of
solitary enjoyment. However, he had left me nothing else to say, and I
responded with what alacrity I could, little dreaming that my whole
future was hanging on my words, and the result of my confab with the man
in the box-office.
The play was a popular one, and perhaps on no night of the year, save
Christmas Eve or some Lenten fast, could we have obtained two stalls
side by side a few minutes before the ringing-up of the curtain. As it
was, we were successful, and I walked into the theatre by the side of
the tall, thin, smooth-faced American.
We sat down, in the third or fourth row of the stalls, and, as the
orchestra had not yet come in, began to talk.
Farnham explained to me that he had "run over" to England on business,
intending to sell a certain mine of his, which, though vastly
profitable, was the one thing in which he had lost interest. The other
mines in which he was part owner were situated in his own state,
Colorado, while this particular one, the "Miss Cunningham," was in
California, and he was tired of journeying to and fro.
"I've had a good offer," he said; "indeed, I'm visiting in the house of
the man who has made it--a wonderful fellow, only one degree less
interesting, perhaps, than you. His name is Carson Wildred. Did you ever
hear of him?"
"No," I answered, though possibly not to know Mr. Carson Wildred was to
argue myself unknown.
"He seems to have plenty of money," explained Farnham, "and though he's
a newcomer in London, has got in with a number of good people. He has
two houses, one in Sloane Street and one up the Thames, a queer, lonely
old place, near Purley Lock, if you know where that is. I'm staying out
there with him now, as it happens, though I can't say I'm as fond of the
river as he is at this season. But when a few papers and a good round
sum of money have changed hands, a couple of days or so from now, I
shall bid Wildred and England _au revoir_. I expect to sail for
America at the end of the week, and jolly lucky I think myself to have
run up against you to-night."
Somehow, as he rattled on about his own affairs, my heart began to warm
towards Farnham. He was not a particularly brilliant fellow, though a
good business man; but he had such a whimsical face, with its bright
eyes, its good-natured mouth, and its laughable, upturned nose! He was
so frankly interested in life, so enthusiastic, so outspoken, so boyish
in many of his ways, despite his forty years! I found myself almost
inclined to be sorry that he was leaving England so soon.
"I should like you to meet Wildred," he went on. "I don't know whether
you'd fancy him, but you couldn't help thinking his a remarkable
personality. It would be interesting to see you two chaps together. He's
at the theatre to-night, by the way, with some friends of his--rather
swells. It was an old engagement, made before I went out to his house,
but he had to keep it, of course. They'll be in that stage box over
there, and as Wildred has been industriously raising my curiosity about
the beauty of one of the ladies for the past few days, I concluded to
drop in and take the only chance I was likely to get of a look at her.
And mighty glad I am that I did so make up my mind, or I should have
left England without clapping eyes on someone I'd rather see than all
the professional beauties in London."
As he finished speaking the overture, which had now been on for some
time, ceased, and the curtain went up on a very pretty bit of stage
setting.
There was no curtain-raiser, and the first act was well constructed and
interesting from the commencement. It was delightful to me to feel, as I
did, that I was no longer _blase_ of town life, or the mimic life
of the theatre, and I was inclined to resent the interruption when
Farnham nudged me, whispering--
"There's Wildred and his friends just coming into the stage box. By
Jove! what a pretty girl!"
I looked up, because I was sure the volatile American would give me no
peace until I had done so; and then, having looked up, I promptly forgot
the play and its _dramatis personae_.
Two years I had spent in Africa and Egypt, and I had not seen many fair
faces during that time of travel and campaigning. I was in a mood,
therefore, to appreciate the delicate loveliness of English women; but,
even had I been surfeited with beauty, my eyes would have lingered in a
species of wonder on the girl just seating herself in a corner of the
stage box. It is possible that I have seen other women as beautiful,
many more classically perfect of feature, but never have I looked upon a
face so radiant, so bewildering.
For the moment I scarcely glanced at the girl's companions, though I was
vaguely conscious that there was an older woman, and that two men were
taking chairs in the darker background of the box.
All the other figures on the stage and in the auditorium became
meaningless for me. There was the dazzling girl in white, and, so far as
I was concerned, no one else in the theatre.
The simple, snowy frock, without jewels or ornamentation of any kind,
was the most becoming frame which could have been chosen for the
picture. The oval face, with its pearly skin, its curved red lips, its
starry, long-lashed eyes (which might have been brown or violet, so far
as I could tell), and the aureole of waving, ruddy gold hair were all so
vivid in their marvelous effect of colour, that the dead white gown set
them off far more artistically than the most carefully-chosen tints
could have done.
The girl could not, I thought, have been more than twenty, and every
turn of the beautifully-poised little head, every dimpling smile, told
that she was full of the joy of life.
"What do you think of Wildred?" whispered Farnham, his lazy American
drawl waking me out of a dream.
I did not wish him to see how completely I had been absorbed, how
foolishly I had lost my head, and therefore I turned my attention to the
two men in the back of the box.