GETTING IN
“One of the lower orders, by which I mean the common or criminal
classes, would hesitate to approach a gentleman with the plain and
straightforward statement that any burglar, who had taken a lesson
from a correspondence school, would find that house as easy as opening
a box of matches,” said Mr. Marsh. “It is so simple that a
specialist, would say ‘There’s a trap.’”
“Where the devil did you come from?” asked Bill, recovering from his
surprise.
“I’ve been watching you for the last three hours,” said Mr. Marsh
calmly, “and you’ve been watching the house. There is a certain Latin
saying, which I haven’t got at my finger tips, about who shall watch
the watcher? The answer is--Hubert Francis Marsh--Toby, for short.”
Bill’s eyes had strayed to the window.
“Could you get into that room if you wanted?”
“Could I get into that room if I wanted?” Toby Marsh was amused. “I
could fall into that room from the street--if I wanted! The question
is, do I want? There is another question.” He ticked it off on the
second of his long, delicate fingers. “Why does Laffin fix bars to his
window with his own hands--being in such a hurry that he couldn’t wait
for a workman, but bought the iron himself, at Colbord & Willing’s in
Finsbury Road, and darned nearly broke his neck trying to screw ’em
in? I ask you again, why? And my answer is----”
“A lemon,” said the irritated Bill. Suddenly: “I want to talk to that
young lady. Now, how am I going to do it?”
“In other words, you want to get into that house. The only suggestion
I can make to you is that I open the door for you.”
“Could you?” asked Bill, incredulously.
“Is there anything easier?” asked the other, with an air of
weariness. “Will you resume your post of observation? And have no fear
for me; in five minutes you will see the door open. Walk right in--I
shall not be there; I am discreet.”
He dismissed his awe-stricken audience with a nod, and Bill went back
to his vigil and his doubts. One at least was set at rest four minutes
after he had returned to his post. The front door moved slightly, and,
walking across the road, he ran up the garden path, entered the hall
and closed the door behind him. There was no sign of Toby Marsh. True
to his promise in every respect, he had both opened the door and
disappeared.
Bill did not stop to consider the consequences. He waited only to get
his bearings, and then he went up the dark stairs, holding a lighted
match. Two flights he traversed, and then his further progress was
held up by a door which was heavily padlocked.
“Who is that?” said a voice on the other side.
“Holbrook,” was the answer, and she uttered a cry of thankfulness
that made the next question unnecessary.
“Has the old man locked you in?”
“Yes; can you open the door, please?”
Bill felt at the padlock.
“I can’t open it legitimately, but if you’ll wait, I’ll go down below
and see what there is.”
He was halfway down the second flight when, in an alcove, he saw in
the light of his match a hideous face glaring at him from the gloom.
It was a squat African idol, and, dropping his match, he lifted it
with some difficulty to the floor, for it was made of ironwood and was
exceptionally heavy. Nevertheless, if it could be handled from the
precarious foothold of the stairs, he guessed it would be sufficient.
“Stand away from the door,” he said. “I’m going to try to break it
in, but I’m not sure that I’ll be successful.”
Exerting all his strength, he swung back the _bête_, and brought it
with a crash against the door at the place where the padlock was
fastened. Such was the weight of his battering-ram that the hasp
snapped, but the door stood firm. He waited awhile till he had
recovered his breath, and then repeated the blow, driving the feet of
the idol at a place level with the keyhole. To his gratification, the
door burst open with a crash, and the weight of the wooden figure
overbalanced him, so that he fell almost at the girl’s feet.
“Is this housebreaking or burglary, I wonder?” he said, as he rolled
the hideous figure out of sight. “Now, young lady, if you’re
read----”
“Hurry, please hurry!” she said.
They had reached the hall, when they heard a key in the lock.
“In the study,” whispered the girl.
It was the doctor; she heard and recognised his little affected cough.
Would he go straight upstairs or make for the study? Invariably he
went to his room first. Footsteps passed the door, and she listened
intently. Was he going up the stairs? The stair carpet was so thick
that she could not hear, but after a while he coughed again, and this
time the sound came from above. Instantly they were in the passage,
and she had opened the door.
“Who is there!” It was Laffin’s voice calling them from the first
landing.
Bill swung the front door close after him with a crash, and they raced
down the path together, turned into Camden Road, and did not slacken
pace until they saw the shadowy figure of a policeman ahead of them,
and deemed it expedient not to excite his suspicions.
“Now where are you going?”
“I’m going back to my lodgings,” she said. “I can’t tell you how
grateful I am to you, Mr. Holbrook. But how did you get in?”
Bill coughed.
“A friend of mine opened the door. When I say a friend of mine,” he
explained. “I mean that he’s a--er--a professional door-opener with
whom I am acquainted. Why did he lock you up? I suppose it was
Laffin?”
She nodded.
“Yes, it was Dr. Laffin,” she said quietly, “but that is all I can
tell you. His conduct is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you. I
only know that I was terribly frightened, and that when you came
through that door I could have fallen on your neck.”
“That wasn’t at all necessary,” said Bill.
“But why did you come in? How did you know I was there?”
“I had been watching the house; in fact, I saw you arrive, and heard
you remark that you would not be longer than five minutes. At the end
of five hours I began to think that you had changed your mind.”
They walked along in silence for five minutes.
“You’re a queer man,” she said. “I think I may have been mistaken in
you.”
Bill looked at her quickly.
“Until I know what your first impressions were, I am not able to
enlighten you,” he said.
“Well, I thought you were bumptious, pushful, and--rather
thick-skinned,” she said frankly.
“That’s right,” nodded Bill, “I’m all those. If you were William K.
Holbrook you would also be bumptious and self-satisfied.”
“Did you see Lord Lowbridge?” she asked.
“Lord Lowbridge? Is that the Apollo Belvedere person. Yes, he came out
at the same time as friend Laffin. I’ll bet he isn’t laffin’ now.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“A low jest, which doesn’t bear repetition,” he said guiltily. “Yes,
I saw Lord Lowbridge. He’s the only lord I’ve ever seen that looks
like one; most of the peerage of this country are such miserable
devils that I want to pat them on the back, and say ‘Never mind.’ But
I can imagine that guy--gentleman, in a suit of armour, chasing
dragons and rescuing maidens and appropriating other people’s castles.
Now, Miss Carew,” he stopped, “I won’t go any farther with you, or I
shall lose my reputation. No man has ever associated my name with a
lady, and I don’t want any of these snooping reporters to go spreading
reports in Fleet Street about my forthcoming nuptials.”
She laughed.
“If I didn’t know you were joking, I’d be very angry with you. As it
is, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“Then don’t try. You’ll be doing your window-dressing act to-morrow?”
“No,” she said quietly, “that is finished.”
“Finished to-day?” His head was thrust toward her, his voice was
eager. “Finished this afternoon? Did the old man tell you that? And he
pinched you to-night--gosh!”
She was a little bewildered.
“I don’t see the connection, but it is a fact that I’m not going to
Duke Street any more.”
“Where are you staying to-night, Miss Carew?” he asked.
She gave him her address, and he jotted it down on the back of an old
envelope.
“You have money, I suppose?” he asked, and, though she smiled, she
appreciated the thought. “Now, hurry home,” he said paternally.
“Where will you go? You’re not going back?” she asked in alarm.
He nodded.
“Yes, I’m curious to see what happens.”
He waited until she was gone, and then retraced his footsteps.
Evidently something remarkable had occurred, for there was a small
crowd before the gate of Dr. Laffin’s house. The front door was open,
and in the hall lights he saw two policemen talking to a dishevelled
Laffin. Pushing through the crowd, he made his way up the steps into
the hall, and at sight of him the old man’s brows met.
“What do you want?” he demanded sharply.
“I’ve just come along to see what was the trouble,” said Bill.
All the habitual calm of Dr. Joshua Laffin had vanished; he was a
quivering, raging fury.
“What has happened!” he screamed. “I’ll tell you what has happened!
Some thief has stolen a golden buckle… worth a fortune… the diamond
and golden buckle of Isis.” He was frothing at the mouth.
Bill’s heart nearly stopped beating. Toby Marsh! The obliging burglar
had not been so disinterested as he thought.
“You get out!” The doctor yelled the words. “Officer, put that man
out; I will not have him here. What right have you…?”
One of the policemen stooped his head significantly, and Bill, who
knew the way of the blue custodians, went out meekly. He wondered
whether he should tell Bullott. Fortunately for him, Mr. Bullott was
not at home.
As he approached his house, he saw a man sitting on the doorstep, and
his figure seemed familiar.
“Why, Marsh!” he said. “How on earth did you get here?”
“Walked,” was the laconic reply. “Bullott’s out. Was there any
trouble down Camden Road?”
“I should say there was,” said Bill drily. “Marsh, I didn’t expect
you to do that sort of thing. Burglary is a serious offence.”
“So is receiving,” said Toby Marsh blandly, “if you’re talking about
that diamond buckle. It’s in your right-hand coat pocket, Mr.
Holbrook.”