THE WHITE LADY
Gurdon looked hopelessly about him, utterly at a loss for anything to
say. The whole thing had been so unexpected, so very opposite to the
commonplace ending he had anticipated, that he was too dazed and
confused to do anything but smile in an inane and foolish manner. He had
rather looked forward to seeing some eccentric individual, some elderly
recluse who lived there with a servant or two. And here he was, face to
face with the man who, at the present moment, was to him the most
interesting in London.
"You can take your time," the cripple said. "I am anxious for you to
believe that I am not in the least hurry. The point of the problem is
this: a well dressed man, evidently a gentleman, is discovered at a late
hour in the evening in my cellar. As the gentleman in question is
obviously sober, one naturally feels a little curiosity as to what it
all means."
The speaker spoke quite slowly and clearly, and with a sarcastic emphasis
that caused Gurdon to writhe impotently. Every word and gesture on the
part of the cripple spoke of a strong mind and a clear intellect in that
twisted body. Despite the playful acidity of his words, there was a
distinct threat underlying them. It occurred to Gurdon as he stood there
that he would much rather have this man for a friend than a foe.
"Perhaps you had better take a seat," the cripple said. "There is plenty
of time, and I don't mind confessing to you that this little comedy
amuses me. Heaven knows, I have little enough amusement in my dreary
life; and, therefore, in a measure, you have earned my gratitude. But
there is another side to the picture. I have enemies who are utterly
unscrupulous. I have to be unscrupulous in my turn, so that when I have
the opportunity of laying one of them by the heels, my methods are apt to
be thorough. Did you come here alone to-night, or have you an
accomplice?"
"Assuredly, I came alone," Gurdon replied.
"Oh, indeed. You found your way into the garden. To argue out the thing
logically, we will take it for granted that you had no intention whatever
of paying a visit to my garden when you left home. If such had been your
intention, you would not be wearing evening dress, and thin, patent
leather shoes. Your visit to the garden was either a resolution taken on
the spur of the moment, or was determined upon after a certain discovery.
I am glad to hear that you came here entirely by yourself."
There was an unmistakable threat in these latter words; and as Gurdon
looked up he saw that the cripple was regarding him with an intense
malignity. The grey eyes were cold and merciless, the handsome face hard
and set, and yet it was not a countenance which one usually associates
with the madman or the criminal. Really, it was a very noble face--the
face of a philanthropist, a poet, a great statesman, who devotes his
money and his talents to the interests of his country. Despite a feeling
of danger, Gurdon could not help making a mental note of these things.
"Won't you sit down?" the cripple asked again. "I should like to have a
little chat with you. Here are whisky and soda, and some cigars, for the
excellence of which I can vouch, as I import them myself. Perhaps, also,
you share with me a love of flowers?"
With a wave of his strong arm, the speaker indicated the wealth of
blossoms which arose from all sides of the room. There were flowers
everywhere. The luxuriant blooms seemed to overpower and dwarf the
handsome furnishings of the room. At the far end, folding doors
opened into the conservatory, which was a veritable mass of brilliant
colors. The cripple smiled upon his blossoms, as a mother might smile
on her child.
"These are the only friends who never deceive you," he said. "Flowers and
dogs, and, perhaps, little children. I know this, because I have
suffered from contact with the world, as, perhaps, you will notice when
you regard this poor body of mine. I think you said just now you came
here entirely by yourself."
"That is a fact," Gurdon replied. He was beginning to feel a little more
at his ease now. "Let me hasten to assure you that I came here with no
felonious intent at all. I was looking for somebody, and I thought that
my friend came here. You will pardon me if I do not explain with any
amount of detail, because the thing does not concern myself altogether.
And, besides--"
Gurdon paused; he could not possibly tell this stranger of the startling
events which had led to his present awkward situation. In any case, he
would not have been believed.
"We need not go into that," the cripple said. "It is all by the way. You
came here alone; and, I take it, when you left your home, you had not the
slightest intention of coming here. To make my meaning a little more
clear, if you disappeared from this moment, and your friends never saw
you again, the police would not have the slightest clue to your
whereabouts."
Gurdon laughed just a little uneasily; he began to entertain the idea
that he was face to face with some dangerous lunatic, some man whose
dreadful troubles and misfortunes had turned him against the world.
Evidently, it would be the right policy to humor him.
"That is quite correct," he said. "Nobody has the least idea where I am;
and if the unpleasant contingency you allude to happened to me, I should
go down to posterity as one of the victims of the mysterious type of
crime that startles London now and again."
"I should think," said the stranger, in a thin, dry tone, that caused
Gurdon's pulses to beat a little faster--"I should think that your
prophecy is in a fair way to turn out correct. I don't ask you why you
came here, because you would not tell me if I did. But you must have been
spying on the place, or you would not have had the misfortune to tread on
a damaged grating, and finish your adventure ignominiously in the cellar.
As I told you just now, I have enemies who are absolutely unscrupulous,
and who would give much for a chance of murdering me if the thing could
be done with impunity. Common sense prompts me to take it for granted
that you are in some wry connected with the foes to whom I have alluded."
"I assure you, I am not," Gurdon protested. "I am the enemy of no man. I
came here to night--"
Gurdon stopped in some confusion. How could he possibly tell this man why
he had come and what he had in his mind? The thing was awkward--almost to
the verge of absurdity.
"I quite see the quandary you are in," said the cripple, with a smile.
"Now, let me ask you a question. Do you happen to know a man by the name
of Mark Fenwick?"
The query was so straight and to the point that Gurdon fairly started.
More and more did he begin to appreciate the subtlety and cleverness of
his companion. It was impossible to fence the interrogation; it had to be
answered, one way or the other.
"I know the man by sight," he said; "but I beg to assure you that until
last night I had never seen him."
"That may be," the cripple said drily. "But you know him now, and that
satisfies me. Now, listen. You see what I have in my hand. Perhaps you
are acquainted with weapons of this kind?"
So saying, the speaker wriggled in his chair, and produced from somewhere
behind him a small revolver. Despite its silver plated barrel and ivory
handle, it was a sinister looking weapon, and capable of deadly mischief
in the hands of an expert. Though no judge of such matters, it occurred
to Gurdon that his companion handled the revolver as an expert should.
"I have been used to this kind of thing from a boy," the cripple said. "I
could shoot you where you sit within a hair's breadth of where I wanted
to hit you."
"Which would be murder," Gurdon said quietly.
"Perhaps it would, in the eyes of the law; but there are times when one
is tempted to defy the mandates of a wise legislature. For instance, I
have told you more than once before that I have enemies, and everything
points to the fact that you are the tool and accomplice of some of them.
I have about me one or two faithful people, who would do anything I ask.
If I shoot you now the report of a weapon like this will hardly be
audible beyond the door. You lie there, dead, shot clean through the
brain. I ring my bell and tell my servants to clear this mess away. I
give them orders to go and bury it quietly somewhere, and they would obey
me without the slightest hesitation. Nothing more would be said. I should
be as safe from molestation as if the whole thing had happened on a
desert island. I hope I have succeeded in making the position clear,
because I should be loth to think that a little incident like this should
cause inconvenience to one who might after all have been absolutely
innocent."
The words were spoken quietly, and without the slightest trace of
passion. Still, there was no mistaking the malignity and intense fury
which underlay the well chosen and well balanced sentences.
Gurdon was silent; there was nothing for him to say. He was in a position
in which he could not possibly explain; he could only sit there, looking
into the barrel of the deadly weapon, and praying for some diversion
which might be the means of saving his life. It came presently in a
strange and totally unexpected fashion. Upon the tense, nerve-breaking
silence, a voice suddenly intruded like a flash of light in a dark place.
It was a sweet and girlish voice, singing some simple ballad, with a
natural pathos which rendered the song singularly touching and
attractive. As the voice came nearer the cripple's expression changed
entirely; his hard eyes grew soft, and the handsome features were
wreathed in a smile. Then the door opened, and the singer came in.
Gurdon looked at her, though she seemed unconscious of his presence
altogether. He saw a slight, fair girl, dressed entirely in white, with
her long hair streaming over her shoulders. The face was very sad and
wistful, the blue eyes clouded with some suggestion of trouble and
despair. Gurdon did not need a second glance to assure him that he was in
the presence of one who was mentally afflicted. She came forward and took
her place by the side of the cripple.
"They told me that you are busy," she said, "Just as if it mattered
whether you were busy or not, when I wanted to see you."
"You must go away now, Beth," the cripple said, in his softest and most
tender manner. "Don't you see that I am talking with this gentleman?"
The girl turned eagerly to Gurdon; she crossed the room with a swift,
elastic step, and laid her two hands on him.
"I know what you have come for," she said, eagerly. "You have come to
tell me all about Charles. You have found him at last; you are going to
bring him back to me. They told me he was dead, that he had perished in
the mine; but I knew better than that. I know that Charles will come back
to me again."
"What mine?" Gurdon asked.
"Why, the Four Finger Mine, of course," was the totally unexpected
reply. "They said that Charles had lost his life in the Four Finger
Mine. It was in a kind of dream that I saw his body lying there,
murdered. But I shall wake from the dream presently, and he will come
back to me, come back in the evening, as he always used to when the sun
was setting beyond the pines."
There was something so utterly sad and hopeless in this that Gurdon
averted his eyes from the girl's face. He glanced in the direction of the
door; then it required all his self control to repress a cry, for in the
comparative gloom of the passage beyond, he could just make out the
figure of Vera, who stood there with her finger on her lip as if imposing
silence. He could see that in her hand she held something that looked
like a chisel. A moment later she flitted away once more, leaving Gurdon
to puzzle his brain as to what it all meant.
"I am sorry for all this," the cripple said. "You have entirely by
accident come face to face with a phase in my life which is sacred and
inviolate. Really, if I had no other reason for reducing you to silence,
this would be a sufficiently powerful inducement. My dear Beth, I really
must ask you--"
Whatever the cripple might have intended to say, the speech was never
finished; for, at that moment, the electric lights vanished suddenly,
plunging the whole house into absolute darkness. A moment later,
footsteps came hurrying along in the hall, and a voice was heard to say
that the fuse from the meter had gone, and it would be impossible to turn
on the light again until the officials had been called in to repair the
damage. At the same moment, Gurdon rose to his feet and crept quietly in
the direction of the door. Here, at any rate, was a chance of escape, for
that his life was in dire peril he had felt for some little time. He had
hardly reached the doorway when he felt a slim hand touch his, and he was
guided from the room into the passage beyond. He could give a pretty fair
idea as to the owner of the slim fingers that trembled in his own, but he
made no remark; he allowed himself to be led on till his feet stumbled
against the stairs.
"This way," a voice whispered. "Say nothing, and make no protest. You
will be quite safe from further harm."
Gurdon did exactly as he was told. He found himself presently at the top
of a staircase, and a little later on in a room, the door of which was
closed very quietly by his guide.
"I think I can guess who I have to thank for this," Gurdon murmured. "But
why did you not take me to the front door, or the back entrance leading
to the garden? It was lucky for me that the lights failed at the critical
moment--a piece of nominal good fortune, such as usually only happens in
a story. But I should feel a great deal safer if I were on the other side
of the front door."
"That is quite impossible," Vera said, for it was she who had come to
Gurdon's rescue. "Both doors are locked, and all the rooms on the
ground floor are furnished with shutters. As to the light going out, I
am responsible for it. I learned all about the electric light when I
lived in a mining camp in Mexico. I had only to remove one of the lamps
and apply my chisel to the two poles, and thereby put out every fuse in
the house. That is why the light failed, for it occurred to me that in
the confusion that followed the darkness, I should be in a position to
save you. But you little realise how near you have been to death
to-night. And, why, oh, why did you follow me in this way? It was very
wrong of you."
"It was Venner's idea," Gurdon said. "He had a strange fear that you were
going into some danger. He asked me to follow you, and I did so. As to
the manner of my getting here--"
"I know all about that," Vera said hurriedly. "I have been listening to
your conversation. I dare say you are curious to know something more
about this strange household; but, for the present, you will be far
better employed in getting away from it. I shall not be easy in my mind
till you are once more in the street."