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diff --git a/75273-0.txt b/75273-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..07c9904 --- /dev/null +++ b/75273-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15280 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75273 *** + + +Death in the Dusk + +by Virgil Markham + +Jacobsen Publishing Company, Inc. +Copyright 1928 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. + + + +CONTENTS + + Prefatory Words + Persons in this Chronicle + I. The Obtrusion of Parson Lolly + II. The Bull + III. The House + IV. The Bidding Feast + V. Kingmaker + VI. Strain + VII. Court of Inquiry + VIII. Wager of Battel + IX. The Bone + X. The Laugh + XI. Superintendent Salt + XII. Noah’s Flood + XIII. The Weapon + XIV. The Fiendish Cat of the Sisters Delambre + XV. The Rainbow + XVI. Parchment—and Paper + XVII. Lancelot’s Ultimatum + XVIII. Grisly Planting + XIX. The Deathless Arm + XX. The Recrudescence of Parson Lolly + XXI. The Midnight Expedition + XXII. The Beginning of the End: Parabola + XXIII. Miss Lebetwood and a Campstool + XXIV. Bannerlee’s Secret + XXV. The Flight of Parson Lolly + XXVI. Blood on the Portrait + XXVII. The Purr of the Cat! + XXVIII. The Crash + XXIX. Rescue + The Communication of April 17, 1926 + + + +PREFATORY WORDS + +The journal of Alfred Bannerlee, of Balzing (Kent), is at last to be +published practically in full, and without the alteration of any name. +I say “at last,” but I suppose there are some who would leap with joy +if the closely-written pages of the Oxford antiquarian and athlete +were utilized, like Carlyle’s first “French Revolution,” for building +a cheery fire. Lord Ludlow certainly is one. + +It seems incredible, but Mr. Bannerlee has requested Ludlow to write +an introduction to the book. Perhaps Mr. Bannerlee was pulling the +baronial leg. Of all the party of poor half-maddened people who +emerged from Aidenn Vale after the powerful doings recorded in this +Journal, I can imagine none less likely to perform this service for +the diarist who clung faithfully to the task of recording terrors in +the midst of terror and didn’t hesitate to display the baronial +character at its craftiest. Small wonder, I should think, that on the +eve of publication of what he himself admits is “an unbelievable and +utterly veracious narrative” Lord Ludlow sails for unknown seas, and +makes no secret of the fact that England’s loss is permanent. + +Now, since his Lordship promises never to come back, I don’t see any +reason why I shouldn’t publish his recent letter to me, and thereby, +perhaps, satisfy Mr. Bannerlee. + + “Brillig, Ambleside, Westmorland, + December 27, 1927. + + My dear Markham: + + One can scarcely conjecture what maggot of audacity was in the brain + of Alfred Bannerlee, Esq., when he forwarded me his diary with the + request that I write a foreword to accompany it ‘to give the stamp + of reality.’ When you perceive the light in which I am placed in + this unbelievable and utterly veracious narrative, you will not need + to reflect in order to understand why I decline to have anything to + do with the document. In accordance with Mr. Bannerlee’s wish, I am + sending the diary to you, ‘an obscure but ambitious author,’ and I + do not suppose that you will object to having your name upon the + title-page. The whole arrangement impresses me as asinine, but, + after all, the manuscript is Mr. Bannerlee’s and he should be + allowed full scope to play the fool with it. + + In fairness to the author, however, I must abate the indictment. I + do no more than allude to what seem to me distinct virtues in this + account. They will appeal to others likewise, if they are virtues. + In the first place, there is nothing of that grisly, putrid stuff + going nowadays under the name of modern psychology, although a + pedlar of this ‘science’ could have found no end of matter for his + hole and corner methods. Second point: I am not a devotee of the + enormous literature dealing with the hounding and capture of + wrongdoers. But I will venture a pronouncement in my egregious + innocence, to wit, that not in any half-dozen combined of these + would-be ‘shockers’ published in a lifetime will be found as many + trials and alarums and as much genuine mystification as make up this + compendium of the bedevilment of Parson Lolly, the mad behaviour of + the milkman, the invisible omnipresence of Sir Brooke Mortimer, + the enigma of the mystic bone, the Legend of Sir Pharamond’s + imperishable arm, and the machinations of the ultimate contriver, I + will not call him ‘fiend,’ working through and behind all. + + And here it is my wish to express my wholehearted esteem for (then) + Miss Paula Lebetwood. I dislike the whole species of American girls, + but intelligence compels exceptions to every rule. Some of us judged + her harshly, no doubt, but she took the road leading to success, and + if she seemed cold-hearted, she chose wisely. Had she been a weaker + woman, snuffling and inept, the narrative would not now be on the + verge of publication. In spite of this, wherever she is, I wish her + well. + + I myself shall not remain in England to witness the effervescence of + the multitude over this narrative. Democratic outbursts rather gall + me. On the eve of the publication of the Journal, my yacht, with me + on board, sails for waters unknown. I seek as far as I may a + shoreless cruise. I am old, and mankind is not my hobby. Perhaps I + shall linger in the beauty of the Mediterranean where there are two + skies, perhaps drift endlessly in the steady strength of the Trades, + perhaps dare the dark Antarctic seas—or find beyond the sunset. One + thing stands sure; it is unthinkable that I shall ever set foot in + Britain again. So here I take farewell of those who with me shared + the dread, wonder and aftermath of _Death in the Dusk_. (By the way, + I don’t like that title of Bannerlee’s.) + + Pray accept my congratulations on your recent appointment, and + believe me your sincere friend, and + + Faithfully yours, + Ludlow.” + +It is well, I believe, to point out that the minds of all those +present at Highglen House among the sorcerous hills of Wales during +the early autumn of 1925, the mind which directed the writing of this +Journal was, save perhaps one, the best fitted for presenting the +closest account possible to the truth. The one other mind which could +possibly equal this record in truthfulness would be that which +actually contrived the series of demoniacal events in the Vale of +Aidenn Water. The queer, tense, potentially tragic, and ultimately +fatal situation discovered by Mr. Bannerlee after his serio-comic +descent from the Forest through the fog contained so many +cross-currents and tangled nets of misunderstanding, prejudice and +enmity that no other could have pretended to the shadow of fairness in +his (or her) statement of the case. For the sake of truth, then +(though God knows what disadvantages offset that!), it was well that +Mr. Bannerlee was plunged into the seething midst of the Bidding +Feast. + +I shall not dilate upon the morbid eagerness with which the public +will seize upon this Journal. This is no hackneyed chronicle of raw +head and bloody bones. The consternation caused by the events in +Aidenn Vale, constituting, upon their emergence after the flood, a +problem of what may genuinely be called universal interest, will never +be forgotten by those old enough to realize their dreadfulness. The +nine days’ terror became a nine days’ wonder, and without hyperbole it +may be said that the fate of one nation hung upon the Radnorshire +riddles. The public has never been informed of all there was to be +told, nor, as sporadic (and totally erroneous) statements and versions +in the press signify, has the public lost its interest. Here, for the +first time, is offered for general perusal this unbelievable and +utterly veracious document. Need I comment further? + +This is not, of course, the original form of Mr. Bannerlee’s diary. +What he wrote until the turmoil of events forced him to stay +his hand on the evening of the 9th of October was necessarily +briefer, more compact, and—to a reader not in touch with the +circumstances—unintelligible. His recasting of the manuscript, which +involved its enlargement to thrice its original length is, it seems to +me, one of the most notable of his feats. Hard it must have been for +him to alter this account from the sketch-book manner of an ordinary +diary, to give the convincing gloss of rumination and reflection, to +reveal precise details of fact, the links of cogitation, and the +phases of feeling which poured in upon him. I think, too, that he has +well preserved the sense of imminence, the uncertainty as to the +morrow, which was, I am told, present in the original version. If +portions of the work seem lacking in spontaneity, let me remind the +reader that it was impossible for Mr. Bannerlee to limit himself to a +mere polychronicon of episodes, frilled with running comment on +persons, and edged with a neat pattern of emotions. Clearness demanded +he should sometimes _elucidate_ and the white heat of events must have +time to cool before they can be handled analytically. + +Only last month I myself visited New Aidenn again. A word of +self-introduction to Superintendent Salt made that rather wonderful +policeman my good friend at once, and he personally conducted me +through the Vale where death and terror had danced. It is all as +Bannerlee describes it; even the atmosphere of mystery has not +departed, and while Salt and I came down by Aidenn Water through the +dusk, I was glad to have him there, glad and nevertheless uneasy. The +villagers and the folk of the countryside know well that Parson Lolly +is not dead yet, though his age is nearer five hundred than four +hundred years, and often they see his black cloak whisk through some +twilight copse, or see him far off above the hills, poised against the +sunset. + +Some day I shall write my own book about Salt: that other mystery of +East Wales, the frightful affair of the Straight Road. But enough. + + Virgil Markham + +St. John’s Wood, +London, February 26, 1928. + + + + DEATH IN THE DUSK + + Being Alfred Bannerlee’s own revision + and enlargement of his journal notes + from the evening of October 2, 1925, + to the breaking off, October 9. Together + with the conclusion of the narrative + later supplied by him, and the + communication of April 17, 1926. + + + + To + Paula Andrews + in loving memory of + Paula Lebetwood + and to + Mrs. Robert Cullen + in grateful memory of Lib + + + +PERSONS IN THIS CHRONICLE + + The Narrator + Alfred Bannerlee of Balzing in Kent, + athlete and antiquarian + + Host and Hostess of the Bidding Feast + The Honourable Crofts Pendleton + Mrs. (Alberta) Pendleton + + The Betrothed + Sean Cosgrove + Paula Lebetwood + + Guests + Herbert Pinckney, Baron Ludlow and Ditherington + Ted Belvoir + Mrs. (Marvel) Belvoir + Gilbert Maryvale, Esq. + Mr. Charlton Oxford + Mrs. Eve Bartholomew + Miss Millicent Mertoun + Dr. Stephen Aire + Lib Dale + Bob Cullen + + Servants + Blenkinson, patriarch + Soames, footman + Hughes, gamekeeper + Finlay, head gardener + Wheeler, chauffeur and handy man + Morgan, handy man + Tenney, handy man + Toby, boy + Rosa Clay, cook + Ruth Clay, housekeeper + Ardelia Lacy, lady’s maid + Jael, parlourmaid + Harmony, housemaid + Em, kitchenmaid + + Nebulous or Mysterious Persons + The gorilla man + The menagerie keeper + Sir Brooke Mortimer + The sisters Delambre + The red-bearded runner + The youth in the library + The man in the tower + + Officials + Superintendent Salt + Dr. Niblett, Coroner + “Scotland Yard” + + Super-Sleuth + Harry Heatheringham + + Arch-Lord of Disorder + PARSON LOLLY + + + +CHAPTER I + +The Obtrusion of Parson Lolly + + Highglen House, Aidenn Vale, Radnorshire, + October 3, 1925. 12.30 A.M. + +Heaven smile on us if it can! Heaven watch and ward us. This is a +wedding party! + +Crofts Pendleton has just brought me the fresh candles and this +writing-book. He wished me God-speed in my endeavours and good-night. + +“Good-night!” It sounded like a travesty, or a challenge. + +Surely I am the sane one here if anyone is. Yet I cannot name the +curse that lies on my spirit and keeps in my eyes the vision of the +two faces, the golden hair above the black! Never-to-be-forgotten +moment! But I shall not let it unnerve me now, as it seemed to then. + +The worst of it is that I am confined in a musty chamber (among +store-rooms!) on the second floor where the web-scribbled ceiling +slants down with the roof and the eaves murmur uncannily just above my +window—a room to make flesh thrill and creep. It looks like a chamber +where murderers may have lurked in bygone days. The narrow, deep-set +window, the old twisty candle-brackets high on the stone wall, the +joined chest with never a nail to fasten its boards, the severely +plain four-square bedstead—they all remind me that I am in a building +centuries old where any or every fiendish deed may have been +performed. I wish that this storey, like the rest of the house, were +equipped with a good up-to-date electric service. The blinking light +of candles is not very comfortable in the gloom. + +Nearly a page written, yet nothing pertinent said. This isn’t economy +in words. But now I’ll banish megrims, cease rambling, and come to the +situation. + +I have been in Highglen House for a scant six hours. Events have been +moving with intermittent swiftness ever since I came, and they had not +been precisely quiet before my arrival. To-night, though it takes +until dawn, I shall describe as far as I can the happenings of the +last day unless I drift off to sleep in the process. But no, even with +doors locked, sleep is not likely to trouble anyone much to-night, not +after the alarm all of us—I don’t except myself in this case—have just +had. + +Moreover, until the nowhere-to-be-found Sir Brooke puts in an +appearance, or some word is heard from him, there will be little rest +for me, with Eve Bartholomew knocking at the door every fifteen +minutes, with, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bannerlee; are you still up? It’s +_so_ silly of me, of course—Sir Brooke can take care of himself as +well as any of us—better, I’m sure, than most—and yet I’m not so +sure—but it’s really odd, isn’t it? Now I know it’s silly of me—but +I’ve just had another idea. Don’t you think it’s possible that Sir +Brooke took the wrong train? Of course I don’t know whether you can do +that in Shrewsbury in the afternoon—but perhaps he got on the wrong +platform, or something—he never was an expert on getting about, poor +dear—and then he may have gone to sleep and not noticed where he was +going. He has a way of doing that in trains—I know him so well, you +see. Perhaps he didn’t learn until he got off at some scrubby little +place where there’s no telegraph. And then, of course, that explains +why there’s been no message from him.” + +I have learned a good deal about Sir Brooke’s character since Mrs. B. +began her raids with a Macbethean knocking and a stage whisper. His +chief trait seems to be utter fickleness of memory, his next that +something, or lack of something, which makes able-bodied women like +Mrs. B. call men “dear” with “poor” prefixed. He is near-sighted, +liable to vertigo philanthropic, and a nuisance. + +I said Macbethean knocking—I suppose that proves I’m a little +highly-strung myself. Certainly she caused a warm, douche-like +sensation to pass clear over my scalp to the nape of my neck. We have +had an evening which would make the staidest— + +I have a severe mind to draw a line through these pages and begin +anew. This isn’t what I intended at all. My candles are bearded now, +and I haven’t scratched my subject. I repent and reform this very +instant. I am going to try to put down things in order, as they have +unfolded themselves in the course of one of the most amazing days I, +or any human being, ever lived through. + +Yet first (before taking my way back to the hilltop where I wandered +this afternoon, never having so much as heard of Highglen House!) +while the spirit is urgent and the clutch of sense is keen, I’ll +transcribe the maddening events of the half-hour just past. Before I +forget—but shall I ever forget? + +There they were in the Hall of the Moth, civilizees of assorted +temperaments, ignoring their alarms, submerging their differences, and +levelling their intellects in the fascination of a card game. How +“instructive and amusing” had been my introduction by Pendleton to +each of them in this very Hall scarcely more than an hour before! Save +for Alberta, that luscious wife of his, I had never laid eyes on one +of them previous to this evening. + +Straight on my entering the Hall, Pendleton had cavalierly handed me +around from person to person. + +First he revealed me to his wife, who set down her cards and rose with +one of the gladdest smiles I have ever seen. She was tall and +gracious. Her face, surrounded by its lustre of close-clipped, wavy +hair, was a joy to look at, being both pearly-clear and firm, like an +exquisite lily-petal of classic marble. + +“Alfred! We hear that you have been raiding Aidenn Forest.” + +“Please!” I laughed. “I wouldn’t call it anything so forcible as—” + +But already Pendleton had presented me to Mrs. Belvoir. I withdrew my +hand from its clasp of Alberta’s and took the cold fingers of the +colourless man’s wife. What thoughts lay behind those brooding lids +and that close-lipped mouth? Her face had a wavering indistinctness, +like a face seen under flowing water. + +“How do you do?” she said in that rich voice, gave me one full look +with eyes cold and pale as sapphires, and blinked languidly, as if the +discussion were closed. + +Pendleton did not let me linger in perplexity. He gave me up to +Belvoir, who shook hands with a faint smile, saying, “Mr. Bannerlee +and I spelled our names to each other in the hall a little while ago.” + +Next was Lord Ludlow. “I’ve seen him,” remarked his Lordship, gazing +at me with a little asperity, crinkling the skin over the high-pitched +bridge of his nose, and sat down, for he was wishful of continuing the +game, or of giving the impression that such was his desire. + +I was whisked to the second table and made acquainted with the sole +woman there. Eve Bartholomew (God give her peace!) grasped my hand for +a tug or two, exclaiming hurriedly, “Oh, how do you do?” And she +added, with ill-feigned casualness, “They say you’ve been out on the +hills to-day. You’re sure you haven’t seen Sir Brooke?” + +“Quite sure, Mrs. Bartholomew.” + +“Or hear of anyone who might be him—he?” + +“No.” + +Next I was set face-to-face with her partner, the red-faced young man, +who I was not surprised to learn was Sean Cosgrove. His head was +large, his features large, too, without being lubberly. The ruddiness +of his complexion was accentuated by his very black and shining hair, +short and thick. There was something grim and settled in the line of +his jaw, and his blazing black eyes bore out the character of +determination. He shook hands unsmiling, gravely. + +“My congratulations,” I offered. + +He gave a short bow, looking at the floor. Then, “I have heard of +you,” he said, with not a trace of Irish lilt or accent in his speech. + +“Is it possible?” + +“You are a searcher for the buried lore of antiquity. Is not that so?” +he asked with a certain lofty seriousness. + +“I have done a little research among the British saints, but I hardly +expected my labours—” + +“They honour you,” asserted Cosgrove, but my smile of deprecation and +anything further he was about to say were cut off by Pendleton, who +relentlessly kept me on the go, and I faced the next guest. + +Two men had been partners at this table; I now found myself staring at +a waxed moustache, and a very elegantly tapered and needle-pointed +specimen of craftsmanship it was. The rest of his face was nothing +remarkable, only a little swarthy-purplish with brandy, and a trifle +stary-eyed. I was not prepossessed with this gentleman, judging him to +be the sort who shows his cleverness to an assorted public in quips to +barmaids and dance-hall musicians. His name, “Mr. Charlton Oxford,” +struck me as strainedly aristocratic, though no fault of his. + +“Chawmed.” + +“Aesthete,” flashed through my brain, but a query-note raised itself +after the word. “Just plain fool,” I concluded. + +“You _are_ being bandied about, aren’t you?” + +I was surprised by the fluence and ease of his voice, and his +lightening smile, the big darkish man’s who had been dealing the cards +so ritualistically a few minutes before. He lifted his weight as if it +were that of a bubble, and I saw that indeed he was big, bearing his +torso on stanchion-legs. His mass must have been twice mine. + +“Gilbert Maryvale, our complete man of business—iron-castings,” said +Pendleton, with evident gladness that his tale was over. + +I saw a quick brightness come and go in Gilbert Maryvale’s eyes at +that description, as if the eyeball had darted out a little from its +station under thatch-brows. + +“The winner of the Newman Prize for Lucid Prose, I think, in—let me +see—Nineteen-nineteen? May I congratulate you, Mr. Bannerlee, although +the time is past? I have read your ‘Poets of Enervation’ with +delight.” + +“No, Mr. Maryvale, that was not my essay.” + +“Surely I haven’t mistaken the name?” + +“You have mistaken only the man. ‘Poets of Enervation’ was the +overflow of my cousin Norval’s pen. We were in the University +together. I made a bid for the Newman myself, but was buried. Norval +and I are often mistaken for each other, even in our literary +occupations.” + +“No doubt you ran him close,” observed the big man twinkingly. + +“I’m afraid not. And now, as Mr. Cosgrove has said, I am devoted to +dustier things, and the prose I give my time to is far from lucid.” + +“But you wring lucidity out of it.” + +Maryvale resumed his seat, picked up his hand, as did the rest, for in +spite of much invitation I insisted on remaining aloof from the game. +Broad capable cheek-bones, sudden forceful chin he had, but I had an +awareness there was much more than capability and force in this +“complete man of business.” That allusion to the Prize Essay for Lucid +Prose was a poser. Was there another trafficker in iron-castings in +the United Kingdom who had read “Poets of Enervation”?—or one who +would speak of it kindly if he had? + +Well, all this was past, half-forgotten in ensuing talk. But now, at +one minute to midnight, a new presence was in the Hall, threatening +the mirth of the Feast! Anger! + +For Lord Ludlow and Sean Cosgrove were having a beautiful row. + +The Irishman’s gaze was hard and heavy, and seemed to bore into his +antagonist. His face, I noticed, was still suffusing with blood. No +one else ventured to intervene as madly as I had just done, and the +silence when the two men ceased parleying was like the yawn of ocean +after a gigantic wave. + +Cosgrove’s bitterness seemed to be growing steadily, like the awful +momentum of a railway train, and I had no doubt that the time was not +many seconds away when he would arise and beard his foe with menacing +hands. Lord Ludlow’s acerbity was like the nervous, sputtering +viciousness of a dynamo. From his eyes seemed to come green electric +sparks, while he shifted his ire from me toward Cosgrove again. + +“As for you, sir—” + +“I accuse you—” + +Hark! + +The great Hall of the Moth where we stood was gripped in a new hush, +for the clock in the corner was speaking. I had regarded it curiously +in the evening, a fine old carcase with hood, waist, and base +enveloped in spider’s web marqueterie which obliterated the graining +of the wood. The brass dial was finely engraved, and Cupid’s head +appeared four times delicately chiselled in the spandrils. + +Now its chime gave the burden it has tolled for two hundred years, and +midnight was ringing sternly through the House from the Hall of the +Moth. It is a strange clock, devised by some brooding or twisted or +philosophic mind long ago: it strikes, they say, only at midnight, +proclaiming the death and the birth of a day. The tones, vigorous and +vibrant, were mellow with centuries, and their song was poignant. + +Like some greybeard councillor’s, the old clock’s voice appeared to +abash the hasty peer and the slowly enraged Irishman. They stared at +each other in grimness for an interim of seconds before his Lordship +shrugged his shoulders, cackled “Humph!” loudly, and turned to the +disrupted card-table. Cosgrove’s clenched hands came down in his lap +relaxed, and he, too, turned back to his table, moving his lips +without utterance. + +But the game did not go on. It could hardly have pursued its placid +course again after this very distressing interruption of our peace, +even if the crying sound had not begun from somewhere outside the +Hall. + +A low, tremulous, wheedling cry, strangled sometimes into a moan—it +froze every face and turned every eye to stone. + +“What’s that?” gulped Eve Bartholomew. . . . + +“_Where_ is it?” asked Belvoir, and one could tell that the “stick of +dynamite” had not much breath to spare. + +But no one seemed to have the breath or the brain to answer him. My +own belief for a moment was that it proceeded from a plane above our +heads, instead of from somewhere in the long portrait-lined passage +outside the Hall of the Moth. This seemed to be Pendleton’s notion, +too, for with a tense “upstairs!” our host moved to the nearest door +to the corridor. But Alberta Pendleton, dismayed (like all of us, no +doubt) by the thought of the hovering menace that had shadowed +Highglen House, hurried across to her husband and clung to him, +positively clung to him, as I have seen actresses do in plays. + +“No, Crofts dear—no, no! Wait—let someone go with you!” + +“It’s up there,” declared Pendleton with steel-trap enunciation. “The +damned thing’s come again—up there.” + +“That’s why you mustn’t go.” + +“It’s up there,” he said doggedly, and tugged to loose himself. But +she took step for step with him, finally turning in his path with her +back against the door. + +“We’ll all go,” said Maryvale. + +“All the men,” said Cosgrove. “The women lock the doors behind us.” + +“Ring for the servants,” said someone shakenly, I think Charlton +Oxford. + +“Listen! . . . It’s not there any more. . . . It’s stopped.” We +listened with Mrs. Bartholomew; beyond our taut breathings and the +tick-tack-tock of the carcase in the corner—nothing. + +“Ring for the servants, I tell you!” + +“Listen! It’s out there.” + +“Out there!” + +“On the lawn.” + +Unmistakably now the low wordless cry came through the half-opened +french window leading to the broad lawns beyond the entrance drive. +Pendleton was across the room in a trice, heedless of Alberta’s +protest; so were Maryvale and Cosgrove and I; so were all of us. We +followed our host through the window-entrance. Out to the darkness we +went from the bright-lit hall in a little throng, and when we were +outside, hearing the lonesome, half-whining cry no more, we recoiled +and huddled a little, like scared titmice. + +Hardly a quarter of a minute—prolonged by our bewilderment and +dread—could have gone by, and we stood irresolute upon the fringe of +the lawn, when the cry came toward us again, and now it was followed +by a woman’s voice, different from the cry: + +“Oh, come here, come here! I couldn’t call you and leave her alone.” + +At the sound of that voice Cosgrove stamped like a raving beast. +“Paula,” he bellowed, and plunged across the obscurity of the lawn. + +Following among those whose urgence was less than his, my eyes, which +deviated from straight ahead, caught sight of a spine-stirring thing. +It was motion, but of what? A darker mass on the dark sward. Size, +shape, untellable—but moving, moving to the right, now seeming to +crawl, now leaping—only an amorphous blob of black—moving, and +swiftly, toward the north, moving stilly, with only a small rustling +sound at whiles. + +“Look there!” I exclaimed to someone who was near me, catching his +arm. (It was Oxford.) + +“Hey! What!” + +“That—going off there—a black thing.” + +“I don’t see it.” Nor did he want to, I judged. + +I guided his arm, extending it in the proper line. “Sight by that.” + +But I could not make him see it. He and I then diverged from the +others, not much to his liking, and while we hastened after the +nameless thing, I bethought me that I had changed my electric torch to +these clothes. I hauled it from a side pocket, darted a cone of yellow +ahead of us, cast an elliptic figure of yellow on the grass, but found +no trace of the thing. + +Oxford, however, saw an object ahead which made him give a yell. He +stopped petrified, and I followed his look far before us. What we both +then saw was too distant to be the thing I had observed nearby, unless +it were indeed a fiend possessed of superhuman powers. He was crossing +a patch of ground a hundred yards away where the moon streamed down +unscathed by clouds; save for the quick, brief clearing, indeed, we +should not have caught sight of him. Like the hopping, gliding thing +on the lawn, he was black, or robed in black. Contrary to report, +however, if this were Parson Lolly, his figure appeared not to be tall +but distinctly short and squatty. Just then the fringe of a cloud +partly obfuscated the moon, but still that space was clearer than all +around it. While the figure glided toward the trees, it seemed to +heave its shoulders and grow a foot, two feet, taller! Again it +writhed itself into greater height, its long cloak billowing, and +again! Just before gaining the covert of branches, it turned toward us +a moment, twice the height of a man. And its head, if head it had, was +only a pointed thing with unguessable features in the cavern of its +hood. The moon was absolutely overcast when the figure, again wheeling +about, went beneath the trees. + +“Do we go after it?” I asked sardonically. + +“We—we do not.” + +“Righto.” + +I heard a gurgle from Oxford’s lips and guessed that his heart must be +rotating in his throat. His shoulder to my touch was quivering, and +while we went to rejoin the rest he staggered as if in drink, although +certainly sober. But his nerves aren’t the best, I shouldn’t wonder, +for there must be regular occasions when he quaffs and quaffs again. + +They were a chastened, vaguely murmurous company we discovered almost +beneath the arch of the ancient gate-house with its ivy swarming up +and up, now standing lone, its walls on either side all shorn away. +Only a spurt or two of a match they had to see by, until I came with +my torch and they made way for me. The light on the weather-beaten +stone was like the circle of an old medallion or mellowed painting: +two women, one pallid and lifeless, the other, seated on the grass, +supporting the lovely, unconscious head on her knees. + +I supposed instantly that this was the young English-woman, Millicent +Mertoun, who lay wan—the most beautiful creature, I believe, I have +ever seen. Fine breeding, fine spirit were in her stricken face. Cold +loveliness, indeed, with the life gone out of it; eyes set widely +apart, closed beneath straight black eyebrows which were now lifted +apeak with the intensity of strain that showed in the fine lines +across her forehead and the slight drawing-back of her short upper +lip, disclosing her large, evenly graduated teeth. The lashes that +rested upon her cheeks were remarkably long, deep black, and it was +their fragile, almost imperceptible stirring alone that betokened a +possible reawakening to life. Her chin was softly rounded, and in the +disorder of her abundant black hair a delicate ear was exposed. The +suspension of life had withdrawn the blood from the full-contoured +lips, left the cheeks pallid, but while I gazed at the face and the +aristocratic little neck, twined about so by the tumbling length of +masses of black hair, I had a whisper of what beauty the face might +have when expression was restored to it, and the eyes, of unguessable +depth and sweetness, were open. + +Of the other woman’s head I caught only the partly averted profile, +while she bent over Miss Mertoun, with one hand clasping together at +the throat the unconscious girl’s loose gown, apparently a garment of +negligée. She, of course, must be the American girl, for it was at the +sound of her voice that Sean Cosgrove had torn across the lawn. There +was dignity, I thought, in her head with its straitly fastened +golden-brown hair, and a lovely tenderness in the solicitude of her +pose. + +She was in the midst of speech, relating the adventure which had +brought her and her companion to that plight. She did not look up or +turn her head when the light from my hand broke over her, and all the +while she spoke her watchful gaze was for the features of the girl +whose senses were benumbed. American speech it was, yet the words came +from her lips with a chiselled precision, the tone tending toward +viola depth. + +“—blinding, yes, not blinding alone, but maddening. I got her into +looser clothing—she wouldn’t go to bed. She gave no sign of fainting, +but the pain drove her into delirium more than once, and I almost sent +for someone else to help me with her. Then the pain went down, and +suddenly she went to sleep.” + +Someone, I think Cosgrove, took a step nearer. “No, keep away, please. +Don’t try to move her yet.” + +“But, Paula, how did you ever come—?” + +The American girl precluded the end of Alberta Pendleton’s question. +“Of course I am coming to that. She went sound asleep, and I thought +it better not to undress her; so I let her lie on the bed, and I +curled up in the chair by the window. Millicent’s wretched evening had +left me tired out, too, and I don’t remember anything more until when +I woke up to find her awake again and wandering about. There was +enough light from the globe by the mirror to see that she was terribly +distressed, but it was not with pain this time. She was suffering from +some—” + +Paula Lebetwood hesitated for a moment, then recommenced. “I think she +was walking in her sleep.” + +A note of surprise and pity came from all our mouths. + +“Were her eyes open?” asked Mrs. Belvoir. + +“Yes, with the darkest vagueness in them.” + +“Didn’t she recognize you?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“What?” + +“You see, it all happened so quickly. Only a couple of seconds after I +had roused myself the clock in the Hall of the Moth commenced ringing +midnight. Millicent stopped for a moment and put her hand to her +heart, a queer thing, I thought. ‘It’s his music,’ she said, and made +for the door.” + +Renewed exclamations of surprise attested our close-held interest. + +“She ran down the hall—” + +“But, Paula, did you let her—?” + +“She was too strong for me, or perhaps too quick. She twisted away +from me when I tried to prevent her from leaving the room. She almost +flew down the hall; I was afraid she would throw herself down the +stairs, and I caught up with her just in time. We came down—” + +“Did she make any sound?” burst in Pendleton. + +“Yes, a wailing sound—if there were any words, I couldn’t distinguish +them. Didn’t you hear her? Oh, I was wishing you would. I didn’t dare +to cry out, you know, since she was in that dangerous state.” + +“We heard, dear,” said Alberta Pendleton. “But the sound kept +changing, and we were undecided.” + +“She had a definite intention to go out, and out of the front entrance +we went whether I would or not. And then, then, while we were far away +on the lawn, we saw the—the—I can’t name it.” + +“What was it like?” asked Pendleton, and I recall that all of us +closed in a little further to hear. + +“The head, I suppose you’d call it. It was—awful.” + +“What—where?” + +“Didn’t any of you see it?” she asked in much surprise, yet not for a +second lifting her intent look from Millicent Mertoun’s face. “It was +just after that I noticed that foul reek of blood.” + +“Blood!” That was Eve Bartholomew’s cry. + +“Oh, haven’t you noticed that either? The smell was so bad, I feared +it would have some ghastly effect on Millicent. I hoped she wouldn’t +notice it, in her condition. And then—we were beyond the gate-house, +coming back toward the mansion, when we saw—the head.” + +“Where, for God’s sake?” + +“About a hundred feet away from us. I heard something stirring first, +something scuttling, you might say. Then we saw it. Ugh! . . . +Straight out of hell, surely. . . .” + +Pendleton’s excitement was getting too much for him, and he broke +through courtesy. “Why do you keep boggling it? Where was it? What did +it do?” + +“Crofts!” reprimanded Alberta. + +Still with averted face, Paula Lebetwood tried to satisfy our fuming +host. “Where? I don’t know exactly where. Near the gate-house here, I +suppose. It seemed thirty or forty yards away. It was enormous, about +six feet high—oh, fully that. It hung in the air—there wasn’t any body +beneath. And it didn’t do anything, just remained there long enough to +be seen, half a second, perhaps, and disappeared with a sort of sigh. +I thought I heard a sigh. It—well, it simply went out. . . . It was +hideous.” + +“What did it look like, dear?” asked Alberta, more to anticipate her +bluff husband than to satisfy curiosity, for her question was +tremulous. + +“Hideous—a great round head with red goggle eyes and a hole for a nose +and broken teeth all grinning. It looked alive and staring—worse than +any mask I’ve ever seen—an indecent thing. . . . Oh, don’t think that +it was hallucination—poor Millicent saw it too, though it came and +went like the winking of an eye. It seemed to strike to her heart—and +to mine, for that matter—and she could manage to walk only a few steps +more—on my arm—through the archway before she weakened and collapsed, +and I saw you all there outside the french window, and called.” + +She turned her head full toward us for the first time since Oxford and +I had come from our private chase. Such was my position when she +lifted her bent head that I, and only I, saw, on the yellow-lit ground +revealed beyond, a small placard with uncouth letters thereon, large +enough to be read in spite of their unshapeliness: + + P A R S O N L O L L Y S e N d s R E G a R D s L o o K O U T + F O R P A R S O N L O L L Y + +A storm sprang in my mind, such a whirlwind of spirit as I believe I +have never before experienced, when behind the quick, expectant face +of this American girl, one so tender to her stricken friend, one so +fearless, I saw that obscene sign. She was at first dazzled by the +light in my hand, and her dark blue eyes show wonderfully bright and +wild. Her gold hair then had a fine-spun beauty. And beside the old +gate-tower lay the sneering message of one who affronted both manhood +and womanhood. Anger at the marauder who made beauty his victim, shame +for being duped, fear of being duped again, a craving to bring the +rascal down—these and I know that not what other unleashed gales met +in the cross-roads of my mind. The winds rose to raving, towered into +hurricanes. My soul was dizzy, staggering. I was not rational at that +moment—then the gales went down. I bit my lip hard, stepped around the +two women there, picked up the sign (which had been printed with a +smudgy pencil on a stiff folio sheet) and showed it to the rest. + +“Parson Lolly!” exclaimed more than one. + +Then Oxford, perhaps intending to be jocose, said, + +“‘Beware of Parson Lolly.’ Beggar’s a bit late, it seems to me.” + +“At least,” said Crofts Pendleton thickly “it proves he’s human—the +devil!” + +“_In some ways human_, perhaps,” amended Maryvale. + +“What else, then?” + +“Less than human. Consider the birds of the air, my friends. They are, +I suppose, less than human—yet—they—can—fly!” + +I gave a stout shrug to rid myself of the disquiet compelled by such a +suggestion. + +Anxiety over Miss Mertoun’s exposure to the midnight air prompted +Alberta Pendleton, not for the first time, to urge taking her inside +the Hall. But Miss Lebetwood shook her head in a determined manner, +and with a gesture showed that she believed it was too far to carry +her to the mansion. + +“It’s very mild out here now,” she declared. “I know sleep-walking +people. If she were to wake up while she’s being taken, it might have +some long-lasting ill effect. Alberta, please don’t ask again. I want +her to be in my arms when she opens her eyes. You good people don’t +need to stay. I—and Sean—can wait here with her alone.” + +But none of us would go. Then while we waited to see a greater sign of +life than the restlessness of those long black lashes on the pallid +cheek, down from the dark north came that ragged, hungry voice I had +heard while alone earlier in the night, a cry that tore at our nerves +and congealed our blood to ice-drops in our veins. A carnal, raving +cry, thinning to a shriek that pierced the ear, swelling to a howl +that loosened the knees. + +Of that dire, abysmal wail of mad desire, an overtone must have found +a counterpart in Cosgrove’s spirit. Out of the past of his kind, that +had seen things more clearly in the dusk than in the plain light of +day, that had loved cries of battle and death more than joyful cries, +some strain may have wrung the man’s soul. Terribly to all of us, he +raised his voice in answer to the inhuman call; I, at least, had no +sense of body or of time and place while he burst into a black rain of +words, a torrent of rancour, and defiance against the fiend of the +pit, whose incarnate self he seemed to hear in the voice of the beast. + +But a low call from Paula Lebetwood reduced him to a stunning silence. +“I think she’s coming to.” + +The unconscious girl’s fingers fluttered briefly; her lips stirred; +her whole body stirred a little. She turned once, twice, restlessly, +and sank, with a little sigh, comfortably and trustingly into the +American girl’s embrace. The trace of a sneer had vanished from her +face, and her breast moved with her breathing. + +“She’s sleeping now,” said Alberta Pendleton, and stooped beside the +pair on the grass. + +Miss Lebetwood whispered, “Dearest, do you hear me? Do you know me? +It’s Paula. . . . Dearest, do you hear me?” She stroked the pale +forehead free of its last furrow. + +“Yes,” came like a shadow of a word from the sleeping girl. + +“Dearest, Paula wants you to come with her.” Still she spoke, +soothing, caressing, in the effort to woo her to awaken peacefully. +And the eyes of Millicent Mertoun opened, revealing themselves to be +of a deep blackness that rivalled her errant hair, opened to see only +the smile of love on the face of the American girl bending over her; +and the English girl smiled too. + +“Your headache is all gone, isn’t it, dearest?” + +“Yes . . . but where . . . is this?” + +“Don’t be frightened, dear. It’s the lawn by the gate-house. Now we’re +going inside.” + +“But how? . . . I don’t understand . . . these people.” + +Miss Lebetwood kissed her cheek, leaned her forehead against it. +“Never mind, dearest. Everyone is a friend, you know. Can you walk? +Here, now.” + +The English girl was sitting up; she rubbed her eyes, and sent short, +bewildered looks this way and that, far from comprehending her +situation. Too many of the party were trying to explain everything to +her, and she was beginning to look desperate and unhappy. + +“Never mind the silly people,” said Miss Lebetwood sensibly. +“See—we’re just a few steps away from the house—where we’ve been +before, you know. Now we must go in. Sean, help me.” + +The Irishman and the women at last began to support the strengthless +girl into the Hall. It must have been a full quarter of an hour since +we had poured out from that vaulted chamber into the enigmatic night +and had heard the call from the gate-house. Now the servants were +roused, summoned by someone, and lanterns were rushing across the lawn +in our direction. I had commenced to go with the party about Miss +Mertoun, desirous of casting a light before their feet. But Pendleton +called me back somewhat peremptorily. + +“Bright enough from the Hall for ’em not to stumble by.” Alone in the +great mansion the Hall of the Moth sparkled forth, but the glare from +its massive chandelier was a sure guiding light. “We need you here,” +added our host; “there’s a good deal more of this needs looking at.” + +At a phrase from him the lanterns began to swing hither and thither +about the lawn, and we men of the party passed across the drawbridge +under the resounding gate-house arch. + +“Is this usually lowered?” I asked. + +“Usually. Can be raised for the sport of it. It’s part of the main +drive, you see. It must have been hereabout that they smelt—” + +He had no need to say more. + +“Great God, what an unholy stench!” + +“It _is_ blood!” + +“Bottles of it.” + +Crofts Pendleton’s voice shook. “I hope—it’s not—anything serious.” + +Just then nothing could have struck us as amusing. Lord Ludlow +interjected, “Remember, sir, that there is a missing man—” + +“Oh, Lord, look there! My boot!” + +Belvoir lifted a foot for inspection, while I turned the eye of the +torch upon it. The leather was stained with a fluid dark and thick. + +“My God!” observed Pendleton. + +“It’s jolly well begun to clot.” + +“Look out, you chaps, you’ll mire yourselves.” + +“Show us the place, Bannerlee.” + +My torch exposed a patch of darkened grass only a foot or so each way. +There was nothing else about nearby. + +Pendleton, half aghast, kneeled on the edge of the patch and studied +it. + +“A lot of blood’s been spilled here. It must have soaked down, a +goodish bit of it, but there’s quite a pool about the grass roots. +This spot will have to be guarded to-night. Pity we’ve tramped about.” + +A thick voice lifted in excitement from the north of us. + +“Oh, Mister Crofts, sir, do come here.” + +“What is it, Tenney? Let it stay, whatever it is.” + +“Small fear I’ll touch it, sir. It’s one of them old fightin’ irons.” + +“A weapon, by heaven!” exclaimed Lord Ludlow. + +“Has it blood on it?” + +“All sticky dried, sir.” + +We were beside the quaking man-servant in a jiffy or two, staring +curiously where lay a small battle-axe, with an inconsiderable curve +of blade. It was a weapon of uncommon slightness. Both metal and wood +were dark with the same viscous fluid, the handle being quite +slobbered with it. + +“From the armoury!” cried our host. “The foul devil’s actually been +inside the house! Don’t touch it!” + +“That weapon was on the wall at a quarter before eight,” said Lord +Ludlow. (Ah, I knew why he could say that!) “I was passing through to +the library for my glasses.” (There, to be sure, the old rascal +prevaricated.) + +“You don’t say!” + +“This looks like a serious crime,” remarked his Lordship. + +“Serious crime!” Pendleton snorted. “Ludlow, you surprise me. I +thought it was child’s play.” + +“I think that by a serious crime our noble friend means a particular +crime—don’t you, Ludlow? Isn’t it the customary euphemism?” asked +Belvoir. + +“I mean murder, sir.” + +“Should have said so in the first place,” growled Pendleton, and +added, “No need to say it at all.” + +“It’s jolly irregular, though,” declared Oxford. “All that blood in +one spot, and this gory thing over here.” + +“This was not done according to rule,” rejoined his Lordship. + +“It was not carried out as planned,” declared Cosgrove, who had come +out from the mansion again. + +“And one, er, detail only needs to be filled in.” That was Belvoir +from somewhere in the darkness behind us. “The, er, _corpus delicti_.” + +“Gad, yes—scatter, now—search—all the way to Aidenn Water.” + +The cluster of lanterns spread into kaleidoscopic figures again, +although the men seemed none too happy to leave the protection of one +another. But they did not discover any further traces of the marauder +or a vestige of a victim who might have furnished all that blood. My +own light picked up the last find of the night, a round, battered +object on the grass even further north than the blood-stained axe. + +“A hat!” + +“Can it be Sir Brooke’s?” + +Pendleton leaped ahead of us and snatched it from the ground, held it +from him contemptuously. + +“I doubt it.” + +“I can tell you certainly that it is not Sir Brooke’s!” + +One man, at least, jumped at the sound of a female voice among us. +There was Eve Bartholomew, standing tall and tragic, clinging, I +thought, to the last pinch of nerve she possessed. + +“I couldn’t help being interested, you know,” she remarked +ingenuously, and gave a little high-keyed laugh. “I just came from the +Hall. But I can assure you that Sir Brooke has nothing to do with this +affair. He would be mad to take any part in it. He would be mad to +wear that rag of a disreputable hat.” + +“Yes, Mrs. Bartholomew,” I agreed, “he would. I was about to say, +before you identified the hat as not Sir Brooke’s, that it belongs to +me. I wore it down the slopes of Aidenn Vale.” + +“You did!” + +“Yes—none too new when I set forth with it this morning, it has +suffered a lifetime’s wear and tear with me to-day. That is the +history of the hat.” + +“But where did you see it last?” demanded Pendleton. + +“I left it hanging in the entrance-hall. And I saw it on the rack as +you and I came down the stairs before we went in to the Bidding +Feast.” + +“By gad, I remember it too,” he assented. “Then if—” + +But he never finished that sentence, whose protases and apodoses might +have filled an hour. Quick with surmise, we turned back to the house. + +Millicent Mertoun and her retinue had by this time gone upstairs, but +the Hall of the Moth was full of the women-servants of the house, +arrayed in white as if risen from their graves in winding sheets. A +small boy in a nightgown, scared half to death, was blubbering +soulfully, as were some of the women. Blenkinson, the butler, the only +man of them who had not got into clothes and gone forth, was quieting +everyone with loud sibilance. + +Pendleton confronted them somewhat nervously. + +“There’s been too much racket about nothing,” he asserted. “Miss +Mertoun walked a little in her sleep. That’s really all that’s +happened. You’re all very silly, you see, to take on so. Now get to +bed.” + +But when they had departed he turned upon Eve Bartholomew with a face +full of bale. “I can tell you one thing about Sir Brooke. If he +doesn’t show up to-morrow and clear things up a bit, he’ll find no +Bidding Feast when he gets here. I’ll invite ’em to clear out. I’m not +going to have my guests hounded and threatened.” + +Mrs. Bartholomew gasped. “Why, you can’t say that Sir Brooke has +anything—” + +“I don’t know,” scowled Pendleton, “but I want him—here!” + +We are truly blissful marriage celebrators. + +. . . . A thought had been germinating in my mind ever since the +moment of my near-madness on the lawn, when the iniquity of Parson +Lolly had so taken hold of me. When we were alone: + +“Crofts, I want to prove I’m not crazy. Show me where you want me to +sleep, and give me a book to write in. And keep it quiet, for heaven’s +sake.” + +“A book to write in?” + +“I have many words within me craving to be penned. Give me a book to +write in, and show me my room.” + +Well, this is the room, and these some of the words. + +Now to tell of the many things that happened to me to-day before these +many things. + + + +CHAPTER II + +The Bull + + Yesterday at one o’clock in the afternoon. + +About this time I was sitting on a damp sharp stone, looking about me +and seeing nothing. I had walked for a long while and gotten nowhere. +For there was persistent mist still in the uplands, and I had strayed +into the thick of it and was hopelessly befogged, hungry, and a trifle +anxious about the probable duration of my helplessness. + +My thoughts just then were largely retrospect. I had set out +from—well, I have forgotten the spelling of the place, but it’s no +matter.¹ The names in Wales have fascinating orthography and, to one +not adept, rather unobvious pronunciations. I had set out from this +place which must be anonymous in order to search for something that +had not been seen for several centuries, the private oratory or shrine +or cell of St. Tarw, a rather unbelievable name, or, in the American +idiom, a bully one, whichever way you look at it, for a Welsh saint. +It’s one that anybody can say without arduous practice. The saint +himself was a rather incredible individual. It happens that I know +something of saints, they being a particular hobby of mine, and yet I +was uncertain at that moment whether St. Tarw was a man or was a +whisper on the faëry breeze of legend. But as it happened, in the +course of researches in London, I found hints that, man or whisper, he +had left or there had been left for him in what to-day is Radnorshire, +a monument of stone in which he did his devotions, or had been +believed to do them. + + ¹ Actually Llanbadarnfynydd, nine miles away, where I had put up + before. My landlord had given me a lift half-way down in his + Morris. (Author’s note.) + +It was in the Book of Sylvan Armitage that I ran across the clue. The +Book is a chronicle of the diversions of a sixteenth-century +gentleman, and mine is a genuine first printing of 1598. It contains +an allusion which I am confident refers to a performance of the +“Merchant of Venice” at Blackfriars, which allusion would stagger the +erudite who prate glibly of the “order of Shakespeare’s plays,” if +they gave it a thought. But much more interesting to me is the +reference to the devotional seat of St. Tarw. + +Sylvan Armitage, progressing through Wales in 1594, visited the house +of an Englishman residing in that lately war-distraught country. On +one of their “long gaddynges and peregrinations afoot,” for riding was +not feasible among these broken mountains, they came upon a humble +structure of “hewn stones, much dishevelled and marvellously coated by +moss,” says Sylvan Armitage. He adds that the “cella” had been built +under a bank, and that this very fact was then threatening its +existence. Small chance of success then for me. + +So yesterday while I sat on my ungrateful seat with the mist wreathing +about me, I half-abandoned the search before it had properly begun. +For the dozenth time I took out the letter I had received the day +before from my dear old friends, Jack and Mary Bonnet of Bristol. +Their barque, recently returned from Australia, will leave the +dry-dock in a day or so and take the sea again from Bristol next +Monday. Would I join them in a “terror and pleasure” trip somewhere +around Africa or the Scandinavian coast? Of course, I reflected, it +would take me fully a week to wind up my affairs in preparation for +such an ocean journey. I must drop the saint business. I looked at the +fog, felt sick of saints, and almost decided I would go. + +I had let down my burden, a soldier’s knapsack and a fairly +well-loaded one, to the grass beside my feet. I decided to eat my +luncheon. I tucked the Bonnet letter away and took out my +beef-sandwiches, milk in a thermos-flask, and walnut meats, a +substantial meal in small compass. My long morning’s tramp on the +uplands had made me very hungry. It was not only the tramp, but the +slipping and falling and crawling, for the yellow grass was long and +trodden flat by cattle, making the side slopes very toilsome, and, in +the mist, risky, for you sometimes did not know whether you might fall +ten feet or a thousand. + +I had been exploring Aidenn Forest, but I had early left the lowland +area of trees. The uplands, miles of broad-topped hills in a range of +horseshoe shape, were given over largely to cattle-grazing. There were +long pastures of rolling and heaving slopes, like the gently-breathing +ocean of midsummer. My meal over, I unfolded my contour-map of the +Geographical Institute and pondered over it, trying by recollection +and inference to determine just where I was. But I had not the +remotest clue to slope or distance. I might have been at one extreme +of the horseshoe or the other, or any spot betwixt. It was two +o’clock. + +Neither my literary nor my philosophic studies, which are supposed to +chasten the mind to resignation, comforted my thoughts in the least, +but suddenly I was aware of a change in the atmosphere. The mist +seemed suffused with silver, then with gold. Soon the phantoms of fog +had retracted far on either side in lofty, shifting, sun-rayed banks, +and the air became clear about me. But I remained in doubt about my +position. + +For the mist had cleared only to the shoulders of the hills, and left +the rolling heights a-sparkle like early morning; but the valleys and +the great outer hills of Wales, girding Aidenn Forest, were blind to +me. From the declining sun I could tell which way was west, but +knowledge of that direction alone was no use. Was I on the western +curve of the horseshoe or the opposite? Nor did it help to recall that +my ascent of Aidenn Forest had been the north, where the two curves +meet, the open part of the horseshoe being to the south. I was as +confused as ever. + +At least I could walk freely, keep to the smooth uplands without peril +of falling down some gap or gully. I strode on in the grandeur of the +sun, the mighty halo of mist extending a mile all around, a more +gorgeous glory than bully St. Tarw or any other of the blessed men of +earth ever wore. The towering wall of mist was warm with the light +that occasionally melted through and dazzled the ragged hill-slope +underneath; the cloud-caps wreathed and spired like golden smoke, and +I went on proudly and merrily in my enormous prison. I felt like a +god, exultant. I reached out my hands and lifted my face to the +heavens. My loneliness apotheosized me. I laughed. I shouted, +_ebriatus_. Never before have I experienced that sense of space and +power, that vigour beyond muscle and sense, that reckless rapture! + +Nearly an hour passed. Grasshoppers leapt to either side of my path +with little soft comings to earth; the sound was like the first drops +of rain. Black-game and grouse twice or thrice scampered and scudded +from my feet, and suddenly out of the fog which had closed in on my +left swept a great bevy of unknown birds with a thunder of wings. I +judged then that I was not far from the brink of a steep pitch on the +edge of the uplands. The mist which had glorified me was beginning to +hem me more straitly and I bore away to the right, being wary of +pitfalls. + +Gradually, while I moved up and down the placid slopes and crossed +wide expanses wherein I was an ephemeral topic for cows and shambling +tattered ponies, an inexpressible sense told me precisely where I was +on the lofty horseshoe of Aidenn Forest. Fragmentary half-submerged +memories of my contour-map, of the dip of the slopes where I trod, of +instructions proffered me by scraggy, wry-spoken yokels (with obligato +of a pig screaming at a gate), of the arc described by the sun, of the +bated breath of the breeze—all these united to fix my certainty. My +feet just at that moment were ascending on the flattened grass of a +small summit; Mynydd Tarw I knew it was, whose highest spot was +considerably above two thousand feet. Mynydd Tarw, on the verge of the +horseshoe’s eastern bend, was where I had concluded the oratory of St. +Tarw was most likely to be found. + +I explored the hill and all about, but unfortunately it was creased +and gorged by channels, tiny valleys. Trees and rank underbrush grew +in these troughs, increasing in thickness down the declivity, and the +banners of mist were tangled in the trees. The trunks were clammy, the +fallen leaves dank, the earth too soft for good footing. My shoes sank +over the ankles in leaves and loam. Bereft of my halo, I had little +joy. And after an hour of climbing up and down, groping and grasping, +of peering for traces of foundered or buried walls, I realized, with a +shock that sickened me, that I was out of my reckoning in the lower +fog again, and that I could not trace my way back. I could not even +tell in which direction Mynydd Tarw lay. + +I was almost frantic. It was now past mid-afternoon, less than two +hours before sunset, and had I known the bee-line to my hostel in the +difficultly-pronounced village, I could not have reached it before +darkness had long covered Wales. + +The valleys, immersed in mist below me, were a wilderness, and broad +of expanse; once on the uplands again, however, I believed I could +find Mynydd Tarw, and thence strike on the true way home. As for +exploring the Vale of Aidenn Water itself, I had no reason to believe +that man had ever built a habitation there. To regain the uplands was +my anxious wish; but not even this was an easy feat. I was weary +already, from physical exertion and strain of mind, but it should have +been easy to keep my course upward, however slow my progress. Yet the +yellow grass and the heather was flat and long, and whether still dry +or drenched with fog, slippery and maddening to ascend upon. Moreover, +I would find myself in channels torn and scarred by water, now +streamless in summer season, but choked with thorny creepers and thick +spear-like stalks in malign barriers. + +But I persevered, although I found the mist had grown thicker above as +day declined. Presently I recognized the sweet smell of new-cut hay in +fields above me, and soon afterward kneeing myself to the sharp edge +of a parapet of rock, I rejoiced to see the smoky round of the sun. +There was a line of wild apple-trees along the rim of the uplands at +this point. The crooked branches and straggling shoots of them made +them all like black hats of witches wreathed with tattered ribbons, +save for the one directly before me, through whose limbs +half-despoiled of leaves the sun sent a wicked leering shine that made +me singularly uneasy. + +I had come into a region thickly populated with cattle. There were a +score on the hillock to my right, and when I had gone thence over a +bristling wire fence I found a hundred more filling the twilight plain +with their shadows. There was not a sound from the widespread throng, +but I had a feeling that each dispassionate bovine head was turned +toward me, and I advanced with something of the shyness of a child +crossing a drawing-room where he feels every eye cold and critical. A +little the uncanny sense gripped me that I had happened upon some land +undiscovered by Gulliver, where cows were people, and very superior +people. There had been so few of them visible all day, now so many; I +could not rid myself of the notion that I was an intruder. (Just then +the reasonable explanation did not occur to me that atmospheric +conditions had much to do with the migrations of the beasts from place +to place on the horseshoe.) + +Across an unkempt stone wall which I whipped up laggard muscles to +leap—I was going rapidly—sweet-fleshed sheep, of orthodox tan, the +cross of Welsh mountain breed with black-faced “Shrops,” were nudging +one another in an anxious mass. I looked toward the sinking sun and +discerned a black rift perhaps a mile distant: the Vale of Aidenn +Water, with the prominences of the western arm of the horseshoe, Great +Rhos, Esgair Nantau, and Vron Hill, nosing up to the sky even another +mile beyond. + +Then down on me came dark ruin with a rush. + +I was aware appallingly of some vaster shadow blotting out the +gorgeous disc which lay on the western hills, a shadow blatant, +militant, perilous. A sting of fear in my breast goaded me to instant +flight; I was plunging away all in an instant, every part of me in +panic, without realization of what it was from which I fled. + +Ten seconds of rushing flight, a frantic glance behind me, and my +returning faculties told me what that fell form was, horned and pawed, +with cavorting death-like head and eyes evilly a-gleam, the shape +rampaging, the feet tremendous on the shaken ground. I knew too well +those signs of the Hereford breed, the twining horns and the white +face so startlingly suggestive of the skull beneath. It was a bull, +the hugest bull on earth, insane with murderous passion. + +Terror winged me in that course for life. Once I stumbled and rolled +down a slope littered with small stones, but my speed was scarcely +lessened. I must have regained my feet, for I drove myself through a +patch of merciless nettles and awful thorns, yet was hardly sensible +of being torn and stabbed. Not until long afterward did I feel the +heavy bruise, like the mark of an iron palm, which my hard and firmly +fastened pack had printed between my shoulder-blades, saving me a +worse blow. Now my due training for the mile at the University, not so +very long ago, and the desire for strict regimen then instilled in me, +and my frequent jaunts on foot through broad countrysides, were in +good stead. In the beginning of this breathless chase, I had had a +wide margin of advantage, and now I was all but holding my own, when +ahead of me I saw deliverance. For I had turned westward in flight +across the leveller hilltop, and the brink of the Vale of Aidenn +Water, with its slope looking a precipice all around and its hollow +now a mammoth bowl of impenetrable fog, was less than a furlong away +ahead. + +Risk had to be taken to make safety sure. I chanced another ugly fall +by a quick twist of my neck. I led by twenty yards. Gradually, +therefore, I diminished my pace so that at the verge of the cliff only +ten feet might separate us—and just before I would have leaped out +into the turbid air, I used every remaining particle of strength in a +sidewise lunge downward to the grass, letting the bull flash with +unconquerable momentum over the edge. + +But I myself was a vessel of momentum and could not by any frantic +clutching and clawing soever keep myself from sliding over the brink +and slipping from an abrupt decline to a sharper one, whence with +horrified mind I felt myself go over the verge of nothingness! While I +fell backward with eyes staring to the lurid sky, I saw the hulk of +the bull shoot out from the summit of the cliff. Never have I seen a +thing as black as the mass of the beast, with limbs winnowing in the +air and head and vast nose outstretched. The black body would have +crushed me to pulp had I not flung myself aside a moment before. I +know that I must have been still in the air when the bull struck a +thrust-out ledge far below the cliff—I had caught just an instant’s +glare of one eye, demoniac and hopeless—then the animal went bellowing +and thumping down through the fog into unseen depths until one final +crash and cry ended sound in ghastly silence. + + + +CHAPTER III + +The House + +I don’t suppose I was in the air a second, but there was time enough +for me to rue my neglect of Jack Bonnet’s invitation. Why hadn’t I +turned round and gone away from the Forest and let the oratory go +hang? + +I was aware soon afterward that I was still alive in a queer place +under the shelter of the hilltop, a place all caved-in earth and +half-buried squarish rock, like heavy tombstones thickly lichened, and +resting, some of them, one upon the other. I was on my back with my +head on a pillow of fungi; beneath the pillow, however, was a +sufficiently flinty foundation. For a long time I remained supine, and +listened with interest while my heart gradually resumed a normal rate. +The upper tangle of the fog was just beyond and below me; yet when I +looked at the dark brink above, I realized that never, never could I +climb back at the spot where I had fallen. But I felt a great +gladness. + +I explored the place little more than was necessary to get my +bearings. So upon regaining enough strength I commenced to creep along +the face of the cliff, now and then dipping into the region of the +mist and losing sight of the sky, which was growing desolate of light. +At length I found a slope where the grass was short and turf firm, a +sward. I went now at a pace between a walk and a run and congratulated +myself on making headway, though the brow of the ravine was forbidding +above me still. Then the bank became startlingly overgrown with trees, +and the drizzle was thicker among them. + +I slowed to a snail’s pace, and that was well for me. All too soon my +foot gave way on the left-hand edge of a mass of undergrowth quite +impenetrable to sight. I struggled to take hold of something, did, in +fact, grasp stems that yielded instantly to my weight, for they were +frail and grew on a perpendicular face of earth. Once more I had the +exquisitely dreadful sensation of falling whither I could not tell. My +body ripped down through a mesh and tangle of shrubs that availed +almost nothing to stay my descent. I accelerated. + +Then my ribs struck a goodly branch with a knock that did indeed break +my fall, but before I could twine an arm about this saviour, I had +jounced to a lower branch, thence to the ground, this time with only a +moderate jar. + +I was on a narrow rocky path with the densely overgrown hill on one +hand and the mist of the Vale—yawning space—on the other. I thought +for a flash that I had invaded the home-ledge of some unrecorded ape +or gorilla. For a creature cried out in my very face, a man coming up, +as it were, out of the living rock of the path before me. He was +fustian-clad, heavy-set, dark-featured, scowling frightfully, and my +impression was that he was almost spent of breath. His mouth gaped in +a rictus of strain and fear. + +“Mawkerdjey—immilath acowal!” So they sounded, the words he spat in my +face, the shout he shouted uninterpretable by my English ears in that +cranny of Wales. But meaningless as was the shout to me, it remained +clear in my auditive memory, as a scene sometimes is keenly limned in +one’s inattentive sight. And I was sure it was not Welsh. Nor was this +because Radnorshire is a backsliding county where the ancient language +has yielded to the new. The shape and stress of the cry were unlike +what speech I have heard in the remoter areas where Welsh is still +spoken. + +In an instant the fellow had scuffled past me and was ascending in the +fog, while yet I leaned on my hand with buzzing senses and jerky mind. +I staggered to my feet and looked upward along the path. At the head +of the rise a glimmer of sea-green sunset-light lingered, and the +broad bulk of the man staggered against that semi-darkness, a +diminishing silhouette. At length I saw him reach the top of the rise, +throw up his hands in a sort of gesture of weary achievement, and +disappear to the uplands beyond. + +Excitedly, and full of profitless conjecture as to what might be his +business upon the rolling solitudes of Aidenn Forest, I turned on my +way down the zigzag path, being resolved to explore the Vale for +shelter since now it was hopeless to make my way over the fells and +crags to my Welsh tavern lodging that night. The outcry of the +ape-like man was still distinct in my ears, an undecipherable shout, +one, I knew, strange even in this region of strange tongues. + +I had paused, arrested by a sound the like of which I have never +known, a roaring sound, not the boom of cannon or the rage of water or +the thunder of avalanche, all of which I have heard. It came from +below and far away, a gentle roar; I thought it might be some +superhuman voice. As a fact, while I listened, I became convinced that +it was a voice of great power with something unique and quite baffling +in its quality, one full capable of terrifying a man of unsteady +nerves. Yet I was sure that in a different context I would recognize +that quality as a natural thing. The muffled echoes of the voice +rocked around the Vale; words I am sure there were, the same phrase or +sentence repeated many times, but the utmost strain of ear and +faculties did not enable me to distinguish the meaning of a syllable. +Then the distant shout and its reflections ceased, and I heard only +the still grasses. I went on, full of living fancies. + +A new sound greeted me out of the darkness, the rippling song of a +nightingale on my right beyond the brink. The trees in the depths of +Aidenn Vale, then, must be near below. And presently finding almost +level ground, I heard the chuckle of water, and discerned a lofty fall +of dulled silver, indeed passed it so close that the rising spray +touched my cheek. Thus I had found Aidenn Water, not far from its +springs on the shoulder of Black Mixen at the upper end of the +horseshoe. + +Straining my sight in the clogged air, I could trace the black thread +of the watercourse on my right hand. Beside it I trod, to the broken +descant of amorous birds. And while I went the way of the stream south +among the wilding trees, the dark mist paled. I raised my eyes; great +Whimble hill loomed before me, and over its stern summit crept a +chipped and gibbous moon, softly lustering. While the moon went up the +sky, I trolled on southward in air grey and spectral under the +frowning summits of Aidenn Vale. + +The pathway left the stream for a gentle rise through the trees. Still +I could hear Aidenn Water clamour down the Vale while it skipped +along. Soon I emerged from the thick of the wood into an open space, +the level summit of a vast mound, and with a certain freshening of +surprise found myself approaching a lonely wall built by human +strength. + +A wall—no more—ruinous and desolate, toppled in many places from its +original height. + +Passing closer, I discovered the confounded and scattered remnant of +other wasted walls, strewn like bones in the brightening glamour of +the moon. And midway among them stood one tree of mighty stature, +doubtless rendered even more towering by the witchery of mist and +moonlight. + +Sometimes acoustic conditions prevent one from hearing what goes on +just round the corner only a few feet away. So, then, my path led me +toward the south-west end of the ruin, and precisely at the standing +angle of the stone I ran into another man. I did literally run into +him, for he was soft and spongy, and my first feeling was that I had +encountered a hot-water bottle strolling as leisurely as if on the +Mall. + +We recoiled from a position cheek by jowl. A light flashed in my eyes, +and at the same instant I directed the glare of my pocket-torch, which +I still possessed, into his eyes. Our speeches, too, crossed each +other. + +“Pardon! I didn’t hear you, sir!” + +“What are you doing here?” + +It was not the greeting I had expected; in fact, I felt it quite +discourteous. Moreover, he kept the spot-light of his dark-lantern +playing on my features for some time, and his piercing eyes studied me +critically. In return I gave his exterior a good scrutiny. + +My light revealed a tall figure, appearing excessively, grotesquely +tall because it was wearing a very high, narrow top-hat, almost a +steeple-hat. The man was large and round as well as long. His face +compared with the rest of his body was relatively narrow; I saw +glittering eyes and a long, straight nose, eyebrows black like coals, +and a mantling, pointed beard, also very thick and fiercely black. +What gave me the creeps was that this beard did not grow quite +straight, but was tilted a little to the left. + +His clothing, I saw in this long dissection, was that of an elderly +man, a black double-breasted frock-coat, not cutaway, and black +trousers which descended to elastic-sided boots. And under the arm +toward which the beard slanted was lodged an old, bulgy umbrella with +a large metal handle. He quickly shifted this article into his right +hand, grasping it toward the point so that it might be a weapon of +considerable moment, his left hand holding the dark-lantern. + +He was the first to break the silence. Smiling, he replaced the +umbrella under his arm. + +“Ah, pardon me, please. I see that you are on my side.” His voice, now +I noticed it, was rather deep, and yet rather young for one of his +solemn appearance. + +“I’m sure I’m not against you,” I answered, and lowered my light out +of his eyes. He followed suit. + +“You are one of the natives of this region?” he asked, and with his +question came the thought to me that he might be a foreigner, although +his full, somewhat throaty voice was perfectly assimilated to the +Anglican inflections. Those coat-skirts somehow gave him a little of a +Continental aspect—and that umbrella! Didn’t Schubert always carry an +umbrella? or was I thinking of Paul Pry? + +“I should say not,” I responded. “I, too, am a stranger.” + +“Ah, you, _too_? What a pity!” + +“Yes, am I not correct in believing that you—” + +“Quite so, sir; my name, sir, is Septimus MacWilloughby, and I was +taught not far from Birmingham. And now, sir, will you kindly tell me +what you have been doing here?” + +“Been doing? Doing? Why, nothing, in the sense you seem to mean. And +have you any business with me? Isn’t it rather—?” + +“It is necessary.” + +“I lost my way in fog up there on the hilltops and came down into the +Vale in the hope of finding some sort of shelter. I was just passing +by this—” + +“Yes, of course,” said Mr. MacWilloughby, in what seemed to me a +rather meditative tone. “Tell me, please: in your travelling to-day +have you run across a very small grey spaniel, with ink-spots?” + +I was reduced to repeating, “With ink-spots?” + +“Yes, certainly: I repeat, a small grey spaniel, with ink-spots. The +dog was not to blame if the bottle was too near the edge of the table. +No, I see that you have not. Well then, by chance you may have seen a +pair of Scandinavian ponies, both lame in the off foreleg?” + +“I certainly have not.” + +“Dear me,” sighed my interlocutor. He stabbed the ground with his +umbrella, leaned upon it with both hands, large, red, bloated hands, +nervously twitching fat fingers. “And finally, did you notice whether +any snakes—” + +I was growing exasperated, whether or not this _soi-disant_ +MacWilloughby was making merry at my expense. + +“Don’t you know,” I asked harshly, “that there are no snakes in +Radnorshire?” + +“But these were from my menagerie. Dear me, my menagerie will be +dreadfully depleted, I fear. You didn’t—?” + +“Look here,” I exploded; “have you a Bull of Bashan on your list? If +you have, your bull’s dead—I can tell you so much. With the exception +of a cave-man who was running up the path there, every animal I’ve +seen has been indigenous.” + +“But snakes—from my menagerie,” he protested mildly, ignoring my tone. +He indicated with the umbrella and his free hand, for a pencil of +moonlight from rifted clouds had caused us both to stow away our +torches. “Snakes about so long.” + +“No, no!” + +He shrugged disappointedly. “Well! if it must be. Then you will tell +me, please, which of these hills”—he included them all with a sweep of +the umbrella—“is called Kerry Hill?” + +“Why, none of them. Kerry Hill is outside this county, thirty miles +away.” + +“Oh, so far away? Then I must be leaving at once. I have a friend who +lives in a little house on the top of that hill, and he will be +anxious for me.” + +Whereupon Mr. MacWilloughby strode past me, but checked himself. +“Stay—what was that you said about a cave-man?” + +I was willing to humour him a little longer. “Oh, I met _him_ right +enough. He shouted some gibberish in my face and passed me going to +the uplands.” + +“Oh? Now that is very good. You may think it inexcusable of me, sir, +but I had the idea for a little while that you were that cave-man. I +asked you those questions partly to hear a little of your language. +Now, since you say Kerry Hill is so far, I really—” + +He commenced to walk away, but I protested. + +“I think it’s time you answered a question or two of mine. I don’t +know what possesses you to climb into that wilderness, even if your +whole menagerie is kicking its heels up there—they’ll keep. But you +can at least tell me what I’m likely to find further down the Vale. +Shall I find anyone there?” + +The stranger’s face, in spite of its startling features, grew really +pleasant with a smile. “I believe you will find someone further down. +Yes, I believe you will find all you want.” + +“I’m not looking for any special number of people,” I told him tartly. +“I want a house—shelter—a place to stop overnight. Am I clear?” + +Mr. MacWilloughby seemed to have lost interest in his surroundings. In +answer to my question he murmured, “Yes, you are very likely to find a +house,” but his thought seemed to be running in other channels. He was +biting the beard of his nether lip. Suddenly he drew himself up. “You +might mention—if you decide to stop—to the master of the hostelry, +that his many watch-dogs are causing me inconvenience. Secretly, you +understand. All this you must tell him secretly. I enjoy the society +of the menagerie, and of many kinds of dogs—the Russian wolf-hound, +the Dalmatian—but I do not care for the two-legged kind he has out +to-night. It is not a thing I like to mention, you understand—it is so +delicate—but when one is actually precluded from stepping across a +stile—” Hand and umbrella made an expressive gesture. “You catch my +drift, I perceive.” + +“I’ll be sure to tell him,” I remarked sardonically. + +“You will?” he exclaimed with a parade of pleasure. “Then in that case +I shall not need protection against the rain.” + +His arm shot out, and I saw the umbrella fly up like a thick javelin +through the air, to disappear beyond the wall beside which we stood. + +“Another thing!” he cried, and I detected a real note of sincerity in +his tempestuous voice. “Tell the golden-haired woman that I have +warned her to beware of the blighter with the red face and the pot of +money. She should dismiss him—utterly. I have seen what I have seen.” + +I emitted a dry “No doubt.” + +“Thank you, sir, for your great courtesy,” said Mr. MacWilloughby. His +lofty hat he removed with a flowing ease; he bent his back in an +old-time inclination. Then in the fluctuating moonlight I saw not only +black beard and brows, but as well a wriggling mass of black hair. He +was smiling, but his smile now had a touch of wildness, even of +ghoulishness. He set his hat upon his brows again. + +“I shall not need even finger-nails if I meet another like you,” he +said. + +He turned on his heel and continued his stately promenade toward the +summit of the Vale. I watched him until the moon surrendered and the +mist had him. Where was he going? To join that prehistoric man on the +hill? And where in heaven’s name had he come _from_? + +Mad? Was he mad? No more mad than I. I realized, the moment he had +projected his umbrella, that he was eminently sane. But he had +overplayed his part a little—for his audience. + +Continuing on my southward way, I soon passed the site of what had +been the outer walls of this great castle, though now little remained +save one block of hewn stone upon another here and there. Most of the +material had probably been carried off to build some mansion of a +later age. + +I left the ruin, advancing down the Vale, whose bounds of lofty crag +and hanger were darkly visible for a little while. But I could not +leave behind me the thought of the huge man and his eccentric +speeches. Only new surprises could reave that vision from me; and +presently, passing a large, white-painted, wood-gate, I was startled +to observe that although I was in a wilderness, it was an +extraordinarily well-ordered wilderness. The trees along the path, ash +and sycamore, I believed, stood at like distances from one another and +were spaced regularly opposite. I seemed to be marching along a smooth +avenue in a park; the remoter trees, too, although they were obscure +as fleeing ghosts, appeared to flee away in serried ranks. The spaces +in the glades looked clear of underbrush. I was glad to note these +signs, if signs they were, of human tending, with their suggestion of +human nearness, for even my refreshened strength was slipping away +from me and the welts and strains of my body were clamouring again. + +Quicker than I had expected, I was out of the toy wilderness into a +clear space of thirty-odd yards (the dominant moon showed me this), +and Aidenn Water was roaming close beside my path. A brook going to +join the larger stream from some hill-recess on my left was crossed by +an old stone bridge with urns at the ends of its stone balustrades, a +ridiculously massive structure for so insignificant a watercourse. But +a few seconds later I passed another object built with overplus of +formality and ostentation, a semi-rustic house which could have been +no more than a summer-house, quite unsuited for habitation but freaked +and loaded with statuary and gewgaws. + +“The eighteenth century!” I murmured. “What nightmares did they not +have in the Age of Reason? Am I now to find a geometrical mansion of +Georgian brick?” + +I had entered a new zone of drizzle and mist when I had my first +evidence of the house appertaining hereto. The fog thickened almost to +the density of a wall, and when the well-ordered path ceased at the +edge of the lawns, I blundered against a tree trunk, one of three +standing alone in gloom and grandeur in the open space. I generously +cursed the spirits, whose exhalation, as every Welsh peasant used to +know, the mist is. By a flash of my torch I recognized the three +tapering shapes as horizontal cypresses, and at once I felt relief, +for I was sure that these none-too-hardy trees must be of a recent and +venturesome planting. I was becoming convinced that human lives were +not far from me. + +A few steps more and I was standing on a pebble walk beneath the +shorter northern wall of a definitely up-to-date structure. The stone +may have been old stone, but it had been smoothed off within a +generation, and the ivy had evidently been somewhat restricted in its +rambling in order that the broad-spread glass of this storey might not +be effaced from the light. Why all this glass? A conservatory? I +stepped across the walk, flashed my torch, peered in, saw a glimmering +galaxy of flowers, sniffed and detected a hint of their thick odour, +was satisfied. A conservatory it was, extending from end to end of +this northern wall, with unlit, wide-paned windows from end to end +save where a steep outer stair led up to a small roofless platform and +door in the first storey; and I perceived a vague second storey, above +which chimneys sprouted. + +Now, I should not have lingered here more than a few seconds, had not +there burst forth a chill sound that actually took me out of myself +for a moment, a caterwauling from somewhere behind me and further +toward the mountain wall of the ravine. It seemed impossible that such +a desecration of silence could proceed from a single throat. It was a +sobbing cry full of hunger, but there was positive anger and direness +in it. It had a quality, too, of immitigable anguish, as though all +the hopelessness of dumb beasts were its burden. Once the throbbing +cry subsided into a gruff growl, and then, strangely enough, was the +first time that I recognized its clamour as that of a cat. “But,” I +remembered thinking, “it must be a cat as big as a wolf.” And while +the last throes of the savage wailing echoed back from the hill, I +looked up to the gloomy heights of the mansion, as if I expected each +dark window to flare with inquiring light. + +[Illustration: A map of the area surrounding Highglen House. Close to +the house are some ruins and the Stables. A road leads from the +stables, past the house, and then down the map. Off to the left is a +grove of strawberry trees, in the middle of which sits a hard tennis +court. At the top right corner of the map is a building labelled “Farm +of the sisters Delambre”. The farm sits close to a fence, which runs +across the map until it meets the river, labelled “Aidenn Water”. The +river runs down the left side of the map, turning briefly towards the +middle of the map where it crosses under the road. Between Highglen +House and the farm is a footpath, halfway along which it passes a +small structure labelled “18th Century Summer House”. A small brook +branches off of Aidenn Water which crosses the footpath at a small +bridge, and from there another footpath continues up the map, through +a gate in the fence, and beyond.] + +In puzzlement and lively eagerness to discover more about this +mansion, I turned to the right and followed the walk to the corner of +the conservatory, where it joined a drive that wound out of the +right-hand darkness. I discovered that the side of the house extended +a hundred feet or more parallel to the course of Aidenn Water. +Visible, too, on the broad lawn at four or five rods’ distance from +the house was a tall, two-legged thing, fifty feet high by a rough +judgment, an erection of twin towers with a passageway above and +between, the whole standing lonely, dark and still. + +The conservatory’s narrow side ended in the jutting of a tower, quite +black. Between this and the next tower, its counterpart, I caught dim +glimpses of modern french windows, a pair of them, evidently belonging +to the same large room. There was a formal entrance between the second +tower and the third, but since it was unlit, I decided to go further +in hopes of finding the main portal. Yet I had a view of what was +behind the door, and again I paused, fascinated. + +Inside the third tower, the projecting half of an octagon studded with +little windows, I saw a taper burning low in an old candlestick +fastened like a bracket on the wall, a thing of fantastic crooks and +curlicues. The light was blue and brittle, for the wick was surfeited +with grease. But I was able to see three men in the panelled hallway, +two of them standing, or perhaps leaning, against the wall. Of these I +perceived no more than their dark featureless forms, and a marked +stiffness in their attitudes. On the opposite side of the hall from +the candle, they were too vague to be any more particularized than as +human forms. The third man, save for his little tuft of white hair, +had been no more than a smudge either. + +For he was bent over, his back toward me, _and he was picking the +pockets of the other two men_! I can describe his actions in no better +way. They, seemingly stupefied, made no motion to prevent! + +I must say that the old, white-tufted fellow was not very adroit at +his work. I stood absolutely spell-bound while I watched him paw about +the clothing of the two others. The candle guttered with special +vehemence, and the pilferer turned upward to it an anxious eye. Then +he appeared to make a decision; standing full length, he crossed to +the candle and lifted his lean fingers to snuff it. I was impressed by +a sight of his narrow brown face, vulturine in contour, with the tall, +furrowed brow of a student, the thin, pale lips of an ascetic, and the +broken-off jaw of a fighter. The expression was whimsical and wily. +The light glinted for an instant on a green eye, on white smiling +teeth, and on the diamond stud in his shirt-front. Then the fingers +smothered the feeble flame, and he was in the darkness with those +dazed ones I suspected were his victims. + +And I hastened around the fourth tower, larger than the rest, at the +southern extremity of the mansion. What was I to do? Had I in fact +witnessed the induction to a serious crime? Was it my duty to report +what I had seen? It must depend on circumstances; perhaps the old +tufted sinner was the proprietor himself. I must be cautious. I must +be dissimulative. + +Above all, I must not be surprised. + +An electric chandelier sparkled in the large corner tower, revealing +it to be part of the sumptuous library of the mansion, empty of +persons. I found the entrance I sought in the middle of the south end +of the building. The crunching drive made a great circle, leading to a +square-arched, ivied entry. A barred lamp above the vestibule faintly +revealed the arms of the house cut in stone at the apex of the arch, +and surmounting this, as a sort of crest, was the rude but +unmistakable image of a cat’s head. I dimly perceived a feline nose +with faintest trace of whisker running along it, and triangular ears. +The mouth was grinning, not pleasantly. + +Here was matter for vast surprise, but I must not _be_ surprised! + +I stepped underneath the arch, to the broad iron-bound black-door. +Another pale light revealed the knocker, an iron piece in the shape of +the paw of a cat. There was also the button of an electric bell. I +grasped the paw and struck twice. + +Almost immediately the door opened. “Come in,” said a voice. “You’ve +been—” + +_I must not be surprised!_ But I gaped, and gurgled, for all I know. + +The sturdy square-set fellow in evening dress who had opened the door +so suddenly and who now stood in the half-light was staring at me, +beginning to look a little _distrait_. + +“Oh, so you’re not—” he commenced brusquely, and, changing his tone, +recommenced, “But _are_ you, or aren’t—?” + +“No, no,” I managed to gasp. “I’m not—I don’t think so.” + +I had known nothing of Aidenn Vale or of the ruins, mansions, or +creatures in it. But I knew this man! + + + +CHAPTER IV + +The Bidding Feast + +“Pendleton!” I exclaimed, “the Honourable Crofts Pendleton!” + +“Eh?” + +“Hail, fellow well met! This _is_ a lark!” + +The man was nonplussed. It had always been, at least for me, one of +his chief charms when we were in the same college, the haziness and +obstruction of mind that were so queerly assorted with his solidity of +physique. Now, eight years between, he was bulkier than ever and (I +was willing to wager) yet more detached from reality in his mental +operations. + +He was scratching his fine mane of hair now, irresolute. And he really +had reason to be confused while we confronted each other in the +dimly-lit porch. For I presented such a scotched and scrambled +appearance as never before, mould-mud-and-sweat-clotted, +unrecognizable no doubt even to my most accustomed friends. Why should +he not be startled when in this gear and guise I greeted him with +burbling cheer? + +He looked so dumbly helpless that I had to laugh. + +“Man, man, do you mean to say that you don’t remember me by my voice?” + +“Your voice?” repeated Pendleton. “Yes, it sounds familiar” (he was +lying), “but somehow I can’t—” + +I kept chuckling, and he looked hurt; so I said, “Of course you can’t. +I’m Bannerlee, Alfred Bannerlee.” + +The announcement drove him back a pace. “No!” + +“Emphatically yes.” + +He was studying me intently now, quite rapt. “But how on earth did you +find your way up the Vale? It must be full of stinking fog down there +in New Aidenn.” + +“I came _down_ the Vale!” I announced. “There’s a thimbleful of mist +up in the north, too.” + +“_Down_ the Vale! You say you came down the Vale!” Then suddenly +realization and recognition of me burst upon him for the first time, +and he reached for my hand and gave it a good pumping, grasped my +elbow, and took me inside. “My dear man, my dear fellow, you must have +had a sickening time. Delighted to have you with us. By gad! How on +earth did you ever find this nook in the woods?” + +“I’m an antiquarian, you know, a nomad. I might better ask how you did +the same,” I rejoined. “And, er, are you the butler?” + +“No. Of course not. I’m the host. Why, what do you mean?” He stared at +me with the old uncertainty. + +“You answered my knock with remarkable alacrity.” + +“Oh, I was just at the door, going to open it anyhow. I was on my way +to my room when I heard you out there.” He gestured toward the drive. +“I imagined you’d want to be let right in.” + +“But, my dear Crofts, you didn’t know who I was.” + +“Oh, yes, I did. That is, I thought I did. Oh, there’s a fine state of +confusion here. You see, we’ve been waiting for Sir Brooke Mortimer +since before dinner. And as he’s not sent word, we’re still waiting +for him.” + +“Oh?” I said. + +“Yes,” said he. + +We were standing just inside the hall, which contained some of the +finest screen panelling I have seen. I guessed, rightly, that it was +Henry VIII. work. A multitude of little heads peered out from the wall +beneath coats-of-arms, and the foliated edges of the wood were as +delicate as lace. There was a settle standing on the left-hand side, +where the ceiling sloped down sharply, evidently beneath a winding +stair. + +Pendleton seemed struck by a sudden thought. “You’d like to change, +perhaps?” + +“My dear man! If you’ll fit me out! I shall perish otherwise. As I am, +I’d rather not see people.” + +“Well—would you mind waiting here a moment? I’ll fetch Blenkinson. Not +long. There’s a good fellow.” + +He was gone, and I sat me down on the restful settle with some +gyrating thoughts to compose. + +But before I had time to set one thought beside another, a new man in +evening dress came breezing nonchalantly past me to the door, which he +opened and peered out of, to close it in a moment with a small shiver. +It had grown chilly out-of-doors during the latter hour of my odyssey. +Turning, he beheld me in my recess. + +“Hello,” he exclaimed mildly. “So you _have_ come. No news of him?” + +He was, I now think, one of the most deceptive-appearing persons I +have ever encountered, of a type emphatically British, but the extreme +of his type. He was the nonpareil for unobtrusiveness and lack of +distinction; without even the stamp of vulgarity, he was ordinary and +unnoticeable to the last degree. I have never seen a man who appeared +to possess so many properties of a vacuum. His age, perhaps, was +somewhere about the third decade. He was of no particular height +(actually about five feet seven) or weight (about ten stone ten), and +his face was all that was commonplace. A pair of futilely brown +moustaches divided it into upper and lower portions, in the superior +of which pastel-grey eyes kept an unblinking but unobservant watch; +below, his mouth and jaw were neither strong nor weak. His complexion +was pale but not to excessive sallowness, and his brownish hair, +rather thin, was faintly flecked with grey. His dinner coat fitted +exceptionally well. + +“Yes, I have come,” I answered, “but I’m not sure I’m the ‘you’ you +mean.” + +“Why, you’re Hughes, the keeper, aren’t you?” + +“No, I’m just a friend of Pendleton’s.” + +“Oh, is that so?” + +He was not cloudy and remote like Crofts Pendleton; rather I thought I +detected even a trace of the sardonic in his tone, and I must have +flushed at the remembrance of my rough and woebegone attire. + +“I don’t look the part, I admit.” + +“Well, no, you don’t.” He held out his hand with a cordiality +surprising to me. “Belvoir’s my name—Ted Belvoir. It’s B-e-l-v-o-i-r, +you know.” + +“Bannerlee’s mine. B-a-n-n—” + +“Oh, that’s all right. I spelled mine out on account of these +Americans. They think it’s funny to pronounce it ‘Beaver!’” + +“Americans!” + +“Why, you must be quite a stranger here. Didn’t you know—” + +“I know nothing. I am indeed an utter stranger, save for being +acquainted with Pendleton. You see that I’m rather the worse for wear; +well, I’ve been running and scrambling and climbing all over Aidenn +Forest to-day, and to cap the climax I fell into this Vale and +blundered upon this house.” + +“All over Aidenn Forest?” + +“Yes, I am an antiquary of sorts.” + +“Now, that’s very interesting, very interesting. Why, you may +have—have you seen anyone?” There was a glimmer of excitement in his +pale eyes. + +Now suddenly it occurred to me that reticence might be useful in this +mansion whereof I knew so little and that little full of perplexity. + +“Why, what sort of person?” + +“Oh, a gentleman prowling at a loose end.” + +“I should say not,” I assured him, “unless he was mightily +transmogrified.” + +“Well, that delays us again.” + +“I suppose the man you mean is, er, Sir Brooke Mortimer.” + +“Yes.” His eyes widened. “Now, how did you know that?” + +“Pendleton told me before he went to fetch the butler.” + +“That’s the man, that’s the man. Irritating, isn’t it? Hughes and some +of the other servants have gone in search. That’s why our host takes +so long to get Blenkinson, who must be busy.” + +“You don’t tell me the servants have gone out to scour for him!” + +“He’s such an irregular blighter, you know. May have tried to walk it +from New Aidenn or even from somewhere else on the line. They’re going +to telephone down when the station-master comes for the evening train. +You see, he wasn’t due on any particular train, but they expected him +to send word ahead. So they’re in a pretty pass.” + +“What’s the man look like?” + +“Oh, a little, piddling sort of minnikin. Wearing a couple of pairs of +glasses, most likely, and sure to be smoking an offensive cigar. +Speaks with a lisp when he gets excited—sometimes when he isn’t. You +couldn’t have seen him?” + +“No,” I avouched. “Neither to-day nor any other day.” I had already +resolved, by the by, to tell no stranger about the men I had seen. I +wanted to be believed. + +I refrained from asking why Sir Brooke’s presence was so necessary for +the comfort of all, but my new acquaintance evidently saw the question +in my face, for he answered it in a manner to provoke my curiosity yet +further. “He’s going to propose the health of the bride, y’know.” + +A third personage came round from the other side of the stairs, and +the blood in my veins gave a little leap when I recognized the +white-haired man whose suspicious behaviour I had overlooked in the +dim room with the tower windows. His gaze was inquiring, as if he had +come to see whose the voices were, and when he saw my unaccustomed +face, he gave a cluck, as if to say, “I know who _you_ are,” and +demanded peremptorily: + +“Are you the missing idiot?” + +I said, “Perhaps.” + +His little dark eyes sparkled. “Then you’re not—no, I see you’re not. +You haven’t, by the way, seen a lost sheep of a knight outside?” + +“No.” + +Somehow Belvoir had melted away upon the coming of this gentleman; now +the old fellow, with his eyes pursuing the other down the hall out of +my view, snapped, “So much the better. We have at least one crazy man +here already.” + +“Indeed! What is his name?” I asked with much enjoyment, expecting to +hear Belvoir identified, for I judged that no love was lost between +these two. + +“Cosgrove!” + +“Oh! I haven’t heard of him, I believe.” + +“Well, you will.” + +He was gone! + +I listened to his waning footsteps down the hall for only a brace of +seconds before I had made a hasty, rash decision. I would see, before +anyone else, what was the state of affairs inside the room where I had +witnessed this old fellow’s dubious practices. I edged around the +curve of the stair, saw him moving briskly away at the other end of +the wainscoted and carpeted passage, which was quite broad enough to +be called a good-sized gallery. There were two doors on the right, +four on the left (counting one by the stair-foot, where the corridor +broadened almost into a room), and one away at the far end, which last +must lead into the conservatory. A collection of portraits, large and +small, hung over and between the doors, although, since the hall was +wholly enclosed by rooms, they must never be seen save by artificial +light. + +By the time I had comprehended so much, the old gentleman had +disappeared through the farthest door at the left. An entrance behind +the stairs I judged to lead into the library where the light was +blazing, perhaps as a beacon for Sir Brooke. The room I sought must +lie beyond the door facing the stair-foot. I felt like a burglarious +person while I opened it and stole into darkness, taking out my +electric-torch. And the moment afterward I felt like a fool. + +The yellow cone of light played on walls hung with trophies and +weapons of every age and sort. I saw the old candle-bracket by the +window, and the closed doors leading to rooms on each side, as well as +to the open. Standing where the “men” had been were two hollow suits +of armour, complete in plate and chain. + +So the old codger’s only crime must have been a little harmless +fussing about. Still, why had he chosen near-darkness when there was, +as now I saw, an electric switch beside the door? Perhaps the switch +was out of order; I had not the courage to try it and see. Almost, but +not quite, I acquitted the white-haired gentleman of evil design. + +I lost no time in returning to my station in the hall. I was on the +settle, and had almost decided that Crofts Pendleton had forgotten me +when he appeared apologetically, with the butler, carrying a loaded +tray, at his heels. + +“If it’s compatible with bathing, I got Blenkinson to put some dishes +together. Dinner’s just over.” + +“My dear Crofts, you’re too thoughtful.” + +“Very seldom, I assure you,” he smiled. + +“Certainly, I’d like to break the edge of appetite, anyhow.” + +“Then we’ll go up to my room.” + +Blenkinson, with impeccable whiskers, looked as if he might be the +Master of University College. With the tray, he followed us up the +circular stairs, whose well reached into the dim heights of the second +storey. A room on the right of the first landing was Pendleton’s. + +“Hullo, it’s dark! I expected Ludlow had come up. He complained of +feeling seedy.” + +The long corridor of this floor, which I later found to lead to the +door of the landing of the outside stairs at the north end of the +building, was invisible until Pendleton touched a button on the wall. + +“Ludlow? Is he the tufted individual, hawk-like?” + +“Why, yes. Have you seen him?” + +“We have conversed slightly. He’s downstairs.” + +“He must be feeling better,” murmured Crofts. Yet somehow I distrusted +that his Lordship had suffered even a little twinge. + +Now Blenkinson withdrew discreetly as a Dean, after examining each +dish on the tray and giving every cover an approving caress. + +“May I ask a question?” + +“Blaze away.” + +“Aren’t things a little out of order here, to-night? Or are there no +ladies present?” + +“There are ladies, plenty of ’em. But what do you mean?” + +“Why are the men prowling around the House? Where are the ladies? +Don’t they customarily leave the men at the board?” + +“Oh, yes, usually.” There was a light in his eyes that caused me to +expect something quite illogical and characteristic. “But here it’s +the other way round.” + +“What?” + +“Here the men leave the table to the ladies. It’s the local custom.” + +It had come, the sublimely ridiculous. But still—I ventured: “Then +most of your guests are Welsh folk?” + +“Not one; all English and American. But ‘When in Rome,’ you know, +Bannerlee. I like to pay tribute to the _mores_ of the place. That’s a +word of Belvoir’s; you know what I mean.” + +In anyone but Crofts Pendleton I should have held such deference to +the manners of the parish or the borough or the shire to be a gesture +of mock. But mockery was out of the question in that face of perfect +guilelessness. So innocent and susceptible were those big features +that I had a momentary impulse to tell him that there appeared to be +“goings-on” in the House. But I forbore. + +So, beginning to lay aside my reeking clothes, I asked him the nature +of the party, and if it were in celebration of a particular occasion, +and in so doing I met point-blank another of his vague notions, +disassociated from the working of any ordinary mind. + +“A very special occasion indeed,” he declared. “We are having a +wedding party—that is, there’s going to be a wedding party; to-night +it’s a Bidding Feast.” + +“Bidding Feast?” + +“Yes,” said Crofts, evincing much pleasure in his revelation. “It +accords with the folk custom. You look oddly. Haven’t you heard of +it?” + +“Not sufficiently, I fear.” + +“It’s very old, very old, to help the married-pair-to-be to set up +housekeeping.” + +“Then I am amiss in not knowing something of it, having turned +desultory antiquarian since we were last together. Tell me about it.” + +He seemed shy and apologetic. “Of course we don’t go into all of +it—the donations of bread and cheese and sugar and such, or promissory +notes (they’ve been recognized as legal obligations in the courts, you +know). We haven’t had any of that, or selling cakes and ale for the +enrichment of the couple. These are wealthy people. And we’ve +dispensed with the ‘inviter.’” + +“Oh, you have?” I asked ironically. “What, perchance, is he?” + +“A professional in the business exclusively. He tramps the country for +several days ahead and bids the householders with a set of humorous +doggerel verses, or printed ballad. I’ve several works describing it +all in the library downstairs. It used to be a universal thing in +Wales, but it’s almost a dead-letter now.” He looked as if he were +about to sigh. + +“And you say that you’re reviving it for a couple who are not Welsh?” + +“Welsh? Of course they’re not Welsh. Paula Lebetwood’s an American, +and Sean Cosgrove—well, he’s an Irishman.” + +“One hopes so. And how goes the Feast?” + +“We’re being terribly festive! Under the circumstances, you +know. . . .” + +Here was the maddest, one might say the most pitiful, of Pendleton’s +fancies. A Welsh Bidding Feast for setting up a couple in +housekeeping—only minus the Welsh folk, minus the donations, minus the +cakes and ale, minus the “inviter,” minus about everything, in fact, +except the good intentions of the host! A ghost of a Bidding Feast. + +“Surely, Crofts,” I remarked, “if you are trying to revive the good +old Welsh customs, you might suggest a bundling party.” + +He went red, but was too good-natured to take offence. “Nonsense, man. +Don’t mention it. Why, it’s an immoral thing. Sermons used to be +preached against it.” + +“But under the circumstances!” I repeated his phrase. “Morality is a +question of local custom, isn’t it? The _mores_, you know.” + +“_Mores?_ Oh, you sound like Belvoir, who’s been getting everybody in +a stew.” He overlooked his own introduction of the word. + +“Well, I shan’t propose it, my dear man. I know that I should be +mobbed, without a Welshman in the Vale to protect me.” + +A flicker of movement crossed his features, and his voice was +constrained, even grave. “Without a Welshman?—well, I don’t know.” + +“You’re aggrieved, Crofts. What’s the matter?” + +“This place is full of wild-eyed superstitions,” he declared, +beginning to pace the length of the room. “We have a few Welsh +servants—they keep the place up while it’s unoccupied—and they’re agog +with the Gwyllion and the Tylwyth Teg. They’re stirring up the rest +with tales of the haggish fairies and dwarfs and goblins that seem to +infect this locality.” + +“Well,” I laughed, yet with a pinch of queerness in thinking of the +near-apparition who had occurred on the ledge-path, “as long as nobody +has met his own funeral and the dames and peers of elfin-land keep +outside the walls—” + +“But that’s just it!” he cried vexatiously. “There’s _been_ an +invasion. The women have made me put all their best jewellery in the +strong-box, and still they’re fretting.” + +I paused in the act of drying my back. “You don’t mean—” + +“The worst visitant of all is in our midst, and unless we dispose of +him our nerves will be in tatters!” Then he lapsed into sudden +contrition for his vehemence. “Of course I’m not such a fool as to +believe any of it.” + +“The supernatural, you mean?” + +“That’s why I said I’m not so sure we haven’t a Welshman in our midst. +He must be at the bottom of it all. Confound it, somebody must be.” + +“Whom do you mean by ‘he’?” + +“Parson Lolly,” answered Pendleton, with slightly bated breath, and I +remember that I was impressed into silence for a moment. + +“_Parson_ Lolly?” + +“So he is called.” + +“And who may the Parson be?” + +“A legend, just a damned legend.” + +“And a Welshman too?” + +“That’s it!” he exclaimed with an eager gesture. “Don’t you see it +must be so, or else there’s hell let loose in this valley? It must be +a man, must be, must be! Only—” He checked himself. + +“Well?” + +“No man can do the things Parson Lolly is said to do.” + +I made a complete break in my toilet and scrutinized my friend, who +was visibly shaken. He said, “It’s no use trying to describe how it +feels to be a host in the midst of such a hullabaloo. It’s the very +devil. And I can’t _do_ anything to stop it. Helplessness is a +terrible thing.” + +“Now tell me some of this nonsense,” I urged. “And first of all, why +‘Parson’? It’s creepy.” + +“It certainly is,” he agreed. “That designation adds oddness, +sinister, too, to the whole portrait of him.” + +“What else is there in his portrait?” + +“He’s old, several hundred years old at the most conservative estimate +of the servants. His business is general mischief and bedevilment and, +I surmise, thievery.” + +“What does he look like?” + +“He has the face of a demon, red with hell-fire, and streaked with +smoke. He has the likeness of a man otherwise, but he wears a great +flowing robe of black; there’s where the ‘Parson’ part comes in, I +suppose. The robe is vaster than any prelate’s of earth, though there +again you have the sinister touch. He—he flies in it, Bannerlee, like +an enormous crow! He’s been seen flying away over the Bach Hill.” + +“How far is Bach Hill from here?” + +“About two miles.” + +I resumed my dressing, and simulated a laugh, for it would not do to +seem too much impressed with this fol-de-rol. Pendleton maintained his +appearance of dead seriousness. + +“I wonder if there’s anything else. Oh, yes—his voice.” + +“Voice?” My question must have been sharp. + +“It’s a young voice and an old voice in one. He’s been heard, +Bannerlee.” Pendleton licked his lips. “I’ve heard him myself.” + +“You must leave this, Crofts,” I admonished, dimly aware that I was +cribbing from literature. “You’re letting your imagination make sport +of you, of course; but, tell me, what’s been the spring of all your +troubles? What’s actually happened here?” + +His mood had shifted. “No, let’s change the subject. This is no way to +receive a guest, with omens and warnings.” + +“But, good heavens, you only make it worse when you stop at the +warnings. I want to hear some of the facts.” + +“You really do?” + +“This is absurd. Of course I do.” + +But Crofts’ mind was then in an unwilling state as regarded retailing +the misdeeds of the Parson. He became sketchy. At first there had been +annoyances among the servants, the overturning of pots and skillets, +the displacement of articles, some so thoroughly removed that they +never would be found. For the past forty-eight hours these trifles had +been throwing the kitchen into an uproar, but one more serious thing +had occurred the previous evening in the presence of the guests who +had already arrived. All Pendleton would tell me of this outrage was +that it had to do with the smashing of the conservatory window, and +that then the voice of the Parson had been heard by everyone. + +“It makes me feel sometimes, for a minute or two, that there may be +something in it,” he muttered finally. “Why isn’t it possible that +someone has found a method of flying with a minimum of mechanical aid? +It will happen sooner or later.” + +“When I see him taking off, I’ll believe—not otherwise.” + +“That’s the sensible thing to say—very sensible.” + +Now in the course of this long conversation I had disencumbered myself +of my damp-heavy explorer’s gear, had cavorted in the bath between the +rooms of Pendleton and his wife, had donned his dressing-gown and +shaved with his razor, had covered myself with one of his old business +suits, now “uncomfortably snug” for his frame, but flappingly loose +for mine. The food I had reserved until after the bath; although the +things were now cool, I took half a cupful of coffee and sampled the +leg of a duck. I resolved to confide one thing to Pendleton now; +perhaps it would bring him some relief. So, swiftly explaining my +movements in Aidenn Forest that day, I related my adventures with the +man on the ledge-path, and hinted that he might be at the root of the +mischief. + +“What time was that?” + +“Over two hours ago, I suppose.” + +He shook his head, wistfully. “No, I wish it was as simple as you +suggest. But the Parson was making trouble among the servants only an +hour before you came.” + +I thought of the menagerie-keeper, yet somehow he didn’t fit into this +situation. + +“I’m sorry, Crofts. Still, you mustn’t let such antics disturb you.” + +“I won’t, I won’t,” he promised, but I thought his protest a little +feverish. + +While we went downstairs I gave him the best imitation I could of the +stranger’s cry on the ledge-path, and asked him if he believed it was +Welsh. + +“No,” he said, with the gravity of conviction, “no, that’s certainly +not Welsh.” + +Bless his simple heart! I believe he knows no more Cumraeg than I. + +We moved along the galley-passage, and nighed the third left-hand +entrance. + +Now, just as we were about to enter, while we heard the voices of +festivity inside, he turned to me suddenly. + +“I’m sending the boy to your village beyond the hills to-morrow +morning—whatever-its-name-is—for your things. You’re to be one of us, +of course.” + +“My dear Crofts, I hate to intrude.” + +“No intrusion. And there are other equal strangers among us. Will you +stay on for a couple of days?” + +“I’d be delighted.” + +“Then I’ll announce you as one of us.” + +We joined the Bidding Feast. + +I motioned my host to precede me into the midst of the party. Now it +so happened that we entered with none to observe us, for this door +opened beneath an old musicians’ gallery. + +We had no sooner entered this shady spot than I placed my hand on +Pendleton’s sleeve and put finger to lips, and stood to take in the +scene in silence. The head of a cat, with ears singularly set back, +made a rest for the hand at the pillared foot of the winding +balustrade to the gallery. It had given me a moment’s shock at first, +but now I set my fingers along that smooth nose and peered covertly +from the concealment of the little staircase. The Bidding Feast, save +for floral and evergreen festoons about the Hall, had all the look of +two tables of ordinary auction bridge. + +But I hardly did more than give a secret glance at the guests before +surveying the extent and features of the Hall itself. Flat-ceilinged, +its wooden roof supported by braced thirty-foot timbers, a room +regular in its right-angularity, it nevertheless gave the impression +of spaciousness. It was two storeys in height, full forty feet in +length, and obviously of great age, perhaps a bulwark of war, for its +ashlar masonry was undisguised by arras, woodwork, or plaster. +Somehow, save for the chimney-piece in the wall beyond which the +conservatory lay, a fireplace which was massive without being +cumbrous, the appointments of the room seemed to me inept. All the +Tudor furniture was gone, and in its stead was a collection of +mahogany and walnut pieces from the lion-mask period—and later—looking +frail and prettified in that ancient stronghold of defence. The +woven-backed chairs, the spindly animal-legs of the tables with their +claw-feet, the spider’s web marqueterie decorations, were to my mind +strongly out of keeping. The waxed floor was in part covered by old +English “Turky” carpets. Altogether a medley of anachronisms was the +Hall of the Moth, but its walls a-frown and towering chimney-place +lent nevertheless a thrill of antique grandeur. + +[Illustration: A plan of the ground floor of Highglen House. The front +door is at the bottom of the plan, opening into a narrow corridor +leading through the middle of the house, as well as a winding +staircase to the next floor. Large doors immediately to the left of +the front door connect to a library in the bottom left corner of the +building. Above the library is the armoury. The armoury has doors on +all sides, including one to the outside. Above the armoury is a large +room labelled “Hall of the Moth”. The door between the armoury and the +Hall of the Moth is underneath a raised platform labelled “Musicians’ +Gallery”. Both the Hall of the Moth and the central corridor have +doors to the conservatory, which runs along the top of the plan, and +has a large window along most of the top wall. The right-hand side of +the plan is mostly taken up by the dining-room, which the conservatory +connects to directly. Below the dining-room are the kitchen and +pantries.] + +Two of the eight card-players I recognized, of course, Lord Ludlow and +Belvoir, who were opposed to each other at the nearer table, where the +deal had just been made. Lord Ludlow, who was facing me, lifted his +cards from the table, arching his brows above the pince-nez which now +clung to his sharp-wedged nose. Satisfaction gleamed from all quarters +of his countenance. + +“_You_ haven’t the right kind of face for cards,” I thought; then a +notion made me mutter, “Or, I wonder?” The old dissembler! + +I was impressed by the vague familiarity of the back of Lord Ludlow’s +partner, and guessed her to be the hostess of the Bidding Feast. I had +known Alberta Pendleton in the early days, and had seen that stately +back preceding me up the aisle at her wedding. It had taken on added +dignity, if anything, in the intervening years, and I expected, +rightly, that her delicate beauty (Pendleton had been ungodly lucky) +would have ripened into greater loveliness. + +Belvoir, on her right, was opposite a woman I intuitively knew must be +his wife, for she might have been his widow. It was not only that she +looked older than she was, and gave that impression, for she was +gowned in black relieved by grey, and that her cheek was pale, having +a worn softness, or that her composed voice, rather full and sweet, +seemed full of twilight memories; she had the half-experienced, +half-expectant air which bereft females wear. And indeed I supposed it +could hardly be otherwise for her, married as she was to a man who +seemed without a trace of colour, without a morsel of flesh to him, or +a drop of blood, the acme of innocuousness. + +At the far table three men were playing with one woman, whose back was +turned to me. Facing her, and me, sat a bright-eyed, youngish fellow +with short black hair, a face almost crimson-red, and on his right and +left respectively a dandified-looking chap with waxed moustaches, and +a good solid individual of immobile swarthy countenance, the image of +a substantial, dependable Englishman. This ponderous person was +dealing with a regular, unhurried motion that recalled to me the +grinding of the mills of God. + +“A pretty kettle of fish!” I murmured to myself, and added to Crofts, +“A variegated lot, old fellow! So many different tempers and +purposeful minds reduced to the same dead level by the permutations of +fifty-two pasteboard slips. Saddening, Crofts, saddening.” + +“All intimates, one way or another,” he whispered. “Good friends, mind +you, but you’ll find them fighting half the time.” + +“They certainly look engrossed in the game.” + +“Ah, but that’s a pretence. They keep up a very brave front, but any +trifling disturbance would set them wild.” + +“You don’t say so.” + +“I tell you, man, there’s something foul and fearful in this damned +Vale. I half regret—well, come on. You’ve got to meet them sometime. +They’ve all heard about you.” + + + +CHAPTER V + +Kingmaker + +Forthwith commenced that three-legged race I have already described, +in whose zigzag course I was presented to all these people in about +two minutes. + +While my mind was still in a haze, a small thing caught my eye and +made me give a much larger thing a rapid, cursory, and at the same +time careful survey. The small thing was still another image of a +cat’s head, this one in profile with jaws apart and bared teeth, the +head forming a heraldic badge tucked into one spandril of the Hall +fire-arch. The renewed sight of this insistent emblem had a bad effect +on me. The leering head at the outer door, the sleek head at the foot +of the balustrade, and this vindictive head brought the sharp, +nerve-tearing cry of the outer darkness into my ears again. + +“Crofts”—I must have spoken with asperity—“why the devil didn’t your +family choose some holier badge than a damned cat’s head, with nothing +funny or Cheshire-ish about it?” + +“My family? Not my family.” + +“Oh, not—” + +“Lord, no. Dirty thing, isn’t it, that one? But not mine. Bought this +place a couple of years ago. Look there, for a primitive genealogical +sign.” + +I thought at first he was pointing to the badge and I leaned to +examine it at closer quarters. The spandrils of the fire-arch had the +usual long crinkled leaves of the early Tudors; on one lay the royal +rose, on the other the badge of the head. + +“No, no, not that—the mantel-tree itself.” + +Pendleton tapped the very old and thoroughly blackened beam of oak +resting on the upraised hands and the heads of a pair of grotesque +knee-bent dwarfs in lieu of corbels. And while I stared at it, +somewhat at a loss to grasp his meaning, he passed his hand along its +outer surface, saying, “If you can’t see, feel.” + +This mantel-tree, obviously the original, though forming more than +merely an incipient shelf, was unusually low for the period (if I knew +anything of such) and I had to lean a bit to get my eyes flush to it. +My fingers felt the slight roughness of lettering, and I deciphered, +in French characters, the smoke-stained names “Arthur Kay” and +“Biatryx Kay,” which Pendleton assured me I read correctly. + +“None of your ilk, you say?” + +“Oh, no! Quite the most ancient family in these parts. Here before the +House itself, before the castle.” + +“That ruin up the Vale?” + +“No, I mean the castle this house is remnant of. That other—up the +Vale—that was the Kays’ too.” + +“And the head of the cat?” + +He shrugged. “You ought to know more of these things than I, you +gravedigger. It’s part of their coat-of-arms. Look.” + +I had already taken in the entire fireplace. It was in harmony with +the grey walls. The over-mantel, like the interior of the unlit +chimney-place itself, was composed of large stone blocks, very +ancient, and the beam on which the names were cut formed a canopy from +which it receded to the summit of the lofty chamber. The +half-obliterate vestiges of what must have been a cross were visible +in the centre of this curtain of rock, and on either side a shield +with unrecognizable blurs for quarters. Only where Pendleton pointed I +could see what might have been a feline profile. + +As my host remarked, the subject of bearings lay more aptly in my +special province than in his (which was, I remember, the excellence of +sodium and its compounds). I was about to launch into a necessarily +brief statement of what this device might signify, when Blenkinson +entered and murmured something inaudible to his master. + +“People at New Aidenn,” remarked Pendleton with slight ellipsis. “Be +back at once.” This last was a promise, not an imperative. + +He followed the servant out, and my exegesis was, as it happened, for +ever postponed. Gilbert Maryvale, whose partner, Oxford, had made the +declaration, seeing me solitary, rose from his chair with the peculiar +lightness that was so unexpected and came to my side. + +He looked at me with inquiry in his very dark eyes while he settled +himself against the over-mantel. “Word from Sir Brooke?” + +“I believe Pendleton’s gone to ’phone the station-master at New +Aidenn. We’ll know, doubtless, in a minute or two.” + +“Yes, doubtless.” + +I thought I perceived a greater interest striving to suppress itself +in him; I looked at him sharply. “Just why, Mr. Maryvale, are we all +agog over this gentleman’s absence?” + +He was abashed for an instant, then, cocked an eye in humorous +confession, and spoke low. “Caught, I suppose. Well, Mr. Bannerlee, I +don’t think that, barring an exception or two”—he hitched a shoulder +toward the nearer table where Mrs. Bartholomew was deliberating +whether to play the ace or not—“I don’t think we _are_ particularly +agog as a whole. One may have one reason, one another, but mine is +that I believe Sir Brooke Mortimer is a good deal different from what +he seems. And you may be sure that I’d not be telling you that if I +weren’t sure that his real purpose will be revealed—” + +He said more, but I did not take in the sense of it. Eve Bartholomew, +I noticed, played the ace, which was immediately trumped by Oxford; +but that was a trifle. What had taken me out of mind for a moment was +the striking similarity of his words to the thought in my own brain, +that the people in Aidenn Vale were other than they seemed. This, +great as was my attraction to it, was scarcely a topic to be pursued +with my acquaintance of a few minutes, and my next contribution to +talk turned the subject. + +“I was about to ask Pendleton a question; may I victimize you?” + +“Why, certainly—if I can—” + +I lowered my voice to half its volume. “I am sure that you can. This, +according to our host, is a genuine old Welsh Bidding Feast. But as +far as I could discover, most of the attributes are missing, and +especially the most essential one of all.” + +“What’s that?” + +“The bride in prospect. I am quite certain she is not, er, here.” + +He laughed with his eyes, throwing back his head quite gleefully. “You +may be sure she’s not. Of course, our good Cosgrove’s American +betrothed—did Pendleton tell you she’s American?—isn’t in sight just +now. The fact is, Miss Mertoun—Oxford’s her cousin—has been headachy +all evening, and Miss Lebetwood has been staying with her since she +went to her room.” + +Crofts Pendleton had returned; he was beside us on the heels of my +latest speech, and his face revealed excitement somewhat chastened by +alarm. + +“Shall I tell ’em all at once?” + +“But what’s to tell?” asked Maryvale. + +“He wasn’t on the night train, but the station-keeper thinks +someone like him came up in the afternoon. How he—supposing it was +he—missed getting in the motor—there Wheeler was waiting for him +especially—unless he wanted the walk—he _would_—well, shall I?” + +“It will raise nobody’s spirits,” said Maryvale. “But suppose you do.” + +“Hughes and the men are back from below the bridge,” muttered Crofts. +“They’ve seen nothing of him either.” He clapped his hands for +attention. + +I kept my eyes on Crofts while he made his statement, but out of the +tail of one I noticed that Maryvale was scanning the inhabitants of +the Hall, as if to catch the effect upon each. The effect was strong. +When my eye took in the room, everyone had laid down his cards and was +looking at the blank countenance across the table. There was hardly a +word spoken; no one asked a question. Then Eve Bartholomew took up her +hand once more. + +“Sir Brooke is a sensible man,” she announced. “He has probably +returned to New Aidenn to put up for the night. And there are men +looking for him if he is lost. Let’s go on playing.” + +By her determination, which at the time I divined to be only a +courageous sham, she drew the widely surmising minds in the room back +to a focus on bridge. A few minutes later Maryvale, with a courteous +but irresistible gesture, waved Pendleton into his place at the table +opposite Charlton Oxford, and my host picked up the newly-dealt cards +with perturbed countenance. Maryvale rested a foot on the +fire-dogs—they were of much later date than the fireplace itself, +their brass enriched with blue and white enamel—and took from the +mantel-shelf a long-stemmed clay pipe, a veritable churchwarden. This +he carefully packed with a shaggy sort of tobacco and smoked with +deep-drawn pleasure, having offered me an excellent cigar, which I +declined in memory and anticipation of flight from bulls. + +Presently, since Eve Bartholomew had given the fumes several looks +askance, and sniffed, Maryvale with a smile led me to the nearest of +two entrances of french windows, opened it, and stepped outside. I +followed, descending a step or two to the drive beyond which lay the +lawn. The air was mild again and the fog had become only a mystery in +the trees. + +“Too chilly for you?” + +“By no means.” + +“We’ll stroll.” + +At that moment we were beside the little jutting tower between the +Hall of the Moth and the glassed conservatory, with a small rockery +just across the drive. I noted that the scent of flowers at that spot +was remarkably strong, almost as the heady reek of the interior must +be. I asked Maryvale if he did not notice it too. + +“Ah, yes. But that’s because there’s no glass in that window. They’re +burning some oil-heating business inside until the glazier comes.” + +“Why, what’s happened?” + +“You’ve not heard?” + +“I think Crofts—he wasn’t at all explicit.” + +“Nor could he be. It was only a matter of a crash of a splintering +window, and a shout by a most hollow and bewildering voice. Then, I +must admit, there were other shouts from some of us, and one or two of +the ladies were not above screaming. And nothing was discovered save +the fragments of glass.” + +“What did the voice seem to say?” + +“It was clear enough. It shouted some rigmarole about Parson Lolly. +‘Parson Lolly’s here,’ or ‘Look out for Parson Lolly,’ or something of +the kind.” + +“What do you make of it? It worries Crofts severely.” + +“Do you wonder? No, I don’t profess to make anything of it myself. We +must wait until we have more evidence.” + +“Which may be most unpleasant.” + +“Oh, as for being afraid . . .” + +We paused, I remember, by one of the large french windows looking into +the Hall of the Moth. At the table nearest us Cosgrove carefully noted +down the score. He picked up the pack, shuffled deliberately, dealt. +The cards flew bewilderingly from his hand like a flock of +humming-birds released from a cage; they swirled and gleamed in the +light. Yet Cosgrove’s arms were motionless; only his right hand and +wrist moved as swift as the eye could conveniently follow. + +“Cosgrove,” murmured Maryvale; “what a man!” + +“What do you mean?” + +My companion’s surprise was thoroughly ingenuous. “You don’t know +about Sean Cosgrove?” + +“I don’t know much about any Irishman.” + +“Irishman or not, he’s a rarity—a sort of hardness next to positive +stolidity, yet with plenty of _savoir faire_—caution in thought and +preparation, and then a sure swiftness like that dealing of the cards; +add to it a consecration to an idea so whimsical and quaint that +heaven must laugh, and heaven must speed him.” + +“What idea may that be?” + +“It’s one of those secrets everyone knows—Ireland redeemed.” + +My “oh” was certainly disappointed. + +Maryvale looked for some time at the red face of him before he chose +to enlighten me further. “Many wild young Irishmen have burned and +blazed for Ireland free, but never one I’ve known had the genius of +imagination of this man.” He added in a low-toned parenthesis, +“Barring the Marquess of Killarney, I’ve no doubt he’s the wealthiest +Irishman in the realm.” + +“That’s enough distinction for one Hibernian.” + +“Seldom known in his race, surely. And he saves his money, looking +always to the gleam of his great goal.” + +“Well enough, Mr. Maryvale—but you speak as if he had some special +vision.” + +“A Free State is nothing compared to the bright morning in mind.” + +“Ah, an anarchist!” + +Maryvale chuckled. “That was certainly an unlucky dive of logic, my +friend. No, Mr. Bannerlee, Sean Cosgrove aspires to restore the +ancient dynasties of Munster and Leinster!” + +“But—well, how will he find the lines? They’re extinct, aren’t they?” + +“I should hesitate to say categorically where Cosgrove is planning to +discover them.” + +“But how will he set about it?” + +“Well, if I tell you baldly, you’ll think he’s utterly mad. He’s going +to advertise in the _Times_.” + +A vast vacuum of seconds must have gone by, while I looked again +intently at the huge face so solemn over its slips of pasteboard, +before I ventured, “And what do you think of him yourself, then?” + +“Let me explain what I meant when I said that Cosgrove will advertise +in the _Times_ to find the true rulers of Munster and Leinster. He +will not advertise there alone; he will put the inquiry in every +little rag and sheet. He will send men among the peasants on the land +to ask. He will receive answers, will he not, Mr. Bannerlee?” + +“Of every sort.” + +“Of every sort, as you say. The genealogist will ridicule, the +republican will sneer or snarl, the crank will present his ready-made +conclusions, the peasant will tell the tale his grandmother’s +grandmother crooned to her and she to him. And Sean Cosgrove will +receive every answer for the sake of the good that may be in it. He is +ready to examine every contention of the genealogist, to sift the +fables rigorously, to get at the root of every wild story, to +criticize every legend—and in the end he will find his man, or find +his truth! Let us go in.” + +We reopened the french windows, entered the Hall of the Moth. + +I looked at him, who had so suddenly, yet so unaffectedly, made almost +an intimate of me in the brief hour of acquaintance, tried to appraise +the pent brows and the fugitive, almost wistful eyes of Gilbert +Maryvale, the “complete man of business.” Those eyes, what were they +seeking, or what had they discovered? They saw deeps, I knew, +soundings surely unsuspected by these more or less ordinary people, by +that old vulture with white plumage, Ludlow—or Belvoir the +nonentity—or, certainly, this fancy man Charlton Oxford—or our +unimaginative host, Crofts Pendleton—or Sean Cosgrove himself, who +from Maryvale’s account must represent the quintessence of insurgency +and holy tradition. + +These “ordinary people,” I had called them. But were they, any of +them, ordinary? My total impression of that company at the Bidding +Feast had become one of masks and shadows. Such obvious contradiction +as seemed to exist in the case of Maryvale and such duplicity as +Ludlow’s might have their subtler likenesses in everyone. Mrs. +Belvoir, with her melodious voice, might be a volcano which had never +gone up in flame and ruin; this dapper Charlton Oxford might be a +leading light of the Society for the Cherishing of Atheism. Crofts +Pendleton had assured me that their air of studious interest while +rapt in the complexities of cards was a dissembling of fear, but I +wondered if it might not be a dissembling of something else as well, +something which I could not then grasp intuitively. But I felt its +existence, just as a man in a pitch-dark room may be, they say, aware +of another presence. + +Maryvale, catching me look first at him, then at the absorbed +contestants, drew a mistaken deduction. + +“No, Mr. Bannerlee, no sign of any of them wanting to give me my place +back again. There’s a riveting fascination in cards if you’re keyed +right.” I believe he looked a bit ashamed of his cross-bred metaphor. +“One of the many forms in which chance plays pranks upon us. All, all +thralled.” + +“Some more and some less, however.” + +“Oh, of course, but my point was that no one escapes the lure. Even +the unlikeliest—” + +“Mr. Cosgrove, that would be, I have—” + +“I think not, I really am sure not. Oh, no.” + +“What? You don’t mean his Lordship?” + +Maryvale took his pipe in his hand, smiling, waved it. “You do not +know us, Mr. Bannerlee. We are really quite a surprising company, we +friends of Cosgrove, and his, er, enemies. Now who, beside the +respected Mr. Charlton Oxford here, seems to you to personify most +thoroughly the spirit of conformity, the one cut out most neatly for a +player of auction bridge?” + +I needed not to hesitate one whit, but with a nudge indicated Belvoir. +“He seems made to fit into any background.” + +Maryvale laughed long and with absolute silence. “Yes, yes,” he +whispered, “a family man, I grant you, with legitimate children, a +householder in suburbia—so far so good. That’s irony _in excelso_. But +for deep down conformity of spirit, like the thousand and one of his +neighbours in Golders Green, ye gods! Why, man, he’s the most radical +wight in England—a stick of dynamite!” + +“He!” + +“Haven’t you read his ‘Bypaths’?” + +“His! Good God!” + +Then from the farther table came a cackle from Ludlow: “Well, I say it +_is_ so! . . . Saint Paul knew as much psychology as any of your +puffed-up pedagogues.” + +Alberta Pendleton (who was his partner) said promptly, “Did you play +the deuce?” Our hostess is more tactful than her husband. + +Belvoir gave a thin Italian sort of snicker. “He’s trying to,” he +said. + +I just made out the low, luscious voice of Mrs. Belvoir: “Ted, that +wasn’t good. Half a crown, please.” + +“The family penalty for a pun,” explained Maryvale. + +Ludlow gave a sudden sneeze, a whooping big sneeze, which must have +disturbed the cards on the table. “I beg—” he said, and sneezed again. + +My face being turned toward Maryvale, and Ludlow’s back being toward +me, I had no more than an imperfect glimpse out of the tail of my eye +at what happened next. Our noble friend drew his handkerchief out of +his breast-pocket with a bit of a flourish, and something white and +smaller came out along with it. At that precise instant Ludlow was +preoccupied with a third sneeze which took him unawares and made his +plumed head bob down to the green board. There was consternation at +his table, amusement at the other, but I was the only one who saw the +object fly off to the left, poise for the cleaving of an instant in +flight, and glide and swoop gracefully down to the floor beside the +long-case clock in the corner. There it lay, a slightly crumpled slip +of notepaper, scrawled upon. + +I gave some small exclamation, crossed in front of Maryvale, picked up +the morsel. It was certainly not my intention to scrutinize the +writing, but it was impossible in the act of recovery not to see some +words. All that made the least imprint in my consciousness were the +two concluding lines: + + “. . . you leave it in the mail—you know where; I’ll come and + get it.” + +Not even the signature gave me any impression; but it, I must confess, +looked like an intentional enigma. + +A step or two across the floor would have taken me and the slip to the +discomposed Ludlow, but in my way was a large reddish hand, attached +to a long arm, and the arm hung on the shoulder of an Irishman whose +naturally red face was filling with unaccustomed blood. + +“Mine, sir,” said the bridegroom-to-be. + +I shook my head. “No, Mr. Cosgrove, you must be mistaken. I saw—” + +“No doubt. Mine, I said.” + +“But I saw it come out of the pocket of Lord Ludlow.” + +“No doubt.” Cosgrove swung about in his chair with a ruddy scowl. “And +I’ll trouble his Lordship to explain how a piece of my private +correspondence arrived in his pocket, and will he please tell me what +use he thought to make of it?” + +Our minds play us pranks. The quarrel itself should have engrossed me, +but an absurd irrelevant detail about Cosgrove seized my attention. +This was the first time that I had seen the back of his head. His +black hair, I have stated, was short cut, and at the rear the recent +clipping had left a broad streak of white between his splay ears, so +that a person seeing him from behind for the first time, far from +supposing him the wealthiest bachelor in Ireland, might take him for a +yokel just come from his potato patch, rawly scissored for the fair, +to complete with other yokels for the favour of rustic beauties. + +Then my glance shifted to Lord Ludlow, who also had swung about in his +chair, stiff and upright, his small bright green eyes sparkling, his +face full of indignation, like an affronted gerfalcon’s. + +“What do you mean, sir? I have no interest in your correspondence, I +am sure.” + +“Leave your pretences, shame on you, sir!” said Cosgrove (to whom I +had in impotence surrendered the slip). “This is a private +communication. I repeat, what presumption—” + +“You’re mad,” scoffed Lord Ludlow. “I know nothing about your +communications. I don’t carry them about—” + +Quite half-wittedly I interjected a hasty, “But my dear Ludlow, I saw +it fall when your handkerchief—” + +This was mere idiocy, diverting the wrath of the god to my own +shoulders. The thin man turned spryly upon me. “If you will kindly +confine yourself to your own business, Mr. Bannerlee, without +excursions into the fantastic.” + +“Mr. Bannerlee is right, I have no doubt,” asserted Sean Cosgrove with +ponderous emphasis; “and he is prying into no one’s business when he +tells the lawful truth.” + +“Fiddle-dee-dee!” cackled Ludlow. + + +_Explicit!_ Here, with the hurly-burly of the quarrel is completed the +exposition; what admired disorder ensued in the next fifteen minutes I +described at the outset of my half-the-night’s scribbling.¹ What has +it meant? What does it portend? I am sure now that the intangible +feeling impressed upon me in the Hall was one of hostility, not the +sort divulged by semi-secret looks and half-heard imprecations, but a +congeries of criss-crossed feuds hidden completely by the thick veneer +of social amenity. + + ¹ All this is more than four times as much as I wrote that night, + but I did set down something more than five thousand words. + (Author’s note.) + +Well! sleep we must in spite of thunder. I have written as often I +used to, feverishly, with absorption, but never with such a theme! +What will to-morrow bring? What shall I have to relate to-morrow +midnight? Nothing dull, I hope; I trust nothing grievous. + +(Eve Bartholomew, whom I thought I heard prowling an hour ago, left a +slip of paper under the door: “Money! I’ve known Sir Brooke to forget +it before.” + +Poor devil of a woman?) + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Strain + + October 3. 9.15 P.M. + +I awoke, late in the morning, of course, very much refreshed. For a +moment or two I was puzzled by my situation; then the tenseness and +terror of the preceding night stung me. I knew that brooding over +those wild events would lead to no good—of this and other matters I +had already made up my mind. I kicked off the bedclothes and ventured +out of my door. It was a minute or two past ten, and on my secret +march in last night’s borrowed dressing-robe down to Pendleton’s room +for a bath, I found no sign of any other guest. + +Half an hour later, in the dinner-room across the corridor from the +Hall of the Moth, I sought breakfast. On the threshold, his back +toward me, I found Ludlow vehement, making warlike gestures at someone +inside. + +He looked unnaturally thin and bent, Ludlow, attired in a suit of +cottage tweed, a smoky grey, a thing surely inherited from some +plethoric uncle, for it hung on his Lordship like a bag and at the +same time was too short in particulars. His trousers were certainly +not intended to show all that length of woollen sock, and his wrists +shot out from his sleeves like a conjurer’s whenever, as now, he +straightened his arms. His Oxford collar, cut off too soon, exposed a +lean craning neck. + +Belvoir was seated at the table. He was on the point of remarking in +his blandest voice: + +“And you know, my dear Ludlow, the notion of obscenity is certainly +modern.” + +“No such thing,” sputtered Lord Ludlow. “Your opinions are atrocious, +sir, and your books are vile. You should be boiled in oil for your +opinions, sir—and for your books you should, er, er—be parboiled!” + +“And you, my good sir, should be embalmed,” rejoined Belvoir with +equanimity. “You _are_ embalmed, by Jove! A good job, too. That will +explain everything.” + +“Thank you, sir!” + +“Not at all. My good sir, have you ever descended to fundamentals from +that altitude of sublime cerebration that you seem to be soaring in +whenever I expound my lowly beliefs?” + +“Fundamentals? What do you mean by fundamentals?” + +“I mean facts.” + +“You mean a perversion of the facts, sir!” + +Belvoir had caught sight of my grinning face over Ludlow’s shoulder, +and for my benefit, I believe, he carried on a spirited rejoinder. “My +books, upon which you have delivered so restrained a stricture, are +little more than depositories of facts, my good sir. When I assert +that modesty is a purely conventional matter, I am not spinning a yarn +from an arm-chair. When I remark that modern marriage—all marriage—is +the outcome of hardened tribal customs, I am not foining in +intellectual darkness. When I comment on the different conceptions of +chastity, instancing the preparation for marriage of Babylonian girls +in the temples of the priests—” + +Ludlow had been standing still as death during these words, but I +could see that his cleaver-like brownish cheek had been taking on a +very amiable purple hue. The mention of Babylon fired him. + +“Babylon! Filth! Pah!” + +“Quite so, if you are viciously entangled in the nets of your own +particular hidebound, Tory—” + +“You’re a fool, sir, and the sooner you—” + +“But how beautiful to the Babylonian woman—” + +“Rubbish! In the first place, you haven’t any—” + +“Even you, Ludlow, if you had happened to be a priest in Baby—” + +“Outrageous, sir! What right—” + +“Why will a Brahmin wash—” + +“I am not a Brahmin either, or a—” + +“Or take the case of murder. With us it is a crime, but in—” + +“Poppycock! Would you do a murder, sir, to show your immunity to +so-called custom?” + +“I’m too kind-hearted,” murmured Belvoir. + +“And yet you recommend us to throw overboard everything we have saved +from the past—to cast convention to the winds—to wallow in a sty of +the senses—to debauch—” + +After a few purple seconds, like a puny Jeremiah, lifting spindle arms +out of his sleeves while he raised his fists, he turned and stalked +forth in a billow of smoke-grey tweed, kicking a porridge-bowl along +the floor. Beholding me, he snapped “Good morning” while he went past. + +“Lord Ludlow doesn’t stomach new ideas very readily. His digestion was +formed during the supremacy of the late lamented V.R.” + +Belvoir spoke from the floor, wherefrom he smilingly recovered the +porridge-bowl. I then saw that other dishes, and silver, lay +scattered. + +The “stick of dynamite” explained, “The good Ludlow _will_ jump +incontinent to his feet when he wants to bully someone, regardless of +whether his tray’s on his lap or not. He _will_ eat his breakfast off +a tray.” + +“Good lord!” + +“Oh, small harm. I did not press my argument until he had emptied +every dish. As you see, neither ham nor egg hath left a stain.” + +I helped him recover the _disiecta membra_. While we collected the +crockery from the carpet, Belvoir murmured, “Poor Ludlow! Too many +spinning-mills—I’m afraid some of them are going on in his brain.” + +“Spinning-mills!” + +“Yes, didn’t you know? Our noble friend is chairman of a good few +businesses in cloth—from Ulster to the Outer Hebrides.” + +“But really, Mr. Belvoir, I’m surprised to find you carrying on any +academic controversy this morning.” + +“Eh?” His features held a vague look of trouble. + +I had set about loading a goodly plate at the sideboard. “Well, it +strikes me that you were having a row about the wrong thing.” + +“The wrong thing?” + +“Gad, man, hasn’t anything happened here to set tongues wagging, that +you must bicker with the noble Lord about folkways and the comparative +conceptions of chastity?” + +“Why, you don’t mean—” + +“Great Scott, is everyone in the House as indifferent as you two? Am I +the only one who remembers there was a massacre last night?” + +“Well,” hesitated he, “I suppose that those signs and evidences—at +night—” + +“You mean, now it’s good broad morning sunlight, everyone has calmed?” + +“Considerably, Mr. Bannerlee. Even Miss Mertoun, who saw that horror, +wanted to go out of doors this morning, but Miss Lebetwood forbade +it.” + +“Miss Mertoun!” I looked up astonished from sausage and bacon and +steaming coffee. + +“Last night, you know, we supposed that she would have to remain in +bed half a week. But a blue morning sky re-creates the world, and +people. Besides, a couple of the most painful enigmas are considerably +lightened. What do you lack? Milk?” + +“Yes.” + +“You won’t find any, I’m afraid. The milkman’s man—we’ve had it over +the ’phone—is in the throes of a nervous breakdown.” + +“Doesn’t Crofts keep a cow of his own?” + +“He does, but the beast has failed ignobly. Well, as I was saying, +last evening’s troubles are mostly dissipated.” + +“Which?” + +“Sir Brooke, for one. Pendleton has had a note from him in the morning +post.” + +“He’s not coming?” + +“Well, what should you say? The note consisted of three words: ‘Wait +for me.’ What should you say?” + +“What does Pendleton say?” + +Belvoir laughed. “Poor chap, he’s almost off his chump still, as you +may guess. Governing a household threatened with theft and no one +knows what else is out of his line. He’s in high dudgeon over it—wants +to know how long he’s supposed to wait, why he should be expected to +wait at all, and so forth. _He_, if you like, hasn’t forgotten last +night.” + +“What I can’t see is, why this gentleman’s absence should paralyze the +proceedings.” + +Belvoir winked. “We can’t have the Feast proper unless the bride’s +health is drunk, and Sir Brooke is assigned to proposing the toast.” + +A few seconds went by while I absorbed this statement. “No one else +could propose it, of course?” + +Belvoir grinned. “Well, opinions differ. Crofts says anybody can, but +Cosgrove solemnly insists that no one else _shall_!” + +“What difference—?” + +“You’ll have to ask Cosgrove; but he won’t tell you the answer, the +real answer, that is. He’s put his foot down, though. No, Sir Brooke +means no Bidding Feast; that’s flat.” + +“How long do you suppose the festivities can be postponed?” + +“A day, says Pendleton. Then if he had his way, the marriage would +take place, Brooke or no.” + +“The marriage! With all that ugliness and horror unexplained?” + +Belvoir shrugged. “What would you have? The fact is that the blood is +not so significant as we thought. Pendleton would have sent for the +police to-day, I dare say, in spite of his stand last night, but the +source of the blood has been found, or rather missed.” + +“The source?” + +“A possible or probable source. A sucking-pig with all necessary +qualifications is gone from the sties. Pendleton seems to believe that +a poacher may have slaughtered it, or that someone has indulged in a +ritualistic blood orgy, or that—but we can’t make out what he thinks, +if he knows himself. Come outside, Mr. Bannerlee, and see for yourself +how the exhibits have lost their grisliness in daylight.” + +We met Pendleton at the foot of the stairs. His greeting to me was +effusive yet a trifle strained. He had been going up to call me; +hadn’t expected that after my long—here he looked at Belvoir, +bethought himself, and stammered—well, he hadn’t expected me to be up +so soon. The boy Toby, he said, had at nine o’clock been sent on his +bicycle through New Aidenn to the ineffable village, to fetch my bag +from the inn, and incidentally to re-inquire about the reported +appearance of Sir Brooke at New Aidenn station. Most of the guests, +however, believed the identification had been mistaken. As a fact, Sir +Brooke was quite irresponsible enough to stay overnight and not +’phone. But since the message— Were we going out? He’d come, too. + +On the lawn beyond the mighty gate-house—and herefrom in the daytime +we could see the narrow glitter of Aidenn Water beyond the +tennis-court some distance up the bank—on the lawn the blood-pool, now +a dry clot, and the hatchet with helve and blade both stained, were +fenced off with guards of chicken-wire. + +“And don’t you think these are serious testimony?” + +“To what? to what?” Pendleton inquired. “What can we make of Parson—” + +“You have swallowed this Parson Lolly, hook, line, and sinker. Now I—” + +“You and Oxford weren’t so chirpy last evening,” observed our host. + +I was indignant. “Well! Did I seem to be in the same condition of +nerves—” + +“You saw the same thing.” + +“But, Crofts, man, it surely can be explained somehow without—” + +He was impatient. “Yes, of course, everything can be explained. Things +have been happening, oh, quite explainable things, all of them—only +not one of them _has_ been explained. But what I object to is giving +them an explanation that’s pure conjecture. You evidently think +there’s been murder here. You seem to believe that’s human blood. How +do you know it isn’t pig’s blood?” + +“Why not try to get someone here who can tell?” + +“Someone _is_ coming,” snapped Pendleton. + +“Oh, you have sent—” + +“No; more guests arriving, that’s all. Late comers.” + +“Like Sir Brooke?” + +“No, not like Sir Brooke. Sir Brooke promised to come yesterday; these +weren’t expected until to-day.” + +“And one of them will be able to tell—” + +“Doctor Aire should be able to tell,” said Pendleton wearily. “Come on +over to the court, and let’s forget this.” + +I acceded gladly enough. Belvoir begged off on the score of writing +letters, and Cosgrove, that moment hailing us from the library window, +came through the armoury door in baggy knickers and an Irish edition +of a sportsman’s coat (black and astonishingly high in the collar). + +While Cosgrove, Pendleton, and I moved along northward and surveyed +the meagre walls of the glazed conservatory, we could tell from the +mere vestiges that that large room and the storey of three +bed-chambers ranged above it were later engraftings to the house. The +tinting of the stones was bolder, undarkened, and brick had been used +to some extent north of the tower that marked the limit of the +original wall. + +An odd thing, that conservatory window fractured by the Parson in his +latest escapade. Brilliant purple clematis framed the lower expanses +of conservatory glass. Beneath a small birch-tree opposite the great +burst-in window we paused for a moment in order that I might see the +damaged section. Again the blooms within sent out a heady breath. The +gap in the glass was extremely irregular in shape, a good five feet in +its tallest dimension, half that in its widest. To-day, said +Pendleton, the glazier from New Aidenn, already come for a preliminary +examination, would bring his paraphernalia and close up the place. + +“That’s quite an opening unprotected.” + +“Oh, no fear,” said Crofts, “the door from the conservatory into the +corridor had been double-locked and bolted from the corridor side. +Always is, anyhow, unless someone wants to go in to make music.” + +“Make music?” + +“Yes, the piano’s there, you know.” + +“And how do you account for the shape of the smash? It looks as if +someone walking on air had stepped through the glass.” + +“Someone flying?” muttered Cosgrove, running his finger along the edge +of the broken pane. + +Pendleton made a movement of annoyance. “Oh, I don’t try to explain +it. I leave that to you, sleuth-hound. That description of yours +sounds very probable to me.” + +“Our poor, dear host,” I murmured pityingly. “Forgive me for harping +on the ungrateful chord of mystery.” + +From beyond the thick-clumped shrubs to the north and toward Aidenn +Water came a staccato of handclapping and a few bright tones of voices +in the fresh, vibrant sunlight. The sounds reminded Pendleton of our +objective. + +“Come along to the tennis. That must be Paula playing.” + +“Isn’t it a bit late in the year for tennis?” + +“I suppose so, but Paula would play it in Iceland.” + +“She is good then, I take it?” + +“Very good. She’d give you a run, Bannerlee.” + +“Oh, Lord, I’m no use any more. What sort of court have you, Crofts?” + +“Hard. Too much rain here for anything else.” + +While we went our way, I was all alert for signs of the billowing and +swelling marauder of last night, and I thought ruefully how a +fictional detective finds clues even in bent grass-blades. I kept my +eyes wide. We crossed the lawn and passed near the cypress trees where +the black-robed creature had disappeared. Surreptitiously I looked for +footprints; nothing was distinguishable. + +Before reaching the track leading to the pretentious bridge over the +tributary stream, we swung left through the bushes and soon came to a +knoll full of scaly-red, twisted strawberry trees. + +“These are aliens in England,” explained Cosgrove to me, while we +wound our way upward through the plantation. “But in my country they +are natives. I like nothing better than to loiter among them; they +almost make me think I am in old Muckross again. There is one reason +why I like your Highglen estate, friend Crofts.” + +We found a pleasant clearing there, where we could lie, having a view +both of the lawns and of the tennis. The strawberry trees extend +thickly beyond the knoll and around the court, which is only a few +yards away from Aidenn Water where it comes straight down the middle +of the Vale before making quite a detour toward the western +escarpment. A doubles match was in progress, and the knot of +spectators was too intent on the exchanges to notice us. + +“There’s Paula,” indicated Crofts. “Look at that shot! She’s master of +us all with the racquet.” + +A white-skirted player had given a leap, a _whang_ was to be heard +even from our vantage-point, and another patter of applause. I thought +the Irishman looked satisfied. + +“I approve of the excellence of women in games,” he said. + +We reclined at our ease and had a good view of Miss Lebetwood and her +partner grinding down their opponents. Cosgrove, it developed, had +never played tennis, nor did he any other game—now. In his “youth,” he +told us, he had been a good Rugger player, I think he called himself a +“dangerous partisan”; “murderous” I thought might be the fitter word +while I gazed at his countenance full of heavy seriousness and +wondered when this young man considered his “youth” to have ended. + +He swept his arm toward the enclosure where the players darted and +skipped. “As for this juvenile pastime, my part in it has been +confined to holding the fish-net.” + +I gave an astonished “Fish-net!” + +“Yes, on the stream bank.” + +Crofts Pendleton rolled over so that he might address me. “We lose a +good few balls here.” + +“Well, these tangled strawberry trees might swallow any number.” + +“There’s more in it than that. It seems almost uncanny sometimes how +many are never recovered.” + +Cosgrove said, “The number of missing balls is extraordinary.” + +“Yes, and wild shots often go into Aidenn Water. We usually have +someone on the bank with the net to recapture them floating down!” + +“That must be a grateful task.” + +“It is like all other labours of love,” rejoined Crofts, “a joy to the +doer, a wonder to the Philistine.” + +I looked sharply at my friend; little nippy speeches like that were +not like him. + +Our talk drifted away from the games. I mentioned that ruin farther up +the Vale, which I was eager to see by daylight. Cosgrove had some wild +tale about it which he told with sonorous impressiveness—only, while I +watched the lithe leaps of Paula Lebetwood and witnessed the accuracy +of her shots, the gist of the history escaped me. At this moment all I +can recall of it is that the word “treachery” kept coming in. Even if +I was distracted from appreciation, Cosgrove seemed to derive a pure +pleasure from hearing himself pour forth. But Crofts Pendleton did not +dote on the tale; instead this account, doubtless half fact, half +legend, seemed to remind him of present broils. + +During an exchange of courts, I let my gaze alight on Mynydd Tarw, +that northern hill above the ruin, whereon Aidenn Water begins at +Shepherd’s Well. My glance roved down the western line of hills, Black +Mixen, Great Rhos, Esgair Nantau, and Vron Hill, the last directly +opposite us across the Water. + +“Do you see it?” Crofts said suddenly. + +“What?” I asked, rolling over with a start. + +“The tumulus on Vron Hill. Some old josser lying up there with a ton +of stones on his chest.” + +“No, I don’t see it.” + +“Neither do I. Funny thing about it, it lies just over the shoulder of +the Hill from where we are. At sunset, though, it looks quite grand up +there, if you can see it.” + +“Somehow I’ve noticed that,” I remarked gravely. + +“What do you mean?” + +“Things look better if you can see them.” + +Crofts brushed aside my feeble attempt at leg-pulling. “Seriously, +though, Bannerlee, you should have a try at it this evening—from your +window, or from outside on the balcony. I’m no good at old stones and +that kind of thing, but I do get a thrill when I think of that codger +up there sleeping it off. He chose a breezy place to wait for +Judgment.” + +“I will have a look,” I promised. “I can’t see, though, why this +antique gentleman selected that Hill in preference to any one of +several others hereabout.” I indicated with my arm. “Why, that one, +for instance, or that one, must be a couple of hundred feet higher. +Don’t you think so?” I put it to Cosgrove, but he hesitated to commit +himself, and Crofts said that I had better ask Miss Lebetwood, if I +were too lazy to consult an ordnance map. + +“She’s hot stuff at all that, really—very useful.” + +I saw Cosgrove give his head a doleful wag. + +“Her brother—American army officer—killed,” explained our host. +“Before he sailed for France she made him teach her all he knew, +apparently. She and he would pore over the maps and plans together, I +understand.” + +“Yes,” came in Cosgrove with his voice like the great slow tramp of +oxen, “she has too many of these unwomanly things in her head, I +misdoubt. Photography—” + +“Topography, you mean,” contradicted Crofts, surprised out of his +jaded condition into smothered laughter by the Irishman’s blunder. +“Topography, not photography.” + +“I said photography, and I’ll stick to it,” replied Cosgrove with +never a smile. “And topography as well. Do you call them fit studies +for a woman?” + +“They, and others like them, are the very things that make you ache +for her,” said Pendleton with what I considered remarkable +penetration. “They form part of the wonder of her, the quality that +makes it hard for you to realize just what a prize you’ve captured. +Come man, frankly, what would you give to have her for your wife two +days from now if she didn’t have intellect as well as a treasury of +golden hair and emotions which permit a strange susceptibility to such +as you?” + +I looked curiously at Cosgrove, to see how he would take the +challenge. He took it stolidly, with never a sign on his rufous +countenance; only after a while his eyebrows lifted sharply, as if he +considered the possibility of truth in his friend’s words. + +For my part, I soon was too absorbed in the dart and dip of the tennis +ball to notice much more of the talk. Pendleton kept trying to tell me +more about Miss Lebetwood, how she loved climbing, how on earlier +visits she had taken the unpromising lad Toby in hand and uncovered +surprising intelligence in him. It all had something to do with +photography—or was it topography?—no matter. She had even brought down +some apparatus—or was it maps?—and given it to him. Cosgrove kept +still now, while our host rambled on, evidently glad of any topic he +could talk of without unpleasant associations. + +Suddenly the game was over, and everyone concerned trooped toward the +House. Pendleton was hailed by somebody and had to join the returning +party, though I think he would have been glad to remain out of sight +of his country home just then. I was well content to stay with +Cosgrove, for the man rather fascinated me; his mind seemed to be full +of admirable inconsistencies. + +We strolled southward where Aidenn Water makes that monstrous sweep to +the west beyond the towered gate, and further where the stream swings +sharply eastward again under the very toes of the bounding hills. +There stood the bridge, a crossing of one arch: ill-hewn, moss-grown +moor stone with a two-foot parapet, quite immeasurably old and quite +quaint, with an immemorial ash-tree overlooking it from this side. The +water stole peacefully underneath. I expressed surprise that it would +bear any considerable weight, and Cosgrove with an air of commenting +on the irrelevant remarked that he did not suppose it was ever +expected to bear any greater weight than Pendleton’s motor or a +tradesman’s team and wagon. + +“Look at it, I say, look at it. They build no bridges like that +to-day.” + +We remained several minutes there beside the water-crossing, which was +indeed picturesque, then turned toward the half-hidden House in some +haste, for the sky had gradually been overcast and now there was a +premonition of showers in the nip of the wind. + +We hastened through the main portal of the House, beneath the stone +head of the cat, just in time to escape a flicker and dash of rain. + +There at the foot of the stair-well was Pendleton again, with a long, +sour face. + +I suppressed a desire to laugh. + +“Well?” + +“That damned, diseased pest!” + +“What! Not the Parson once more!” + +Cosgrove cannoned an incredulous “No!” + +With the suddenness of a conjurer our host thrust before our noses a +second cardboard placard scrawled across with uncouth printing mingled +of capitals and small letters, now composing a message of more +sinister purport: + + L o o K o u T F O R P A R S O N L O L L Y H e M E A n s + B U S I N e S S + +“Ah, yes,” I murmured with perhaps a little too much surface effort at +nonchalance. “Parson Lolly means business now. He was only trifling +last night.” + +“He was interrupted last night—be sure of that,” intoned Cosgrove. + +“Damned lucky for us, then.” + +Pendleton was unsteady with righteous embarrassment and rage when +Cosgrove interrogated him. “Where was this thing found?—who found +it?—when—” + +“Harmony—one of the housemaids—the vixen,” snapped Pendleton, and +seemed unable to make headway. + +“Why is the good Harmony held in such opprobrium?” I inquired. + +“I swear she’s lying—the minx—or she put it there herself.” + +“Where?” + +“In your room, Sean, lying in the middle of the floor.” + +Perhaps Pendleton had been saving that item for rather a stiff jolt at +the last. I happened to be looking at Cosgrove and saw his eyebrows +jerk upward prodigiously, as if they were going to fly off his +forehead, and the eyes beneath them bulged and stared like glass. + +“In my room? When was this?” + +“She just came down from doing the beds—says she found it there not +five minutes ago.” + +“Hem,” said Cosgrove, his features settling into a study. + +“Come, come,” urged Pendleton, making a nervous movement of +impatience. “Tell us—when were you in your room last?” + +“A little after nine, I think,” answered Cosgrove, solemnly scratching +his black-thatched head behind the left ear, his look scowling and +intent upon the floor, his brow cleft by one heavy wrinkle. “I saw the +boy riding the bicycle out of the barn; that would be nine, you said. +I heard Lord Ludlow quarrelling with the man Soames for bringing him +the wrong color of towel, a quarter of an hour later—fully. And I came +out in the corridor in time to see Soames disappear down the stair.” + +“After a quarter past nine,” said Pendleton. “That leaves over two +hours—unless Harmony—” + +“It couldn’t have been there and you not see it?” I asked. + +“In the centre of the floor? Mr. Bannerlee!” + +“Are you implying that it was left there last night?” + +“I withdraw the suggestion, Crofts,” I said, “although—” + +“There are enough ‘if’s’ and ‘although’s’ in this to—to stock a +political editor,” grumbled our host. + +“Has the placard any mark, any peculiarity—” + +“For identification, you mean?” Pendleton turned the cardboard over +between his fingers, dubiously. “It’s like last night’s—cut round the +edges with scissors or a knife—might have been part of the bottom of a +box of sweets.” His voice was despairing. “I suppose enough board for +twenty foul things like this comes into this house every week. And in +all Wales—” + +“Our search—supposing we go about a search—will hardly be as broad as +that,” said Cosgrove, and I was struck, as many times before, by the +lack of lightness in his voice. He meant just that: that if the +placard were investigated, the whole country need not be drawn into +the matter. + +Our host turned to the Irishman: “Search won’t do any good; that’s +certain sure. But I’ll have the servants up this afternoon. +(Bannerlee, you be with me while I question ’em and tell me what you +think of their candour—you’ve no prejudices, you know.) Sean, what do +you think of it? Are you alarmed?” + +Cosgrove laughed contemptuously. + +“But it’s directed to you this time.” + +“It’s casual, casual. What could anyone—what could this meddler have +against me?” + +“It was left in your room.” + +“By chance,” insisted Cosgrove. “There could have been no malice +toward me in it.” + +“But, by gad, what shall I tell the people here?” + +“Nothing—and swear the woman Harmony to whisper never a word.” + +“Yes, of course, I’ve sworn her on the Bible until she was +blue-scared, the jade. But this thing?” + +Cosgrove reached out and took the placard. He tore it across, placed +the pieces together and tore it again, and repeatedly, and handed the +bits back to Crofts. + +“Make a small fire in the Hall.” + +It impressed me as a really brave thing, and I believe that Crofts +felt the same admiration for him who dismissed such a message, +apparently out of the air, from man or superman or sub-man. + +“Here goes, then.” + +“Has the boy come back with my bag?” + +“Not for at least another hour, I’m afraid. He has a long hilly road +to ride—down through New Aidenn and all the way around by the south +skirts of Aidenn Forest.” + +“Sir Brooke?” + +“Not a nail of him. But the others have come.” + +I echoed, “Others? Guests?” + +“Doctor Aire and the two young, very young Americans.” + +“And what says the Doctor to the blood on the lawn?” asked Cosgrove. + +“He took some of it up for microscopy. He can tell if it’s probably +human or not. He’s more than a little interested.” + +We had entered the Hall of the Moth from the portrait corridor, and +through the plenteous windows saw a swift rain pouring down. + +“The evidence is getting wet.” + +“Canvas spread over,” Crofts assured us. “And _this_ evidence now gets +carbonized.” + +We watched the fragments of cardboard smoulder, flare, and become +consumed in the fireplace where raindrops spattered down the chimney, +until only ashes were left, and a tiny spire of smoke. Cosgrove +disintegrated the ash with the poker. + +“_That’s_ a blessing,” said Crofts, taking out his watch. +“Luncheon-bell in ten minutes. Between now and then I shall smoke not +less than three cigarettes.” + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Court of Inquiry + +We ate beneath a sprinkling of electric lights and my mind was glum +with foreboding. + +As usual, Ludlow made himself manifest. His sneer in a shrill staccato +was apparently directed against Doctor Stephen Aire, a new arrival. +Him I had not yet met, the table being already seated when I came down +from revising my toilet in my lofty bed-chamber. + +“—and the wrigglings and windings of the new psychology, the _new_ +psychology, forsooth!” + +A diatribe by Lord Ludlow I already considered to be in the nature of +a treat, and I leaned forward to see how the challenge would be +received by Doctor Aire, who was seated at the same side of the table +as I. All that was visible of him, of course, was head and shoulders, +extraordinarily broad and square shoulders in rough purplish tweed, +and a shocking small and yellowy-looking head with tight-stretched +skin, a balt spot like a tonsure in a ring of sparse grey hair, and +short pepper-and-salt moustache. His eyes (I could see, for he sat +only two away from me) were small and bright and seemed to be +twinkling amusement. + +“The new psychology, sir—” + +“No, Ludlow,” clicked the doctor, his thin bloodless lips curved +sharply upward at the ends, “not the _new_ psychology, of course. +_Why, Saint Paul knew as much psychology as anyone living to-day!_” + +At this iteration of his own words of the night before his Lordship +stared, swallowed, and collapsed into silence. A small but delighted +squeak produced by a morsel of a girl at the other end gave away the +secret of pre-arrangement, and a laugh murmured about the table. + +Now, I was not the only one who particularly noticed this very young +lady, “Lib” (short for Liberty!) Dale. While I took in her appearance, +I became almost intuitively aware of another gaze making an angle with +mine. Cosgrove was staring at her, so enigmatically that I removed my +glance from her to him, just as she turned her blue eyes upon me with +a quick little movement of her head. Vastly _interested_, totally +engrossed, seemed Sean Cosgrove just then, but the quality of his +interest was untellable. In the judgment of a second, I guessed his to +be a look of, almost, aversion; he seemed fascinated, yet scandalized. +Then the fleeting expression was gone, and he leaned back, turned to +his neighbour. + +Now I was aware that another beside myself was intent on Cosgrove! + +Pendleton sat in sole occupancy of the head of the board. The ends of +the table, however, were broad enough to seat two of our numerous +party, and Alberta Pendleton shared the foot with a youth of sturdy +appearance. Bob Cullen completed the American group among us. His +alert eyes had the queer habit of blinking owlishly at whiles; he +possessed also a pug nose, a good, clean-cut mouth, and a jaw meatless +and determined. Between the mode of his smooth black hair and that of +“Lib” Dale’s there was, as far as I could see, little to tell. He was +very shy. His contributions to conversation, such as I had happened to +overheard, had been “That’s right,” and “Yes, Ma’am,” addressed with +schoolboy gruffness to Alberta Pendleton, who smiled on him with +aunt-like approbation. He has attended for a year, I understand, one +of the great American universities. + +He, then, was staring at Cosgrove, while the Irishman’s regard rested +in trouble on the boyish features of “Lib” Dale. The American youth’s +face went unwontedly white, and his eyes, now wide open, glared. There +was nothing puzzled in his expression, only resentment and a vague +awe, as if he knew he confronted a better man than he. + +Then Cosgrove shifted, and the drama of three seconds, which has taken +three pages to describe, was over. + +Chairs scraped; we rose to our several heights. “Lib” and Bob were +distinctly the shortest among us, and Doctor Aire was not much taller. +But the physician, standing up, was the strangest creature in the +room—a clockwork man. + +That broad-shouldered body in the tweed-suiting was boiler-shaped, and +the long, gaunt arms and short, stodgy legs, seemed casual appendages +joined at convenient locations. Atop this mechanical contrivance his +head stuck like an absurd plaster carving on a pedestal. I could not +but feel a queer, half-repugnant sensation when, on my being +introduced to him, his yellowy, almost Chinese-looking face was close +to mine, and I saw only the blue shadows where his eyes had retreated +and the narrow-lipped mouth nigh to white in its bloodlessness. + +I looked about to be presented to the pair of young Americans; they +had already skipped out of the room. + +“Since it’s still raining and we’re tired of the things we’ve been +doing anyhow, we’re going to get Doctor Aire to tell us about the old +magic in this neighbourhood,” said Alberta. + +“That will be frightfully jolly,” I remarked, surprised at the bizarre +field of knowledge evidently studied by the physician. + +“I’m afraid it will be, as you say, ‘frightfully jolly,’” remarked +Doctor Aire, with his smile at the very ends of his mouth. “I’m not +sure the subject—in view of events—” + +“Why not the new magic instead?” asked Crofts. + +Doctor Aire turned his head sharply; I almost expected to hear a +ratchet click. “What’s that?” + +“The stuff in old Watts’ attic, I mean. We’ve found a conjurer’s +outfit there, Doctor. Why not give ’em a show? That performance of +yours at Coventry was as good as any professional’s.” + +“Oh, we’ll settle that in the Hall,” smiled Alberta. “Come along, Mr. +Bannerlee.” + +“But I want him here,” objected Crofts. “We’re going to examine the +servants.” + +“You really want me?” I exclaimed. “But I don’t know your +servants—haven’t seen but four of ’em yet.” + +“That’s just it,” he explained. “I want someone to be here who can get +a good unprejudiced impression of how they behave.” + +“Well, if I can assist—” + +“But have you asked Mr. Bannerlee if he _wants_ to stay and listen to +the silly—” + +Crofts besought me. “Oh, come, Bannerlee, you know as much as Doctor +Aire does about magic—you with your antiquities.” + +“On the contrary, it is one of the fields where I have done very +little spading, but—” + +“There, see,” smiled Alberta. + +“But I was going to say that this interrogation of yours sounds +particularly interesting. I’ll stay, if you don’t mind, Alberta.” + +“Of course not,” laughed Pendleton’s good-natured wife. “I only tried +to protect you. Crofts is a fearfully long-winded inquisitor.” + +“I think I am the best judge—” began he, but the door closed, cutting +short his speech and her laugh. + +There were thirteen servants in the room when the tale was made. The +dessert dishes from luncheon had not been removed. Crofts sat at the +head of the board; I was inconspicuous in the curtained recess of the +window where Belvoir had sat at breakfast-time. + +From this vantage-point I had my first glimpse of the grounds +immediately east of the House. I saw an unexpected lawn with lovely +flower-patches extending to the kitchen-gardens. On both sides were +topless and toppled walls much gnawed by time, clearly a portion of +the ancient, much vaster edifice of which Highglen House is a +survival. A group of well-preserved square stone buildings about +thirty yards away on my right were, of course, the stables and garage. + +The half-dozen women-servants and two elderly men-servants, besides +the magisterial Blenkinson, were in chairs along the inner side of the +room, while the other men stood with marked differences of composure +before the screens that guarded the entrance to the pantries and the +kitchen. The number of “below-stairs” folk would have been much +greater, of course, had not the Pendletons requested their guests not +to bring personal servants. Thus we men all valeted ourselves, and for +the ladies the staff of maids had to “go round.” + +Pendleton began bluntly: “It’s about this foolishness of Parson +Lolly.” + +Blenkinson lifted the lid of one eye, the better to observe the master +of the House. “And did you mean to say, sir, if I may make so bold, +that any of _us_ have anything to do with the honfortunate affair?” + +“Everything, everything!” said Crofts, and to allay a hum of dismay +and dignity offended, hastily added, “Oh, don’t misunderstand, please. +I mean just this: this Parson Lolly—this ridiculous Parson Lolly—of +course, we don’t believe in any such nonsense. What I want to do is to +get from each one of you, if you can pull yourselves together and give +plain, straightforward statements—I want to find the origin of this +folk-tale—this fairy-story—from each one of you—that is—do you see?” + +“Can’t say as we do—speakin’ for me at least,” drawled a +gaunt tawny-faced man in a leather coat and vest and corduroy +riding-breeches, a cartridge-belt hanging over his arm. His voice had +the pleasant modulation of this countryside, with a little chirruppy +uptilt at the end of each phrase. + +“Hughes, I expected—you see, of course, that it’s that common talk of +you—all of you—and such as you, that spreads such wild, romantic, and +unfounded legends through the countryside. Now, a man four hundred +years old—which of you has seen such a man?” + +“If I may hinterpose,” came in Blenkinson again, “I might remind you, +sir, that most of us are not of Welsh extraction. These foolish +stories don’t ’ave much credit with us from London and other parts, +you may be sure.” + +This speech was approved by vigorous nods on the part of several, +while three or four, the darker-faced and smaller ones, glowered for a +bit, particularly two of the women, strikingly handsome and strikingly +alike. Old Finlay the gardener smiled with sublime sarcasm, such as to +elicit a question from Pendleton. + +“I was thinkin’ as how they was all flummoxed and flabbergasted last +night. It tickle me—that it do. They fules!” The ancient slapped his +knee and burst into a silent guffaw. “Why, they tales—” + +“One moment, Finlay,” said Pendleton; “we must go through this in an +orderly way.” + +“Sir,” Blenkinson cautioned. + +“Oh, yes, yes, of course—what you say is very true—forgotten about +it.” Pendleton scratched his head, saw light suddenly. “Why, of +course, er—most of you are English, not British—” + +“What’s that, sir?” + +“Not Welsh—same thing. I suppose, then—there won’t be much—well, let’s +see how much we do know. I’ll take you in turn.” + +He spoke to the men standing by the screen. “Wheeler, Tenney, +Morgan—any of you had any, er, experiences in the stables? Wheeler?” + +“No, sir,” answered a young, rubicund fellow with a swollen and +discoloured cheek and blue-ringed eye. (He drove the Pendleton car.) +“Nothing but when we were called out last night.” + +“Where did you get that eye?” + +“Fell over pitchfork, sir, and hit the side of a stall.” + +“Tenney, you?” + +“No, sir.” He who answered was a tired-looking man, whose eyelids were +most of the time let down. The two words, his total contribution to +the inquiry, were drawn out to the length of polysyllables. + +“Morgan, you’re a Welshman from around this district. You must have a +lot of these old wives’ tales simmering inside that head of yours.” + +The man, a swart, square-bearded little man, speaking with the +sing-song of local accent, answered that he had heard tell of Parson +Lolly “out of the cradle.” + +“I’ve no doubt—ignorant folly,” commented Pendleton. “Well, what is +all this nonsense?” + +“You mean about Parson Lolly, sir?” + +“Yes, what about him?” + +“Well, sir, they do say he be the biggest of the farises and he be out +of sight of any man for age.” + +“Farises?” + +“He means the fairies, sir,” interpreted one of the women, a mite of a +person sitting on the edge of her chair, with a wisp of tartan colour +at the throat of her black lady’s maid’s uniform. + +“Eh? Oh, Ardelia, thanks,” exclaimed Pendleton, while the stableman +Morgan mumbled something about the propriety of a “not Welshly +person’s” keeping still, and one of the two handsome women gave +her small fellow-servant an unsisterly look and ejaculated, +“Hop-o’-my-thumb!” + +“Go on, Morgan,” bade Pendleton, quieting a general stir. + +The ensuing account was full of omens and transformation, of black +calves and fairy ovens, of wizard marks, sucking pigs, “low winds,” +and horses ridden by the “goblin trot” in stables at night. + +“Great Scott, man! Do you believe all this?” + +The “London servants” and those from other parts tittered. + +Morgan seemed to be weighing his words. “Well, that be hard to say, +sir.” + +“What’s hard about it? Don’t you know what believing is?” + +“Right well I do, sir, but—” + +The small Ardelia woman with the fleck of colour at her collar bobbed +forward. “If he can’t say it, I’ll say it for him. Sometimes he does +believe, and sometimes he doesn’t. Now, Saul Morgan, say if ’tisn’t +so.” + +The stableman gave her a critical glare, but assented. “That’s nigh +the way of it, as Miss Lacy says, sir.” + +“Well!” snorted the interlocutor. “Sometimes you do and sometimes you +don’t! And what causes these changes of front?” + +“I beg your pardon, sir?” + +“What makes you believe—” + +“Well, sir, sometimes it’s right dark outside, you understand, and +things or somethin’ you can’t see—well, they—” + +“What, the things you can’t see?” + +“Yes, sir. They have a way of surely creepin’ in your blood, if you +understand what I mean, sir.” + +“Yes,” said Pendleton, settling back, and, I thought, shivering a +little, “I suppose I do.” + +Morgan, on account of his complete and ingenuous exegesis of the lore +of Parson Lolly, the object of much ironic commiseration from the +“Londoners,” pulled out a florid handkerchief and wiped the beads from +his brow. He stole a half-ashamed glance at the diminutive Ardelia +Lacy, whose wide disapproving eyes made him squirm and shrink. + +Pendleton turned to the women ranged along the wall, whose examination +was shorter. Harmony, Em, and Jael, minxes with buxom bodies and good +fresh faces, were “not Welshly people,” and had no traditions of +Parson Lolly in their mental make-up, but they evidently had some +respect for him born of the stories of indigenous servants. Harmony’s +troubled look showed, to be sure, that she was remembering painfully +to keep the secret of the new announcement of the Parson, but by none +save Crofts and me was her embarrassment marked. Ardelia Lacy, minute +and prim, personal maid of Alberta Pendleton, was also a “Londoner.” + +The two dark-featured, vivacious women, were the “Clays,” Rosa and +Ruth, cook and housekeeper, nieces, it appeared, of Hughes. Rosa Clay +it was who had shown a little animosity toward the “foreign” Ardelia, +indicating possibly a rivalry in respect to the favour of Morgan the +stableman. They knew of no doings of Parson Lolly prior to the arrival +of the guests for the Bidding Feast. + +There remained three men-servants grouped in chairs about the foot of +the table: Blenkinson the staid, Soames, footman, with mutton-chops +and unction, and old Finlay the gardener with his irrepressible silent +guffaws. And in the background against the screen loomed the figure of +the man in out-of-doors clothing and cartridge-belt, the gamekeeper. +Crofts looked at Soames and Blenkinson reflectively, but passed them +as already examined. He raised his eyes. + +“How about you, Hughes?” + +“_What_ about me, sir?” Again the keeper’s voice betrayed his kinship +of race with Morgan. + +“You, too, have this mythology of the Parson pat, like Morgan?” + +“Well, sir, I hardly think Morgan had it ‘pat,’ as you say,” answered +the man, turning the eyes in his motionless head toward the stableman, +who muttered something unintelligible. “I don’t think he was very well +taught, sir—things mixed up, or something, and things that didn’t +belong there, you might say. Now, as it was always told me—I come from +down Powys-way, sir—” + +“You surprise me, Hughes, a man of your age and sense. Now, what about +this? While the House was empty and you and the rest were caretaking, +what signs were of Parson Lolly then? I don’t mean larks and pigeons—I +mean real evidence lying around, or real activity.” + +“Nothing, sir.” + +“Not anywhere in the preserve? Not in the whole estate?” + +“No, sir. Nothing used to happen until you brought down the folk that +are here now.” + +“I see, I see. And you know nothing of the cause of the disturbances +of the last few days?” + +There was an ominous pause, while Hughes seemed to be considering his +words. The room grew a little tenser; Pendleton looked up in surprise. + +“What! You do!” + +“Well, sir, I might say so; it’s connected with what I’ve heard about +Parson Lolly. But it’s an old story, sir—tells about the great lord +who built the castle that was here.” + +“Ha! it does? About Sir Pharamond Kay?” + +“It’s sure to, sir.” + +“Sir Pharamond—hm—built this castle—exactly—well, come on, man; what +is this?” + +Contrasted with Morgan’s, that was a thoroughly intelligible tale the +tall keeper recited in his voice with the mellow burr and up-ended +sentences. Under those conditions of semi-darkness and suspense in the +old, black-beamed chamber, it made a thoroughly moving story. And to +one who knew the rigours and alarums of feudatory existence, who +realized the ingrown awe of their masters felt by peasants with a long +tradition of ancestral servitude to imperious Lords Marchers, it was +quite obvious what a foothold in fact this tale of enchantments must +have had. For from his youth, or ever that most ancient castle up the +Vale was destroyed, Sir Pharamond Kay had been a wizard, and between +him and Parson Lolly, then presumably a magnus in the prime of his +powers, existed a rivalry shrewd and unflagging! + +Wizards, to be sure, are not born but made, and Sir Pharamond went +through complicated and profound measures to acquire his occult +influence. This was before he had achieved his turbulent lordship, and +his father ruled all Aidenn Forest with mailed fist. Sir Pharamond +first unbaptized himself by three times spewing out water from the +Holy Well. Then he stitched up his own lips with three stitches and +for a certain space fasted and remained dumb. When he had unsealed his +mouth again, he went by himself to a lonely room and did certain rites +with a Bible, a fire, and a circle drawn with blood upon the floor, +whereafter the Bible was ashes and Sir Pharamond, as he well deserved, +was a true and certified wizard. + +All this while Parson Lolly, whose sphere of influence included Aidenn +Forest, had been watching the career of the ambitious necromancer with +baleful interest, and now the older magician believed that he must try +conclusions with the usurper or be shorn of his potency in this +region. In the guise of a skipping hare he invaded the castle, and +having come into the presence of its lord, suddenly assumed his wizard +shape and challenged Sir Pharamond to a contest for supremacy. This +took place at the Four Stones (monuments of an eldern time still +standing lonely in a field-corner some miles beyond the mouth of the +Vale) and the Lord of Aidenn proved to have an Evil Eye so strong the +Parson was put to rout. In the form of a buzzard he fled to the +desolate summit of Black Mixen at the top of Aidenn Forest. But Sir +Pharamond, having assumed the shape of a small caterpillar, clung with +all his legs between the shoulders of the bird and reconfronted his +rival when he alighted where The Riggles are now. Those enormous +scratches are the marks of his buzzard-claws. + +Then when the Parson strove with powers enforced by the deadly fear he +was in, the tide of battle turned. On that solitary hilltop, moreover, +the elemental influences were on the side of the older magician. With +a dart of his beak the Parson sank a deep wound in the cheek of Sir +Pharamond, destroying the efficacy of his Evil Eye. Then it was the +Lord of Aidenn’s time to flee, and he escaped to the innermost black +sanctuary of his castle. + +But Parson Lolly overthrew the castle, whose skeleton of clay slate +chunks lies wasting up the Vale to this day. + +Thenceforth, although Sir Pharamond lived on, his magic was only the +shadow of what it had been, and he lived in perpetual dread of Parson +Lolly. He built him a new castle where the mill had stood, and where +Highglen House stands to-day. But he never found content within his +re-erected halls. The menace of the Parson hung over his days and +nights. Whenever in his woeful heart he meditated regaining his former +ascendancy, from the cheek of his portrait on the wall blood would run +and in his own cheek he would feel overwhelming pain, as when the +Parson had driven his buzzard-beak into the flesh. + +“One moment!” interjected Crofts. “Do you mean the painting in the +corridor?” + +“No, sir; it’s that little one way up on the wall of the Hall of the +Moth as I mean.” + +“Ah!” My host licked somewhat dry lips. “Go on.” + +“There’s not so much more to it, sir, I expect. The Parson finally +_would_ make an end of Sir Pharamond. He sent Sir Pharamond’s own +corpse-candle for Sir Pharamond to see.” + +“Corpse-candle!” + +“A dimmery light, sir—it floats in the air. It’s a sure sign of a +death in these parts. And the Tolaeth sounded, too; so Sir Pharamond +knew then that it was all up with him.” + +“The Tolaeth—I don’t think I know what that means,” said Crofts. The +Welsh folk stirred just a little. + +The keeper’s voice fell, I do not think by design. “The rappin’s, sir, +that come just before a person dies. Tappin’, sir, like—” + +Our hearts were in our throats while he finished the speech in a +sudden gasp—“like that.” + +For from the other side of the corridor wall, high toward the ceiling, +had sounded three sharp knocks. + +And again, before a breath was taken in the room, three knocks +again—and again. + +“It’s the Three Thumps.” Morgan’s voice was that of a strangling man. + +“Coffin-making,” muttered one of the Clay sisters, her eyes lightless. + +I saw Crofts’ glance flit about the room, taking in the whole group. +I, too, had thought of collusion, but the number of servants was +complete; none had slipped out while the keeper’s story was in +progress. + +Crofts remained irresolute for only a few seconds before he jumped up +and sprang to the door, flung it open and glared down the corridor. + +“Empty,” he said, and I could not tell whether satisfaction or +distress was uppermost in his voice. Then the silence for a bit was +blank and appalling. He returned to the table. “Get on with your +story, Hughes. We’ll find out about this fol-de-rol later.” + +“Well, sir, the Lord of Aidenn was sure to fight the Parson again when +the signs had come. He still tried to get back his magic power, and +the blood stood out on the picture and the pain came in his cheek. But +he knew that it was life-and-death, and he kept repeating his spells +and made a man of wax against the Parson. But just as he was going to +drive a bodkin through the man of wax, the pain of his old wound made +him stagger, and everyone heard the Parson laughing though they +couldn’t see him, and the portrait fell down from the wall—and Sir +Pharamond was dead!” + +All of us, I believe, drew a long, grateful breath. Crofts sat +quietly, seeming to cogitate. + +At length he said, “Look here, Hughes. That’s a priceless fairy-tale, +but what makes you think it may have any connection with what’s going +on here?” + +The keeper hunched a shoulder toward the corridor wall. “You’ve just +heard that, sir. And if there _is_ a Parson Lolly, sir—” + +Crofts leapt in the breach to nullify this dangerous beginning. “We’ll +not discuss such a preposterous supposition.” + +“They do say, sir,” appended Hughes, “that blood will come on the face +of the picture when the time comes for Highglen House to be +destroyed.” + +“Destroyed?” + +“Yes, sir. By Parson Lolly.” + +There was no denying that Hughes had scored several palpable hits, +besides the unaccountable business of the knocking on the wall, and +Crofts was glad to dismiss him, so to speak, from the witness-box. + +I, seated in the embrasure of the window a little way behind +Pendleton, had an unobstructed view of the upper iron-bound door +leading into the portrait-corridor. While, then, I happened to glance +at the substantial iron handle of the door, for it had no knob, the +roots of my hair stirred and a thrill shot down my spine. + +For, very slowly, the black bar was turning while something outside +softly pressed downward on the handle. + +The fascination that took hold of me then was almost hypnotic. I +forgot the room, the people there, the cracked fleering voice of the +old gardener; all that existed for me then was the slowly descending +bar. To call attention to the thing never so much as occurred to me. +Nothing occurred to me. When the bolt of the lock had been drawn back, +the door began to open with imperceptible motion—an inch—two +inches—and was at rest. The handle gradually returned to its +horizontal position. It seemed as if I had taken only one breath +during those four or five minutes. + +Crofts’ questioning went on, and little by little I came out from the +spell of the door, which remained ajar. The questioning went on, with +some secret listener outside in the passage. Still I held silence, +for, clouded with excitement as was my mind in those minutes, the +notion of danger did not possess me. I kept my eyes on the motionless +door, dreading that it might open further, distinctly unwilling to see +what it might disclose—and the questioning went on. + +Pendleton was learning nothing from Finlay; I was vaguely aware that +the old gardener was fencing with the over-anxious Crofts. + +Then a thing occurred to relieve the tension: from the kitchen entry +came sound of hurried movement, of a dish falling to the floor, and +presently was visible the tousled head of a boy peering around the +edge of the screen, a head surprised into a gape by sight of the +assemblage. + +“Come in, Toby,” said Crofts. “We’re—” + +“I just got back, sir, with Mr. Bannerlee’s bag and all. Oh, sir,” +cried the head, bringing its body into the room, “the Water’s swellin’ +awfully from the rain—” + +His hair was quite tangential, and his shoes and clothing bore marks +of the storm. An ulster dangled both ends from his shoulders. He was +breathing hard with exertion added to stress of spirit. + +Pendleton began to explain to him: “We are trying to clear up this +business of—” + +“I waited under ellum, till the rain stopped,” persisted the excited +lad. “It went under old bridge with a roar and a roar. I misdoubt—” + +The exciting thought of the door softly released and pushed ajar had +grown weaker in my mind upon the entrance of Toby. But again my eyes +chanced to light upon the portal, and again my blood rushed pell-mell +through a throbbing temple. For, unless my senses were false, the door +trembled a little, as if uncertain whether to open farther or to shut. +The secret watcher’s hand must be upon it still! + +In a daze I arose and came out of my retirement in the window-place. + +“Crofts,” I said. . . . “Crofts.” + +So hushed was my voice that he spun around in his chair with open +mouth, and the servants’ chorus gave a slight gasp. + +I tried to open a path through my throat for words to issue. + +“Crofts . . . there’s something—someone, I mean—watching us.” + +“How? What on earth do you mean? What’s the matter with you?” + +I extended my arm toward where showed a long narrow slit of blackness +between jamb and door-edge. + +“There.” + +“How do you know?” + +My courage was small, but I summoned more to add to what I had. “I saw +the door opened from the passageway. I tell you this inquiry has been +overheard.” + +I strode toward the door, while from behind me came the scrape of +Crofts rising to his feet, and the rustle of the servants. Open that +door I would, if the fourfold centenarian himself were waiting outside +to do me mischief. But I believed, and would not have been sorry to +discover, that the unknown visitant had by this time fled, and with +this hope upholding me I gripped the handle-piece and jerked the +portal open. + +But no! A man stood in the corridor. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Wager of Battel + +Gilbert Maryvale! + +“Oh, you!” exclaimed Pendleton, and appeared completely contented at +once. + +“Isn’t it awful?” asked Maryvale. “Isn’t it awful?” + +Pendleton and I stared speechless at him; in me, at least, the old +surprise had given place to new astonishment twice as strong. What was +the matter with this man? The only light in the long windowless +corridor came from a translucent electric globe far at the foot of the +stairs, but even in the vaguely illuminated passage I realized that +something had happened to Maryvale. + +“I saw the boy coming by the drive, and I thought he might—there might +be some news of Sir Brooke at last. The doctor is telling some +powerful things. I’ve been in and out of there twice. I always—I +thought I’d better get away . . . came to see if the boy had . . .” + +“One question, Mr. Maryvale,” I said quickly. “Were you in the +corridor a while ago tapping the wall with something?” + +“Why, yes, with my friend Crofts’ cane.” He turned to our host. “But I +assure you I did not harm the cane.” + +“The cane be hanged,” responded Crofts. “But why in thunder did you do +it?” + +An expression vanished from Maryvale’s eyes almost before it deepened +there, a softness, a look of meekness, a chastened look; I thought it +a revelation of painful things kept subdued. + +“Something suggested to me that there might be a secret passage in one +of the walls of the corridor. I was trying, high up—” + +Our host made a disgusted sound. “One thing you may depend upon, +Gilbert, no matter what happens. In this extant portion of the castle +there are no secret passages. There’s not so much as a priest’s hole +or a trap-door or a double wall to a cupboard. There’s one bogie laid, +anyhow. You may as well know that you made fools of us in there. Where +the devil did you go afterward?” + +“I’m sorry if I annoyed you. I just went back into the Hall of the +Moth. But Doctor Aire—I didn’t care for the hobby of Doctor Aire. So I +returned again to hear if there was anything about Sir Brooke.” + +The servants, of course, had clustered around the door with quite +natural and honourable inquisitiveness. Pendleton turned on them. + +“You may go—and mind, don’t talk about this all afternoon. The subject +is closed.” Ah, trustful Crofts! + +So out of the dining-hall they filed to their aloof world of +below-stairs: Ruth and Rosa Clay of lustrous person, Ardelia Lacy +(giving the Welsh stableman a look in passing that was obviously a +piece of her mind, though its crushing significance was hardly clear +from the evidence), the maids, Jael, Em, and Harmony. Morgan and his +fellow stablemen, Tenney and Wheeler, got out next, and the tall +keeper gravely followed them behind the screen. Soames and Blenkinson +both had hard work getting rid of old Finlay, who seemed to think that +the occasion demanded more of his japes, and who finally thrust his +head out from behind the screen for one last comprehensive wink at me. + +Pendleton turned to the boy, who had set about his somewhat unorthodox +task of clearing the dessert dishes. + +“Did you inquire about Sir Brooke, Toby?” + +“Yes, sir, I did,” answered the lad, looking white over a load of +china and glass ware on a tray. + +“No news, I dare say.” + +“Oh, yes, sir, as a fact there was, sir.” + +“Eh? Who told you?” + +“It was the station-master at New Aidenn, sir. He was very angry, sir, +when I told him that you didn’t believe he had seen Sir Brooke. He +said to tell you, sir, that he was certain-sure. Those were the words +I was to tell you, sir.” + +“Did he take a ticket from him?” + +“He can’t exactly remember, sir, but he’s sure he saw him somewhere in +the crowd. He must have taken his ticket, sir.” + +“Bosh!” exclaimed Pendleton. “Why, I have a letter from Sir—” + +Toby continued in his unruffled style. “And he said he remembered Sir +Brooke very well from other times he was here, sir. A thinnish, +middle-sized gentleman, with a bang of mouse-coloured hair over his +eye, and double glasses, and his silk bow tie tilted toward his ear. +He remembered him quite well, you see, sir.” + +“It seems,” said I, putting in my oar for the first time, “that _you_ +remember remarkably well, Toby.” + +The boy gazed at me as if I were a sport of nature, a phenomenon of +dubiety amazing. “Why, he made me repeat what he said until I had it +by heart, sir. He was very angry, Mr. Pendleton.” + +Pendleton was in a brown study, until I plucked his sleeve and +whispered. “Thinking won’t help. Let’s get out of here, or the boy +will have something to regale the servants with.” + +But Toby now proffered a request. “Please, sir, will it be all right +if I take a picture of the servants to-night? Miss Lebetwood gave me +her old flash-light camera when she came down this time, sir, and I +want to use it.” + +(Photography—not topography!) + +“Why, hm, yes, I suppose so. Are the servants for it?” + +“Some are afraid of the flash, sir, but I’ll show ’em how it works.” + +“Go ahead, then, after dinner. Don’t blow up the place.” + +“Thank you, sir. I won’t, sir. Miss Lebetwood will help me, sir.” + +Maryvale was still standing in the corridor when we came out. + +Crofts relieved his pent-up bitterness. “What a man! He sends me a +letter, very explanatory, containing three words: ‘Wait for me.’ He +arrives at New Aidenn station last evening, but doesn’t deign to make +use of the car I sent to meet the train; he even avoids speaking to +the chauffeur, to mention that he intends to walk. He then strolls off +somewhere, apparently to lie low until it pleases him to disclose +himself. He’ll be lucky if he finds the house occupied when he makes +his appearance.” + +“But he may have got lost, of course.” + +“I had men out searching. Every foot of the Vale was beaten last +night.” + +“Still, your men may have missed him.” + +“Well, then,” Crofts declared with fine sarcasm, “suppose the +gentleman did get lost and have to sleep in the nasty, damp Vale and +get sniffles. Where’s he been all to-day? Climbing about up there +where you were yesterday?” + +“Ah, now you are asking reasonably. I can’t imagine. What is it, Mr. +Maryvale?” + +For Maryvale had suddenly grasped my arm. Now he released it, and +ignored my question. + +I could not gauge the look on the face of the “man of business”; it +appeared to have volcanic possibilities, yet subterranean still. To +regain the trivial and commonplace, I sounded Crofts on the matter +that had irritated me ever since I had seen the unstartling words in +the letter of dispute last night. + +“By the way, Crofts, I may have to be sending out a message or two if +I remain here long—” + +“Of course you’ll remain—” + +“Where’s the mail for posting?” + +“Why, just hand whatever you have to one of the servants. If you need +stationery—” + +“But isn’t there a particular place—” + +“Oh, yes, if it’s more convenient—there’s a rack for outgoing mail +under the staircase. It hangs above the end of the settle.” + +“Thank you.” + +Maryvale was busy fingering the lower part of the wide gilt frame of +one of the portraits, a full length representation of a man in cuirass +and metal thigh-plates, holding his helmet in one hand, leaning with +the other arm upon a convenient pedestal; his narrow face looked like +that of a newly-elected thane of Hell. + +“_That’s_ Sir Pharamond Kay,” Pendleton remarked, “first builder of +the castle this House is remnant of.” + +“Yes . . . yes,” Maryvale murmured to himself, concluding his +investigation of the frame. “The gilding is valuable at any rate.” + +Pendleton and I reciprocated glances of bewilderment, but Maryvale +seemed disinclined to explain himself further. He was even unwilling +to precede us back into the Hall of the Moth, which he had deserted a +little while before, and wherein the entire rest of the company were +still listening to Doctor Aire. Alberta Pendleton received us with her +charming smile, and we took places beside her at the foot of the room, +and that other, smaller, bewitched or accursed portrait of Sir +Pharamond glared down on me from the wall. + +The rain having ceased long before, and the clouds being a little +broken, the sun was, so to speak, red in the face from trying to dry +the lawn. The french windows were opened, through the northern one we +caught glimpses of the glassman from New Aidenn making whole the +damaged conservatory window. But there was no tendency toward seeking +the out-of-doors. Most of the party were quite sated with the open-air +sports afforded in Aidenn Vale. + +Doctor Aire, moreover, would have demanded attention under any +circumstances. Apart from the fascination of his subject, there was +authority in the clipped, methodical manner of his speech. Just now he +was telling of the last case of Appeal of Murder, that relic of early +ages whereby one acquitted of a death-crime could be compelled to +defend himself anew by the might of his body. As late as 1819, it +appeared, one Thornton, when acquitted, and when the dead girl’s +brother had made Appeal of Murder against him, had thrown down in +challenge to “wager of battel”—this we were in time to hear—a gauntlet +as strange as the occasion, without either fingers or thumbs, made of +white tanned skin, ornamented with sewn tracery and silk fringes, +crossed by a narrow band of red leather with leather tags and thongs +for fastening. + +Cosgrove was listening. But of a sudden it seemed to me that his +attention was curiously directed beyond Doctor Aire, beyond the +vicissitudes of the accused and acquitted Thornton, who had needed to +go on trial again with only the prowess of his body to defend himself. + +“Listening, surely,” I told myself, and asked myself, “_For +what?_” . . . + +Doctor Aire’s recital went on, encyclopedically. + +“Lord Ellenborough had to admit that the procedure was competent, +although there had not been a whisper of the Appeal throughout the +kingdom for forty years. But the curious crowd was disappointed when +the appellant withdrew; so there was no gladiatorial exhibition for +the chief justice to preside over. It is extremely unlikely that Mary +Ashford’s brother had ever intended to carry his Appeal into force, he +being a slighter man of body than the appellee—and for that reason +Thornton had probably been emboldened to make the brave show he did +with his extraordinary gauntlet of white tanned leather.” + +In the half-darkness underneath the musicians’ gallery were a pair of +listeners who had been within neither the range of my vision nor the +scope of my thought. Now one of them, the young American, Bob Cullen, +became in an instant the cynosure of the company. + +For the youth, scarcely more than a lad, rose from his seat beside Lib +Dale, and the exclamation that came from his lips twisted every neck +in the Hall. + +“So _that_ was it!” The expression of ire on those young, unformed +features was almost comical. + +Despite a hurried, “Bob, don’t be sil,” from Lib, the youth advanced a +couple of steps toward Cosgrove, leaving no doubt against whom his +wrath was directed. He raised his shaking arm and pointed at the +Irishman, he opened his mouth and was attempting articulate words, but +only one word issued, a smothered one: + +“You—you—” + +Cosgrove’s face was a thing to watch, while the parade of emotions +passed across it. Mere surprise vanished with the first turn of his +head along with the rest of the heads. His eyes widened, but for a few +seconds were blank with absolute stupefaction, and when enlightenment +finally appeared to come within him, the resentment expressed in his +lowering brows and glowing eyes seemed to be mingled with a sense of +shame, or else there was no meaning in the sidewise shift of those +eyes and in those irresolute lips. He swallowed, and his head made a +small, sharp jerk in the act. A muscle twitched in his cheek. Bob +Cullen was still saying, “You—you—” and Lib Dale was whispering dire +things to him. + +That other, admirable, American tried to deal with the frenzied youth. +Paula Lebetwood said, “Bob, you’re making a child of yourself. +Remember where you are.” + +“What’s the trouble?” asked Ludlow in a matter-of-fact tone. + +“Ask him—ask him, that’s all!” cried Bob Cullen bitterly, and then, as +is the wont of youths who believe themselves wronged, commenced +himself to explain. “He thought—you thought, Mr. Cosgrove”—(“_Mr._” +Cosgrove; much revealed by that “Mr.”)—“you thought that because you +were bigger and stronger than I was, that you could get away with +talking the way you did. Well, you needn’t think that it was because I +was afraid of you—” + +I noticed that Lib Dale was actually twisting her young compatriot’s +arm in an endeavour to gain his attention, but he held on through +pain, white and red by turns. + +“I’m ready any time you are, Mr. Cosgrove, and don’t you forget it. +I’ll show you, Mr. Cosgrove. I’ll fight you a duel or a wager of +battle or anything—” + +“My dear boy,” slipped in Doctor Aire, who took the interruption of +his narrative in very good humour, “the wager of battle is null and +void. That was the whole upshot of my story, if you had only the +patience—” + +“I don’t care if it’s null and void or not. Mr. Cosgrove, if you’re a +man—” + +Paula Lebetwood had taken hold of the half-hysterical youth’s other +arm; she placed a firm hand across his mouth, effectually stifling +what further wild challenge he might have uttered on the spot. Lib +sank down flushed and pouting, her blue eyes flinging defiance to all +of us. Cosgrove, who had not uttered a word, had a face like a man’s +in an apoplexy, and his head was lower between his shoulders than it +was accustomed to be. + +The youngster Bob Cullen was still standing there like a bulldog in +the centre of the ring, anger adding a degree of dignity to his +stature. Ten, twenty, seconds may have gone by, and still he +confronted the Irishman, whose only recognition of his challenge had +been a turn of his head and that slow dark flame in his face. + +“Well?” demanded Bob Cullen. + +Still the Irishman preserved a silence of stone. + +“Oh, Bob, you sorehead,” cried Lib Dale, grinding her heel into the +carpet. “Of all the id—” + +“But Bob, dear,” pleaded Miss Lebetwood, “what Sean said to Lib was +long, long ago in the spring, and she’s forgotten all about it, and so +should you, you silly kid.” + +The voice of Cosgrove came thundering, overwhelming. “Woman,” he said, +and a quite perceptible thrill passed over us, for he spoke to his +intended wife, and “woman” as he said it then sounded the most brutal +word he could use—“woman, no need for you to defend me. The code of +this young upstart is not my code, by the heavens—nor is yours my +code. Stand aside.” + +“Sean!” + +“Stand aside—did you hear?” + +“But Sean—” + +“While the light is in me, I shall offer it to you, woman, and to all +others I find in need of grace—even if it gall your young upstart +there.” + +Paula Lebetwood had tottered a step backward, with an expression of +the utmost pain and loss upon her face. Suddenly her face was hidden +in her hands, and her shoulders heaved with swift gusts of feeling. +Then she lifted her face tearless and hot-eyed and defiant beneath +golden hair turning to riot. + +“Sean, how unmanly, how cowardly! Oh, if you knew how I despise you +now. Oh, I need air—air!” + +She turned from us abruptly, then paused. Her bosom moved in a long, +slow breathing, and she turned her head to look at her lover, whose +gaze did not meet hers. A veil of anger seemed to fall from her +features, and the fire softened in her eyes. But this was no melting +mood. Instead, a serene aloofness reigned in her face, and she seemed +like one who studied Cosgrove from some region above, studied him with +sympathy and compassion. For a space of time—perhaps a minute—there +was this silence. Then, as if she had shown enough that she was not +embittered by passion, she departed swiftly. + +Through the passage of the french windows she strode, out to the lawn, +and across, to be lost to sight in shrubs alongside the gate-house. + +So, splitting into new faction and fresh enmity at every hour, the +Bidding Feast at last witnessed the discord of the lovers themselves. + +Cosgrove’s rebuke of his betrothed had stunned us, and her answering +rebuke had left us wild and speechless. None stirred to follow Miss +Lebetwood. In me, at least, the strife of feeling was comparable to +the mad stress of the night before, when the first message of Parson +Lolly had been found. I knew a delirium of bewilderment, a very +horror, in the instants following those outbursts. + +Cosgrove’s face, now so blotted with blood, took fantastic dimensions, +seemed twice its size. The room appeared an enormous room, and the +people pigmy people. Sir Pharamond’s portrait leered and sneered. +Every proportion was indecently distorted, and time, like space, was +bereft of its comfortable conventions. The seconds seemed to stagger +past. + +Then Pendleton, no longer held by Alberta, rose so hastily that his +chair banged backward against the stair-post of the little gallery. +“Yes, by gad! Let’s all get some air. This room is stuffy as blazes. +That’s what puts us all at sixes and sevens.” + +“I really think,” observed Eve Bartholomew, “that it’s the absence of +Sir Brooke that gets so on our nerves.” + +“Let’s declare a truce—no, let’s make peace,” smiled Alberta +Pendleton. “Sean, you and Bob haven’t any ill-will, have you?” + +Since his betrothed’s condemnation of him, no petty enmity could very +well find hold in Cosgrove’s soul. His defeat told in his dejected +head and drooped lids. He didn’t answer Alberta. + +But Bob Cullen, whose excitement had flagged, was suddenly overwhelmed +by his former audacity. “I—I suppose you folks must think—you must +think—” + +“That’s all right, Bob,” soothed Alberta; “you just lost your temper +for a minute, that was all. Anybody is likely to do that.” + +“He let Mr. Cosgrove get his goat,” put in Lib Dale in a _sotto voce +obbligato_; she was still much displeased with her compatriot. + +“I’m—I’m sorry—I apologize,” said Bob. + +“As for me,” said Cosgrove suddenly, “I do more than apologize; I make +anew.” + +“Why, Sean, how—what can you mean?” gasped Alberta, for the Irishman +now stood on his feet looking around the Hall without explaining his +remark. + +“Yes, it will do,” muttered Cosgrove. “God can come from there”; and +he gestured toward the musicians’ gallery. + +“G-g-god?” stammered Pendleton. + +“God the Creator,” responded Sean Cosgrove, and he appended a few +words as inconsequential as any Crofts himself could have used: “I’ve +seen the book in your library.” + +“But what do you mean, man?” cried Pendleton. “I never heard—” + +“To-night,” said Cosgrove, “in this Hall we shall rehearse the play of +‘Noah’s Flood.’” + +“‘Noah’s Flood!’” came a gasp from most of us. + +“Animal crackers,” mumbled Bob Cullen obscurely. + +“What’s ‘Noah’s Flood?’” asked Pendleton. “I’ve never seen any book of +that name—” + +“It is inside a book of another name,” answered Cosgrove; “one you +have never opened, I dare say. Here, at five o’clock, we shall have +tea; is it not so? Then I shall unfold—” + +“It’s an old mystery-play,” said Alberta. “Crofts, I’m surprised.” + +“But won’t there be, er, costumes, and so forth?” + +“For me, at least, no costume,” declared Cosgrove. “Man, made in the +image of God, shall need no gaudery. I should scorn to deck and +disguise myself to play my God.” + +“You don’t mean that you’re to appear in the, er, in the—” + +“In the altogether?” finished Eve Bartholomew in a thin +quasi-hysterical tone. “Oh, Mr. Cosgrove—” + +“No doubt,” Doctor Aire put in sardonically, “Sean is thinking of the +mediaeval way of playing Adam and Eve with a screen up to their +necks.” + +“Leave it to me,” said Cosgrove. + +“But won’t all this furniture have to be shifted?” inquired Pendleton +nervously. + +“Leave it to me.” + +“Alone—how will you do it?” + +“With my God-given arms.” + +“But shouldn’t the servants—” + +“I will do everything that must be done. But first,” and here I +thought Cosgrove became a little wistful, “let us go outside and +breathe the God-given air. Leave all to me; assemble here at five +o’clock.” + +He marched out, his face, with a look of grim regret and +determination, turned toward the place in the shrubbery where Paula +Lebetwood had disappeared. The last we saw of him, he had followed her +out of sight. + +The company began to disband. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The Bone + +He might hardly have been in the Hall of the Moth all afternoon, had +my impressions been evidence—so quiet he had kept, relapsed out of the +main light of the room into the shadow between the beetling +chimney-mantel and the old long-case clock. Perhaps the indefatigable +quaffing of whiskey-and-sodas, which industry is surely his favourite, +had proved soporific in that dusky alcove, whence only his crossed +feet had appeared, shod sparklingly, spatted sprucely. But now +Charlton Oxford, glazed to a hair, waxed to a needle, was standing in +the aperture of the opened french windows, and his look, whatever his +legs might be, was steady. + +His eyes were fixed upon the gap in the lawn shrubs where Sean +Cosgrove had disappeared. Surely that was an unguarded moment; his +speech, although low, was vehement, since it was addressed to a man +now far out of sight and hearing: + +“Your code, hey? Your damned code.” He wiped the back of his fist +savagely across his mouth; the heartiness of his baleful speech may +have given him the satisfaction of deep drink. + +I, who alone had heard, tiptoed close behind him, and like the tempter +spoke softly over his shoulder. + +“And what may your code be, Mr. Oxford?” + +Frightened, he swung, caught his heel on the carpet edge and thudded +heavily against the corner of the age-blackened mantel, face bleached +and eyes popping. + +“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Bannerlee,” he exclaimed with much relief, and +attempted to pass his alarm off in jest. + +“Yes, and really, what did you mean? I’m interested.” + +“What’s my code, you say? Ha, ha, Mr. Bannerlee, ’s too long, sir, to +put it in so many words, if you know what I mean. . . . But there’s +_one_ thing”—for emphasis he dug a flabby forefinger into my +ribs—“_one_ thing I’d never do that our fine C-Cosgrove wouldn’t have +the decency, the _decency_, sir, if y’understand—and the common sense, +too, damme, if it comes to that, you know—’s much common sense in it +as anything else . . . y’understand . . .” + +“And what article and section of your pandect could Mr. Cosgrove learn +from?” + +Oxford steadied himself, and over his face came a phase of profundity. +He gave me a knowing look, and his voice sank to a sibylline tone: +“Never take another man’s woman—never meddle with ’em!” + +“But a woman unprotected, eh?” I felt like asking, yet refrained, for +someone else was nighing us, one at whose approach Oxford appeared to +feel distressed. The fancy man evaporated into the afternoon sunlight +down the lawn, and Maryvale, who I think had been standing alone in +the centre of the room, was at my elbow. + +That changed look was stronger than ever about him; there seemed a +gaunt and haggard spirit in his eyes. + +“Mr. Bannerlee, you must have heard terrible tales to-day.” + +“Surely none that deserve such a violent—” + +“Oh, yes, yes—some dreadful things have happened in this countryside. +Cosgrove tells me that this morning he related to you the fall of the +old castle, and in there”—he gestured toward the dining-hall—“what +awful things you must have listened to.” + +I smothered a laugh that was half-breathless, for there was real +distress in him. “Mr. Maryvale, you exaggerate—” + +He laid his hand heavily on my arm, and his fingers took hold. “But +there is one story more terrible still!” + +“Indeed, indeed?” + +“Yes, indeed. There are legends of this Vale—none more appalling. Did +they tell you—but they could not—of the Lord Aidenn’s arm that would +not die?” + +“The arm that would not die?” + +“You know the man’s picture, for you examined it in the gallery. And +there”—he motioned toward the portrait—“is the other representation of +that orgulous, cruel man.” + +I stared again at the pitiless, thin face with a slight and enjoyable +stir of nervousness. + +“It is a dreadful legend,” averred Maryvale. “They never found—” He +turned his head, saw something, and ceased. + +For now came a new interruption, and one that I was right glad of, +since Maryvale just then was too remote and metempirical for comfort. +Of his grisly story of the arm of Sir Pharamond Kay, whatever the +fable was, I had no dread; but in the baffling Maryvale himself now +was something unapproachable that moved a mild antipathy in me. + +The interruption came in the form of a small, hoydenish, vivid-lipped +creature called Lib Dale. The last to remain in the Hall, save those +who had spoken with me, she and Bob Cullen had been engaged beneath +the musicians’ gallery in a tense-toned division of ideas. Even while +Maryvale had been drawing near me, I caught a glimpse from the heel of +my eye of Bob shuffling his feet in loathness to depart at the hest of +Lib. At length, apparently in disgrace, he had passed limply through +the farther entrance into the corridor. “Go out and soak your head,” +was Lib’s parting tenderness, which I overheard. Then, spying me with +Maryvale, the startling little thing came to interrupt. The man of +business had checked himself in the midst of his sentence; he seemed +to withdraw into some inner chamber of himself; a darkness enveloped +the peaked soul in his eyes. He was gone, and I was left alone to +encounter the sprightly bit of femininity. + +“How do you do?” she asked. “Shake. You’re you and I’m me. We know +each other’s names, or else they shouldn’t let us out.” + +“No, they shouldn’t,” I retorted feebly, without knowing what I said, +save that it was idiotic. + +“Well, don’t shed tears about it. Don’t be so vulgarly emotional. +Can’t you dig me up a real live saint, Mr. Bannerlee—something I can +take home maybe and show the folks?” + +“I should think that the legends of this countryside—” + +“Or a legend, if it’s handier. I’ve never seen a genuine legend, Mr. +Bannerlee. Lead me to it. Hasn’t my education been neglected?” + +I uttered a faint denial. + +“Oh, yes, it has,” she chortled. “For instance, I get my English all +gummed up. But that’s your fault.” + +“Of course.” + +“Now don’t be sil. You don’t know what I mean. For instance. Have you +noticed how all the books you English writers write about we +Amurricans have us saying ‘I guess’ this and ‘I reckon’ that about +every once or twice in so often? Now, over where I come from nobody +talks that way so that you could notice it, but over here in your +delightful little island we have to pull that kind of stuff once in a +while or the natives wouldn’t know where we’re from. Savvy?” + +“Oh, quite.” + +She had perched on the back of a carved gilt couch with upholstery in +rose _Brocade de Lyons_. + +“And now how about getting busy on that saint proposition? One out of +the Old Testament or anything. Warm puppies! won’t I have the kids at +home goggle-eyed? I should snicker.” + +“Saints in the Old Testament are few. And I’m afraid—” + +“Not so rough, not so rough! What do you mean, you’re afraid? How will +this sound in your biography, that you refused a maiden’s prayer? I’ll +have to take you in hand; you ought to be trained.” She reached down +and gave a tug at a gravitating stocking. “No, from your face I see +it’s hopeless. Well, what are you going to do to keep the ennui away?” + +“I had an idea,” I remarked hopefully. + +“Quick, quick! Don’t keep me in starvation.” + +“In connection with the method of making up the quarrel suggested by +the good Cosgrove—” + +“Yes, yes, I follow you there—everything except the ‘good’—” + +“Since the good Cosgrove says that the text of our play of +pacification is in the library, I was thinking of having a look at it +and refreshing my memory.” + +“I can follow you there, too; only no refreshments here, +thanks—‘Noah’s Flood’ is all news to me as a big, throbbing drammer. +Sounds sort of frisky, I mean riskay, putting all those animals to +bed. Who wrote it?” + +“The authors of the mystery-plays are unknown.” + +“Something fishy there, I’ll bet. Come on, show me this sensation.” + +She grabbed a hand of mine and dragged me through the room of weapons +into the spacious library, a room of irregular shape, since the curve +of the staircase well rounded one wall and the huge jut of the +south-west corner tower made a pocket-like projection almost equal to +a separate room. A monumental mahogany break-front bookcase occupied +the principal straight wall of the room, and other glass-covered +stacks of shelves lined the shorter and the semicircular wall and the +spaces between the windows. Altogether there must have been three +thousand books. + +“Gee whiz, Croftsy must be some reader,” said Lib. “I was never here +before, and I’ve got a brainstorm already.” + +I smiled, wryly, no doubt. “I believe that the library, like the +portraits and the symbol of the cat and the legends of Aidenn Forest, +came to Crofts with the building. In fact, though I haven’t looked +these over, I imagine many of them are of a sort unlikely to interest +our host.” + +Indeed, the major portion of the collection were volumes which could +stir the interest only of the antiquarian and the erudite student of +literature. Few, I am sure, bore the twentieth-century imprint. +Included were old books of all assortments of inconvenient sizes from +folio to duodecimo, and although in their glass prisons, whence no +doubt they were taken and dusted quarterly, they looked spick and +span, still they had a lonesome air, as if longing to be handled for +love. + +I mused. “Now where shall we look for one particular volume in all +this?” + +“Are you putting that as a question, Marshal?” asked Lib. “That’s not +fair. I’m in the enemy’s country here; don’t know the landmarks.” + +“We might look over the ones of reasonable size first. The thing’s a +reprint. Early English Text, I dare say.” + +“I don’t get you, Admiral, but am game to follow you in a leaky boat +to the death. I gathered that this Flood has an alias.” + +“Er—” + +“Doesn’t go under its own name, I mean.” + +“That is correct.” + +“That’s right, you mean. Well, well, Duke, can this be it?” + +She had opened one of the doors of the mahogany case and reached high +from the basis of one toe. The volume she persuaded to fall down and +which she caught was actually a bound issue of the Early English Text +Society and contained the Digby and Coventry Plays. + +“By all that’s wonderful! How did your eyes pick out that title so +quickly?” + +“Never looked at the title—way up there. What do you think I am, +Senator, a telescope? Say! I just took a slant along the shelves.” + +“A slant—along the shelves?” + +“Right. I thought that maybe the ‘good’ Cosgrove had been taking a +peep at the crucial volume lately and maybe hadn’t put it back quite +even. Savvy? Now, let’s have a look.” + +But she wrinkled both nose and forehead from the first sight of +“Processus Noe cum filiis,” and fluttered the pages very much askance. + +“I don’t get this stuff at all. What language is this?” + +“English.” + +“Why, it’s worse than Amurrican.” + +“It’s really Middle English, you know.” + +“No, I don’t. See here, what does a choice morsel like this signify?” +She read, in a manner unknown to linguists, the following lines: + + “Ye men that has wifis whyls they ar’ yong, + If luf youre lifis chastice thare tong: + Me thynk my heart ryfis both levyr and long + To se sich stryfis wedmen emong. + +That looks as if it might mean something.” + +“Yes, Noah was very wroth with his wife.” + +“His wife? His missus?” + +“She was a scold, and Noah, as the gloss of Professor Pollard says, +bids husbands chastise their wives’ tongues early.” + +“Not so hot, not so hot,” remarked Lib, apparently in disparagement. +“Where do all the other folks come in?” + +“Oh, there’ll be parts for everyone. Noah’s family was large, and +there were plenty of animals to go round. . . . He beats her a bit +later on,” I added hopefully. + +She clapped the covers to. “This is too rough for me. It’s not +ladylike. I’m not crazy about—say, what goes on in there?” + +Somebody was making a stir in the armoury, whence issued an occasional +scrabbling sound. Lib poked her head cautiously around the doorpost. + +“Why, Doctor, what would you seem to be doing this elegant afternoon?” + +Doctor Aire was standing with a cutlass in one hand and a claymore in +the other. He lifted his gaze from the floor in surprise and gave an +affable welcome. + +“Oh, hello. I had no idea anyone else was indoors.” + +“We’ve been giving Noah the once over,” said Lib. “What’s the idea of +all the weapons?” + +“Well, you see that early battle-axe lying so well protected out +there, if it was chosen for the commission of crime, has one or two +peculiar things about it. It amused me to find whether—but no, you’d +better guess for yourself. I understand that the subject is taboo just +now, and a very good thing.” + +Lib stamped with animation. “That’s not a bit nice. This is such a +dull afternoon, and now you won’t even tell us your secrets.” + +“Well, there’s one,” smiled the Doctor with a sort of saturnine +indulgence. “Feel the weight of these.” He handed over to her the pair +of weapons. “Take a look over the lot.” He made a sweeping motion to +indicate the walls crowded with arms. “Then think of the axe that lies +out there inclosed by chicken-wire. Then draw your own conclusions.” + +Lib poised the cutlas and claymore and returned them. “Doctor, you’re +a whiz. Any more funny little wrinkles?” + +“Take your time,” said the doctor. “Examine them all.” + +“You give me too much credit,” she declared. “Come on; what have you +found out?” + +Doctor Aire gave a slight shrug, one shoulder lifting higher than the +other. It was a mannerism I had observed before. “Miss Lib, you have +all the brains necessary for this extremely simple point, which I have +practically given away already.” + +“Well, you’re a teaser. I’m not a little girl any more, you know. I +don’t _like_ being teased.” + +“You must think it out for yourself,” insisted the Doctor, still +smiling. + +“Well, I won’t; so there! You’re perfectly horrid!” + +“Perfection in any wise is seldom gained. I am honoured,” he murmured, +but Lib, tossing her head and departing to the lawn, in affected +dudgeon, probably did not hear the conclusion of his courtesy. + +We laughed together while he replaced the weapons to their props and +fastenings upon the wall. + +I looked about the chamber, up the walls crowded with weapons to the +very shadows of the ceiling. Save for the two full-armoured figures of +sheet and mail, most of the equipment I supposed to be Elizabethan or +later, although the Doctor was sure to be a better judge than I. One +gigantic harquebuse _à croc_ with its support attached dominated the +broad wall between the armoury and the Hall of the Moth; all around it +were muskets, calivers, petronels, dags and tacks, and a couple of +blunderbusses, besides firearms whose names I did not know. The short +wall opposite was full of cutting and crushing weapons; hence had come +the two with which the Doctor had been experimenting. Between two sets +of lances standing upright for a frame, the eye was mazed in an +intricate pattern of partisans, maces, falchions, hangers, axes, +poniards, and, one might believe, every other size and shape of +sticker and slasher and pounder. + +“I suppose you alluded to the heft of the axe we found last night out +there? Its weight is certainly inconsiderable.” + +“Yes,” agreed the Doctor with a drawl, “it appears to have been about +the lightest object on the wall. Why did he take that—that hatchet? +I’m inclined to think that it was made for a plaything, not a real +working instrument. Odd, its selection, very odd.” + +“I don’t see why you emphasize the point.” + +“Well, look here, where it was taken from, about shoulder height. Now, +assuming naturally that the man who took it wanted it for business +purposes, why didn’t he take this axe here, something less than a yard +further up? There’s real power in this fellow. Or was the intruder +fumbling around in the dark in a room he wasn’t acquainted with? And +then the blood.” + +“Ah, yes; I have been waiting with interest to hear your decision +there.” + +“No decision is possible immediately, if you ask me where it came +from. I have no kit with me, of course. I accept for the time +Pendleton’s assurance that it belongs to the missing pig, slaughtered +in we don’t know what ritualistic manner. But the position of the +blood on the weapon is what annoys me. You recall it?” + +“The handle was slobbered with it.” + +“And only a few spots on the blade. That would assure us the killing +was done with the axe, even if the weapon weren’t so inefficient. Ah!” +He lifted his hands in an attitude of dismay, a stiffish caryatid-like +pose. “Pendleton’s right. No good comes of talking of these things. +They’ll unravel. I’m going to get cleaned up for the rehearsal at +five, Mr. Bannerlee. I’ve been discussing transplantings with old +Finlay the gardener, and my hands have tested some extra fine dirt.” + +I saw the Doctor swing his body out of the armoury with the regularity +of an automaton, his trunk stiff and upright, his narrow legs working +like scissors; I heard the Doctor enter on the winding stair. + +Then, alone in the armoury, into which the first faint smoke of dusk +was creeping, among so many instruments of death, where the intruder +of the night before had stolen while the mockery of cards was in +progress in the Hall, and where he might steal again—there, then, I +was not at ease. I had flickers of apprehension, and the room seemed +musty, close. Both mentally and bodily I felt cabined, confined. More +than half an hour remaining before we were due in the Hall, I resolved +upon taking a light breather up the Vale, to stir my sluggard blood +and puff away my fancies. + +No one appeared on the lawn or in the environs of the House. As I +faced north up the Vale a fairish breeze met me face to face, and I +realized that the storm was still in the atmosphere. The airy armies +high above the hills were marshalling once more. A little while later +the sun, not far above the ridge, was flecked with cloud, and the +smouldering embers of the beechen hangers were, one might say, +extinguished to black ashes. + +By the time the glories of colour were lost on the hillsides, I had +reached the clearing beyond which lurked the cottage of the sisters +Delambre. This stood in a gorge-like recess, where flowed the small +stream with the ridiculous bridge which I had noted when first I +journeyed down the Vale. Good, full inspirations of the untainted air +had restored physical tone, and my thoughts, too, were less troubled, +perplexed. I was free of most of the jangling discord of the day, of +Belvoir with his eternal harping on morals as accidental products, of +Ludlow in his vigilance to combat offensive ideas, of Lib and Bob and +their little bickerings, of Cosgrove and all the enmities that had +heaped around him: Bob’s and the Baron’s and Charlton Oxford’s, +and—almost—the abrupt flaming of the Irishman and his bride-to-be. +That single incident must have impressed the houseful of us as rudely +as a dozen ordinary quarrels of man to man. + +Of the taste of this unpleasantness I could not wholly rid myself, nor +of another thing, which strengthened in the diminishing of light. This +was the witching time of day—and I could not get away from Parson +Lolly. + +Well I understood Morgan the stableman when he said that there were +whiles when the “otherness” took hold of one. Having crossed the +clearing, I stood near the cottage of the French sisters, who, though +nothing concerning their characters had been told me, I conceived must +be eccentrics, women so distant from their nativity, if not in mere +statute miles, certainly in their lives and surroundings. While I +looked at the cottage, a rugged thing of stone, scarcely two stories +high, with roof of hewn stone tiles, as is common hereabout, I thought +it had a deserted and disappointed appearance. It was far too early, +indeed, for even tired farm-women to be abed; yet no light glimmered +through window or cranny. I approached; I even knocked. No response. + +Puzzled, disturbed, I retraced my path. + +So feeling, I came in view of Highglen House, all dark and still on +the edge of sunset. I passed beneath the clustered cypress trees; I +traversed the northern span of the lawn and passed the conservatory +with its mended panes. I stepped on the driveway where it passed the +Hall of the Moth, intending to advance to the front entrance and ring +the bell there, having enough hold on reality, in spite of my fuming +blood, to recall that my own shaving things had been in my bag +recently fetched by Toby, and that with hot water I could quickly +remove the stubble of the day, before the first reading of “Noah’s +Flood” in the Hall of the Moth. At the moment of my setting foot on +the drive, I remember, the faintest sound of speech wandered to me +from somewhere beyond the gate-house. I could not distinguish any +voices, but there seemed to be both men and women in the party, +doubtless returning from beside Aidenn Water. + +Then I chanced to look inside the Hall of the Moth. + +Now, now, now is the time when I need to hold each sense and faculty +to accurate account. For what I saw then, what then I took to be +hallucination, now I know too well was something real, something +serious, and something totally inexplicable to all who have heard of +it. + +Through the cleft between the eminences of Esgair Nantau and Vron Hill +a single dart from the sun still leaped, lustering the twilight about +the house. A fragment of that glimmer, about the size of a top-hat but +rudely circular in shape, played and smouldered mild, high on the bare +stone of the inner wall of the room. Except for this wavering spot, +dusk had taken possession of the empty Hall, wherein even the masses +of the furniture were invisible to me. + +The chanciest glance took in the gloom of the chamber, but before I +had looked elsewhere, my eyes perceived yet one other thing +distinguishable in the obscurity, and all the blood in me leaped. To +indicate definitely the position of the object, I should say that to +the best of my affrighted recollection it was just beyond the couch +which Lib Dale had mounted earlier in the afternoon during her talk +with me, although the couch itself, like the rest of the furniture, +was now absorbed in the pool of darkness. + +In the air perhaps a foot above the imagined position of the back of +the couch, with no visible means of suspension or support, was what I +can describe only as a clean white bone. + + + +CHAPTER X + +The Laugh + +A white bone, six inches long, the broadened knobs at each end a +little darker than the rest—horizontal, perfectly still. + +Perhaps I had gazed at this thing in fascination for twenty or thirty +seconds before it stirred at all. Then the faintest swinging motion +seemed to occur, on a horizontal plane, and suddenly—now my heart was +going mad—it rose a couple of feet as if jerked by a string, and +remained motionless once more, until the swinging recommenced, one end +and then the other moving slightly toward me and away. + +The comforting tones of voices had died; it might have been that I and +that apparition were alone in the Vale, a man and a white irrational +bone. I was of no mind to linger there until the thing should leap up +again and drive me into an apoplexy. And all the while the basis of +reason in me was firm, and there was a voice bidding me quit my folly, +for there could be no bone in the unsupporting air of the Hall. Yet I +did not enter the chamber and get within the same walls as the +apparition; instead I abandoned the place to its ghostly visitant, +hastened around to the front entrance of the House and rang the bell, +although the door itself was unlatched. + +I wanted hot water for shaving. + +Soames, answering the ring, I met at the foot of the winding +staircase. My voice, I believe, was controlled out of its excitement +when I ordered the water, which he promised to bring at once. + +It was with a doubtful, distracted mind that I entered my room and +caused a tiny apex of flame to glow on the fresh candles standing at +either side of my writing-table. For a breath of open air, I swung the +casement window inward. The breeze, forerunner of storm, brushed past +outside, but no more than writhed the candle-flames. + +I looked out. + +As I have stated, my window gives on what I suppose I must call the +balcony, though part of the ancient battlement stands there in lieu of +a balustrade, remnant of an age before even this room was built and +when the top of the wall was no higher than the window-sill. Odd that +the old parapet with its indentations remained when this lofty course +of rooms was made. This wall above the second storey cut off my view +of the lawn, save where a gap of the crenellation permitted me to look +almost straight down to the drive. Directly below me I now saw +nothing, and far beyond the gate-house towers, rising to the level of +the roof of the mansion, was only the dusky dark expanse to Aidenn +Water. But about the twin-legged gate-house itself the afterglow +lingered in a tiny pool. + +I suddenly remembered Crofts’ admonition to have a look at the tomb on +Vron Hill, and my promise that I would. With an athletic effort I +squeezed through my window and stood on the roof outside. To my +disappointment, the sky beyond the Hill was darkened with clouds whose +purple came near to black. The tumulus was indistinguishable against +them. + +I moved to the edge of the parapet and leaned over one of the cops of +the crenelled wall for a better look about. + +It appeared that two or three people were gathered by the winch that +works the drawbridge and were having great glee in their endeavours. +Rusty metal shrilled, a little cloud of laughter burst upward, and the +huge bridge descended. There came a thump when the platform settled +into place. Then amid a new little cloud of laughter, the winch set to +work again, and the bridge commenced to rise. + +My attention was diverted by something at my feet, the merest trifle +lying at the base of one of the merlons: a twisted strand which might +have been part of a piece of light rope. It was about the length of my +finger-joint, far from fresh, one end newly abraded, the other +decayed. It was, as I said, a trifle, but it was curious. I could not +think then, nor can I now, how it got there; and certainly the fresh +abrasion was not more than a couple of days old. I had a notion of +showing it to Crofts for an opinion, but when I considered what the +energetic response of our much-tried host might be when asked to +account for a fragment of half-rotten rope, I changed my mind. But I +tucked away the strand for future reference. + +One last look up and down the empty lawn, and I slipped back into my +room. + +I recalled my shaving, which now must be rapid if I were to be ready +in time for the reading of the play. A few preliminary preparations +made, I ran into an unprecedented number of mishaps. + +I seemed to have an unsteady fit. Soames had not yet come with the hot +water, and I was in a hurry; my watch said a quarter to five. I made a +beginning, however, ridding myself of my coat and shirt and addressing +myself to the oak chest whereinto I had transferred my things from my +bag during the ten-minute interval before luncheon. But at once I +realized the unsuitability of sixteenth-century appointments for +purposes of personal convenience, for the upper drawer was jammed or +stuck. I hauled, jerked, and jogged sidewise. Suddenly, bang! came out +the drawer, but the handle had parted from it, and I, handle in hand, +staggered back, crash! into a stool in the corner of the room. When I +separated myself from the stool, and we were both on our legs again, I +recollected that I had tossed my shaving utensils into the drawer of +the writing-table, as being readier to hand. + +Then indeed I had a brainstorm, an eagerness for haste being added to +my disquiet of mind. Soames might be there with the water at any +moment, and I not ready. Clutching razor and strop, I looked in vain +for a proper place to attach the strop; my dissatisfaction with the +old room as a place for personal embellishment was not diminished at +all when I finally chose one of the curlicues of the candle-bracket on +the north wall for a hook. Like the similar one in the armoury, this +was very old, and like the bureau drawer, it seemed malevolent to +thwart me. Holding the strop firmly while my razor executed loops and +pirouettes, I was aghast a moment later, so suddenly did the fastening +of the bracket give way under the strength of my hold upon the strop. +Squeak! went the old, damp-rotted iron, the candle-holder on its pivot +drooped crazily, and I was staring at the thin red cut beside the +finger-nail where the razor-edge had nicked me. This capped the +climax. + +It was comedy, no doubt. For me, nevertheless, it was a bad +half-minute. I smashed the bracket back to uprightness; one blow +sufficed, since there had been no fissure in the metal itself. But my +finger could not be cured so cavalierly. And shaving now was out of +the question before five o’clock! Of such trivialities are wrought +either contentment or black spirits. + +I chucked away strop and razor and went to the door, wondering what +had become of Soames, and shaking off the drops of fresh blood from +the index-finger of my left hand. + +I heard someone coming up the stairs, and at the same time a peculiar +sound of rending rose from the Hall beneath the threshold where I +stood, followed by the loud slam of a door. + +I said to myself, “There must be someone in the Hall now,” but the +next instant thought, and all else, was reft from me. + +For from some part of the house someone was laughing. No—to avoid +error from the first—I thought then, and at the present hour this all +who heard are willing to swear: the laughter came from no human +throat. Yet is Parson Lolly not human? And if he—but this shows the +inconsistency of our fear. Yes, I will swear it was no human sound +that roared and re-echoed through the House, gleeing and gurgling, +curdling the blood of us who were within the walls. So huge was the +uproar that the place of its source could not be told, and it went on +and on unendurably for immeasurable seconds, to change to silence with +a sudden gulp. + +I dashed to the window for a quick look, and could see nothing in the +darkness, but discovered a glow spreading from immediately below me. +The chandelier in the Hall must be lighted now. Then flinging my coat +on, I rushed out of the room, impelled by a sense of dread and danger, +and an anxiety to get where people were. I met Soames, hot-water can +in hand, at the head of the stairs underneath the solitary electric +bulb. He was green, a mildewed colour, startled into stone. + +I sprang down the stairs without a word, and he, galvanized, followed +with a gasp: + +“Gord, sir, is that _him_?” He meant the Parson. + +On the landing of the first floor stood Lib Dale, her fingers +nervously fluttering about her face. + +“What’s the matter? What’s happened?” + +“Something drastic,” I said, while we went speeding together down to +the entrance vestibule. Soames, still carrying the water, brought up a +thumping rear. + +“Oh, wouldn’t it be awful if someone’s kicked—I mean, if someone’s +been knocked off?” + +“Knocked off?” + +“I mean if an individual has been assassinated,” she explained +haughtily, and then for an instant her impertinent little face went to +chalk. + +We were standing indecisive in the passage. Hardly a minute had passed +since the end of the laughter. A scream suddenly sounded from the lawn +beyond the Hall of the Moth, a cry of agony which might have seemed +terrible had not it been for that astounding laugh which had preceded +it. In its awful context the scream was pitifully thin and feeble, but +it was human, certainly. + +“That’s on the lawn.” + +“Yes, Governor,” choked Lib, following me at a half-run through the +gallery-door of the Hall, through the nearest french windows, and so +to the drive. + +Beside the small tower near the mended conservatory window something +dark was stretched, with three or four people about it. While Lib and +I were still thirty feet away, we could tell in the widespread light +of the Hall chandelier that a body lay there. + +“It’s a corpse,” cried Lib. “Oh, my God, is it Bobby?” She rushed +forward. + +I turned to Soames. “Round up the others, quickly.” + +“Y-yes, sir”; he went back with the ineffable water. + +I remember that just as I came up from the lower french doors of the +Hall, Belvoir, crossing the lawn from the direction of Aidenn Water, +arrived at the other side of the group by the small tower. + +He looked down with a curious, contemplative expression. “This,” he +said, “must be the body we missed last night.” It was not a flippant +speech; it seemed to fit the occasion. + +The body lying here, half on the ground, half on the step to the +french window, with Miss Lebetwood kneeling on one side, Doctor Aire +on the other, was Sean Cosgrove’s. Supine he had fallen, or had been +turned, his face bereft of its solidity, a flabby thing, his eyes +closed, and the edge of a bloody wound showing beneath his left ear, a +wound that apparently had a continuance behind. + +With knit brow Doctor Aire let down Cosgrove’s wrist and shook his +head. His thin lips stirred; he muttered: + +“It’s no use.” + +Miss Lebetwood rose in a paroxysm of pain; she warded off Alberta +Pendleton. In the scattered glow, with hair dishevelled and eyes +afire, she looked like a prophetess of old, pulsing with authority. +With a gesture she put us aside; it was as if she were putting us out +of her thoughts. From us she went, and disappeared in the vacancy of +the lawn. + +Pendleton, smitten by a thought, cried “The weapon!” and dashed into +the Hall. We saw him go to the armoury door and saw the room brighten +with electricity. Then the Doctor and I made the same decision. + +“Don’t touch the body,” cautioned the Doctor, and he and I together +followed our host into the room of weapons, among which he was wildly +ranging in a mad search. + +“Nothing’s been disturbed here,” observed Doctor Aire. + +But Crofts, deaf, continued in his frenzy, drawing every old rickety +sword from its sheath, tearing every weapon from its peg or stud, +rubbing his fingers along the cutting parts. + +“Not there, Crofts, not there!” I cried, taking him by the arm, since +speech had no effect. + +“Which of these did it?” he demanded. + +“None,” answered Doctor Aire decisively. “You can see at a glance—” + +“But one of them must have a stain. There couldn’t have been time to +wipe it dry.” + +“None are stained,” returned the Doctor. “Come with me.” + +He and I had nearly to drag Crofts out to the lawn, to the spot beyond +the gate-house towers where the small axe had lain covered from the +storm. + +“But that’s a puny thing!” + +“Yes,” said the Doctor, “but even a bullet may do damage, and the puny +axe may have been in the hand of one of prodigious strength. A light +weapon and a heavy blow; it may have broken the weapon, of course.” + +“It will hardly be here, in that case,” I suggested. + +We were beside the chicken-wire. There stood Miss Lebetwood, her white +hands clenched against her dark dress. + +Her voice was cold, toneless. “I’ve been waiting here, wondering how +long—” + +“No matter, Miss,” said the doctor, “we’re here—that’s what matters.” + +I lit a match which managed to keep alive in the stir of air. The +canvas, held down by heavy stones, was in place. Crofts yanked the +sheet away. We gasped. + +There lay the small axe, undisturbed. The Doctor stooped and touched +the blood-slobbered handle. + +“It’s dry, absolutely. Well, I’m whipped. I’d have sworn—” + +We were hastening back to the House almost while the words were in his +mouth. Now there must have been a dozen guests and servants clustered +about the body. I turned to Crofts. + +“Who found him there? Was anything seen? Where was he killed?” + +He was too distracted to pay attention. He was running his fingers +through his mane and whispering little phrases to himself. + +A woman with trembling hands held out some white thing. + +“Look,” said Eve Bartholomew. “See what I found when I came by the end +of the House—down there by the large tower.” She pointed toward the +corner round which lay the main entrance. + +“Another—another!” I exclaimed, and Crofts snarled, “It was time for +another, damn his black heart! What does this one say?” + +We read: + + L O o k O u T f o R T H e C A T S C L A W + P A R S O N L O L L Y + +“The Cat’s Claw! What’s that?” + +“How do you expect me to tell?” + +“Again we find this damned thing—too late!” + +“There’s fresh blood on it!” exclaimed Crofts, taking the placard from +my hand. + +“Of course there is, you fool. Look at my finger.” + +“How did you do that?” + +“Razor.” + +Alberta was looking over her husband’s shoulder. “Where did you find +it, Eve?” + +“Right at the corner of the House. It was on the grass, with the +writing downward.” + +“Now,” said I, “if there’s one thing about this atrocious deed that I +can swear to, it is that there was nothing at that spot ten minutes +ago. I rounded the corner to enter the House so as to fetch one of the +men-servants by ringing the door-bell. The grass had nothing on it.” + +“I was over by the gate-house,” said Bob Cullen, “but I wasn’t pulling +the winch. I was waiting for Lib to come out again. I was watching the +end of the House all the time until the lights flared up in the Hall. +I’ll take my oath, I will, that nobody went round the corner after Mr. +Bannerlee.” + +Doctor Aire objected. “But after the chandelier was lit—when that part +of the House and the lawn outside the windows was bright—you might +have overlooked some shadow slipping along the wall further south.” + +Yet this explanation satisfied me no more than it seemed to quell Bob +himself. + +“Look here,” Crofts suddenly roared. “Perhaps _he_—” He flung out an +arm toward the dead man. + +“What do you mean?” + +“He—himself—” + +“This placard was his doing, you think? Impossible!” + +“Why not? There was no one else here. That one in his room this +morning: he took _it_ mighty calmly.” + +“Sean was not a child, or a fool,” said Miss Lebetwood coldly. + +“Who lit the chandelier?” I asked. + +“Ah!” murmured the Doctor, and raised one shoulder higher than the +other. + +“Did anyone see him before—this?” + +Miss Lebetwood spoke. “I was the first to see him, Mr. Bannerlee. He +was kneeling, I thought, on the step outside the window—but he must +have been—falling. . . .” + +“Paula—don’t tell it, dearest,” cried Miss Mertoun. + +“There’s nothing to tell,” said Paula Lebetwood, still brave, still +vibrant, commanding. “I am not going to break down, Millicent dear. +I—have told of myself. . . . That was all. He lifted his hand from the +stone, as if he wanted to reach his head—but he fell forward. That’s +all.” + +“But that unholy bawling laughter—” + +“It was from—somewhere else. It wasn’t very loud out here, but it was +what made me look towards the House. Then I saw—him—while the laugh +was still going on. But I didn’t scream until—afterward, when he +fell.” + +“The lights were on at the time, of course,” observed Doctor Aire. + +“They had been on for a minute or so, I think,” said Miss Lebetwood. +“But I had paid no particular attention when they were lit.” + +“The fact is,” said the Doctor, “we don’t know where he was when he +was struck. He must have been nearby—couldn’t have gone far with a +bludgeoning like that.” + +“Blenkinson, you there?” asked Crofts. + +“I am, sir.” + +“Have you ’phoned Superintendent Salt at New Aidenn?” + +“I ’ave, sir. ’E’s coming, and looking out for hall suspicious +characters on the south road.” + +“All right, then.” + +“Hadn’t the women better go?” asked Ludlow practically. + +“Go in, everybody,” said Crofts. + +“Must _he_ be left?” + +Doctor Aire said, “Put something under the back of his head and cover +his body with something. I’ll stand guard here. He can’t be moved +until the police arrive.” + +“God!” + +A bellowing leaped upon us out of the north, a roar that instead of +tailing away mounted higher and higher upon itself. The wind, which +had been bustling, seemed to disintegrate while the darkness of sound +swept through the Vale. Resonant, tremendous, devastating, the sheer +undifferentiated noise bore down on us, oppressed us with its weight. +Brimming the hills, it actually made the ground tremble. It was +nothing like thunder, but as if something buried alive beneath the +earth had awakened and vociferated horribly. Several of the women +stopped their ears, and there was an awfulness in seeing their mouths +open in screams when the sound was wholly lost in the roar up the +Vale. It was as if they had all gone dumb and raving. Even when it had +ceased at climax, the echoes of the roar bruited from crag to crag +made the Vale alive with sound. And when the final reverberations had +sunk to peace, we gaped at each other silenced for a little while, +even the body of the man forgotten in the overwhelmingness of sound. +When we spoke, it was in whispers. + +“Could that be—thunder?” + +“Thunder—like that?” + +“It was like Judgment.” + +“What was it, then?” + +“I can tell you what it was,” I said. + +They were round me in a moment, greedy. + +“An earthquake?” asked Doctor Aire. + +“A landslide—almost an avalanche—on one of the north-most hills.” + +“But what could have caused it?” + +“There may have been a condition of incipient instability, waiting for +rain, perhaps.” + +“For rain—what rain?” interposed Pendleton. + +In answer to him a vast sheet of purple lightning pictured all the +north of the Vale. It vanished, sweeping us into an instantaneous +blacker darkness, but again it glared, and again, while unmistakable +thunders rang. In that dazzling fulgour the nearby features of the +scene were revealed to us as in bright noontide, but above the Black +Mixen, above Mynydd Tarw, above the other northern peaks, hung a great +tower reaching into illimitable night like a waterfall from heaven. +Again the lightning blazed, and we beheld the hanging shafts, like +sun-pillars among clouds, save that these were black—or like aerial +waterspouts soaring above the earth. And this stupendous cliff of +water was visibly moving toward us, down the Vale! + +Crofts Pendleton turned from the terrific sight, with a bitter-happy +look. He gestured toward the north. In the effulgence and clamour of +the storm he stood like a valiant pygmy. + +“By God,” he shouted, “there’s one direction cut off—for the fiend who +did this!” + +“Particularly if the zigzag path has been blocked by the landslide,” +added Belvoir. + +“Praise God, the police are coming by the south road. There’s no +missing him if he tries to leave the Vale to-night!” + +“Sir Brooke!” cried Eve Bartholomew suddenly. “Sir Brooke! Where is +he?” + +“We should all like to know,” said Crofts. + +These speeches had been shouts. Now the Doctor made a megaphone of his +hands in order to be heard. In a blaze of lightning lasting several +seconds we saw him hunch his shoulder and head toward the top of the +Vale, whence the rain, white rain now, and horrible, was pushing +back towards us. “This will be on us in a minute. We can’t leave +this poor fellow’s remains here, regulations or no. We must get the +location and position of the body down in writing at once. I’ll take +responsibility.” + +Crofts and I stooped to lift by the shoulders and feet respectively. +During our brief act of carrying the corpse into the Hall and +composing it on the couch, the wind suddenly rose into a mighty +strife, and heavy plashing drops of rain came sousing on the windows. +The gale was mad with leaves from the dishevelled autumn trees, which +came knocking on the panes, clung there for moments like silhouettes, +and were whirled on to their fate. + +Crofts stood beside the useless and ironic tea-service, agaze at the +streaming windows. His lips were moving, but I heard no speech from +them. + +I moved over beside him. “Who is Superintendent Salt?” + +“The best man for detective work in Radnorshire, and the Chief +Constable knows it, they say. Lucky for us Salt lives in New Aidenn. +But he’ll never get here to-night—not in this deluge.” + +Something dashed against the window-pane, and from us came a stifled +cry. Handsome Ruth Clay, who had come in to remove the tea things, was +standing with her fist jammed halfway into her mouth, her frightened +eyes staring to the stormy night. + +“What’s the matter?” + +“See, see! The Bird!” + +I followed her look, just in time to see some small dark object blown +before the wind and lost in the howling murk. “It came up against the +window. I saw it.” + +“And what of it?” + +“It’s the Corpse-bird, sir. It means a death!” + +“What!” + +“Oh, I saw it, sir—no feathers it had—only like the down of other +birds’ wings—and eyes like balls of fire!” + +“Nonsense, woman. Besides, this Corpse-bird, as you call it, should +have come before. The damage is done already.” + +“Yes, sir, there’s poor Mr. Cosgrove’s body lying there, sir. But the +Bird means another death.” + + + +CHAPTER XI + +Superintendent Salt + + October 4. 2.35 P.M. + +Yet the two men from New Aidenn had come up the Vale through that +ruinous rain and wind. From the corner library window I myself had +dimly seen them plodding up the leaf-stained drive against the blast, +and had been at the cat-head entrance when Blenkinson admitted them, +grotesquely dishevelled by the storm. The very tall one, whose hat was +gone and who carried a bulgy black instrument-case, was Doctor +Niblett, Coroner as well. Superintendent Salt, a man of more pulp, and +built on the underslung plan, wore a necklet of grizzly beard and had +short curly hair, like a Roman Emperor’s. I at once christened him +Peggotty, “a hairy man with a good-natured face.” + +Quite a little lake had sluiced and oozed from their coats and shoes +before Pendleton came rushing downstairs from his wife’s room. + +“You got here?” + +“I expect so,” answered Superintendent Salt in the indecisive way that +I have learned is universal with native Radnorites. “I had my +neighbour the Coroner come along, Doctor Niblett here.” + +“Oh, yes: glad you did. We’ve met, haven’t we, Doctor? Gad, you look +war-shot, both of you. Is the storm so bad?” + +“We’ve tramped it from beyond the bridge or thereabouts.” + +“Tramped it!” + +“Half the bridge was down, Mr. Pendleton. We were forced to leave the +car on t’other side and make a dash over afoot. The way it looked, Mr. +Pendleton, with the water risin’ so, I doubt you’ve any bridge at all +there by now. The stream’s fair ragin’. And you say there’s been a +killin’ here or something? A guest of yours, maybe? Shockin’.” + +“What a day!” cried Crofts fervently. “This way, gentlemen.” But in +the midst of the portrait-corridor, he paused. “This is murder, and a +damned mysterious murder. There’s been a landslide up the Vale, and +that path must be blocked. Did you pass anyone going south as you came +along?” + +Peggotty, or perhaps I had better let his name go as Salt, responded, +“We did not, and we have a witness who was by the bridge since before +five o’clock to show that nobody had been across either way.” + +“What kind of a witness?” + +“Reliable. The Coroner and I have known him for these a-many years.” +From aloft Doctor Niblett nodded grave agreement. “Road-mender, he is. +Shelterin’ under a tree from the rain. Had been at work just beyond +the bridge, so he couldn’t have missed seein’.” + +Elation seemed to make a dark glow in Pendleton’s soul. “Then he’s +trapped, the dog! That is, if you—did you tell this witness to +watch—?” + +“I think,” said Superintendent Salt, “that we might be havin’ a look +at the body.” + +“Er, yes. Yes, of course—I was taking you. I’ll order a good fire lit +at once to help you dry.” + +I followed Crofts with the overshadowing Coroner and the plump +Superintendent into the Hall of the Moth. Doctor Aire and Lord Ludlow +were waiting there; the body of Sean Cosgrove lay on the couch with +the _Brocade de Lyons_ upholstering, and across it was stretched a +decorative leather skin plucked down from the wall. + +Introductions were curt. Doctor Aire pulled off the cover, revealing +the corpse. The limbs had been adjusted carefully. _Rigor mortis_, of +course, had not yet supervened, and the features, save for the laxity +of the jaw, had much the expression I should have expected to see in +untroubled sleep. First Doctor Niblett bent for his swift, searching +preliminary examination, turning the dead man’s head in his long, +large-jointed fingers. The Superintendent followed in more deliberate +manner, while Niblett went gratefully to the climbing fire. + +It appeared that Salt is not one of those master-minds who require a +vacuum in order to get results. He actually began to function in our +presence! For at length, rising ponderously from his knees, upon which +he had been scrutinizing the soles of the dead man’s shoes, he said, +“See here, where’s the weapon?” + +Crofts shrugged his shoulders, having a bit of a flea in his ear, and +Doctor Aire answered, “We haven’t the slightest idea. There’s a pretty +muddle about weapons. We’ve weapons to burn, but none of them appears +to be connected with the case.” + +“We’ll go into that later, then. You haven’t disturbed the contents of +his clothing, I see.” + +“Certainly not.” + +Methodically Salt removed what Cosgrove carried on him when he died, +turning out each pocket when empty and examining the inside. Besides +the loose coins, watch and chain, and wallet, there were a number of +hand-written and printed sheets in several pockets. + +Ludlow singled out one slip from the heap and called Salt’s attention +to it. “This thing,” he said, “was the subject of some acrimony on the +part of the deceased last night. He accused me, in fact, of pilfering +it.” + +“What’s that?” + +“Perhaps,” continued the wily Ludlow, “I had picked the sheet up +somewhere, absent-mindedly, I suppose, and forgotten about it. It was +rather a tense day. But Mr. Cosgrove saw fit to declare that I had +rifled his correspondence—he claimed it as his, at any rate. Can you +make any more of it than I?” + +“What do you make of it?” asked Salt, who had been reading it the +while. + +I fancied a little spite in his Lordship’s tone. “In the light of +events, nothing. Suppose you show it to my friends here. One of them +may suggest some interpretation that will throw light.” + +Crofts was obviously bursting to get a look at the screed, and I +myself was glad of the opportunity to see what else it contained +besides the singular remark about “the mail.” It commenced without +indication to whom addressed: + + “Dear Sir, + + I suppose that I shall see you before long, and we may discuss the + topic conveniently. + + I must inform you, however, that my principals leave me no option in + the matter. I hope you will realize your untenable and actually + perilous position; we do not want your brains scattered about. On + the evening of my arrival, I shall expect a communication from you, + stating whether you will be amenable. Suppose you leave it in the + mail—you know where; I’ll come and get it.” + +I studied the signature for some time before I made it out: +“Lochinvar.” + +“And you say that you have no idea what this means?” asked Salt. + +“I wish I did!” responded Lord Ludlow; then, looking sorry he had +spoken with such feeling, he added, “I mean that if I did, I might see +some reason for Mr. Cosgrove’s bursting into a tirade against me.” + +“Oh, yes?” remarked the Superintendent dryly, and turned to Crofts. “I +suppose you couldn’t tell when this was delivered?” + +“Not while he was here,” returned Crofts promptly. “The only delivery +is at eleven, and I sort the mail myself. Cosgrove never got any.” + +“Well, I suppose we must show it to the others in the house and see if +anyone recognizes the hand.” Salt stood pondering a moment, then +braced with decision. “And now I think that I’ve heard enough puzzling +odds and ends about this crime. I want somebody to tell the story of +it right straight through, so I’ll get the tit-bits in their proper +places.” + +This was clearly for Crofts, and I did not envy him. I remember that +the rest of us were going to depart when Salt retained us with a +gesture. So we were part of the audience while our host, with much +nervousness and with some little assistance from the rest of us, told +who were in the House, and what, in the main, had happened until the +time Blenkinson had rung up the New Aidenn police station at +five-twenty-two. + +Only once did the Superintendent put in a word. Crofts had been +setting forth as well as he could our bodily dispositions after +we had left the Hall of the Moth. “So none of us could have been +near him, and there’s no trace of anyone else. And there you are, +Superintendent.” + +“Oh—ah—um,” remarked Salt, his eyes moving about the walls. “Secret +passages?” + +“None,” snapped Crofts. + +“Go on, sir, please. This is very interestin’.” + +When our host had finished, Salt emitted a noise both gruff and +complacent. + +“A pretty job,” he observed. He cast a look about the room, as if the +atmosphere of the Hall of the Moth impressed him for the first time, +and he gave a conscious shiver. I saw his eyebrows twitch for a moment +when his glance fell on the iniquitous portrait of Sir Pharamond on +high. “A pretty job and will take a lot of doin’, I expect.” + +“Do you want to see the rest of us now?” asked Crofts. “The party is +waiting in the conservatory.” He indicated the door with a nod. + +The Superintendent regarded the corpse with lack-lustre eye, and +pulled his beard reflectively. “N-no, not to-night, if you please. Not +now, thanks. I’ll take ’em all in the morning. As a plain fact, +there’s too much blood-and-thunder in the atmosphere to-night. Keeps +people from thinkin’ straight. And we can’t catch the murderer +to-night, anyhow.” He paused a moment, blinking thoughtfully again; he +was given to these interludes of cogitation. “But see here; we may +clear this matter up.” He showed the “Lochinvar” letter. “I’ll just +pass this round and see if anyone twigs the writin’.” + +“This way, then,” ushered Crofts. He preceded us into the conservatory +with its great windows, where the company was sitting in little +breathless groups of twos and threes. + +Only Maryvale lingered alone, beyond the grand piano, his fingers +sometimes very lightly pressing the keys in chords of some neutral +mode, neither major nor minor. + +Salt explained that he intended to ask but one question just then, +alleging anxiety lest anyone should be overwrought in the situation of +time, circumstance, and weather. He gave an uneasy look at Maryvale, +whose chords seemed to deepen the sombreness of the rain-beleaguered +room. The “Lochinvar” letter went the rounds, until it reached Eve +Bartholomew beneath a large potted plant whose leaves were like +donkeys’ ears. She gave a pleased cry, then a gasp. + +“Sir Brooke wrote this! . . . But what does it mean!” + +“Never mind what it means, Ma’am,” said Salt. “And who’s Sir Brooke? +Not here, is he?” + +“Don’t you remember?” Crofts asked. “He’s the missing—” + +“Idiot,” murmured Ludlow, and went on to say: “I haven’t known our +infirm absentee as long as this good lady, and his writing is +unfamiliar to me, but it surprises me greatly that he signs himself +‘Lochinvar.’ Curiously unfit I should say. Madam, was that one of his +baptismal names?” + +Mrs. Bartholomew bridled. “I have no doubt Sir Brooke had good reason +to sign himself any way he thought proper.” + +“I have no doubt either,” acquiesced Ludlow, and added the remark, +“Don Quixote.” + +“Haven’t eaten yet?” Salt asked. + +Our host ejaculated, “Hardly!” + +“Suggest you do, then, and everybody try to get some rest. All doors +locked, windows latched. No danger now, of course—only never give +temptation.” + +“This way, then, if you’re for food,” bade Crofts, and led the way +into the dining-room, where he himself was to make a wretched job of +eating. + +The conservatory emptied slowly. A few people followed Crofts; perhaps +two-thirds of men make for the stairs and the cold comfort of their +bedrooms. At the bottom of the well I drew Miss Lebetwood apart from +Mrs. Belvoir. Then, I confess, I felt ashamed, and spoke awkwardly. + +“Miss Lebetwood, forgive me if I—that is, I hope you won’t mind—if you +don’t want to answer—” + +Her voice was quite controlled. “Yes, what’s the matter, Mr. +Bannerlee?” + +“It may not have anything to do with this awful—” + +“What do you want to know, Mr. Bannerlee?” + +“You remember telling how Miss Mertoun—before she wandered out last +night—how she said something about its being ‘his music’? Well—” + +Paula Lebetwood winced and said, “You want to know what that meant?” + +“It’s rather stuck in my mind, you see—and I thought—” + +“You’re not a detective, are you, Mr. Bannerlee?” + +“Why—no—I—” + +“Your name _is_ Bannerlee, isn’t it?” + +“Certainly, Miss Lebetwood.” + +“Forgive me; it was rude. But I am so tired—and your question—” + +“Please don’t—” + +She interrupted, but her hesitation had become as great as mine, and +there was certain displeasure in her tone. “Excuse me, I beg you, but +I—don’t—think I want to tell you, Mr. Bannerlee. I can hardly call it +my—secret, you know.” + +“Pray excuse _me_ for asking. But you may be called on to tell +to-morrow. It will be painful, I’m afraid.” + +“Oh, I hope I won’t have to. Really—really, it has nothing to do +with—” + +She fled up the stairs, and I, full of musing, went into the +dinner-room and tried to eat. But it was no use then. I excused myself +from the group about the table (pale, they were, as if Death itself +had taken a seat at the board) and slowly proceeded to my +second-storey room. + +I wrote in this diary, and while I wrote I heard slight sounds below. +Not until a long time later, when hunger had at last made itself felt +and I hoped to burgle the larder, and stole down near midnight—not +until then did I realize the full import of those sounds. While I +passed through the corridor to reach the dining-room door and thence +the kitchen, the far entrance of the Hall opened, and an unusual glare +of light burst forth. Doctor Aire stood on the threshold. He wore a +cook’s white apron tied beneath his arms and pinned to his trousers +below the knees. He was rubbing his fingers on the edge of it. Using +the instruments of the tall, wordless Coroner, he had just performed +the superfluous but required necropsy upon the body of Sean Cosgrove. + +“The blow on the neck did it; nothing else the matter. He had a whale +of a constitution.” + +Aire, too, was hungry. But it almost robbed me of my appetite again to +see him eating with those gruesome fingers. + +As the Superintendent foresaw, it was well that the _post-mortem_ was +quickly done. After all, we were cut off from escape. The bridge was +wholly gone; so we had already learned by telephone. Burial of the +murdered man somewhere in the Vale might yet be necessary. The +King-maker entombed alone, uncoffined, far removed from the odour of +sanctity! + +Aire, Salt, and I came up together at half-past eleven. Poor Crofts +had been troubled enough about finding places for the two officials +overnight. On the first floor the rooms were filled: the Belvoirs, +Oxford, and Miss Lebetwood take up the left portion of the storey not +part of the upper reaches of the Hall, and on the other side the +Pendletons, the Aires, Bob Cullen, Ludlow, and Miss Mertoun have +rooms. Above these the only habitable chambers are those of Maryvale, +Mrs. Bartholomew, and Lib at the south end, and mine up the passage. +Between my room and Lib’s are two chambers filled with stores of +oddments anything up to a century old. The great rooms across the +passage from me are also depositories and magazines of much that has +been undisturbed since long before Crofts bought Highglen House. + +I knew that our host took Salt and Niblett over the House in a sort of +preliminary inspection about ten o’clock, for they arrived finally at +my antique domicile. Crofts, thoughtless oaf, had given me no warning, +and I was nearly caught in the exercise of pen and ink. I contrived, +however, to thrust my writing-book underneath the table and to snatch +a piece of notepaper. I was inditing a letter when the Superintendent +looked in. + +Then they stood in the doorway and discussed sleeping-quarters. + +“Disadvantages every way,” complained Crofts, “whether you try the +ground floor, the first, or the second—but of course I forgot—there’s +no place available on the first.” + +“The first floor will do us very well,” said Salt. + +“Eh? What do you mean? You surely don’t mean—” + +“Mr. Cosgrove’s room? Yes. Dr. Niblett and I will divide the sleepin’ +there and beside the corpse.” + +Cosgrove had occupied the east-projecting room furthest north in the +older body of the House. Miss Mertoun’s, beyond it, is above the +newly-built conservatory, and since, as I may have said, the +conservatory does not extend the entire width of the house, Cosgrove’s +room juts out, making a notched corner at that end of the mansion. + +“But surely—” + +“I’m leavin’ my superstitions out with my boots to-night,” observed +Salt solemnly. + +“But why not carry the body up there? I’ll have a bed made—” + +Crofts gave it up after a while, though I am sure that not for a +king’s ransom would he himself last night have occupied the narrow +chamber that had been the Irishman’s. The voices became faint down the +passage; the last I heard was Salt’s diminishing assurance. + +“I took the liberty of usin’ your telephone. I gave the Chief +Constable a stiff surprise. There are two of the county police—” + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Noah’s Flood + + Same day. 8.30 P.M. + +And now we know that the Chief Constable has left the direct handling +of the case to Salt, under a discreet supervision from afar. Wise of +the Constable, since he had no hope of reaching the storm-bound house! + +By chance at the bottom landing I met Millicent Mertoun. I thought her +more lovely than ever, though the terrors of the day before had +altered her cheeks to something like the hue of wax. But her +inexpressible dark eyes glowed with undimmed fascination. She smiled, +courageously, I imagined. + +“It’s terrible, isn’t it, Mr. Bannerlee, to have to eat when +everything is so awful? But I’m hungry, really. I couldn’t take a bite +last night.” + +I sympathized. + +“Have you heard anyone speak of finding a scarab, quite a small +scarab?” + +“I’ve just come down myself this morning, you see; so, of course— But +perhaps I can help you look for it. Whereabouts do you think you lost +it?” + +“It’s not mine—it’s Paula’s. She won’t tell anybody about it, of +course, because it’s so unimportant compared with . . . She’s troubled +about it, though. It’s an heirloom, I believe, from someone of her +family who was in Egypt.” + +“I shall have a look for it, I assure you.” + +“I’m afraid it’s no use looking, thanks, unless someone’s just +happened to pick it up. It was a tiny scarab, set in a ring, and it +probably came loose outdoors.” + +“Outdoors!” + +“Yes, she didn’t notice it was gone until after—after—” + +“I see. Well, Miss Mertoun, I’ll let you know in case anyone mentions +such a thing.” + +“Oh, thank you. But don’t say I told you.” + +The straggling procession into the breakfast-room was not merely a +subdued but even a sorry lot. Dismay and hunger both had been at work +on most of us. Few, I believe, had slept. I myself had, but it was a +sleep tossed and pulled by past and future. Food, however, worked its +customary melioration, and when at ten o’clock we were summoned to +meet Salt in the conservatory, scarcely anyone looked the worse for +the mental battering of the day before. I suppose Crofts Pendleton was +actually the hardest hit. + +It transpired that Salt had already been about the grounds, +rain-infested as they were. Insulated in rubber, he had examined the +site of Cosgrove’s death, seen the canvas-covered axe, and made a tour +of the immediate environs of the house. Already, too, he had concluded +an intensive search in Cosgrove’s room and among his belongings, and +to that room the unlucky Irishman’s body had lately been conveyed, +which relieved some of the gloom in the Hall of the Moth. Now, with +the Coroner of few words seated beside him, the Superintendent stood +watchfully in the sinus of the piano while we filed into the +undertakers’ Elysium. The servants were already standing hangdog along +the wall. + +“I’ll have to interview each of you separately, ladies and gentlemen,” +Salt announced. “But I must really get acquainted a bit with you +first, and have your names down. So, if you please, I’ll just ask each +of you in turn to tell who you are and what brought you—I mean what +association you’ve had with Mr. Pendleton here.” + +At this moment Blenkinson took the centre of the stage without a cue. +“If I may hinterpose, sir, I ’ave in my pocket a very comprehensive +document, I may call it, which will simplify your task considerably.” + +“What’s that, for God’s sake?” exclaimed Crofts. + +I am sure that the butler never had so many heads looking at him +before, but with the coolest air he produced from his tail-pocket a +sheaf of papers, and smoothed them lovingly. + +Blenkinson was balancing a pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. “With +your permission, sir, I will read. Hm! Hrrum!” He teed off and began. + +It proved that the butler the evening before had assumed the rôles of +despot and inquisitor in the world below stairs, and had then been my +serious rival for honours in composition. Blenkinson read loudly in a +high, thin voice, a woeful torture to the ear, his eyes behind the +pince-nez bulging whenever he licked his thumb to turn the page. The +screed he unfolded to the gaping company began with a preamble and +concluded with a peroration, and must have been a couple of thousand +words long. It was a vindication of the servants’ hall against base +suspicion in the matter of the late demise of Sean Cosgrove. + +The evidence was in a sort of interlocking system. From the time +Crofts had dismissed his court of inquiry after luncheon, until the +hideous laugh that emanated from we don’t know where, the whole +baker’s dozen of servants were accounted for and quite removed, I +should say, from the province of investigation. + +The boy Toby had been outside the kitchen entry peeling potatoes and +onions all afternoon, on promise, vain, as it proved, of being let off +at night for semi-bucolic revelry in New Aidenn. With him for half the +time were Jael and Em, the maids, who according to the condensed +economy of the house always joined in the “parin’s and dishin’s.” When +released from knives and vegetable-baskets, they resorted to the room +of their companion Harmony, whom they awoke from snores, and the trio +proceeded to improve the afternoon with gossip. Rosa and Ruth Clay +could testify to the earlier snoring of Harmony; under the eye of +Blenkinson they had then prepared tea, had early wheeled the +tea-table, minus tea and hot water, into the Hall, and had gone to the +stables for a bit of genteel chat with Morgan. From then until the +catastrophe they vouched for him, as well as for the other stablemen, +who were moving about, momently in and out of sight, over one hundred +feet from the place of Cosgrove’s death. The jealous eye of Ardelia +Lacy, too, herself seen in and seeing from Alberta Pendleton’s window, +corroborated the Clays; she had come down and was sipping tea in the +kitchen at the moment of the attack upon Cosgrove. Soames polishing +silver until he answered my ring, and old Finlay pottering about in +the flower-beds, were amply vindicated. Even Hughes the keeper was +accounted for in Blenkinson’s compendium, for there was plenty of +evidence that he had been in his room mending a refractory gun for +three solid hours. + +That gives a faint idea of the method of Blenkinson’s “document”; it +does not begin to do justice to the detail and close-meshed cogency of +it. The servants, severally and individually, are out of the +investigation. For my part, I never for a moment considered the +implication of any of them could be other than mad. + +Blenkinson, however, had done more. He had unearthed one or two bits +of evidence that may be valuable. Of these I shall relate one, leaving +the other until the problem occurred of checking Cosgrove’s +whereabouts after he followed Miss Lebetwood from the Hall of the +Moth. + +Very early indeed yesterday morning Jael, polishing the kettle, sat at +the window by the door leading from the kitchen along the passage to +the servants’ rooms. In her carefreeness she was singing a measure, +when her eye caught movement in the kitchen-garden near the chicken +yard. A strange man, “shaped like a lump,” was prowling there. She +opened the window, shouted warning to the stables; the invader uttered +a short heathenish exclamation and ran away toward the head of the +Vale. The men later found his footmarks in a carrot-bed. + +Strange to say, there had been no inclination on the part of the +servants to assign the attributes of Parson Lolly to this interloper. +Perhaps the fact that he left footprints robs him of the distinction. +Instantly, however, I recognized in him the gorilla-man I had +encountered in the twilight when entering the Vale for the first time. +Probably Jael saw him seeking breakfast. + +Blenkinson concluded with a peroration the essence of eloquence, +pleased with himself as an old stager applauded on his return at sixty +in the part of Romeo. For our lively buzz showed that the butler had +stimulated us out of our moroseness, made us forget ourselves, even in +that rainy, melancholy morning. + +“Priceless,” I heard Belvoir chuckle, and our harassed host unbent so +far as to smile, whereas Lib Dale forgot the solemnity of the occasion +in open chortling. Lord Ludlow muttered something about “probably a +stickit minister.” As for the servants, they seemed to be in a stupor +of admiration. + +Whatever Salt may have thought of Blenkinson’s taking evidence behind +his back he kept it to himself. Reaching over, he grasped the document +about to disappear into the coat-tail pocket once more, and placed it +in his own inner pocket instead. + +“Very interestin’,” he remarked. “Now I’m fully informed on that +subject. I could pick out every one of you,” he said to the servants, +“when Mr. Blenkinson here alluded to you. You’re all excused for the +present.” He turned to the guests. “But I’m not clear yet about all of +you ladies and gentlemen. You first, Mr. Pendleton, though. How long, +now, have you owned this place? I seem to recall it’s about two +years.” + +“It is, just.” + +“And did you know Mr. Watts that was here before you?” + +“No, Superintendent, I did not. The House was an unsold portion of old +Watts’ estate. It must have been five years after his death that I +negotiated for it. . . . Wish to God I hadn’t heard of it,” he +appended under his breath. + +“That was all my fault, old fellow,” consoled Alberta Pendleton. + +“This furniture and the pictures, now, eh?” + +“Everything came with the House. Library of books, tooled-leather +style—storerooms full of odd stuff, costumes and furniture, crocks +mostly—but we did find a fine Buhl bureau buried among some stacks of +Victorian newspapers, and dragged it out. There was a little of +everything in the attics. He must have been a prime scholar and +collector, old Watts.” + +“A little of everything, you say? What do you mean, Mr. Pendleton?” + +“Cheese-parings and candle-ends: trash, you know. Some queer pieces +though. Old Watts must have rowed for his college, or with some club, +when he was a youngster. There were oars and other boating +paraphernalia in one of the rooms—so much of it we expected to find a +shell entombed. I ran across equipment there for a parlour +magician—quite elaborate. We were hoping Doctor Aire would give us a +show with it only yesterday. And—well, I’ll take you through the lot, +if you like.” + +“Yes, please.” Salt addressed Alberta. “_You_ hadn’t known Mr. Watts? +You spoke just now—your fault, you said—” + +“Oh, no; I meant that Crofts bought the place because I preferred it +to any other we inspected. It was so out-of-the-way.” She drew the +silk scarf about her shoulders closer, as if she were cold. “But that +makes it all the more horrible now.” + +“Who were the solicitors?” + +Crofts told him. + +“And by the way, Mr. Pendleton, what is your line of business? You, +er, are in business, aren’t you?” + +“Yes,” answered our host briefly. “Drugs. Manchester.” + +I knew that after this preliminary survey, the Superintendent would +interview us separately on the events of the fatal afternoon. + +He chose to commence with Maryvale. Salt held the door open for the +man of business to pass through, entered himself, and carefully closed +the door. It was with a kind of misgiving that I watched them +disappear, for now began the really crucial part of the investigation, +the ascertainment of precise times and places, the attrition of fact +against fact, and the weighing of hypotheses. And I was not at all +sure that I fancied Salt, any more than I had last night in the beat +of the rain. + +The rain continued. The servants had gone, of course, and now the +taciturn Coroner departed to catch up sleep in Crofts’ room; so we +were an intimate group once more. But the blight of cheerlessness had +fallen on us again, and mystery reached its wings of fear about us. +The mutter and hiss of rain sometimes redoubled at the vast windows, +sometimes sank to a whisper, and those windows from their very size, +seemed to admit a darker darkness. Hardly a word was spoken, and that +not always heeded. + +It was a quarter of an hour before Salt appeared with Maryvale. The +official tugged at his border of beard with somewhat dubious +expression. It was not hard to imagine that Maryvale had proved an +unsatisfactory answerer, now that this strange, detached fit was upon +him. Salt nodded to Alberta Pendleton, who passed through the doorway. +Maryvale without a word took the piano-seat she had vacated, and began +softly to play his sequences of brooding, atonic chords. + +The inquiry progressed behind the closed door. Some of us Salt +detained only a couple of minutes, persons who could merely verify, +but not add to the information already at his disposal; others were +with him twenty minutes or more. Among these I was. + +“I don’t think—ah, yes, now I seem to remember. You’re the gentleman +who had a nasty fall or something. Well now, do you mind tellin’ me +how you happened to get here, and if you know anything about this +case?” + +I suppose that I was able to tell him more than anyone else. I decided +then to give my information without stint, since it was not the sort +of thing that could possibly benefit mankind by concealment, and it +might even speed Salt on the track of his theory. I recounted every +incident I have here set down: the search for St. Tarw’s devotional +site, the bull, the gorilla-man, the menagerie-keeper, the winking +window, his Lordship in the armoury, and whatever else did not merely +coincide with other evidence. I did _not_, however, allude to this +diary. Salt, by the way, did me the great honour of hearkening without +gasp or demur to my story of the tall, bulgy man with the Paul +Pry-Schubert umbrella. + +In the end he reverted to the matter of the saint’s oratory. “This +ruin or something you were lookin’ for, now. Maybe I could give you a +feeler for findin’ it.” + +I said that he was very kind, that when I set forth from London the +task had seemed dubious, and now the death of Cosgrove had driven my +hobby well-nigh out of my mind. + +“You’ll soon get over that, I expect,” he encouraged heartily. “Now, +I’m none of your experts on old stones or old codgers, of course, and +I never did hear of the party you mention, but when I was a boy I had +a good share of climbin’—aye, and of fallin’—in Aidenn Forest. I can +mind once runnin’ across something that sounds like your whatnot. By +gummy, sir, if I don’t think I could guide you there yet!” + +And forthwith he gave me a series of directions, which he insisted I +take down. However interested I should have been in these two days +ago, now among grimmer things the project of finding the oratory seems +trivial, seems superfluous. But I jotted down what he told me, thanked +him, and returned to the conservatory. + +The spark of speech had been fanned into life during my absence. They +were talking of the events of the day before—what else could they?—but +they had happened upon a particular and engrossing phase. No longer, +as all last evening, did they repeat to each other what they +themselves had done; they had been over that so many times, all to no +purpose. When, like me, each had given his account of the afternoon, +it was evident that none of them could possibly have been concerned in +the death of Cosgrove, or even could have seen the manner of it. + +Where, as a fact, had they been after the moment of the Irishman’s +disappearance through the shrubs among which Paula Lebetwood had fled? +Well, no one had remained long in the House. The Pendletons and the +Belvoirs, together with Mrs. Bartholomew, had formed a party for a +walk and had gone south. Avoiding the road, they had made their way +through park-like portions of the estate all the way to the bridge, to +marvel at the volume of Aidenn Water there. Far in the distance beyond +the bridge, they had seen the road-mender working his long hours. +Ludlow and Miss Mertoun had struck off for a stroll where Aidenn Water +makes considerable of a bend beneath the western hills. Bob Cullen, +feeling wretched after his dismissal by Lib, had gone alone the +opposite way, kicking a disgusted trail in the turf past the stables +and on beyond to where the steeply-wooded slope of Whimble Hill +commenced. After her departure in dudgeon from the armoury (and from +Doctor Aire and me) Lib had gone outside to look vainly about the +grounds for Bob, then had come in to find Miss Lebetwood, but had +encountered me on the stairs instead. Dr. Aire, having washed +his hands free of gardener’s loam, immediately went out, chanced +upon Maryvale in the tiny grove of cypress trees, and sauntered +up the Vale with him. The men turned off the path to approach the +eighteenth-century summer-house, upon whose rotting steps they sat for +a half an hour. Incidentally, they saw me wandering toward the +deserted farm of the sisters Delambre, and saw me returning therefrom. + +Oxford had spent the most peaceful afternoon of all: seating himself +in the shade of the gate-house to smoke a cigarette, he had gone to +sleep in good earnest. Awakened by a sound, he discovered Miss +Mertoun, Ludlow, and Belvoir amusing themselves by turning the winch +of the drawbridge. Belvoir, having left his wife and the others below +for a brisk walk back along the stream, had met Miss Mertoun and his +Lordship, and had suggested the pastime. By now Bob Cullen had made a +broad circuit of the House, and stood aloof somewhat churlishly, +refusing to be beguiled by the action of the drawbridge. + +My report of my own doings, told at breakfast, and including as it +needs must the impossible bone, had met a polite but agnostic +reception. The table had lapsed into nervous silence. Ludlow, tapping +his pince-nez on one knee crossed over the other, stared out the +eastern window with a crinkly smile. + +“The mystic bone!” he murmured ironically. (The epithet has stuck.) + +“What are you suggesting, Lord Ludlow?” I asked brusquely, for my +feathers were perhaps a little ruffled. + +“I should say you needed to have your sight examined.” + +“It has been, recently, and pronounced excellent.” + +“Then why not consult our friend Doctor Aire, professionally? He has +had something to do with mental cases.” + +I was going to retort when Alberta’s even tones admonished me “not to +notice his nonsense or he’d get vain”; so I let it go at that. + +As for Miss Lebetwood’s hour before the tragedy, she had soon relaxed +her pace among the strawberry trees, and the wave of anger had ebbed +away. She found herself nearby the tennis court. Feeling, she said, +very much ashamed of her lack of self-control, she postponed returning +to the House as long as possible, and began to search industriously +for some of the lost tennis balls. She failed to recover a single one, +and at length, noticing that the planted grove was becoming thick with +twilight, and glancing at her wrist-watch, she realized that she must +hasten back to the House unless she were to miss tea, and appear more +ungracious than ever. She did not, of course, know of the plan to +rehearse “Noah’s Flood,” for neither Cosgrove nor anyone else had she +seen. Aire had spied her just emerging from the thickets to the lawn. +From the time of her outburst against him, she was not to see her +betrothed again until, when half-way across the lawn a few rods above +the gate-house, she saw him kneeling, as she thought, and dying, as it +proved, beside the small tower. + +All this, certainly, was threadbare to tell by this morning; backward +and forward the courses had been traced until there was disgust at the +_resultlessness_ of it all. But now I returned from Salt to find a new +problem had arisen in the company. Miss Lebetwood (who with Millicent +Mertoun was now engaging in the last of Salt’s private conferences) +had said that since Cosgrove had not found her by the tennis court, it +was extremely unlikely that he had ever looked for her at all; and +once she had uttered these words, every person in the conservatory was +acutely aware what a _non sequitur_ yawning lies in the seemingly +harmless assumption that because a man stares hard and plunges into +some bushes he is of necessity searching for something beyond those +bushes. Well then, what _had_ Cosgrove been doing, and where, from +leaving the Hall until receiving his death-blow by the tower? + +In vain we attempted to make out for him an itinerary which would +account for the afternoon. All that the united company could supply +was one fact sandwiched between two uncertainties, and even that fact +had been offered by the servants’ hall. I may record the items thus: + + First uncertainty: Doctor Aire, who left me alone in the armoury a + good quarter of an hour after Cosgrove departed from the Hall, says + that before seeing Maryvale, he caught a glimpse of what may have + been a human face among some dogwood shrubs a little to the right of + the cypress grove. But whether it was Cosgrove’s face, or that of an + intruder, or “the prodigious Parson’s” (who is so familiar that he + seems no intruder), or whether it was no face at all, Aire refuses + to commit himself. He seems rather inclined to believe himself the + victim of an illusion. The scientific mind, I suppose. (Query—Could + _this_ have been the gorilla-man? If so, we have the first evidence + to substantiate any definite person’s presence about the time and + place of Cosgrove’s death.) + + Fact, from Wheeler, the youthful chauffeur, via Blenkinson’s + document: Cosgrove beckoned to Wheeler from behind a corner of the + garage at about ten minutes past four. Answering the signal, Wheeler + had been conducted to a place out of sight among the decaying + stonework. (Stables and garage occupy part, but not all the site of + the ruined south-east portion of the castle.) “I want no one to + overhear us,” said the Irishman, “and I want you to keep eternally + silent about what I am going to say.” For emphasis he placed a pound + note in Wheeler’s hand. “There will be five more for you at the end + of my stay here if you do what I bid you and hold your tongue.” + Wheeler swore eternal fidelity, and Cosgrove gave his orders. “It’s + almost nothing I want. To-night there will be a foolish + entertainment in the House, and everyone will have the costume of an + animal. The costumes, I know, are in the storerooms on the second + floor. Now, I have a friend who must enter the House to me without + anyone being the wiser. He can come in during the mummery if he has + the appearance of an animal, and I want you to see that he finds his + costume. You know my room?” Wheeler said he did not, and Cosgrove + explained that he occupied the room next the inner conservatory + wall. “The tower there juts out corresponding to the one on the + other side between the Hall of the Moth and the conservatory. At a + quarter past nine I shall drop the costume from the tower window; it + will be an extra progeny for the elephant, or some such vanity. I + want you to be on hand from the time I mentioned until my friend + comes a little later, and I want you to see that he gets into the + costume and into the Hall, where the performance begins about ten. + My friend will also come beneath my window, but I shall no longer be + in my room; so you must be there to meet him.” Wheeler guaranteed + satisfaction, and was sure that he and Cosgrove had not been seen + during this colloquy. (Nor had they been, but they had been heard. + Morgan, overhauling a saddle in a harness-closet just beyond the + wall, could verify the tones of the men’s voices, but had + distinguished none of the sense. In vain, later, he tried to wrest + Wheeler’s secret from him.) + + Second uncertainty: Belvoir believes, but is not prepared to swear, + that just as he and Miss Mertoun and the Baron approached the + gate-house from the direction of Aidenn Water, he saw Cosgrove on + the lawn. Two things make Belvoir doubt if he actually did see the + Irishman or not. First, he was talking about and thinking about + something else at the time, and the sight was no more than a surface + impression, so to speak, on his mind. Furthermore, he may have been + tricked by the twilight, for the huge shadow of the gate-house + reached across the lawn just there, even ascending the wall of the + House part way. If he saw the Irishman in the shadow, the image must + have been extremely vague, for not only is the distance considerable + from where the three were walking, but Cosgrove, it must be borne in + mind, was wearing a black coat and dark blue breeches. Belvoir is + extremely uneasy on the prongs of his dilemma. (Those with him saw + nothing.) Asked what position Cosgrove was in, he answers curiously + enough that if he saw the Irishman at all, he had lifted the canvas + cover part way and was regarding the unexplainable battle-axe. + +But I came past soon afterwards, between then and the time Belvoir and +his party reached the tower—and there was no Cosgrove staring at a +battle-axe then! What does Belvoir’s evidence imply, if it is +evidence? Did the axe leap up and smite him while he gazed, and was he +lying there unnoticed by me when I returned from the cottage of the +sisters Delambre? And that “friend” of Cosgrove’s, who was to come at +a little after a quarter past nine—did he arrive so soon? Precious +little he could have done to harm the Irishman at the appointed time. +If only Wheeler had kept the tryst in the storm, instead of forgetting +it completely in the horror of the night until Blenkinson nagged it +into his memory again! Was this “friend” the same whose indeterminate +face Doctor Aire had perhaps seen, perhaps not? To ask these questions +is to realize how vain they are! Yet if we are to know the obscure, +impalpable limbo of truth that lies behind this man’s death, must we +not know the answers? + +The click of the door-lock startled us in the midst of almost lively +discussion. Paula Lebetwood and her friend re-entered the +conservatory, and Salt stood on the threshold with a thin sheet of +bluish paper in his hand. The American girl was paler than before, +and, I thought, exercising great self-restraint. While she took her +seat beside me, I could see the tremors pass along her throat with +each breath. But her eyes were staring at the Superintendent, and my +glance followed hers. + +Salt said, “This paper, I expect, is Mr. Cosgrove’s Will and +Testament.” He held it up for us to grasp at; it was a single +translucent page, a tiny thing to dictate the disposal of great +riches. “With Miss Lebetwood’s permission—I mean by her request—I’m +goin’ to read it to you.” + +“One moment,” darted in his Lordship as Salt was about to begin +without taking breath: “don’t you know that it is highly irregular to +read a copy of a Will until all the legatees—” + +“You’ll see why, sir, in a minute. Besides, this is sure to be the +original of the Will, and all the heirs happen to be present!” + +“Eh?” + +“There’s not much to it, you might say, sir. And Miss Lebetwood +particularly wants there to be no misunderstanding.” + +Forthwith, in that zone of awe, he read the instrument, dated two +months ago. It contained fewer than two hundred words. I do not know +which to admire most, the clear-cut terseness of it, or the hard +cynical sense of its incidental comments, such as, “my body to be +buried as soon as possible after my death and as near as practicable +to the place of my death, with the least emolument to lawyers, +priests, and undertakers.” And withal, according to those of us who +have scanned the law most thoroughly, the Will is adamant to any who +may attempt to break it. + +As for its sense, it devises Cosgrove’s entire fortune to Miss +Lebetwood “for her own absolute use and benefit without exception, +limitation, reservation or condition, forever.” Cosgrove’s brother, +mentioned as having self-denied a share in the estate, is made sole +executor. Rather pathetic, those words: + + “IRELAND DELIVERED is the cross in whose sign I would conquer; but + should I die, without me I know the good work can never go on. + Therefore to her who is, or is to be, my dearest helpmeet and sharer + of these the Lord’s bounties, best fit to use them wisely, I + bequeath all my worldly goods.” + +Salt gave us a few breaths to absorb the shock of this overpowering +disclosure. I was almost clean stupefied, but I confess that a feeling +of despondency came over me at that moment. It was not, of course, +that I grudged Paula Lebetwood the fortune _for herself_. But I had +supposed, in what brief moments I had thought of it, that Cosgrove’s +money would have gone to fight Cosgrove’s good fight, even though a +losing one. The lines of that fine poem recurred to me: + + “They went forth to battle but they always fell: + Their eyes were set above the sullen shields.” + +No, that had not been this Irishman’s philosophy; the great cause must +wait now for the next great man. + +The women had instantly begun to crowd about Miss Lebetwood with +exclamations of surprise and pleasure, a flutter of congratulation +which must have been an ordeal for the American girl. + +Salt extracted from a side pocket an envelope whose flap he loosened +with a pencil. He made the round of the room so that each of us could +see what was inside. “Paper-ash, this is sure to be. It was all there +was in Mr. Cosgrove’s grate. Not a word legible, but one or two blank +bits didn’t get burned, as you see. . . . Now, there’s no paper like +that anywhere in the house; Mr. Pendleton will go surety for it. It’s +different paper from the ‘Lochinvar’ bit. I was wonderin’ if any of +you ladies and gentlemen had some like it—could explain the note, +perhaps.” + +But not even Eve Bartholomew could help the Superintendent now. + +Salt turned to Crofts. “It couldn’t have been in the post, you say?” + +Crofts answered doggedly, “Cosgrove never got any mail.” + +“For a man who never got any mail, he had a tidy bit of mysterious +correspondence. Well, I see I shall have to wait a bit before I find +what little secret was here.” He looked at his large silver watch. +“Thank you very much, all. I don’t think I’ll need to trouble any of +you again soon; so I’ll just take this opportunity to give you a +suggestion, and maybe a bit o’ reassurance. There are a good many +folks we haven’t located that must have somethin’ to do with this +case. You all know about Sir Brooke—Mortimer, I think it is; well, I’m +telegraphin’ for full particulars of him from wherever he came from, +and havin’ a look-out made for him. There are two men Mr. Bannerlee +ran across the night he came that I want to find, and also it seems +that those Frenchwomen, the Delambres, aren’t on their patch of land. +Through one of these outside channels, we’ll come upon a solution. And +that means simply routine police work. However, if I were you, I’d not +go about separately very far from the House, and just for precaution’s +sake you might lock your doors and windows. No alarm, you +understand—only you’ll feel safer. Doctor Niblett will hold the +inquest as soon as possible. I shall probably be here a good bit for +the next few days, and I trust, with the kind permission of Mr. +Pendleton, that you will not end your visits until I am certain-sure +you can’t assist me.” + +“Only too glad, Superintendent to have them all stay until you’ve +cornered the brute,” said Crofts between his teeth. Then, becoming +expansive, he looked about with a satisfied air. “Well, I’m beginning +to think this won’t be a Scotland Yard case after all. And it’s one of +those outsiders surely. Crazy to think it could be any of us.” + +Suddenly a strange voice was in the room. “And I, Mr. Pendleton, +believe in the possible implication of everyone here, including +myself.” Paula Lebetwood said the words, unlike any speech we had +heard from her lips, a terribly controlled utterance, toneless, as if +some insentient thing had spoken. She stood up. The tremor of her +throat was still. + +“Of yourself, dearest?” cried Miss Mertoun. “How awful to say such a +thing!” + +“Of yourself!” echoed half a dozen voices. + +She was looking straight ahead, sightlessly. “Isn’t it too clear for +words? Can’t you understand how _I_ feel?—how I have felt all these +weeks? It rests on me, don’t you see? How can I ever touch a cent that +was his until his killer has paid for his death? Oh, I’ve felt it ever +since he told me—told me he was going to make his Will—” Her eyes +darkened, and the first tinge of feeling came into her voice: +bitterness. “I was a fool. I should have told him—then.” + +Miss Mertoun came over, leaned her cheek against Paula’s, recalling to +me that first scene by the tower on the lawn. “Paula, _dearest_.” +Gently she pressed the American girl back into her seat, soothed her +with soft little speeches, almost made her smile. + +Suddenly Mrs. Bartholomew lifted her head, an expression of +penetrative power on her face, as if she were probing beyond the realm +of sense. She made a quick outreaching gesture with her hands, +withdrew them, clasped them in her lap. She began to speak once, but +checked herself. Then: + +“I have the eeriest feeling, but it is strong, so _strong_!” + +“What feeling do you mean?” asked Alberta Pendleton with bated breath. + +Eve Bartholomew’s eyes were shining wide. “That Sir Brooke is _here_, +_now_, among us!” + +She stirred us. We pitied her then, in silence. Whatever he had been +to her, or she to him— + +She turned to the window close beside her. “This flood may end +to-morrow, but it’s the act of Providence all the same!” + +“Oh, come, Mrs. Bartholomew,” protested Belvoir’s soft voice. “It’s +deuced inconvenient; no two ways about that. We may have to take +spades and bury our poor friend here on the spot if it keeps up.” + +“That was his wish, wasn’t it?” she retorted. “I say this sundering +flood has been our one blessing. How shall the guilty escape now, if +he is not one of us? And if he _is_ one of us—” Her eyes beneath that +lustrous black hair shone like gems in a mine. “If he _is_, he will +betray himself before the flood goes down!” + +“Bravo!” exclaimed Lord Ludlow. “Madam, I applaud you. You have +feeling, and I respect you for it.” + +Miss Lebetwood raised her voice to the man across the room. “That +sounds like an indictment of me, sir.” + +“Never!” + +The American went on. “I suppose I seem to have no grief, no feeling. +I am passionless; oh, yes! I tell you I am devoted to only one thing, +the finding of the murderer. My task commences to-day, this hour, now. +I see by the look on all your faces, and one of them still may be a +murderer’s face, that you are shocked. No, I have sorrow; I am not +hard-hearted, save for a purpose. I have sorrow—you will never know +how much—but I must get it behind me.” + +The easy tones of Superintendent Salt intervened. “Miss, I wouldn’t +feel so. Everyone is heartily takin’ your part. Why you should think +otherwise I don’t know. And have no doubt of one thing: we shall get +at the heart of this mystery soon.” + +“We must,” said Eve Bartholomew. “The innocent suffer as well as the +guilty.” + +“I am now going to make a careful inspection of the House,” said Salt. +“I got the lay of the land before turnin’ in last night, but now, +ladies and gentlemen, I shall take the liberty of lookin’ through your +rooms. Mr. Pendleton, I particularly want to see those store-places +Mr. Cosgrove evidently had a fancy for, and the cellars. Plenty of +cellars, of course?” + +“Plenty. And a sub-cellar no one’s been in since before we bought the +property.” + +“Have you any idea what’s down there?” + +“How should I know? Nothing, I suppose. And anyhow, the trap-covers +are locked with padlocks and sealed with an inch of dust.” + +“Ah, well,” said Salt good-naturedly, “I don’t think I’ll make you +sweep ’em off and unlock ’em. Only take me where they are.” + +Again while he and Pendleton made their way from the conservatory, I +was assailed with doubt concerning the confident Salt. Was he to +fumble the case after all? For it seemed to me in trying to resolve an +enigma so baffling, no opening ought to be ignored. And the +Superintendent was, to say the least, eclectic, when he chose not to +enter the sub-cellars. + +A hand was laid on my shoulder. I looked up, and was held by those +eyes with their unsearchable gleam, Maryvale’s. + +“How will they ever solve this riddle and set this wrong aright, if +they forget the spanning and roofing of the waters, and the deathless +arm?” + +“I do not understand you, Mr. Maryvale.” + +“What were Sir Pharamond’s words? ‘Let traitors beware!’ Mr. +Bannerlee, remember, sir, that they never found the arm of Sir +Pharamond—and his tomb in old Aidenn Church attests it.” + +“What on earth do you mean?” + +“Oh, Gilbert has a theory all his own,” laughed Belvoir in a friendly +manner. “It has absolute novelty to recommend it, and artistic value. +It’s the artistic side that appeals to you, isn’t it, Gilbert?” + +“Truth appeals to me as well.” + +“Well, really—truth!” + +“What is your theory, Mr. Maryvale?” I asked with an attempt to +disregard the twinges of apprehension that I felt in his presence. + +“I have no theory: I have the key.” + +“Gilbert means that the corporeal, material, substantial right arm of +Sir Pharamond Kay, builder of the castle which now is Highglen House, +has risen from its cerements and laid a certain party low. Isn’t that +about it, Gilbert?” + +“It is all you need to know.” + +“But what’s that about the proof being in Old Aidenn Church?” + +Belvoir gave a sly chuckle. “Go there some afternoon and have a look +for yourself, Mr. Bannerlee. Old Aidenn is only three miles beyond New +Aidenn, and both of ’em happen to be as old as Doomsday.” + +“It’s as sound, anyhow, as Crofts’ idea that a murderer couldn’t +escape from Aidenn Vale,” remarked Aire. + +For my part, I looked first at Maryvale’s stooped retreating bulk, and +then at the other two men, who solemnly looked at me. We did not +speak, but the same thought must have been in all of us. The servants +might understandably be shy of strange forms in the dark, but what was +to become of _us_, if we began gravely to discuss wee grey-bearded men +with voices like honey, or pixies perched on toadstools? + +Young Bob Cullen had strayed to the window, was watching the +raindrops, now meandering slowly, now darting down the pane. + +“Talk about Noah’s Flood,” he growled. + +“Forty days he had of it,” mused Lib Dale. “If this keeps up forty +minutes more, I’ll be dotty. Oh, look!” + +The whole conservatory thrilled with light. A golden-green path lay +shimmering across the lawn. It had ceased to rain. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +The Weapon + +Suddenly, and very softly, Superintendent Salt was among us once more. +I knew of his presence only when I heard him speak. + +“My Lord, one more question, if you please. The man—Soames I believe +his name is—who has just conducted me to the cellars says you gave him +a letter to post last evening.” + +“I did—confound him! I handed it to him and expressed a wish that if +the storm should cease as suddenly as it commenced, it might reach New +Aidenn in time to go out in this morning’s post. Of course, when the +downpour showed no sign of abating, I had it back.” + +“I presumed so, my Lord. In that case, I shall have to see the letter, +with your permission.” + +“And that you certainly shall not!” + +Salt was like the everlasting hills. “Only the envelope, my Lord. The +superscription is all I need to see.” + +After a long ten-seconds’ hesitation Lord Herbert drew a letter from +his breast-pocket and held it close to the Superintendent’s face. Salt +peered. + +“Hm. Is that it? Seems to be. Stamp uncancelled. To the Bangor and +Newcastle Corporation, eh? 12 Gate Street, London, E. C. Very +innocent, I’m sure, my Lord. Thank you.” + +I saw the quick purple flash into the Baron’s face when Salt read +aloud the words intended only for his eye. “I consider this an +impertinence, sir.” + +“To be called things is all in my day’s work, my Lord,” responded +Salt, and turning to Pendleton, he said, “You ought to open a little +Post Office here.” + +“What on earth for?” + +“For surreptitious mail.” + +“Bangor and Newcastle Corporation,” I could not help repeating +puzzledly, half-aloud, I fear. “What on earth connection can there be +between little Bangor with its agriculture and Druid Circle, and the +coal and battleships of Newcastle-on-Tyne?” + +Ludlow said nothing, but I observed in his eye and in the hook of his +bloodless lip a sublime contempt for my ignorance. + +But at that moment everyone save me was looking toward the door +leading to the Hall of the Moth, which had opened sufficiently to +admit first the head and then the rest of Blenkinson. Again the look +of transcendence appeared natural, even casual on his person. +Spiritual transcendence, that is, for bodily he was in great +bedragglement, as if he had wallowed in the rain just before it ended. + +“Mr. Salt, I beg to report that the weapon ’as been found. I ’ave left +it where I and Finlay discovered it, almost—” + +I think the feeling of elation that visited me was shared by nearly +everyone in the conservatory. I saw faces brightening. But Salt’s did +not. + +The Superintendent gave one leap toward Blenkinson, cutting him dead +off in the midst of his glory. + +“Mr. Blenkinson, your admirable researches—invaluable +assistance—indispensable services—fill me with alarm. Please be more +discreet. Inform me in private of your discoveries, and let _me_ be +the judge whether they are to be shared by these ladies and gentlemen. +For, mind you, _technically_, every person here is under suspicion—and +that goes for you, too, Mr. Blenkinson. You may, or may not, be +revealin’ something valuable to the murderer himself.” + +Under this withering sardonic fire the smug efficiency of the butler +had fallen ingloriously. “I’m—‘gulp’—very sorry, sir, but—‘gulp’—the +fact is, I was so helated—‘gulp’—that I—” + +“Quite,” agreed Salt; “quite. And now, Mr. Blenkinson, if you please, +lead the way to this weapon, whatever it is.” He thrust the butler +before him through the door into the Hall, and looked back upon the +threshold. “Kindly do not let your curiosity to see Mr. Blenkinson’s +find tempt you to follow us, any of you. Thank you.” The door closed. + +The weapon found! Tongues were wagging anew. I thought of the +difference between Salt’s previous assurance to us that the solution +was to be sought among the many missing persons, and his recent +proclamation that no one in the House was exempt as a possible +murderer. Then in the midst of the babble came a still voice close +behind me. I turned; Doctor Aire was leaning over the piano, his +abbreviated form easily sheltering underneath the lifted cover. + +“Mr. Bannerlee, how about a stroll up the Vale, now it promises fair +weather? Mr. Salt has admonished us to go in pairs.” + +“Up the Vale—now? You must be emulating Noah himself, Doctor! The +waters haven’t yet descended from Ararat.” + +“I want to get rid of this cursed miasma of flowers. It’s like some +noxious emanation. My head aches with odours.” + +“But surely it’s out of the question. Why, after this +downpour, the Vale’s certain to be swampland all the way up to +Water-break-its-neck.” + +The yellowy doctor shook his head, smiling. “Strange, but you’re +wrong. You should really dig into the lore of this region, Mr. +Bannerlee. The Welsh name of our locality, I have read, is Maesyfed.” + +“Oh? Meaning?” + +“The absorbent field, probably. For the thirsty soil does wonders +after rain; in summer even Aidenn Water sinks underground for long +distances and leaves its channel dry.” + +“Well, I’m in favour of getting out of here if it can be done.” + +“It can; I know from previous visits. We’ll give the sun and soil a +couple of hours to restore dry footing.” + +“Well enough. I’ll meet you in the library.” + +Salt re-entered just then and took Aire away with a few whispered +words. I wandered into the dinner-room where stragglers were sitting +at belated luncheon, for since yesterday’s disaster the schedule of +meals seems to have fallen into anarchy. I did not stay long at the +board, however; perhaps the fumes of the conservatory had stopped the +pangs of appetite. I excused myself and crossed to the armoury, +intending first to glance over the array of the library shelves in the +hope of discovering something of interest, then to go to my room and +set down some of the multitudinous details of last night and to-day. + +But I never got as far as the library. I heard a strenuous young voice +through its door ajar: + +“Ah, g’wan. You make me laugh—_you_. When they put a lily in your +hand, you’ll deserve the Good Boy’s Epitaph.” + +“What’s that?” demanded Bob suspiciously. + +“‘He loved his grandmother.’” + +“You think you’re funny, don’t you? Well, I wasn’t crazy about this +Cosgrove. I would have been ready to do him in. He was no good for +Paula, even if he did have all that coin. He was a fast worker, that’s +what he was. I guess you ought to know. He was a dirty bum.” + +“‘Swine’ is what you say in this country.” + +“I said I’d have polished him off, and I meant it. Wouldn’t you?” + +“Hush up, Bobby. Keep that stuff under your hat. You don’t want +somebody to overhear you talking crazy, do you?” + +“Well, wouldn’t you?” + +Lib lowered her voice and spoke rapidly. “Yes, I would, for a brick +like Paula. My God, what a man Cosgrove was! And she fell for him!” +Then, “Change the subject, change the subject! To hear you talk like +that would give an alligator nervous prostration. Suppose a few of +those detectives were in the armoury.” + +There was a spell of silence, sharply broken by Lib. “Leggo my hand! +What do you think this is, a golf links?” + +“You tol’ me to change the subject,” said Bob with deep grievance. + +“Don’t be sil. Say, I think there _is_ somebody in there. Look quick.” + +But I had fled into the corridor and, laughing heartily within, was +half-way up the stairs. + +In my room I immersed myself in that task of writing which has become +almost my principal interest. I quite lost track of time while I wrote +of Salt’s arrival last evening and the rest of it. With a start I +recalled Aire, looked at my watch, and leaped down the stairs. It was +nearly four. + +The short, spindly-legged man was waiting, and with a touch of +annoyance I saw that Maryvale was consulting some book in a corner of +the library, a book which he put down upon my arrival as if he +expected to accompany us. + +“Gilbert has consented to come along.” + +“Oh? Glad.” + +The sky was unblemished with cloud when we set out for that supposedly +uneventful walk in the bracing hill-air, but the sun had sloped nearly +to the high horizon of the ridge, and the light already had in it a +subtle infiltration of yellow. Some jewels still glittered on the +lawn, but the turf was surprisingly firm and pleasant to the tread. + +We struck under the shade of the cypresses; through the systematic +“wilderness” of planted trees we strode, toward the pretentious +bridge, past the mouldering eighteenth-century summer-house, a thing +quite dismantled and defeated and gutted out. Once I had fancied it as +a possible hiding-place for mysterious visitants, but now I rejected +it utterly. The old smooth lawns there were now ragged stretches of +rough grass, still heavy with the rain where they lay beneath any +trees, and sluggish lake-like ponds were the remains of once sparkling +basins. + +Aire paused where a grey fallen statue and its pedestal lay beside one +of these sad meres, a place where the trees had hunched their +shoulders together to make an extra twilight shade. + +“About here, they say, a former occupant of the mansion, the one who +built that summer-house, was found.” + +“How found?” + +“Dead, Mr. Bannerlee, with his head neatly shorn away from the rest of +him. That was nearly two hundred years ago.” He grunted. “The chap +_ought_ to have been killed for putting up that thing.” + +“Good heavens! Who had done it?” + +“I wish I could tell you. He was never discovered. I don’t think the +victim was a very popular gentleman; so there may have been connivance +in keeping the secret locked away. A baffling affair it must have been +for the Salts of that day. The time-and-space problem was mystifying +then as now it is in Cosgrove’s death.” + +I looked curiously at the little man with the broad shoulders. +“Doctor, you certainly hit upon the queerest tales. Where could you +have found that recorded?” + +“On a special pasted-in leaf of an old family Bible. Quite a +fascinating library Crofts owns without comprehending it.” + +“This is accursed ground,” said Maryvale. “It reeks with lawless +bloodshed.” + +We left the park with its sickly poetry and bore to the right by a +field-path toward the prosaic potato-patch of the sisters Delambre, +where the scarecrow bore almost too great a likeness to Baron Ludlow +in his tweeds to be laid to coincidence. It was here that the brook +later spanned by the absurd bridge came down from the indentation of +the hill. We followed the narrow channel, where the rain-swollen +stream now leaped against its banks, to where the deserted cottage +stood in an oak-clump. The morsel of a stone-roofed house gave only a +shy peep from its covert; it was like a doll’s house, dwarfed by +overshadowing branches. + +“Do you think it possible that these women were concerned either last +night or the night before? What were they like?” + +“Cranky Frenchwomen. I’ve seen them on previous visits,” answered +Aire. “They always gave me the impression of being a couple of—well, I +might say unfrocked nuns, if you understand.” + +“Sounds rather ambiguous, Doctor,” I remarked. + +I was suddenly put in mind of a tale I had heard in another spot of +demon-haunted Wales, and I told it with some gusto. There two sisters +had lived together and managed a small farm with the aid of one man. +They were unfamiliar people and the country-folk were turned askance +to them. The pair would vanish at a particular time of day, and their +hats would be hanging in their bedrooms upon the looking-glass. One +afternoon the farmhand hid under their bed to find out their secret. +He saw them take off their caps and hang them on the glass, whereupon +they themselves immediately turned to cats, and ran to the dairy and +began lapping the cream. + +A somewhat dubious look upon Aire’s face as he gazed at Maryvale +during my recital was, I fear, lost on me, for it gave me a thrilling +pleasure to apply this tale to the sisters Delambre, particularly +since in that grimalkin of appalling voice they had a fit companion +for many an impious Sabbath. + +“And by the way,” I concluded, “the beast spared us its caterwauling +last night.” + +“Last night, but not to-night,” said Maryvale. “It will be hungrier +than ever to-night. We shall hear it, unless—” + +“Unless what?” + +“We shall see,” he parried. + +“It’s a vicious beast, if ever there was one,” said Aire, looking in +one of the cottage windows. “It’s twice the size you’d believe it +could attain. There’s never been any other cat in the Vale whose nine +lives were worth sixpence when this animal discovered its presence.” + +“And the birds,” added Maryvale. “The nightingales that once loved +this valley so—scarcely one is left.” + +Returning toward Aidenn Water at a point somewhat further north, we +heard from beyond a gnarl of blackberry bushes the sound of footsteps +and voices which proved to be those of Salt, wearing rubber boots, and +of Hughes the keeper. They were making their way up the stream by the +principal path, and I noticed that Hughes bore an axe of considerable +heft. + +Salt greeted us while we fell into step. “Sensible to get out of +doors.” + +“But you’re not here for your health, I fancy,” said Aire. + +“I am not. Mr. Hughes here and I are going to devote the last hour of +daylight to satisfyin’ ourselves about traces of the assassin on the +other side of the Vale. We’ve scoured north, south, east, and west on +this side of the stream, and never a footprint of him or anybody else. +Mr. Pendleton seemed a bit anxious we shouldn’t overlook the chance, +and it is a chance.” + +“What is that axe for?” suddenly demanded Maryvale. + +“To chop down a tree, sir,” answered Hughes. “I know where I can make +one fall across the Water. It’s the only way to get over.” + +“I thought as much,” I said. “What, just, is the state of things down +at the bridge?” + +“There isn’t a trace of it left, sir,” Salt informed me. “Sometime +last night the stone ends were undermined by the current. There are +men on the other side, though, riggin’ up a makeshift, and to-morrow, +maybe, if the stream goes down reasonably, we can get out of here, and +get Mr. Cosgrove’s body out, too.” + +Hughes pointed to the north, where the zigzag path down the mountain +had been obliterated by the landslip. “Men from Penybont beyond the +Forest are coming from the other side to clear that up to-morrow, +too.” + +“Well, someone must have been moving heaven and earth!” + +“Yes, sir; Mr. Pendleton was quite busy on the ’phone this afternoon.” + +“That telephone is not the least of our miracles,” I observed. “I +should have expected the line to be smashed to smithereens by the +storm.” + +“Our wires run underground, sir,” said the keeper. + +“What!” + +“Yes, sir, all the way to New Aidenn. There was too much trouble with +it the other way; so Mr. Pendleton had it changed. Now nothing ever +interferes with it.” + +I remembered something. “To bring into this discussion an element +sadly wanting—” + +“What’s that?” + +“Disclosures. Tell me, Superintendent, does the pall of official +secrecy still cover the weapon discovered by the astute Blenkinson?” + +“Not much use trying to keep anything secret hereabout,” said Salt +with a smile, which made me wonder what recent discoveries actually +reposed undivulged beneath that sodden hat and those iron-grey curly +locks. “The lid is off that little matter.” + +“It _is_ the weapon? What had Blenkinson found?” + +“A piece of angular slate, well shaped for holdin’, provided with an +almost sharp edge. Queer, isn’t it? Here’s a chap—I mean the guilty +party—helped himself to what he wanted out of the armoury the night +before; now, when he’s in a killin’ mood, he fetches along a stone. +Plenty of rock like it in the Vale, of course. Seems likely, though, +that it was picked up from that gimcrack rockery old Finlay wants to +get rid of—just opposite the tower where Cosgrove was found.” + +“You’re sure it’s the instrument?” I asked. + +Salt looked at Aire, who said, “The Superintendent called in Doctor +Niblett and me for our opinions on that point. The Coroner and I agree +that in the hands of a vigorous person, who must have approached +Cosgrove secretly from behind, the stone might well have done the +damage.” + +“But where was it lying?” I asked, with incredulity sounding in my +tone. “How could we have missed it?” + +“It wasn’t lyin’ anywhere,” answered Salt. “That’s a feature about it. +It was embedded, sir, almost buried among the flowers outside the +central windows of the Hall. If the rain hadn’t played hob with the +beds, and the man Finlay with Mr. Blenkinson hadn’t been assessin’ the +damage, it might have remained there unnoticed for a tidy while.” + +“By Jove, though, that’s a far-fetched hiding-place.” + +Salt raised his brows. “Is it? I think it was a clever one, sir. One +second he strikes the blow, the next he hurls the weapon straight down +into the loam. Inside half a minute he may be anywhere, and nothin’ to +connect him with the crime. Just a little more energy, and the earth +would have fallen in about the edges and covered the stone completely. +But as it was it must have taken strength, gigantic strength.” + +“It must have taken superhuman strength, Mr. Salt. Why, there had been +rain, but it blew a bit easterly then, and those beds couldn’t have +got much of it. It was nothing like last night’s inundation. The +ground must have been hard.” + +“On the contrary, the ground was exceedingly soft. Remember what it +said in Mr. Blenkinson’s document, sir. Finlay had been waterin’ those +very beds, and waterin’ ’em plenty after four o’clock.” + +“Were there any marks on this stone?” asked Maryvale. “Any signs such +as I understand often guide the police in their search?” + +“No, sir, none. And—” + +“I thought so.” + +Ignoring this somewhat cryptic remark, Salt explained: “Unpolished +stone isn’t a good medium for takin’ impressions. I’ll stake my little +finger, though, it was the stone that finished Mr. Cosgrove.” + +“Here we turn off, sir,” advised Hughes. + +We had been in sight of Aidenn Water much of the time, its cheerful +flow increased to boiling spate. Through a partly cleared copse of +larch, we could see it now, laughing with white teeth and greedy +gurgle along a sort of rapids. The particular tree Hughes intended to +chop was visible, already leaning half across the flood. + +Somewhat to my discomfiture, Aire announced that he intended to +accompany the pair across the stream. “Don’t mind, do you, Bannerlee? +I want to be in at the death of Pendleton’s theory. Or will you two +come along with us? Any objection, Superintendent?” + +“More the merrier,” said Salt. + +But I cared nothing for the death of any theory compared with my +eagerness to get farther north and see the great ruin beneath the +hills again. Maryvale had no love for the thought of crossing above +the churlish Water on a tree-trunk, and said so. We left the three +proceeding to the bank of the stream, but I confess it was with a pang +of premonition that I paced beside the man of business and heard the +sound of the lusty axe grow fainter and fainter. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +The Fiendish Cat of the Sisters Delambre + +For half an hour we walked on almost in silence, making the tritest +remarks about our surroundings, particularly those peaks which shut in +the valley ahead of us, from Great Rhos on the left across Black Mixen +to Mynydd Tarw on our right. We now saw only a broken secant of the +sun, and most of our light was reflected from the golden tops of the +hills. Maryvale for some reason maintained an unusually sharp +look-out, glancing restlessly every way among the glades. + +Almost before I was aware, we had reached the outer of those dejected +and scattered walls for so many centuries lying the prey of the +elements and the spoil of house-builders and church-builders from down +the Vale and beyond. + +Some of these still remained high enough to show the embrasures where +the upper windows had been, tall, slender apertures, one of them far +on the other side even now perfect in the stonework of transom and +mullions and semi-rounded arch. It was indeed the ruin of a knightly +house, once spacious and splendid. The fallen walls seemed to have +been struck or hurled outward by some terrific force or inward +convulsion, as if behemoth had stirred and heaved himself from beneath +the floor. + +Flanking the walls to the left, where I had come past two nights ago +and encountered the menagerie-keeper, I peered inside, over a +chin-high portion, and gave an exclamation of surprise. The thick +walls had indeed been hurled down from within. The vast flat slabs of +the floor, what few of them remained, were tossed in disorder, and the +earth on which they lay was piled in fantastic heaps alongside deep, +irregular trenches—all grass-grown now, of course. A few bushes and +one enormous beech tree found livelihood inside the wall. + +For a couple of minutes Maryvale had been standing quiet behind me, +peering this way and that in the twilight, as if he looked for some +particular object. + +“This gutted carcass makes me fancy things,” I laughed. “Come, +Maryvale, sweep the spider-webs out of my mind by flourishing +vigorously the broom of truth. In other words, relate to me something +about this place, and pity on your life if it’s the old story of +‘deflor’d by Glindur.’” + +“Why, haven’t you heard?” + +“If I did it went in one ear and out the other. Say on.” + +I braced my hands on the broken top of the wall and leaped up, making +my seat there. Maryvale joined me with very little effort, and we sat +there kicking our heels schoolboy-like. + +Again I saw him look about very intently, under the beeches, through +the gaps between the stones, across the scrub growth between us and +Aidenn Water a quarter of a mile distant. + +“What are you looking for, Maryvale?” + +“Sathanas.” + +“This place is too thinly populated, my friend. Come, what of this +ancient hold? Bring on your heroes and cravens, your demigods and +dastards.” + +“Gwrn darw—the pile of contention,” muttered Maryvale, and he launched +on the story. + +I had expected another farrago of myth and tradition, perhaps larded +with the same episodes that Hughes had spellbound us with in the +dinner-room yesterday morning. Instead it was a fairly plausible story +from some wholly different source, this account of the first +historical building in Aidenn Vale. I enjoyed listening to the +narrative; Maryvale enjoyed telling it. Gusto was the keynote of his +voice, with its rapid utterance and changes of inflection. He made +drama of it, and a valiant man of Sir Pharamond. + +“Why, Maryvale, where did you learn all this?” + +“This is history,” he affirmed solemnly. + +Moreover, he was beginning to peer about again, turning more than once +in his speech to stare beneath the branches of the trees. That feeling +of repugnance to Maryvale which I had before experienced returned +hazily, and of a sudden I realized how lonely this place was, how +close to us the hills were, and how dark and steep. I might instantly +have urged our return had not my own roving glance caught a black +object protruding from a bush inside the wall. + +I broke in. “Look! Here’s evidence the world’s a madhouse!” + +Down inside the wall I slipped, crossed to the bush, and triumphantly +held high the black umbrella. + +“He was real, Maryvale! He was no nightmare!” + +While I unfastened the loop and opened the umbrella, Maryvale dropped +from his seat and came beside me. He asked me what this was, where it +came from, and whom I had met here, all in a breath. + +“This is a clue, man!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps it has some +manufacturer’s mark—what’s the matter?” + +I could no more have released my arm from Maryvale’s grip than from +the strongest vise. But in a moment his hand relaxed, and then I +caught sight of what he was looking at so hard. + +On the northern wall, twice the height of that whereupon we had been +sitting, crept something darker than the hills against which its form +was obscure. Softly, swiftly, the form slunk along the stones, then +gave a leap to the arched summit of that one perfect window and stood +still, its head lifted, its form now stark against the sky—the form of +an enormous cat, lean and lithe and tigerish. + +Maryvale was breathing loudly. I gave him a swift look; his face was +working, and with his eyes set on the cat of the sisters Delambre, he +drew from a hip pocket the last thing on earth I should have imagined +him to carry, a large revolver, one of the sort called in America, I +believe, a six-shooter. + +But the hideous expression of his face was more alarming still. + +Here was a combination of circumstances I did not envisage hopefully: +the lonely spot, the great cat, the man apparently unbalanced by the +sight of the beast, and the revolver. I had only the umbrella. + +Not a little afraid, I sought safety in valour. I reached out my hand. + +“May I see that, Mr. Maryvale?” + +He let me have the weapon without demur, and while I examined the +deadly thing, I saw out of the corner of my eye that his attention was +still riveted on the shape of the cat. I hesitated to break into that +almost hypnotic absorption. + +Perhaps a minute passed. I had put down the umbrella. + +Then from the gloaming woods that fringed the mountain foot welled a +sound like a bright bubble bursting into a hundred bubbles, a sound +like the spray of a sweet fountain—the song of a nightingale from the +deep solitudes of Black Mixen. + +“The nightingale of Water-break-its-neck,” I thought, for I had heard +someone speak of this lonely music-maker. + +The form of the cat stiffened; gradually it sank to a crouching +posture, as if its prey were near at hand. Then tail and head went up, +and its jaws were sharp against the sky, and the valley bristled with +its starved and destructive yowl. + +Maryvale was a man transformed from trance to action. Spasmodically he +felt his pocket for the pistol, then recollected me. His voice was +jumbled with the cry of the beast. + +“Give me that gun.” + +“Wouldn’t it be better—” + +His utterance was quickly controlled to a whisper. “Give me that gun. +I am going to perform a humane act. I came here for this.” + +“But, Mr. Maryvale—” + +“Don’t you understand?” he burst out. “I will free the soul of a ghoul +from its tenement!” He grabbed the pistol from my hand. + +“For God’s sake—!” + +“I am the best shot in the Midlands with one of these.” He raised the +weapon with a marksman’s care and confidence. + +The animal, surprised by our voices, had reared its head in our +direction, and now, instead of making off, scrambled down from the +window arch and came loping toward us, growling, as if it actually +contemplated an attack. Its fur on end swelled it to twice its size. +Maryvale shifted his aim quickly, and the clustering hills resounded +with the echo of his shot. + +But the cat, unhurt, sprang toward us spitting and snarling, with eyes +that flashed. I realized when I saw those intensely flaming eyes that +green, not red, must be the colour of hell-fire. + +Again the revolver blazed, with no effect save to cause the beast to +give a high leap toward Maryvale, full length upright, all fours +spread wide and clawing, mouth hissing. Maryvale shot point-blank in +the face of the animal, and the beast was enveloped in a fiery cloud, +but it dropped to earth on all fours, fled unscathed past us, and +disappeared beneath a bush. + +Maryvale lifted his hands to the dark and empty sky. “Too strong—too +strong—the infernal magic of this place.” + +I took a step toward the man, grasped the weapon, tugged to get it +from him, cried, “What did you expect? You’ve loaded this pistol with +blank cartridges.” + +“Blanks?” he shouted. “Never a bit.” + +Twenty feet away a straggling thin branch of a rowan tree came over +the western wall and was ebony against the sky, having at the end some +finger-clumps of leaves. Maryvale took quick aim, eyes protruding +grotesquely, and fired; the branch trembled and one of the leaf stems +fell away. Twice again the pistol rang out; the branch itself suddenly +hung down, all but severed by the final bullet. + +Maryvale laughed wildly with tempestuous eyes. “I should have known it +was impossible. You cannot kill the soul of Parson Lolly with lead.” + +He threw away the weapon, went lunging along the wall. I followed, +took him by the shoulder. + +“Maryvale—” + +But he thrust me off, violently, and began to run. I fell with my knee +against a stone, and when I arose my chagrin was great, for apart from +the pain my leg had gone almost dead, and I could scarcely hobble. +Maryvale had found a gap between the stones, leaped through, and +charged down the Vale. When I had managed to drag myself out from the +enclosure, he was beyond sight and hearing. I shouted his name many +times; no answer came back. + +I knew that lamed as I was I must get down the Vale as soon as +possible, for there was no telling what the man might do in this +demented state. He might even have another gun. + +The cat the incarnation of Parson Lolly! Then the realization leaped +on me. What would they say, those in the House, when they were told +that none of the three bullets had done the beast any harm! + +So stunned I was by this lightning-stroke that without knowing what I +did or being aware of my injured knee, I walked on with my brain in a +storm of confusion. When, some time later, I was rid of the shock, but +still wondering, I had gone half a mile and my knee was almost +painless. + +I commenced to run. + +Ten minutes late I encountered Doctor Aire, who fell in beside me +while I gasped what had happened. + +“I was a fool,” he panted. “Fool to leave him alone with you. He was +excited—upset—I saw—that when you were telling—that story down by the +cottage. You’ll have to—go on alone. I can’t—keep up.” + +He dropped behind, and the last thing I heard him say was, “I couldn’t +foresee—a miracle.” + +Talking winded me. I was spent when I reached the summer-house, and +could scarcely walk to the mansion. + +Alone in the Hall of the Moth I found Mrs. Belvoir sitting, rather +pointlessly, it seemed. + +“Maryvale—here?” + +“Yes, Mr. Bannerlee.” + +“Where?” + +“Upstairs. They all followed him when he came in. He is in his room.” + +“Was he violent? Why did they go after him?” + +“Not exactly violent, no. But I don’t think it’s worth while following +him any more.” + +I checked my foot on the threshold. “What do you mean, Mrs. Belvoir?” + +“A personality balanced on a knife-edge is never safe. Poor Gilbert +was too rash when he tempted the Influences in this valley. His mind +is gone, for certain.” + +“Influences?” + +“Of course there are Influences. I can feel them myself. Gilbert is +only the first to give in.” + +I left this placid lady and made what speed I could up the stairs. In +the passage outside Maryvale’s room on the second floor, the Coroner +and the rest of the men were standing. + +“Is he in there?” + +“He is,” answered Crofts. + +“Why don’t you go in to him?” + +“Because—well, because—” + +“Because we all want to stay healthy,” said Bob Cullen. + +I learned what had happened. People in the Hall had seen Maryvale +stagger across the lawn, in their alarm had heard him enter the +armoury and disturb the weapons there. When some of the men looked +into the room, Maryvale had departed, and a sword was missing. They +heard him clamber up the stairs. Consulting in perplexity for a few +moments, they decided to follow. The curious thing about this part of +the affair is that in those doubtful moments Maryvale had not at once +entered his room at the head of the second flight of stairs, but for +some reason had hastened along the passage on that upper floor. For +while the pursuers were on the second flight, Maryvale came rushing +back, invisible (because of the curve in the staircase), and secured +himself in his chamber. Knocking and calling evoked no response, save +once. Then Maryvale flung wide the door, in his hand the drawn sword—a +thin two-edged one like a Toledo blade. + +“I’ll kill anyone who comes in here,” he said. “Leave me to do my +work.” + +“Which,” remarked Ludlow, when Crofts had finished this account, “I +for one am going to accede to, as a reasonable request.” + +We agreed it was best to take turns standing guard. Belvoir, on +account of his being particularly a friend of Maryvale’s, offered to +be the first on duty. We left him there, smoking his pipe, leaning +against the doorpost, his ear to the door. + +What “work” could Maryvale be doing? + +Poor Crofts, a host with a dead man and a madman in his house! I +passed him on the bottom step, gnawing a knuckle, apparently making +quite a meal. + +“Bad luck, old man.” + +He regarded me listlessly. “I had a ’phone call this afternoon from +the Post Office. Harry Heatheringham has wired for full particulars.” + +“Ye Gods! Who is Harry Heatheringham?” + +“Oh, I supposed you knew. One of the really high-powered detectives. +Happens to be a friend of mine.” + +“Scotland Yard?” + +“No, he prefers the country air. He’s a Worcester man. I wonder what +Salt would say.” + +“Ask him; he can’t arrest you for it. By the way, how does the great +man from Worcester happen to be so prompt in sniffing out this case?” + +Crofts became nervous, as he always does when he has something to +conceal. “He—he—we’re, er, in what you might call communication. Dash +it all, I wish the fellow would keep his promises!” + +Salt came in, just before dinner, not a merry meal. He heartily +approved Harry Heatheringham. + +“Do you know, sir, I wouldn’t be sorry to see him on the ground.” + +“I’m damned if I know why he isn’t!” remarked Crofts, and fled to the +telephone, to dictate a lengthy wire. + +It transpired that the Superintendent and his aides had found not the +slightest trace of recent human presence across Aidenn Water. They did +not even find a new puzzle; they found nothing. + +But after dinner Salt made a more fruitful inspection of the rooms on +the second floor, except Maryvale’s. He had been curious to discover +why the demented man had gone down the passage before shutting himself +in. He found why. + +“There was a box of paints and a palette and easel, and some brushes, +in the store-room next to you, Mr. Bannerlee. Mr. Maryvale must have +known about ’em, of course.” + +“Some canvases on stretchers, too, weren’t there?” added Crofts. “All +here before my time. Seems to me I’ve heard old Watts used to dabble +in paints.” + +“They’re all missin’ now, sir,” said Salt. “That’s what he was after.” + +“Paints!” exclaimed Belvoir. “Yes, that explains it, indeed.” + +“What do you mean, sir?” + +“Gilbert Maryvale has been a very unhappy man,” said Belvoir slowly. +“He has been chained to a big business that would have gone to pieces +without him. He has made lots of money, but always wanted to be a +painter. You see, Mr. Superintendent, he had an exquisitely sensitive +spirit, for all his dealing in bills and notes.” + +“I’m tryin’ to see,” said Salt. + +“Well, he will never look in the flabby faces of a Board of Directors +again. He has begun to paint.” + + +Is all the heart-crushing suspense in the world packed into this +little Vale? Beyond the hills, I know, men and women are peacefully +sleeping, and farther beyond, in the Glamorgan collieries, perhaps the +night-shift is working with never a hint of the nameless dread that +keeps us wakeful. + +If I live through the night, I shall get out on the uplands early in +the morning. I know a trick or two of throwing a hitch from tree to +tree. With a stout rope I can climb one of these wooded hillsides, +even if it prove vertical! Then I shall _breathe_! + + + 3.50 A.M. + +I have just awakened with a grim and unalterable thought. Confound +Doctor Stephen Ashmill Aire for his subtle hints and theories. If what +he suggested this afternoon is true, that there is some hidden means +of access to the lawn, what awful consequences are thrust into mind! +Yes, if he is right, the murderer may be one of those people who came +rushing in from all directions while we stood about Cosgrove’s body. I +hesitate to write their names, but it may be Belvoir or Bob Cullen or +Maryvale, for instance, or even one of the women, if in her fury her +arm became iron. + +And that fiendish cat that has driven Maryvale mad and that his +bullets could not harm! + +Worse and worse! + +I shall now dress in tramping kit and doze until dawn.¹ + + ¹ I have postponed until now a note which should have been + inserted some pages ago, but which would then have interrupted + the narrative. References to _the song of the nightingale_ in + this chapter and elsewhere in this diary demonstrate, as I think, + the innocent romanticism of Mr. Bannerlee. Neither he nor Mr. + Maryvale appears to have possessed a rudimentary knowledge of + birds. Nightingales, to be sure, visit Radnorshire, and the old + ones do not leave until autumn, but of course their descant + ceases in _June_, when the task of feeding the young becomes + absorbing. Unquestionably, the bird these gentlemen listened to + was the song-thrush, which (as is well known) _resumes_ its + singing in October, when the now-silent nightingale has departed + from the land. (V. Markham.) + + + +CHAPTER XV + +The Rainbow + + October 5. 10.18 P.M. + +I slipped on my rough shoes, thus completing my toilet, scribbled a +note for Crofts, and passed out of the door. From the top of the +stairs came a soft recurrent sound. Bob Cullen had insisted on +sentinelling outside Maryvale’s apartment during the night; now the +guardsman slept industriously, his head reclining in the angle of the +doorpost, the rest of him curled up, his jaws alarmingly open. + +Not disturbing him, I descended to the first storey, where I placed my +note under Crofts’ door, and continued down. My previous night’s +experience had taught me how to find the food supply readily, and I +stocked my pockets with concentrated nutriment. Letting myself out by +the front entrance, I turned to the left and directed my steps toward +the kitchen demesne betwixt House and stables. + +I was in luck. Twenty yards of fairly stout clothes-line were mine for +the taking. + +With the rope bent over my arm, I hastened past the dinner-room +windows toward the cypresses that marked the first point on any +journey up the Vale. Then I stopped dead. + +For a woman was standing by the far corner of the conservatory, +half-turned from me, looking at an object which she held in her hand. + +With her other hand she made a slight gesture to someone around the +corner, and the next moment I beat a swift retreat to the shelter of a +rank of low birch trees. A man in his shirt sleeves dashed out from +the behind the House, running like mad. He was a man I had never seen +before! + +With great galloping strides, his arms working like pistons, his knees +rising incredibly high, he rushed straight for the clump of cypresses; +there he turned as sharply as his momentum would permit and sped back +to his starting point out of my view. + +He had come and gone so quickly that I had little chance to take in +his appearance. Decidedly, however, he was a long, lank man, and there +was a touch of red about his face in hair and beard. But any attempt +to mark him closely was defeated by mere astonishment at his presence, +and wonder, in the name of reason, at what he was doing. + +I quickly balanced the courses open to me. Should I reveal myself and +challenge these unknowns? Or return secretly to the house and awake +Crofts and Salt? Or continue my journey? + +This last was what I did, for the cloaked woman happened to turn her +head in my direction, and I saw that she was one of the Clays. Unless +the Clays are to be relied on, no one is. As for my curiosity, which +was more than a little, I smothered it. If the many perplexing +incidents in the Vale have not by this time chastened the +inquisitiveness of each one of us, we are difficult to school. + +I went safe in the hiding of the birches until I reached the unshorn +grass of the summer-house park; the blades were loaded with dew. While +I crossed toward the regular path, I caught sight of the unknown +racing again in my direction, and was half-alarmed for fear that he +had espied me and was on my trail. Once more, however, he turned +beneath the cypresses and fled back full tilt. + +I had much to ponder on while I marched through the bleak and clammy +dawn, and pondering made the miles seem shorter. I thought of +Maryvale, who had walked here with me yesterday, of his dark sayings +and the blight upon his spirit—of Doctor Aire, whose theorisings +strike a vague discomfort into my mind. He, by the way, has taken full +responsibility for the sudden madness of Maryvale. He blames himself +for relating the story of the man found decapitated near the +summer-house. That account, together with my yarn a little later about +the witch sisters and the subsequent failure of Maryvale to destroy +the cat, turned the balance of the unfortunate man’s intellect, which +had previously given token of a disposition towards instability. The +incredible fact that three bullets did not injure the beast Aire says +he cannot account for; yet I suspect him, somehow, of keeping close +counsel on the point. + +But even with these matters to turn over and over in a tussle of +thought, constantly I kept wondering about the pair on the lawn, the +man from nowhere practising his uncouth capers, the woman so intent on +what she held in her hand. + +I came to the spot where Salt and the others had parted from Maryvale +and me the evening before, and now I turned aside too, for my +determination was to cross the stream by the fallen tree and to +assault the eastern wall of the Vale. There was no trouble in +clambering along the improvised bridge; I leaped to the ground and in +ten minutes reached the steep base of Great Rhos, prepared for an +hour’s battle with the densely-wooded slope. + +Finally, wet to the waist as if I had waded a stream, I emerged on the +brow of the hill where the heatherstems lay wriggling like the hair of +a thousand Medusas. I walked rapidly, waiting for the sun to break +through and dry me, and when it came soon afterward, I sat under a +whinberry bush by a bank of rare Welsh poppies and ate a few dried +figs and a piece of nut-bread for breakfast. From Shepherd’s Well +nearby I took a long draught. + +The day promised to be glaring hot and abundantly clear on the +uplands, and doubtless steaming in the Vale. I passed on to find some +brink for reconnaissance. Among the hilltops, what a difference a few +feet may make in the prospect! + +I found a place on the edge of the sheer flank of the north of the +Forest where the wide plains and fastnesses for miles about were +revealed in shimmering prospect. I reclined and rested here for long, +dried out thoroughly, and had luncheon: two legs of chicken, a chunk +of unsweetened chocolate, and an orange which had wonderfully escaped +crushing in my ascent. While I ate, I looked at the cloud-flecked +hills spread all about in lovely confusion with fantastic writhen +crests and crowns of Silurian rock. They were scraped and clawed by +rivers channelling: Ithon and Clywedog and Wye gliding down their +shady courses with here and there among them a glimpse of hill-hung +woodlands, or church tower peeping over castle rise, or drowsy village +looking unchanged for centuries. Surely from Aidenn Forest one could +see the better half of Wales. + +Of a sudden I slapped my thigh. “I’ll do it!” + +My large-scale map of the Forest was in my pocket, as was a map of +greater scope, showing Wales and the western counties, from which I +could transfer the angles and make a fairly good job of it. I would +draw sighting lines on the Forest sheet, so as to identify those +magnificent and anonymous hills that showed crags and colours from +twenty, thirty, forty miles away. + +I was at the northern end of the Forest. Should I work here? No, the +sun had not yet driven the vapour from the remotest peaks of which I +wished to find the names. Besides, there was no shelter near, and I +saw some cool-looking groves on Whimble. I headed south for Whimble. + +Wryneck and woodlark sometimes came curiously past while I worked on +my maps under disadvantages, without table or board; I had to fold one +sheet for a straight-edge if I wished to make a mark on the other. +Sighting was difficult without a firm plane surface. But I had +enthusiasm, and patience. I fixed lines pointing to mountains that, +when I had found their names, for the first time seemed real to me, +Cader Idris, the Brecon Beacons, many others—as the tracing I include +here will remind me when I look through these pages in later years. + +I still had some cheese in my pocket. I ate it for tea. + +Then out of the sultry day came a sudden dash of rain along the +hilltops, blotting out my mountains, and hedging in my horizon to the +profiles of the nearby slopes. I realized that the copse of trees I +occupied abutted the field where I had fled from the bull. Fair +shelter must be near. + +I made short work of hastening across the field and climbing down, +this time, to the long broad ledge upon which I had fallen on the +other occasion. There I found refuge from the weather, snugly +ensconced on a lichenous seat of stone where the slaty rock was +hollowed out underneath the eyelid of the hill. In my dim cubicle I +laughed at the storm that was sending down its battery of rain. + +For the first time in the day, I bethought myself of smoking. I had +out pipe and tobacco, filled my pipe, and struck a match. It flamed +and died. I realized in an instant what a tragedy my carelessness had +caused. + +That was my last match. + +I would certainly have cursed myself in the limited number of +languages at my command, had not something I had seen in that moment’s +flare of the match caused me to catch my breath. + +The little recess of the rocks where I had taken refuge was filled +with bracken and some coarse grass. The brief light had shown me that +at the rear of the cave, if I may call it so, the sparser growth had +been crushed down, thoroughly flattened—and the impress was that of a +human form. Someone had used this place of late as his sleeping +quarters! + +I must have sat there stunned for several minutes before I stirred, or +even began to think. When I had gathered my wits, it was not hard +determining to get out of the place at once. Was this sleeper the man +who had shed Cosgrove’s blood? For all that had been discovered, he +might be. But whoever he was, I had no wish to encounter him alone, +and he might at that very moment be hurrying this way to escape the +rain. + +The rain, to be sure, had almost ceased, a fact which did not alter my +determination to be quit of the ledge with all speed. Half a minute +later I was out of the shelter and clambering up the bank, with my +face set toward Mynydd Tarw’s gorsy slopes. And now I watched the +curving limits of the hills with half-apprehensive keenness, expecting +at any moment to see the black dot of the unknown head rise into +sight. + +The shower had all but ceased; through a fine spray of rain the sun +came glinting. I looked across the Vale, over Great Rhos. Ahead of me +among the waste of hills beyond Aidenn Forest the land was black with +storm for leagues, save where one great monument of light rested +thirty miles away on Pen Plinlimon-fawr. On that bleak mountain-top +the zone of splendour shone like a spot of hell touched by some ray of +heaven. + +I had the impulse then to look the opposite way. Yes, as I had +surmised, to the south-east the meadows of Herefordshire were steeped +in sun. And through the gauzy air with its wandering vapour-drops I +saw a rainbow’s glittering bridge from wooded slope to wooded slope +across the mown hayfields, an arch beneath which the distant Malvern +Hills lifted their profile against the sky. + +I remembered then the great freedom and elation I had felt when on the +uplands only two days ago, and wished that among these wonders that +seemed spread for my eyes alone I might regain that long ebullient +rapture. But I could not. Why could I not? + +There I was with pipe and tobacco, perishing for a match! + +Unless the cave-dweller whom I wished not to meet were near, there was +no other smoking creature within miles. + +But stay! I suddenly remembered the men from Penybont, repairing the +one sole path to the uplands. If they had succeeded in establishing a +new trackway, there was my best route back to Highglen House, toward +which I must be tending, since the hour was nearer five than four. And +one of them must have a match. If only they had not given over work +for the day! + +I had still a little distance to go north along the edge of Mynydd +Tarw before reaching the top of the path. Signs of the landslide were +not apparent here; yet I had made but one of the hairpin bends when I +saw a broad scar and scoop where both earth and rock had torn asunder +from the hill. Not until I was half-way to the floor of the Vale did +the course of the landslide obliterate the zigzag path. The workers +had not dug all the earth and stone away, but had made a substantial +walking-surface some feet above the original one. And going a little +further down, I saw to my joy that the men had not yet departed. They +were not working, indeed, but standing about some object on the ground +at the foot of the hill—and I had a premonition like a sword-cut what +that object was. + +It was the ill-clad, coatless body of the gorilla-man. + +Not a quarter of an hour before, the men who had worked to the very +bottom of the path, where the wreckage of the avalanche tailed away, +had seen protruding from the earth a long and hairy arm and purplish +hand. A large stone weighted down the body when it was found, and it +appeared from the position of the corpse, and particularly from the +writhen expression of the features, that the stranger had not been +stricken instantly to death. Instead, he may even have been some way +up the path when he had seen the hillside falling, and may have fled +and nearly escaped. The groping arm upthrust seemed an indication that +had not the heavy stone pinned him under, he might have struggled to +the air, instead of being buried alive. + +“Did any of you know him?” I asked, looking down at the face with its +long, uncouth jaw and narrow temples. + +“No, sir. He must have been a foreigner in these parts.” + +“This is a bit sickening.” I certainly needed a pipe now. “Who has a +match?” + +They were quite as doleful as I. “Sorry, sir, our matches was all wet +in the rain just now. Our coats was lyin’ up beyond, and the shower +got to ’em before we did. Matches are fair ruined.” + +I looked down at the ill-clad body. “By thunder, if I wouldn’t rob a +dead man for a match now. Were there any on him?” + +“Not a one, sir.” The men seemed to regard the idea as a thing of +abhorrence, and I had to laugh my question away as a grim joke. + +A couple of miles southward on the way home, I met the two workmen who +had gone to Highglen House for a shutter on which to transport the +body. Salt was with them, and all three regarded me queerly, which was +natural, for I was carrying, besides the clothes-rope, the umbrella +which I had left in the ruin last night. + +“Decided not to hang yourself?” asked Salt, his eye on the rope. + +I handed him the umbrella, which he received with puzzled brow. +“Item,” I said, “to prove the objective of the menagerie-keeper.” + +“Quite,” he responded. “Have you seen what we’re goin’ after?” + +“I have. He was the first of the men I encountered that night.” + +“I guessed so. Well, this party’s out of it _al_together—time and +distance, you know, time and distance.” + +“I suppose that’s so. Time and distance, the two greatest villains +that ever feazed the detective force. The landslide certainly did not +occur more than fifteen minutes after Cosgrove’s death.” + +“And this man was in it, was he?” + +“What do you mean? Of course he was.” + +“Not just buried there afterward, maybe?” + +“I should say not. By the way, Superintendent, don’t go without +letting me have a match.” + +“Not afraid of the dark, I hope?” Salt looked significantly up among +the trees, where the light was thickening. + +“No, not exactly, but I’m famished for a smoke.” + +“Smokin’ is not one of my virtues,” he responded. “I’m sorry, sir; +you’ll have to wait until you get to the House.” + +I was angry, yes poisonously angry with Salt. It takes all kinds of +lunatics to make up a world, but is there any lunatic as irritating as +the man who doesn’t smoke? + +I returned to the House, having all the while the awareness that forms +were following and eyes watching me in the shadowy walks. To tell the +merciless truth, these episodes of the Unforthcoming Match had +chagrined me so that my nerves were teetering, and I had the +uncomfortable sense that if I were to step from the centre of the path +or make any untoward movement, something disagreeable might happen. I +felt like a prisoner, and even when I had emerged upon the lawn, I did +not like the way the black windows of the House stared at me. + +“Great heavens,” I thought, “am I coming under the thumbs of the +Influences, as Mrs. Belvoir called them?” + +The Vale was dim when I reached the House. I knew that I should surely +find a match-holder on the mantel in the Hall of the Moth. I did, but +some other smoker had abstracted the last match! I hope heaven’s ears +were closed at that moment. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Parchment—and Paper + +There was, of course, a match-holder in the library. I looked into the +room of weapons: although the light shone beyond the library door +ajar, no sound came from inside. I thought the risk worth taking, and +stepped in, rope and all, hoping (in my grimed condition) not to +discover anyone. + +The quiet of the room was deceptive. There were a lot of people there. +Belvoir and Mrs. Belvoir were close together at the table with its red +velvet cover, reading from the same book, which could not have been +very fine sport for him, since he required about one-half the time she +did to peruse a page. In the embrasure of the corner tower, Lord +Ludlow was sitting with his back to the window and his volume held +before his face so that no light from the chandelier might possibly +fall upon what he read. This position he maintained the entire time I +was in the room. In a secluded nook Lib and Bob were standing before a +glass-covered case full of dark and mysterious tomes. + +Belvoir looked up, while his wife began the page he had finished. +“Hello! Where have you been?” + +“On top of the Forest—all over it: a breather. What’s happened?” + +“Man killed by the falling hill the other evening.” + +“Yes; I’ve seen him. I met Salt going up there. But down here—what +about Maryvale?” + +“Quiet all day. He’s working hard—too busy to eat—fact. (Finished it +yet, my dear? Don’t hurry.)” + +“Is he really painting?” + +Belvoir shrugged. “Wish I knew. This morning, through the door, he +said he was, and warned us against interfering with him. Aire’s +standing by at present.” + +“But have you thought—the materials. Oil pigments need to be prepared. +You can’t pick them up on instant’s notice after a number of years, or +decades, and find them suitable.” + +“Salt showed us that yesterday’s dash was far from being Gilbert’s +first visit to the store-room. He had pottered there quite a bit, and +some colours he left behind in his frantic haste are fit for immediate +use.” + +“He has painted before, then?” + +“Yes, but not in this generation. Long ago.” + +“Pity. Did he say what he is working on?” + +“No—no details. There’s another development, though. Did Salt tell +you?” + +“Not a thing.” + +“You remember Sir Brooke?” + +“Do I?” + +“Well, that same useful road-mender who kept the vigil in the car last +evening was interviewed in person by Salt about noon to-day.” + +“But how—” + +“Oh, they’ve rigged up a practicable bridge for one person at a time +down where the old one stood. Salt crossed it unscathed. (Very well, +my dear. Carry on. I’ll catch up with you.)” + +“Yes?” + +“Two nights ago the road-mender saw Sir Brooke as sure as taxes, +crossing the bridge and proceeding up the road toward the House. (I +agree with you, my dear. It’s infernally dull. But Carlyle was a great +man.)” + +“Great Scott! We’re closing in on him.” + +“I wish they’d leave off tracing that old boy,” said a peevish young +feminine voice from the corner. “He’s old enough to take care of +himself. I wish somebody’d trace my tennis balls.” + +“Why,” I smiled, “what’s happened to them?” + +“The usual death,” said Lib. “Bob knocked both of ’em into the Water +this afternoon and presto vanisho! Now we can’t play any more until +somebody goes into town and pries a few loose from the corner store.” + +“Gee, he’s got nerve, that butler,” urged Bob, turning his plus-foured +self toward me, and more toward the light, so that his somewhat +pug-like countenance showed the full measure of affronted innocence. +“You know what he said, Mr. Bannerlee? He said that it served us right +because we played tennis so soon after Mr. Cosgrove died—Cosgrove!” + +“It served you right because you thought my side of the court was in +the next county,” Lib snapped. “Now what can we do, except read?” + +“There are worse things,” I offered mildly. + +“That’s what we’re looking for over there—a good book,” exclaimed the +youth. + +“Well, these are just a little too rich for your taste, I fancy,” I +remarked. I scanned the titles behind the glass; I had not examined +this case before. The shelves were not quite comfortably filled with +bound volumes of learned periodicals and manuscripts in expensive +leather covers, all having their titles impressed in bright gilt. + +“Hullo, now there’s a thing.” + +“What?” asked both juveniles at once, alert for something, even +literature, to break the monotony of their existence. + +I pointed to a cover with the words “MS. Elis Gruffydd” stamped upon +it. “Evidently a copy of part of a historical manuscript I once read. +If I remember rightly, it contains a passage about this house.” + +“Gee whiz, it does?” + +“You’re a wonder,” declared Lib, with her nose pressed against the +glass. “Why, we had that one down and gave it the once over. It was +all Welsh to us.” + +“Oh, I mean in translation,” I hastily amended. “Don’t credit me with +any knowledge of Cumraeg.” + +“What kind of a rag?” + +“The Welsh language,” I explained. “But I should think you’d find +better hunting on those shelves over there.” + +“Those? They look sort of dull.” + +“I realize that the volumes are not provided with art-jackets in three +colours depicting the discovery of slaughtered bodies and the rescue +of lovely women, but behind those drab covers reside the works of Jane +Austen, Scott, and the Brontës, Thackeray, Dickens—and Wilkie +Collins!” + +“Christopher! Seems to me I’ve read something quite hot by Wilkie +Collins. Thanks, Mr. Bannerlee, I’ll take a look.” + +Alone, then, at the case in the obscure corner, I opened the glass +doors and ran my eye over the titles at close range. “Old Watts,” as +everyone styles him, had been something of a bibliophile, and I saw +what I believed to be a number of absolute rarities, quite thrown away +on Crofts, of course. I had reached my hand up to a dark corner, where +a couple of volumes were lying on their sides, when an exclamation +from my lips brought Lib back from Wilkie Collins at once. + +“That was a strong one. What’s the matter? See a snake up there?” + +“No, but I found a mighty startling book,” I answered, looking around +and noticing with relief that probably only Lib had heard my +exclamation. Bob and the Belvoirs had departed, and Lord Ludlow was +holding his page so close to his face that I supposed him insensible +to external stimuli. + +“What’s the big kick here?” she asked, looking at the little old book +I had plucked from the shelf and whose age-tawny pages I was +scrabbling through. + +“If Crofts knew what a hoard he has in this library! Why, two or three +of these quartos must be worth their weight in diamonds.” + +“Boy! What a chance! I’d sneak a couple away; only they all look worth +a thin dime to me. What’s this one you’re palpitating about?” + +“This is the volume responsible for my being here, Miss Dale. ‘The +Book of Sylvan Armitage,’ imprint 1598. What do you think of that!” + +She was holding the quarto to the light, screwing up her face while +her eyes roved across the page. Something flickered to the floor. I +stooped and picked it up: a flake of moss. + +“That’s funny,” I said. “Some servant nodded when he dusted here. +Well, how do you like it?” + +“Too many f’s. I get all tangled up reading.” + +“Those aren’t f’s; they’re s’s. You’ll get used to them soon. Poor +Cosgrove would have revelled in this.” + +“Oh, Cosgrove. Funny things he revelled in.” Suddenly she snapped the +quarto closed, and gave a careful look toward the harmless Ludlow, +whose book was still held defiantly against the light, shutting out +the universe. She lowered her voice. “Say, Mr. Bannerlee, remember the +day I came down here, the way Cosgrove was watching me, like a fish?” + +Before I could put in a restraining word, she began a hasty whispered +account of events occurring some months ago, when Cosgrove, already +engaged to Paula Lebetwood, met Lib for the first time at Coventry. +Unquestionably, the orthodox Irishman had been shocked at the daring +dress, behaviour, and speech of this insouciant American minx. Mingled +with his disapproval, however, was a strong spell of attraction which +caused him to be constantly hanging about in her presence. I believe +that just as the element of unexpectedness in Miss Lebetwood’s broadly +capable character was in a large measure responsible for his desire +for her, why here in this alert, sharp wasp of a girl, was also +something Cosgrove had not experienced before, something tantalizing +that would not let him be at peace. His attentions to Lib, so I +gathered from her story, had grown more obnoxious as the days went by, +and reached their climax one evening when by her bad luck he happened +to find her alone at the far end of one of the gardens. + +I had some difficulty at this point in following the extraordinary +language of Miss Dale, especially since her speech now became spiced +with a good many terms expressive of emotion. But it is clear enough +that Cosgrove, detaining her in spite of her unambiguous complaints, +entered into a long exhortation over her, more like a fanatical +Puritan than a son of the Church. At first Lib had been bewildered, +then frightened, for mingled with the Irishman’s obloquy was a strain +which at first she could not comprehend at all, but soon realized was +an appeal to “make his banner her banner,” an invitation of no +uncertain tenour to “ride by his side through the high places of the +world.” The union of repulsion and fascination under which he must +have laboured, as shown in this outburst, was identical with what I +had observed on his face at the luncheon table. + +“And that’s the kind of a bozo Cosgrove was,” perorated Lib. “That’s +the blighter (isn’t that what you say?) that everybody around here +thinks was lily-white. That’s the Eringobragh that Paula’s eating her +heart out on account of his death!” + +“Do you think so?” + +“Do I? Don’t I! Say, I know Paula. She’s the best kid on this little +ol’ earth. Bannerlee, my boy, just because I like to talk like a fool +half the time and can’t get back on the rails the rest, don’t get me +wrong. I love Paula: I have ever since when I was dressed in a towel +and she used to keep me from breaking my neck a dozen times every day. +What I mean is, I know Paula. She hasn’t been natural for months, not +since she got engaged to this devil. She was a darn good sport and +peppy all day long, not one of these heavy thinkers. But ever since +this Cosgrove got so big on the horizon, she’s been worrying for +him—you know—the ‘King in Ireland’ stuff—or worrying _about_ him—the +dog! And since somebody polished him off with that rock, instead of +feeling better, she’s acting so quiet and intense I’m scared to death. +Honestly, I’ve been crazy-scared. Last night she just sat and thought. +I hardly slept last night. I heard you going downstairs awfully early +this A.M.” + +“I wish I could help. But you see it’s so peculiarly and emphatically +a situation where I can do nothing.” + +“I know it, I know it,” she acquiesced mournfully. “Gee, though, I +wish she’d fall in love with you or something like that. I wish she’d +take her mind off that Irishman. To think, he got so fresh with me, +and then he went and bounced one off Mr. Oxford’s jaw.” + +“What?” + +“Sure; didn’t you know? He got sort of green-eyed about Oxey. Maybe he +had a right to; I don’t know. I mean I don’t know about Oxey; he did +seem to be around a lot of the time. Paula wouldn’t look at him, of +course. Then Cosgrove hung one on Oxey’s jaw, and we thought we’d seen +the last of him. But Oxey shows up here last week smooth as +ever—hadn’t given up hope, I guess.” + +“I must tidy myself a bit for dinner. I wish I could help you, Lib. +You mustn’t worry.” + +“I suppose I’m making things out worse than they are.” She took up the +Book of Sylvan Armitage. “I’ll plunge into this exciting narrative, +and try to make some head or tail out of it.” And just as I was going +out of the door, she called with a flash of her usual impudence: +“What’s that you’re smuggling under your coat?” + +“My shoulders,” I laughed. + +“You must have the hump, then,” she rejoined, and when I was at the +stair-foot, I heard her cry, “Oh, look what I’ve found!” but I did not +return to learn of her discovery. + +Nor did I immediately ascend to my room. In truth, one reason why I +left the library was that I had heard voices in the portrait-corridor: +one tone was Crofts’, the other a strange, high-keyed speech I had +never heard before. To learn whose voice this was I had retreated from +Lib and her find. + +I stole to the front entrance, opened the door with the cat-head +knocker, peeped out. A dozen yards away my host was saying good-bye to +the red-headed, red-bearded young man I had seen cavorting on the lawn +at early day-break. The stranger now wore a blue suit of provincial +tailoring and sported a huge yellow flower in his buttonhole. A moment +later they parted, Crofts with a wave of the hand, the youth with a +respectful salute. The owner of Highglen House then walked around past +the library in the direction of the Hall of the Moth. + +I noiselessly gained the lawn and followed the youth, who wandered +with an air of negligence across the grounds by a shrubbery path which +soon was lost in the grove beneath Whimble. Among the trees I ventured +to draw closer to him, and was nearly discovered in consequence. For +when I slipped around a stout oak to creep upon him, I caught him +lying or rather rolling on the other side, convulsed with silent +mirth! I marched backward on tiptoes, collided with a tree, and +returned to the House. + +After a plunge in the bath which Aire has kindly invited me to share, +and after such improvement of my dress as my tramping kit afforded, I +knocked on Crofts’ door and had the secret out of him. He was waging a +pitched battle with some shirt-studs, and would have told me anything +in return for my relief. + +“That red-haired chap? Foggins’ new man. He came ‘sweetheartin’’ this +afternoon, and I had a little talk with him.” + +“But who is Foggins, and how does his new man come to be here at break +of day? How does he come to be here at all?” + +“Oh, they’ve slung a footbridge over the Water down below. Finished +late last night. Foggins sells us our milk. What do you mean by ‘break +of day?’” + +“I saw this milk carrier dashing like a red streak across the lawn +when I set out this morning.” + +“You did! So did I.” + +“You!” + +“I heard him coming round the House past Alberta’s room, while I lay +awake at some ungodly early hour. I looked out, saw he was carrying a +pair of spiked shoes in one hand, the milk can in the other. That +looked queer. So I got into a pair of slippers and my dressing-gown +and went to the upper end of the passage on this floor, intending to +go out of the door and down the outside flight of steps to find what +was up. But I saw everything through the glass. Rosa Clay—” + +“Ah, Rosa!” + +“You see (I got all this from the young chap himself just now) since +this house-party began Rosa and Ardelia have been a little huffy over +this man Morgan. Ardelia seems to bear away the prize; so for spite +Rosa has begun to walk out a bit with this young fellow—seems a good +enough young fellow.” + +“And why the athletic exhibition?” + +“The way of a man with a maid—showing his prowess. Prides himself on +being something of a runner, says he possesses a number of cups and +medals won at fairs and such by fleetness of foot. In fact, this +afternoon he showed me his card of membership in the Brecon and Radnor +Young Men Mercurys.” + +“Ah, now I know what she had in her hand!” + +He gaped; this was new to him. “What do you mean?” + +“She was holding his stop-watch on him.” + +“Curious. His voice reminded me of something, too.” + +I remembered the laughter-spasm of the youth beneath the tree, but +forebore just then to plague my host with new vexation. + +The dinner-gong rang. While we passed down the stairs, I recalled our +words of last evening on this flight of steps. + +“Tell me, Crofts, has the great Harry Heatheringham of Worcester wired +you his solution of these riddles?” + +“He has not, but unless the fool who took my ’phoned telegram at the +Post Office bungled it in transmission he has the facts.” + +“I look forward to seeing him.” + +“So do I. Good Lord, the night you dropped in on us, Bannerlee, I +thought this was Lost Man’s Vale. Sir Brooke omitted to appear, as you +know; but I had already been waiting three days for Heatheringham!” + +“Three days!” + +“Since the Parson Lolly trouble had become serious. I had sent word +for him to come as a guest; he had accepted. And until yesterday’s +wire, I haven’t heard another word from him.” + +It was rather low of me, but I could not resist the second temptation +to prod Crofts a little. I said: + +“I hope you don’t mind my pointing out that you haven’t a particle of +proof that wire came from Heatheringham at all, or that your message +actually reached him, or that he’s alive. How can you tell that you +haven’t been betraying secrets to some unknown enemy, or at least to +some shrewd newspaper reporter?” + +My host seemed to shrink to about half his size. + +To-night’s dinner was the first orderly meal since Cosgrove’s death. +It was good to see people eating again with the suggestion of +appetite. Even Miss Lebetwood had come down and had lost her tense, +restrained look of earlier hours. Opposite me, Lib, most fresh and +radiant, more genuinely girlish than I can remember her before, smiled +on me mystifyingly. + +The men had reverted to the English fashion of remaining behind the +ladies. When we rose from the table I buttonholed Salt. + +“Superintendent, does your censorship permit a letter to go out of the +Vale once in a while?” + +“Now you’re jokin’ me, sir. What is it this time?” + +“No, seriously,” I showed him an envelope containing a note I had +scratched off in my room. “I want to send this to Balzing to-night for +my own copy of Sylvan Armitage. That’s an old book I’ve discovered in +the library here.” + +“Bless my soul! and you want another copy? One for each eye?” + +“Quite so; for comparison.” + +“Of course, Mr. Bannerlee. Carry on.” + +No sooner had we joined the women in the Hall, where a fire was +lighted against the chill of evening, than Lib darted toward me, took +my hand, led me to a small shaky-legged walnut cabinet, one of the +objects which decorate but most inadequately furnish the room. An +ornamental ebony box rested on the cabinet, and lifting the box cover, +Lib revealed the Book of Sylvan Armitage. + +“Prepare for a great shock,” she said, slyly glancing about to ensure +we were not observed. “You should have waited a minute before you +skipped out of the library. Aren’t I clever? I’ll bet your copy at +Balzing hasn’t one of these gadgets.” + +While she spoke she had opened the cover of the quarto, a cover which +looked to be unusually thick. The slim pink fingers of her left hand +were prying, then disappeared beneath the edge of the book, and I saw +that the apparent thickness of the cover was due to the fact that a +pocket of paper had been pasted to the board with cunning, but with no +special secrecy. From the receptacle she drew two folded pages, one +age-stained, the other much younger, even rather new. + +“See that!” she bade in a Gargantuan whisper, thrusting before my face +the yellowed sheet, which was calf-skin. “Read that!” + +“But it’s in Welsh, and the parchment looks at least two centuries +old.” + +“Oh, absolutely—but this goes with it.” She handed me the other piece, +and stood beaming, her smile including and enlivening every feature of +her already brisk countenance. I could not help smiling back, and it +was several seconds before I could turn my glance to the white sheet +of ordinary folio paper, whose close script was legible enough. + +“It doesn’t mean such a much to a low-brow like me,” I heard her say. +“But if that’s not some modern shark’s translation of what’s written +on the skin of the fatted calf, I’ll eat the calf-skin. What about +it?” + +I would have needed only a comparison of the proper names in the first +few lines of each writing to assure me that it was so, had it not been +the obvious conclusion, on the face of it. Lib had discovered an +unpublished document, or part of a document, connected with Highglen +House. + +Two minutes later I had informed the company of the circumstances, and +the Hall was as still as a vacuum. When I realized that all these +people were listening to hear me read from the paper I held in my +hand, my undisciplined hand shook. It is horrible to be nervous, and +have to betray it. + +I shrugged my shoulders and kept my hand as steady as possible. Here +goes: + + “‘. . . in some fear of being ill-received in Cwm Melin, for the + lord there had the name of an intemperate man, one savage to + strangeness when the humour was upon him. But mammering was more + harm than use in the pass to which I had come, and save in that + stronghold I had no surety of shelter from the snow, the town of New + Aidenn lying some uncertain number of miles beyond the Cwm. + Increasing storm and cold compelled me to seek kind reception within + the castle, avouching truly that I was a person who had lost his way + in those wilds and stood in danger of the elements. Being admitted + within the gate and taken before my lord, I was excellently + welcomed. The man himself sat alone before the blazing hearth in a + room called the Hall of the Moth, with weapons and machines and all + the abiliments of war heaped in the corners. He was none of your + pouncing and mincing followers of court, but sprawled like a great + bulchin in his chair, with ragged Abram-coloured beard, immense + mouth, and eyes like yellow flames. He bawled for sewer and + cup-bearer, and a table was straight fetched, and a feast-dish set + thereon, with a manchet and good sherris wine a-plenty. I fell to my + refreshment, nor did it escape my notice that my lord was somewhat + in his cups, which caused him to be exceeding merry and boastful. He + vaunted long about himself and his own great valour and prowess, + exulting mightily in his late triumph over Roger, Earl of + Gwrtheyrnion, which was truly an achievement which will redound in + the history of time. Much he said that is known among men, and + presently fell to speech of Sir Pharamond, fourth lord of that name, + who builded this castle on the mill-site, after his house close + under the valleytop had tumbled to its fall through the perfidy of + the false steward David, a most foul and dastardly act, published + far and wide among men. Very gleefully and asperly did my lord + relate how they had skummed the countryside for the scroyle, and how + they had meted out his fearful fate. Now my lord waxed more strange + and withal crafty in his words, saying that which is not of common + report, relating how above the newly builded battlements Sir + Pharamond had made a tier of chambers, so that rumour whispered he + was mad—but lord Pharamond only smiled, and called the windows of + those chambers his eyes for descrying treachery. And ever afterward, + said my noble host, the builder of the castle on the mill-site was + untroubled by plotters against his peace. Now when I was emboldened + to ask my lord to make this thing clear, he said no word but seized + a flambeau up into his hand and beckoned me to follow. He led me + through the kitchens and down into a cavern that was there, with a + standing pool of water in the midst. This, said my lord, is the + drowning-pit of my ancestor, for it was his merry mood to fling his + disobedient folk into the water with his own hand, not binding them, + but pressing them back into the pit while they essayed to come + ashore. Thirty he had once drowned in a single afternoon. For the + rest, were he werry, he could shuffle them off with no more trouble + than snuffing a night-light. Now do you see, said my lord, but in + such cunning wise that I knew some deceit lurked behind his words. + Nor would he say more, but departed from the vault, leaving me + constrained to follow him or remain in darkness, though wishful to + examine the cavern—yet full of thanks, on the other hand, that he + had not practised upon me the custom of his ancestor. + + Again in the Hall of the Moth my lord laughed immoderately before + the fire, saying that for that gear he himself was proof against all + traitordom, for he kept there a cat that was never tamed, more sure + than forty watch-dogs, more trusty than twenty men-of-war, since + that it leaped to the attack without a snarl or a struggle, full + silently and suddenly, until it had achieved the kill, and it failed + not to lay his enemy low. Beware, said my lord, of gib my cat’s + claw, and how you hear the purring of the cat, for its purr is more + dangerous than the innumerable growl of hounds upon a hunting. The + purring of gib my cat means death. I dared to ask that I might be + shown this beast, provided it purred not at me. My lord, who had + drunk much more wine since we had come from the cavern of the + drowning-pit, bade me thickly go seek the beast for myself, and upon + asking where, he bade me look beneath the perfidious tree, but + beware lest it purr or I was doomed. So I said no more of it, + discerning that while he grew the more merry he grew the more + savage, and might well be goading me on to my destruction. At length + my lord having fallen into a stupor, he was borne to his bed, and I + conducted to mine, among those upper rooms which rose above the + battlements. I slept sound, awakened but once, as I thought, by a + long belch of laughter from some unknown part of the castle. Again + sleep visited me, and in the morning, when the snow had ceased, a + party of my lord’s men being at point of breaking away to New + Aidenn, I made one of their company and reached my destination in + soundness, the afternoon being that of the fourteenth day of + January, 1523.’”¹ + + ¹ It may be necessary, in view of the occurrence later in the + evening when Mr. Bannerlee read this paper by an unknown hand, to + state that the translation here included is both correct and + substantially the same as that which he read. (V. Markham.) + +“Well,” avouched Mrs. Bartholomew, almost before I had completed the +last sentence, “now we know the ancestry of that frightful animal.” + +“The cat of the Delambres, you mean?” asked Belvoir. + +“Yes. No wonder the Frenchwomen left it behind and Mr. Maryvale’s +bullets couldn’t kill it.” + +“The cat’s claw, eh?” mused Belvoir. “‘Beware of the cat’s claw.’ +Funny, Superintendent, that the Lord of Aidenn and Parson Lolly should +use the same words.” + +“I wish someone would tell me,” said I, “what is a perfidious tree.” + +“I should like to know, too,” Alberta declared, “and what’s more, why +anybody should keep a cat under one.” + +“I wish Mr. Maryvale _had_ annihilated that fiendish cat,” said Mrs. +Bartholomew. “It gives me a shiver whenever I think of it somewhere up +there, maybe waiting for one of us.” + +Pendleton looked towards Miss Lebetwood and lowered his voice. “Why, +you don’t mean to say that you think the beast had anything to do with +Cosgrove’s death?” + +“Cats don’t usually hit people with stones,” contributed Bob. + +“Nonsense,” called Ludlow sharply. “Fiendish cat, flying Parson, +perfidious tree, deathless arm, mystic bone, and all balderdash!” + +“Very well, my Lord,” said Salt, who appeared ready to indulge in a +little crossing of swords, “explain this tragedy without the +balderdash.” + +“Explain it _with_!” retorted his Lordship. + +The documents had been passing from hand to hand. “My Lord, I’ll have +a look at that manuscript, if you’ve finished,” said Salt. “No, I mean +the English-written one.” + +“I haven’t it.” + +“But I thought—” + +“I did have it a moment ago. I gave it to—er—” + +“You laid it down on the mantelpiece. I saw you,” said Alberta. + +“Ah, yes; so I did. But it’s not there.” + +Salt raised his voice. “Who has the English manuscript?” + +No response, until a gasp from Bob. “Look, isn’t that it?—in the +fire!” + +Something ashen and fluffy was smouldering on top of the log, +something that turned from grey to translucent pink when the flame +brightened. Salt reached the fireplace in a leap, bent down, +scrutinized the fragment. + +“That’s it, sure enough.” He ever so carefully attempted to remove the +crinkled piece, which vanished at the first touch of the fire-shovel. + +Crofts extended the parchment in mollifying wise. “At any rate,” he +said, “we have the original here. No trouble having a new translation +made.” + +Salt swelled like a small balloon, and his jaw was tight. “No, thank +you, Mr. Pendleton. I’m not having any.” + +I heard Aire’s suppressed exclamation behind me: “Of course not!” + +“What do you mean?” I demanded, turning to the dark, outlandish face +that came only to my shoulder. + +“Why, Salt wants the manuscript because he wants the man who wrote it: +someone, probably, who has lived here or been here before, knew the +book, knew the Welsh language, and, particularly, whose penmanship is +that of the paper.” + +Crofts, crestfallen, was still urging the original parchment. “At any +rate, Superintendent, take charge of this. The burning must have been +an accident; perhaps the sheet fell in the fire. And you can have +another trans—” + +Salt took, or rather snatched, the sheep-skin from Crofts, as much as +to say, “Better this than nothing,” and he did say, “I don’t want +_any_ translation; I want that particular one.” + +“That’s right,” murmured Aire. “Whoever wrote that paper is Parson +Lolly!” + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +Lancelot’s Ultimatum + + October 6. 11.25 A.M. + +Was he, I wondered, in the room at all? So far, since eight o’clock, I +had not been able to detect the slightest sound from within the +chamber. For longer and longer periods I listened with my ear to the +door, all senses alert. I thought of knocking, but refrained, for Aire +had counselled against it. But that inhuman stillness inside the room! + +Suddenly footsteps resounded crossing the floor, no secret footsteps, +but blatant and decisive ones. I had hardly time to draw back a little +from the entrance when the door opened and Maryvale stood on the +threshold. + +I was shocked, for with the exception of two days’ bristle he looked +so much himself. When he saw me, he tossed his head back in a laugh +that had the natural ring. + +“Ah, you, Mr. Bannerlee. I wondered which of the gentlemen was +protecting me this morning.” + +Yes, he seemed quite the same as when I had first met him and we paced +the walk outside the Hall of the Moth. Quiet and courteous, sane and +substantial, he smiled on my embarrassment. + +“Aren’t you coming in? You’ve had a long wait.” + +I was trying to meet his cheerful eye and to think at the same time. +“I should rather expect you’d wish to come out.” + +“No, thank you; I have been out.” + +“You have? No one told me.” + +“Of course not,” he said with his fluent ease of manner. “Last night +my oils weren’t quite right, and I looked for some common varnish in +the stable supply room.” + +“Well,” I laughed, “I should think you’d have thought of food before +varnish.” + +“True, I have not been eating very heartily. Some carrots and raw +cabbage from the kitchen garden was all I could obtain. The darkness +rather hindered me.” + +“But I heard nothing of this. Who let you out?” + +“Let me out? My dear sir, I go out when I choose, by the window!” + +“But you couldn’t have climbed down the wall.” + +“Mr. Bannerlee, we seldom know our latent powers. What I set myself to +do, I do. It is a great deal easier than you suppose when the windows +have cornices and the ivy is reasonably firm.” + +“But climbing back?” + +“You have observed the ladder, of course. For the present, I find it +obviates much of the difficulty. Later—” His voice trailed out, and he +changed the subject with a renewed invitation to enter. “I am glad it +is you who are the first to see my work. I think you will know how to +evaluate it.” + +Perhaps I was not prudent, but I was bitterly curious to see what was +the product Maryvale had taken extraordinary measures to create. I +stepped inside, noted the broad, slant-shouldered room to be in order, +saw lying across a chair the thin sword, a mere rapier, with which the +man had threatened to make a ghost of any who interrupted him. A stout +walking-stick would have smashed the blade to splinters in a +twinkling. The bed had not been slept in, or on. The only litter in +the room was near the casement, where easel and canvas stood and rags +and brushes were scattered on the floor. + +“The pigments are not dry yet, of course,” said Maryvale. “Still, the +work is done.” + +Maryvale’s canvas was about four feet each way, and save for an +irregular space in the centre, every inch had been drawn and coloured +with minute care. Almost it might be said that the one derogatory +criticism was that overloaded detail diminished the interest of the +principal subject. For the picture was no mere daub of good +intentions. Though even my inexpert eye saw deficiencies in technique, +they were faults due to a long unpractised hand—they were nothing. +Once on a time, indeed, Maryvale must have studied his art to +advantage, for now in spite of imperfect materials at his command, and +in spite of long unacquaintance with the medium, the power of his idea +overrode the difficulties, and the magnificent though intentionally +uncompleted painting drove its impression home. + +Only, as I have said, the background and lesser adjuncts demanded a +greater share of interest than usual. A peculiar circumstance abetted +this fact. The central figure had no face. + +The scene was above a valley so deep that its bottom was lost in +darkness, where the whole middle air was drenched with rain to the +colour of smoke, through which the sun, westering and low, sent a +shaft of dripping light. Higher, against a black and sullen +mountain-side, the thunder-heads were gathered in inky monochrome, and +down the sky wriggled a huge worm of lightning, so dazzling that it +affected the eye with torture keen as that which a loud shrill sound +inflicts upon the ear. And round about, outside the clouds and within +them, flickered the suggestions of menacing shapes, skinny arms, +abysmal eyes, demonic smiles. + +In the centre, a solitary figure hung in the track of the storm, not +upright, not poised as if for swooping flight, but horizontal in the +turgid air, resting with four limbs widespread, like some unholy ghost +brooding over the nether gulfs of hell—Parson Lolly. The pitch-black +cloak flapped restless in the tempest, and from the indistinguishable +murk below came up the scarlet gleams from unknown forges. + +Parson Lolly’s neck was twisted upward and the face turned toward the +beholder, save that there was no face. Examining closely, I saw that +not the faintest lines had been drawn for one, that Maryvale had +simply ceased at that place in his design. The sinister suggestion was +enforced by the bulk of the decapitated figure against the livid +storm, by the hands with their hint of feline claws, by the shadows +cast downward by those hands, like the doom of pestilence scattered +down the gulf. + +The artist stood by the window, his back to the light, but I could see +the high glint of satisfaction in his eye. + +“You _do_ approve, I can tell.” + +“Maryvale, this is—well, it’s beyond anything I expected. Where did +you study?” + +“Two years with Coselli in Milan. But that was long ago; I could not +have done this then.” + +“What are you going to do about the face?” + +“I doubt that I shall ever finish it,” he said, looking at his +handiwork. “No.” He shook his head and his eyes contracted to points +of light. “It may be the only picture I shall ever paint—” + +“Surely not!” I cried with much feeling. “You have the incommunicable +gift.” + +But Maryvale was far aloof. His voice had changed into that distant +tone that suggested withdrawal beyond the sphere of ordinary mortals. +And when he spoke, I became as cold as ice. + +“I know now why Cosgrove passed away, with all the embroilments and +hubbub he used to cause.” + +I responded with a sense of rigid self-control: “You aren’t, er, +implying he terminated his own existence?” + +“He was killed so that I could paint. When all this excitement and +investigation is over, that is what they will find. I think it is well +his life is ended.” + +“Come now, Mr. Maryvale, without cavil or casuistry, tell me who +performed this beneficial murder.” + +“Someone, I do not know who, of the house of Kay.” + + + Same day. 4.30 P.M. + +For some reason the Superintendent appeared highly gratified and very +lenient toward the universe. Alberta Pendleton, though perhaps no more +curious than the rest of the table, was the only one who ventured to +find out why. Wheedling, she persisted from the fish to the fruit, and +at length wore out Salt’s defences by attrition. + +The table grew still while the Superintendent opened a wallet capable +of holding a couple of folios and very carefully withdrew a piece of +notepaper which he held by a sheath of blotter fastened with a clip. + +“Take it by the corner, _if_ you please, and mind it don’t catch fire. +That was a neat trick somebody played on me last evening, but I’ll +thank you not to repeat it,” he admonished a trifle grimly, opening +the note and handing it to Mrs. Bartholomew, whose eyes grew twice +their size within two seconds while they were fixed on the writing. + +“What does it say?” chorused half a dozen voices, but Mrs. Bartholomew +could only give a huge swallow and an audible sigh, and handed the +paper to Maryvale without looking at him. + +“Read it to us,” besought Crofts, who sat at the far end of the table +and whose turn would not come for at least a couple of minutes. + +Maryvale complied. “‘Sir,—Will no plain speech cause you or your +principals to understand that the die is cast and the snowball is +rolling downhill!’” A long low whistle broke from the reader’s lips. + +“Go on!” (from Crofts.) + +“Oh, Mr. Maryvale, that’s not fair!” + +“Don’t stop, please.” + +“For God’s sake, go on!” + +“I will go on,” said the man of business. “‘My deeds be on my head!’” + +After that perhaps prophetic sentence the silence seemed to sway and +swirl. Alberta asked in a small voice, “Is that all?” + +“No, there is another paragraph, equally concise: ‘I have acquainted +Mr. Oxford sufficiently with the particulars, and I do not see that +there is any need for you and me to discuss the situation. It remains +simply for you to take what measures you consider best, or to accept +the inevitable. You cannot stem the tide.’” + +About twenty-four startled eyes suddenly turned full glare on Charlton +Oxford. + +“No signature?” asked Aire. + +“Yes, the message is signed ‘Lancelot,’ and a postscript adds, ‘These +notes and their method of delivery are an unnecessary risk. I suggest +that your answer be the last, since on my side the question is past +debate.’ That _is_ the end.” + +Oxford sat between Miss Mertoun and Lib Dale, on my side of the board. +Lib promptly struck a finger into his waistcoat, so that he squirmed, +while the English girl looked at her cousin with wide wonder, or a +clever imitation of it, in her fine black eyes. + +“What in thunder have _you_ got to do with this mess?” demanded +Pendleton. + +“Yes, Oxey, old sport,” appended Lib, “what’s all this secret stuff? +Are you a great man and we didn’t know it all the time?” + +But Oxford, his eyes very uncomfortable, made no answer than to shrug +his modish shoulders, and Salt came to his rescue. + +“Don’t press Mr. Oxford, if you please. He is bound in confidence to +me.” + +“This, I believe, is an admissible question,” said Aire. “Is the note +a recent discovery of yours?” + +“Found it an hour ago.” + +“But surely you couldn’t have overlooked it in your previous search in +Mr. Cosgrove’s room.” + +“Right you are. But I didn’t discover this in Mr. Cosgrove’s room.” + +“Oh?” + +“No. It had been delivered.” + +“Delivered? What the devil do you mean?” asked Crofts. + +“It was put where Sir Brooke told Mr. Cosgrove to leave it.” + +“In the mail!” I exclaimed, a great dawn rising in my brain. “Wait a +moment, Superintendent. I’ll tell you where you found that paper!” + +“Gumme, if you haven’t guessed it or something.” + +“In the armoury!” + +“Right.” + +“In the armoury?” Crofts echoed dully, his brow scowling down. + +How clear the recollection was: the armoury in misty bluish light, the +three vague shapes of men, the one with the white tuft and shirt-front +picking the pockets of the other two, the narrow face at the candle +before the room was turned to darkness. Unsuccessful that search must +have been; Cosgrove must have “posted” this letter afterward. But what +was Lord Ludlow’s part in this muddle? Surely he played an extra hand, +perhaps a lone hand. I looked at his guileless countenance and would +have given a guinea to know what was going on behind it. + +I shifted my attention to Salt again. “But there must have been some +disturbance, Superintendent. I don’t believe that even you—” + +“Cleanin’,” acknowledged Salt. “Miss Carmody—Jael, that is—was dustin’ +about. No question she shook it loose, for it was lyin’ on the floor +under the newer suit of armour when I passed through at twelve +o’clock.” + +“But I don’t see—why, the mail is—” commenced Mrs. Bartholomew +diffidently. + +“The coat of mail, the coat of mail,” growled Bob Cullen. + +“That’s it,” said Salt. “You see, Mr. Pendleton, you had a little Post +Office here after all. This note was tucked away between the +chain-mail and the cuirass. Couldn’t have been a better hidin’-place, +as long as there were no children in the house to pick things to +pieces.” + +The ladies had passed from the room, and we were on the point of +following, when Salt recalled us with a casual remark. “Well, I’m +poppin’ off now, gentlemen.” + +“Eh!” exclaimed Crofts. “I thought Dr. Niblett—” + +“We’re off together, sir. The Coroner’s conductin’ the bodies, and I’m +conductin’ the Coroner.” + +“For heaven’s sake, send us some newspapers to read,” I urged. + +“I will, I will.” Salt cast his eye somewhat sardonically about the +circle. “Any more small commissions from any of you gentlemen?” + +We clustered at the doorway where the melancholy caravan set out in +charge of Dr. Niblett. The bodies of Cosgrove and of the unknown, +stitched in sheets and laid along improvised stretchers, were to be +carried by motor as far as the temporary bridge, across which they +must be borne by hand. The undertaker’s van was waiting across the +Water to convey them to the mortuary, where to-morrow they will be +“viewed” by the Coroner’s juries impanelled to sit on the bodies. + +They were gone. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Grisly Planting + +With the departure of the dead men from the House, the mansion seemed +to me for the nonce most lonely. + +I drifted away from the others, into the vacant Hall of the Moth, +slouched down in one of the flimsy chairs. My mind was rather wistful +for the deceased Cosgrove, wanting him back, but not quite sure +whether I preferred him to return alive or dead. + +Voices of persons passing in the armoury came to me. + +Belvoir’s: “Why, Galton proved that long ago. It stands to reason—” + +Lib’s: “Shoot that man!” + +A pause in the universe. Then the lightest sound of feet tripping down +the stairs, the flutter of a white skirt in the corridor, and an +apparition crossed the door. At unexpected sight of me, the apparition +became motionless in a pretty sort of confusion, while I staggered to +my modest height. + +“Oh, Mr. Bannerlee! I didn’t expect to find you here. That horrid old +man!” + +“Why, er—good heavens, Miss Lebetwood, what do you mean?” + +“Blenkinson.” + +“What, the Master of University College!” + +“Why, no—” + +“That’s only my ambition for him, you know. When the post is vacant, I +intend to put up his name for it. But what’s the wretch done?” + +“He scolded me!” + +“The impudent—” + +“Or he would have if he dared. That’s the same thing, isn’t it?” + +“But what, specifically?” + +“Well, you see, I was coming out of Millicent’s room. She was going to +have a game with me this afternoon, but told me she felt too tired +after all.” + +“With the last ball disposed of by Bob Cullen?” + +“The last I’d let that precious pair have, that was. I had sense to +keep a few for myself. Well, I was awfully sorry Millicent wasn’t up +to it, and I would have gone back to my own room and changed out of +these clothes. But when I came into the passage, Blenkinson was +stepping along as large as life and as still as a—as a cat. When he +saw me he stopped about six feet away and just let down his jaw and +stared.” + +“Very bad form.” + +“I said, ‘What’s wrong, Blenkinson?’ pretty nippily, I guess, and he +gave a sort of groan and said, ‘They are taking Mr. Cosgrove’s remains +to the mortuary, Miss.’ I didn’t say anything; so he groaned again.” + +“Really, you mustn’t concern yourself with the foibles of a foolish +old servant. Anyone with an ounce of sense would know you mean for the +best.” + +“_Mean_ for the best!” The sweet grave eyes dimmed a little. “I’m +_doing_ for the best! Each day since this happened I’ve been alone for +hours, thinking, thinking, thinking. I know more about Sean than +anyone else here, and I go over every particle of knowledge I possess, +to discover if it can have any bearing on his death. Oh, I’ve thought +so hard that my head hurts—and emotions like this tear you up even if +you’re too busy thinking to pay attention to how you feel. Don’t you +see, Mr. Bannerlee, I mustn’t be a weeping-willow sort of person; I’ve +got to get some relief once in a while. I’ve got to get the air into +my lungs and the blood into my brain, if I’m to do any good. I’m doing +more for Sean by swinging a racquet than I would if I bedewed his brow +with tears.” + +“You’re right, by George! Did you tell this to Blenkinson?” + +“To that old woman!” + +A silence came. I watched her; her eyes wandered restlessly from +object to object within the room. She turned suddenly toward the +window and looked at the glorious day, and as quickly turned to me +again. “Oh, this is too good to be wasted! I must play. I’ve got to +have someone to beat, Mr. Bannerlee; may I beat you?” + +The youth and verve of this girl, her strength of spirit, and the +unspoken appeal in her clear blue eyes, were almost too much for me. +There was a directness about her, like the passage of an arrow to its +mark, unusual in women, I believe, when combined with such softness +and allurement as is hers. I had a very noble impulse to take that +straight and slender body in my arms, and to bestow a needful comfort +of kisses on lips and cheeks and on that cruel golden hair. + +As with most such good impulses, this one changed into something +inferior: I bowed politely. “I’ll do my best,” I said. “Give me ten +minutes. I’ll borrow what I need from Crofts, as usual.” + +“Will you? Oh, thank you so much!” (To be thanked, so earnestly, by a +_dea certe_!) “I warn you, I’ll beat you. I hope you can give me a +battle.” + +Such was my hope, too, when we stepped on the concrete court a quarter +of an hour later. + +I should have been routed had I not been able to deliver a smashing +serve which landed in the proper court about one time in three. These +serves were almost always clean aces, and after one of them I was +startled to hear applause from the little knoll which overlooked the +court some distance away. There was Lib. + +“Hotto servo, old sportsman!” she called. “Glad there’s somebody +Paula’ll let play with her old tennis balls.” + +It was due to happen sooner or later, of course, but it was rather +humiliating immediately afterward to have a wild shot from my racquet +fly many yards over the enclosure. + +“Bravo,” called Miss Dale, and laughed and laughed. “Hotto smasho!” + +“Sorry,” I called, rushing across; “I’ll get it.” + +“Try,” laughed the lonely spectator on the hill. “Serves you right, +Paula. The great big brute of a man!” + +“I think it went into the stream,” said Miss Lebetwood. “You’ll have +to run.” + +“Oh, I’ll save it right enough; plenty of time to intercept it,” I +answered, turning my rush toward Aidenn Water, which, owing to a +convolution of its course, was some forty yards above the end of the +court and about twice that distance from the side-line. + +I kept a careful watch; no ball came down. + +“It must be among the strawberry trees after all,” I said, and we +commenced a search through the planted grove which had been so +grateful to the dead Irishman, while Lib favoured us with audible +quips at our discomfiture. + +“Just the same, I believe it went into the water,” said Miss Lebetwood +at the outset of our hunt. + +“Well, I’m sure it didn’t,” I contradicted. “How could it have? I got +over there in plenty of time—” + +“Well then, find it here.” + +But the ball was not to be found. + +We resumed the match. I served doubles. + +“Don’t lose your nerve,” called Lib. “I’ve mortgaged my—say, folks, +there’s a rumpus up at the House. Jiminy, I’ll bet something’s +happened!” + +Miss Lebetwood and I looked at each other. + +“What is it, Libkins?” she asked sharply. “What do you see?” + +“Slews of people—millions of ’em—running around the House. Say, +there’s Doctor Aire going like a pump-handle. Say, I’m going to see +what this is.” + +I looked at Miss Lebetwood, and we broke into a run, following Lib. + +Although we arrived almost the last of the crowd, Finlay, the +venerable gardener, was still positively drooling with excitement. To +him the credit must go for having inadvertently put a term to more +than one of our galling problems. + +Crofts rather fancies carrying on old Watts’ custom of experiment with +unusual trees and shrubs. For the sake of their jewel-like red +berries, he had a couple of Guelder Rose plants, almost full-grown, +ready to be put in the soil, when Cosgrove’s death set all things +awry. To-day they could not be kept out of the ground any longer. One +of the small trees was to be placed at the turn of the drive around +the front of the House, about fifty feet from the library tower. + +At the appointed site Finlay had merrily tossed up the soil from a +considerable cavity while Miss Lebetwood and I played our game. There +had come a jab of the spade which appeared to make the earth settle +somewhat. Again the gardener pressed the spade with his heel; the +earth seemed to give way. Alarmed, for he knew that there were no +drains passing beneath this lawn, Finlay got out of the pit he had +digged, reached down and poked experimentally with his tool. Of a +sudden, the bottom of the hole sank something like a yard, and a chunk +of antique subterranean masonry, broken off, was revealed, with +sluggish black water visible through the gap. But something else was +showing there, too, besides the mass of soil which had fallen through +the collapsed roof of the waterway: + +A face, with lips, nose, eyelids, cheeks distended into a simple green +sphere—and a hand, its palm covered with thickened, white, and sodden +skin. + +Sir Brooke Mortimer was found. + +I was far too late, of course, to hear what had been said by those +first around the hole. I learned afterwards. Crofts Pendleton, barring +some natural repugnance to the body in process of dissolution, had +seemed to take a sullen joy in the discovery. + +“Here’s your murderer!” he had even cried. + +“No, no! Never!” Eve Bartholomew murmured, gave a slight shriek, and +fainted dead away, to be carried by stalwart persons into the Hall. + +“I wonder,” said Belvoir. + +“Of course not,” declared Miss Lebetwood, and challenged Doctor Aire: +“Isn’t that so?” + +“Yes,” he answered; “he’s been dead at least as long as Sean.” + +The Guelder Rose plant, which must have a new hole dug for it now, lay +alongside the cavity with its branches bound up and its root encased +in a bag. Beside the rose lay the body of the unfortunate Knight, +drawn from the mysterious water-channel. I should not have recognized +it, had it been the corpse of some friend of mine. + +Mastering the disgust that welled in me, I bent over the drawn face, +with its nostrils dilated and eyes forced forward from their sockets. +The dead lips were parted and the blackened tip of the tongue +protruded between the teeth. + +I arose, looked down into the eyes of the physician. “Strangled?” + +He shook his head slightly. “By water only. The tongue’s a +_post-mortem_ result. Look at his fingers.” + +The fingers of the huge hands resting across the chest were covered +with slime, save for two or three, the ends of which appeared +excoriated. + +“He was drowned in this subterranean waterway. God knows how he got +in, but you can see that his fingers clutched at the oozy walls and in +some places must have pressed through the slime to the stone itself. +There’s a mark on his forehead, too, not quite so easily accounted +for. No connection with cause of death, however.” + +“This _is_ Sir Brooke, of course?” I asked. “It might be anyone, for +all the humanity left in the lineaments.” + +“I’m sure it is from the description of the clothing alone,” declared +the Doctor, “but we can satisfy ourselves without delay.” + +He plucked the arms from across the chest, then unbuttoned the coat. +Across the waistcoat extended a black band affixed to a pince-nez with +double lenses. Aire held these up with a significant look, then +reached into the inside pocket and withdrew the dead man’s wallet. +This was conclusive, for inside it was stamped the name in gilt: +Crowell Brooke Mortimer. But the flutter of voices that came was not +for this discovery. + +From between coat and waistcoat two objects had been dislodged, +objects which rolled out upon the lawn: a couple of water-logged +tennis balls. + +I picked one up. The cloth was rotted, and slipped off with a scrape +of the finger. “Well,” I said, “now we know how Sir Brooke lost his +way.” + + + Same day. 9.55 P.M. + +In half an hour Salt was among us once more, and half an hour later he +had come upon the entrance to the underground channel, an arch of +stone masonry veiled by an overhanging branch of alder and almost +wholly submerged in the stream. It lies, as we expected to find, at +the part of Aidenn Water nearest the tennis court, and a fair current +sweeps beneath it. This curious tunnel appears to extend several +hundred feet, and does not end where the Knight’s body was found. The +corpse had been detained by a partial stoppage caused by the collapse +of some of the masonry. But we have not discovered where the channel +rejoins the main stream. If I am at all a judge of facial expressions, +Salt is a disappointed man. Evidently this gruesome factor casts some +elaborate equation of his out of all computation. It struck me at +dinner that Aire, too, looked a bit frustrated. + +Talk in the Hall of the Moth after dinner was equally divided between +pity for Sir Brooke (and for Mrs. Bartholomew, who was absent) and +amazement at the lopped and disordered accounts given of our mystery +in the London papers which Salt had brought with him as he had +promised. I rather enjoyed hearing Ludlow pitch into the gentlemen of +the press, for whom it is obvious he has no love—and for those for +whom he has no love he has no mercy. + +Maryvale came up, and for once I did not feel uneasy at the sight of +him. He was smiling broadly, I thought a little too broadly after what +had occurred this afternoon. I recalled, however, that Aire was now +taking precautions to insulate Maryvale from contact with any +atrocities which may present themselves—and then flashed through my +mind almost the very words which the man of business was about to say. + +“You don’t think so cheaply of my warnings now, Mr. Bannerlee. Now you +must realize what was meant by the spanning and roofing of the +waters.” + +“Fully.” + +“No, sir!—not fully. There is much for you yet to know. But all this +agitation, this ebullition in the newspapers, this official scrutiny, +will lead to nothing.” + +“You refer to what you told me this morning?” + +“As I said, this man Cosgrove was removed because he stood in my way +and in the way of my art.” + +I thrust in sharply. “Did you remove him yourself?” + +“No,” answered Maryvale, “but I have done worse deeds.” + + + 3 o’clock in the morning. + +I have heard a curious thing. A few minutes ago I woke with a start +and lay wondering what had roused me. Then the cry of the cat throbbed +from the upper Vale again. The howl rose and fell endlessly, as it +seemed, until, while it mounted to a new pitch of despair, it broke +off. There has not been the faintest murmur since. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +The Deathless Arm + + October 7. 11.15 A.M. + +A Spartan is among us. + +Not only did Eve Bartholomew appear this morning at breakfast at the +early hour Salt had suggested, but she seemed almost in brighter mood +than before, and I can understand how the discovery of Sir Brooke, for +better or worse, may have taken a burden from her mind. Still, she is +brave, though she spoke with a rather wan utterance, addressing me, +who had the fortune to consume porridge next her in the window. + +“I had expected it,” she said. “Of course I never could have hinted +such a thing before, but I realized that sooner or later such a man as +Sir Brooke must fall foul of one of his many enemies.” + +I uttered some vague sound. + +“Mark my words, Mr. Bannerlee, the villain will be brought to +vengeance for that blow! I understand how Miss Lebetwood feels—why, +Blenkinson, what’s the matter?” + +“N-nothing, Ma’am. I beg your pardon,” said the butler, who had been +fussily arranging the window-shade, and took flight. + +“What did he do?” I asked quickly. + +“He made the most extraordinary grimace I have ever seen. I hope the +man is not subject to, er—anything.” + +“I think not,” I answered drily, guessing well the cause of the facial +disturbance. “But you were saying, Mrs. Bartholomew?” + +“I have something that would do the poor man good. I must speak to him +later. Er, what _was_ I saying?” + +“That you understood how Miss Leb—” + +“I do, indeed! I admire that young woman, and I intend to follow her +example. Until the murderer of Sir Brooke is found, I shall not rest!” + +But this was nothing to what was in store later. An hour afterward +Salt had us all in the conservatory, very much on tenterhooks. When he +had surveyed us with calm and taken the roll mentally, he made a +little speech. + +“Since you’ll all be goin’ to New Aidenn for the inquest this +afternoon, I thought I might give you a few hints. The fact is, we +want as little as possible to come out. I have those orders from +higher up. The Coroner’s business is to ascertain the cause of death, +if he can; the rest is my business. I know Dr. Niblett will play the +game accordin’ to my rules, and he won’t try to carry the question any +deeper than that the deceased came by his death by means of the stone +that Mr. Blenkinson luckily discovered. But there’s no tellin’ what +some busybody juryman or other may want to know; so I want to warn you +there’s one subject you must be shy of—that’s this ‘King in Ireland’ +topic. There’s enough hullabaloo in the Emerald Isle right now without +spreadin’ that.” + +“Still,” said Alberta, “I don’t see how we are quite going to tell +whether a question will lead—” + +“I’m comin’ to that, now. I’m goin’ to share some facts with you. This +that I’m tellin’ you is the result of special information from Miss +Lebetwood, Mrs. Bartholomew, and Lord Ludlow, added to a few small +discoveries of my own. Now, remember, I want you to keep this budget +of facts in mind and not show by a word or a sign that you know +anything about it. That’s the only reason there is for this assembly. +Anybody behind that door, Mr. Pendleton?” + +Crofts flung open the studded portal, revealing emptiness in the +corridor. + +“Servants sometimes like to wait behind doors, just in case anyone +should ring for ’em,” observed Salt. “You might keep an ear open in +that direction, sir. Now, here’s the way of it.” + +From what we heard in the next half-hour, what a change comes over the +picture of Sir Brooke! I had heard of him as capricious, cantankerous, +unsure-footed, gentle-hearted, weak-eyed, sick: the image of +ineptitude. Yet what was he but the emissary of the powers behind the +powers that be!—no fool at all, but the super-confidential spokesman +of an Office powerful and discreet! I had heard of him as a guest like +the others, save that he was to “propose the bride’s health.” Now we +envisage him as coming to meet Cosgrove plenipotentially under the +guise of the Bidding Feast! There had been earlier meetings here +between these men. Indeed, while the revelation increased in scope, I +began to wonder if the whole idea of the Feast was not shrewdly put +upon Crofts by Cosgrove’s suggestion, so that there might be an +out-of-the-way corner for the final tryst between the representatives +of the United Kingdom and of the Kingdom of Ireland about to be +reborn. + +“It may relieve Lord Ludlow’s mind,” said Salt, “if I clear up his +connection with the affair at once. That Bangor and Newcastle address, +sir,” he went on, looking at me, “seemed to give you a turn the other +day, but it was really rather enlightenin’, you know.” + +“I must be very stupid—” + +“Not a bit of it—only you should have studied your geography just a +little more thorough. So should I, for that matter; I didn’t guess the +connection either. You see, both those places are in Ireland.” + +“Ireland!” came several gasps as one. + +“Fact. Two little towns near Belfast, nearer twenty than thirty miles +apart, I shouldn’t wonder.” + +“What goes on in those places?” asked Aire. “I’ve been in Bangor, +County Down. It has no industries to speak of.” + +“Yes, in the main those are seasonable towns; both on the coast, I +believe. But Lord Ludlow and the other principals have projected a +tolerable business in the linen-weavin’ line to give employment to +every inhabitant the winter through; so there’ll be flourishin’ +manufactories in both a year or two from now. And that properly +explains Lord Ludlow’s interest: day by day here he was tryin’ to find +what was goin’ to happen to his pet lamb.” + +“I don’t see what you were in a sweat about,” said Crofts, turning to +Ludlow. “Cosgrove wouldn’t have matured his plans in a generation.” + +“That’s where you’re sure to be wrong, sir,” contradicted Salt. “The +truth is, nobody except Sir Brooke could have had an idea how near +Cosgrove’s coup was to takin’ place. One or two more parties to sound, +a little time to work out the final details and give the final +orders—and the fat would have been in the fire! Why, the papers say +Ireland’s half-mad to-day as it is.” + +“Where do you come in?” asked Crofts belligerently, fixing his eye on +Oxford this time, and that well-nurtured gentleman lost countenance, +but Salt made answer. + +“Mr. Oxford has been pretty close to Mr. Cosgrove all along, as you’ll +recall,” he said to our host. “He may have excited Mr. Cosgrove once +or twice, but that was in another connection altogether.” Although +guardedly, the Superintendent gave a swift look toward Miss Lebetwood. +I intercepted it. “Another connection altogether. I think perhaps that +it was due to Mr. Oxford keepin’ such a good watch on Mr. Cosgrove and +his servant that Sir Brooke made up his mind to come down here when he +did and have the cards laid plain on the table.” + +“This servant, who was he?” put in the insatiable Crofts. “Cosgrove +never brought a servant to any house of mine before.” + +“He’s in the mortuary, too, now.” + +“What, the gorilla-man!” I exclaimed. + +It was so. I comprehended many things in an instant, and Salt’s +re-enforcement of them came tumbling after. The creature I had met +near the top of Mynydd Tarw, who had dwelt in the cleft of the hill, +had been an Irishman, Cosgrove’s servant. That was an Irish yell he +had yelled plump in my face, some adjuration to bid a demon begone, +for he must have taken me for a fiend of the mist when I fell in his +path. The unaccountable burned paper in Cosgrove’s grate was a message +from this man; he it was whom Cosgrove had intended to smuggle into +the House as an “extra progeny for the elephant.” + +I recollected our meeting, how he had seemed to be straining, +staggering, spent with haste, even before he had encountered me and +found a new cause for flight. The presumption was strong that he had +lately met with some alarming experience. What could that have been? +Had he seen the black-bearded unknown, the menagerie-keeper? There was +nothing in that person’s colloquy with me to suggest it. + +More likely the gorilla-man had run across Sir Brooke. Still, in the +mere encounter there could have been no cause for terror; neither was +anything to the other, and the Knight was hardly a figure to inspire +awe. What was more probable than a meeting on the Water bank above the +tennis court? One man was skulking secretly; the other had lost his +way. Possibly there had been a collision, or perhaps the prowler had +only seen the shape of Sir Brooke taking form in the fog, then +suddenly falling in the Water at a fatal mis-step. That abrupt fall, +perhaps one choking cry, no more, before the instant total +disappearance of the body beneath the tunnel arch (of which the +gorilla-man could have no knowledge)—these account sufficiently for +the fear in Cosgrove’s servant, spurring him hillward. This, I +believe—and it is Salt’s belief as well as mine—is the true story. + +“Maybe it’s not quite cricket to criticize Cosgrove, now he’s gone,” +said Crofts in an unusually reflective manner. “I do think that he +might have shot straighter, you know. I don’t see what he was driving +at when he brought this ruffianly man of his down here in secret, to +lurk about, perhaps to thieve, and above all, to be brought among us +in disguise that evening. What was the point of that, I’d like to +know!” + +“No doubt about it,” declared Salt. “Mr. Cosgrove, havin’ no idea what +had happened to Sir Brooke the night before, expected him surely to be +here by the time the Noah thing commenced.” + +“What’s that to do with it?” + +“Why, Mr. Cosgrove was particularly anxious to bring the pair of ’em +together, I expect.” + +Crofts looked at Salt as at one suddenly seized with dementia. “To +bring them together? Why should he want to do that?” + +“To show he meant business, Mr. Pendleton.” + +Aire asked quickly, “Who was this wild man?” + +“Ah, I was wonderin’ who’d ask me,” said Salt. “Please don’t mention +it, ladies and gentlemen, but the man killed by the landslide was sure +to be Toban First, the royal King of Ireland!” + + + Same day. 10.10 P.M. + +A couple of snubbed and highly aggrieved juries brought in verdicts of +“Wilful Murder” and “Misadventure” respectively, as they were told to, +and within half an hour of my entering the mortuary, I was in the +street again. For a few minutes I was busy resisting the minions of +the press, who buzzed about all of us but secured small plenishments +of honey. I surmise that the likelihood of exposure to blandishing +newsgatherers was the principal reason why Blenkinson, finder of the +stone, was the only servant brought from the Vale to give testimony. + +Alberta suggested that instead of returning to the House immediately +the party should spend the afternoon in motors. Everyone gladly +acceded to this means of relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the +Vale; everyone, that is, save Aire, who, having given his evidence in +the second inquest, had withdrawn to prepare for the third, which will +be held in a day or so. At the last moment, since we made too large a +crowd to be packed loosely into the pair of available cars, I, too, +seceded from the group, alleging quite truly that since the afternoon +was fine, tramping and exploring would do me perfectly. + +Time-wracked New Aidenn lies in the shadow of its huge castle mound +whose fortress no longer stands atop, and the vestiges of old city +walls are far out in the fields where the cows find succulent grazing. +In ordinary circumstances these vestiges of greatness and evidences of +decay would have kindled my ardour in the antiquarian way, but now I +was resolved upon two queerer visits. + +I found Aire with Sir Brooke in a side chamber of the mortuary itself. +There was a faint scent of balsam in the room, which was fitted with +some of the appurtenances of a laboratory, and Aire, in a white smock, +had a slip of glass and a pipette in his hand. Sir Brooke lay on a +table at the far end of the room, mercifully covered with a sheet. + +“Ceremonies over?” + +“They are, and no one the wiser. Your duties finished?” + +“Oh, this isn’t duty, exactly. I could shunt it if I wished. Only +chance, you know, has made me the responsible medical witness in all +three deaths; so I have assumed the mantle of whoever corresponds to a +divisional police surgeon in the country. I’m well paid—curiosity, and +all that sort of thing.” + +“Well, has curiosity received any communicable reward?” + +“Prophecy fulfilled, at any rate. As I said, this man was +drowned—drowned and nothing else.” + +“But didn’t you say something about a bruise on the forehead? Mrs. +Bartholomew won’t give you peace until that’s explained.” + +“No, I mentioned a mark, not a bruise. Peculiar thing, you know—no +contusion, just scraping and scratching of the skin above the left +eye. In itself nothing unusual, but there was a long wood splinter +stuck there; that’s the oddest feature of the death.” + +“What’s it like?” + +Aire took from a rack on the wall an envelope, and from it extracted a +thin fragment, about an inch long, dark brown in colour, and feeling +like rock. + +“Why, this isn’t—” + +“It requires microscopy to show that it’s wood at all.” + +“I’d never believe it, surely.” + +“It’s almost petrified. That happens, extremely rarely, when certain +kinds of wood are immersed in running water for long periods. The +organic substance is replaced by precipitated mineral matter.” + +“Well, it doesn’t strike me as being of such vast importance.” + +“One wonders, for instance, what’s kept it submerged and stationary.” + +At the door of departure I laughed. “A question indeed. But I must be +off.” + +“Sounds as if you had plans for the afternoon.” + +“I have. I am going to take a walk—Belvoir’s hint, you remember.” + +“I can’t say I do.” + +“A walk into the past. By the way, you had a letter this morning. May +I ask if it was in reference to the blood-test?” + +“It was, indeed. And pig’s blood you found that night for a certainty. +The test reaction of the blood I sent with anti-human sera was +negative.” + +“There’s some comfort in that, but it leaves the problem no less vexed +than before.” + +“More vexed, if you ask me. If it had been the vital fluid of a man, +we’d have some notion of what we’re looking for. As it is, even the +nature of the problem is vague.” + +“Cannibal,” I said. “Well, I must be going; these roads are new to me. +When I return to New Aidenn, I expect a bit of interesting mail +myself.” + +“Oh, yes?” + +“Yes; I’ve sent for my copy of the Book of Sylvan Armitage—not that +the missing portion of the manuscript is in it. I’ve thumbed the +volume too much to have overlooked anything of that sort. Well, +cheerio.” + +“Cheerio.” Aire returned to his far from cheery work while I set my +footsteps out of town and eastward. + +On every side around the graceful slopes of hills intercepted one +another in a little-changing prospect while I trod the highway across +green Radnor Plain. I passed the prehistoric Four Stones in their +black-grey stoicism, passed Doomsday parks, passed old cottages with +slate-shingled roofs. Above an avenue of oaks the square tower of St. +Stephen’s in Old Aidenn had been gradually mounting the sky ahead of +me, and in due time I diverged from the road and climbed the oak +avenue to the village. + +What would I find beneath that Norman tower? Hints of symbolic +meanings of the “deathless arm” were rife in mind. Are the descendants +of Sir Pharamond Kay living yet? Perhaps—and the suggestion caused me +to bate my breath—one of us guests in Highglen House actually belongs +to the family of Kay. This supposition had not occurred to me before +as a live idea. Now it had force. It was, too, an hypothesis that +offered scope and direction for investigating, and in a subject where +I was more or less at home. Perhaps (a big perhaps) I might play a +large part yet in the untwining of these twisted skeins. + +I will not say that I was growing excited while I procured the church +key from its custodian in one of the handful of straggling houses +remaining of the mediæval town: I had, in fact, been excited and eager +all during my walk across the monotonous plain. I entered the +churchyard by the lych-gate; the place was overcrowded with crumbling +stones among the red-barked yews. The men and women with shears, who +trimmed the grass along the graves of dear ones, looked at me, I +thought, with more than ordinary interest; there must have been marks +of eagerness in my face. I unlocked the wire-screen outer door, found +the portal within the vestibule unfastened, and entered the little +church. + +The empty air smelled sweet and sanctified. The hour was clouded, and +I wished that some of the oil lamps hanging from the low roof might be +lit, for the interior was rather cavernous in the absence of sun. +Searching, I seemed fated to encounter everything but the thing I +sought. These were features with a reputation: the rood screen of fan +tracery and leaf-flower-and-grape carvings, that unique organ-case +dating back to the Gothic period, the window of St. Catherine’s +Wheel—but I spent not a second apiece on them, looking with greater +interest at the tombstones in the floor, at the memorial tablets +between the windows, and at the ’scutcheons painted on the wall with +colours still bright. + +A flash of lightning drove the darkness from even the remotest corners +of the church, and my heart gave a leap. That instant I had seen a +long, bulky object in a recess of the chapel on my left. + +It was the tomb of Sir Pharamond, stained and gnawed by centuries. The +effigies of the lord of Aidenn and his lady rested there in stone, +with small beasts recumbent at their feet. I lit a match to examine +the face and figure of the man. The crown of the head was clean gone, +and a fragment of the chin had fallen away, but it was impossible not +to recognize the sharp, malignant features, the keen lips, the +close-set eyes as being those of the paintings in Highglen House. + +The left arm of the effigy lay across the breast, the mailed fist +clasping a broken sword. The right arm was missing. + +At first I thought that, like the pieces of the head, it had been a +prey to time, but careful examination by the light of a second match +proved the carving to be complete: the chain mail ended neat at the +shoulder. No right arm had ever been there. + +In haste I stooped and lit a third match to read what might be +decipherable of the inscription, but another lightning flash disclosed +the words still distinct on the side of the tomb, and I read while it +thundered: + + Let Trecchours be Ware My Right Arme Shall Not + Dye For soo I have Ordeyned + +These were all the words upon the monument. + + + +CHAPTER XX + +The Recrudescence of Parson Lolly + +I chanced upon an alternative road, with more variety in its +prospects, to take me back to the mouth of the Vale, omitting New +Aidenn entirely and saving a third of my journey. Even on this +short-cut southward, I found daylight part drawn into evening when I +reached the top of the vast hill called the Smatcher, shaped like a +loaf of bread, and began to descend through its larches to the +entrance of the Vale. Gleams of sun walked from peak to peak while +violet dusk deepened along the skirts of the hills. On the highway +below me I perceived a human figure trudging toward the branch road to +the House. + +I straightway recognized that sawed-off, machine-like form, and the +peculiar drawing-up of the shoulder with each step. Doctor Aire was +preceding me through the twilight. + +I hailed him and joined him. “I thought the others might pick you up.” + +“Not returned yet, I dare say. Didn’t call for me, at any rate. So I’m +getting my fortnightly exercise.” He looked up at me quizzically. “You +found everything satisfactory?” + +“Damnably the reverse. Why, there never was a right arm on that +effigy. Do you know, Doctor, I believe Maryvale has the mission in +life of plaguing me!” + +“Not you alone, let me assure you. Other persons are agog over his +cryptic remarks. I, for instance.” + +“You? Oh, no.” + +“Yes. You didn’t hear what he told the Pendletons and me this morning +at breakfast? He said that Parson Lolly is dead.” + +“Parson Lolly dead! That was fudge.” + +“On the contrary, he assured us with perfect gravity that the Parson +died last night.” + +“He was pulling your leg.” + +“Not a bit of it. I know Maryvale that well, anyhow.” + +“Give it your own name, then; I’d call it empty talk.” + +Aire twitched around at me in a surprised way. “Never,” he declared. +“Sure, Bannerlee, you must realize by this time that there’s always +something behind what Maryvale says. He doesn’t merely vaporize.” + +We were approaching the temporary bridge. “I wish you’d tell me +exactly what you think of Maryvale, Doctor. I confess that to me +there’s something uncanny about the man. If he’s mad, he ought not to +be loose among us, and if not—” + +“If not?” Aire cocked his head to hear. + +“—if not, he’s up to some subtle game.” + +“Oho, you think so?” + +“What else, for heaven’s sake?” + +He waited to cross the bridge before he answered. “No, that’s not my +reading of Maryvale. I look on him as a man wrestling with an idea, +the idea of Parson Lolly.” + +“And still I don’t get hold of your meaning.” + +“It’s this way. Gilbert Maryvale has come to Aidenn Vale before. Each +time, certainly, a tradition of the countryside, a popular +half-belief, has been mentioned, more often discussed with some +fullness. It is, to say the minimum, a fable of much piquancy, a +legend above the average in interest, this tradition of the +goblin-parson—is it not?” + +“Granted, granted.” + +“Haven’t you often wished that fairy-tales were true? Maryvale has +almost convinced himself to believe in Parson Lolly. His mind hasn’t +conquered the idea, seems to be more or less at the mercy of it. But +sometimes he rebels. Now and then he can see the absurdity as well as +you or I; he can even laugh at the Parson. But again he will fall into +perplexity, confusion, shame, fear over the idea. And he is capable, +under suggestion or after shock, of getting into the throes, quite +possessed with the reality of the unreal, virtually a maniac if you +like that word. At these times he makes the supreme surrender one is +capable of making to ideas.” + +“What is that?” + +“Why, he _acts_ on them. Remember his carrying that revolver up the +Vale.” + +“Thanks, I remember well enough.” We went on in silence a little way, +and then I said quickly, “But that doesn’t explain everything. Madmen +are consistent; that’s why they’re mad. But Maryvale tells me that +someone of the house of Kay did this murder, and sends me over to Old +Aidenn to find out about that missing arm, and—” + +“Of course he is not consistent; that’s why he is _not_ mad, as you +persist in thinking. He is very much mixed, but his ideas don’t fit +into a complete system. I shall be sorry when they do, and I think the +sooner he leaves the Vale the better.” + +“Why don’t you suggest it?” + +“I have, to Salt. However, the Superintendent doesn’t want our group +to be dissolved for a few days yet. I’d have Maryvale out of here in a +jiffy, though, if I felt his mental condition were critical, not +simply fluctuating, for there’s not the remotest possibility of his +being implicated in Cosgrove’s death.” + +“Let me see, where was he, just?” + +“Sitting with me on the steps of the summer-house the whole time +during which the murder could have happened. But if he is shielded +from any further mental concussion, I suppose there’s no harm in his +staying on here a while longer. Besides, you know, he will have it +that the Parson is dead.” + +In the thickening gloom I could make out no expression on the face of +the man keeping step beside me. I spoke cautiously. + +“I take it, then, Doctor, that you don’t think Maryvale may have a +hand in the manifestations of the Parson?” + +He laughed. “Rather not! How could he?” + +“I wish I could tell you. But in any case I suppose—I devoutly hope, +anyhow—that the manifestations are over, and the explanations will be +in order henceforth.” + +“I second you willingly.” + +We went on. I stumbled against a stone in the roadway. “Doctor, you’ve +heard about the man I encountered the night I came here; I mean the +one with the umbrella.” + +“Yes, Salt asked my opinion about that chap.” + +“What opinion could you have?” + +“Question of sanity again.” + +“What do you think?” + +“Hopelessly sane, I should say. You didn’t take him for crazed, did +you?” + +“No; I suppose his talk was fabricated.” + +“From Salt’s account, I judged it was—most of it, anyhow.” + +“Which part do you exempt?” + +“Well, wasn’t there an urgent warning about calling off the dogs, and +a reference to golden-haired woman? Believe me, Bannerlee, this +Mac-whatever-his-name-was meant what he said just then.” + +“Perhaps. But what I wanted to tell you, Doctor, was that I can’t help +connecting Maryvale with that man. The physical differences in their +appearance aren’t so great that they couldn’t be one and the same, +what with a false beard stuck on crooked, and the rest of it. It’s +unlikely, of course, but still—” + +“Tut! it’s impossible.” + +“You don’t know. You weren’t here that night.” + +“Trust Salt. He has ascertained beyond a shade of doubt that Maryvale +and the rest of the party were in the House the whole evening. The +only possibility is that one of the servants _might_ have gone out +looking that way, and you know how likely that is.” + +I gave a shrug to dismiss the whole question as insoluble. “I thank my +stars I wasn’t born a detective.” + +“Curious how dark the House is,” said Aire. “So close to dinner, too.” + +The building had been in sight for a time, but only as a black beast +crouching with closed eyes on the lawn. Now we were some hundred yards +or so distant, but had still to go through the gate-house archway if +we followed the westward trend of the drive. + +I said, “I suppose our friends haven’t appeared. I’d make my outing as +long as possible, too, having to return at last to this devil’s +playground.” + +We passed underneath the arch, crossed the lawn. + +“Even the kitchens looked dark from down below. Can’t tell about them +from this side, though. I certainly expected the motorists to be back +by this time; didn’t you?” + +“Yes, I did.” + +“It looks like a tomb.” + +I was aware that Aire had made a swift movement; then I saw him stock +still, with his hand part way to his lips in a gesture of surprise. + +“No lights, no. But there’s someone in the conservatory.” + +“What!” + +“I saw the gleam of a face at the window of the tower. Just a white +blotch. See that?” + +“Right-o.” + +We made across the lawn at a run, entered the Hall of the Moth by the +unfastened french window, and encountered two figures emerging from +the conservatory. + +“I’m so glad you’ve come!” + +“Miss Lebetwood!” + +“Yes, it’s Millicent and I. Don’t—don’t be afraid,” she added with a +little, unsteady laugh. + +“Are you alone? Is there something the matter with the lights?” + +“The lights are all right. Yes, we’re alone.” + +Aire demanded, “Aren’t the servants here?” + +“They’re all here, I guess. I meant our people, you know. They brought +us to the bridge, so we could come up and have an hour or two of rest +before dinner. They didn’t want to come in yet; so they drove on +again.” + +“But why didn’t you switch on the lights?” Aire queried. “With all +deference to your courage, I should think you would have felt easier +in your minds—” + +“We didn’t dare turn on the light,” said Miss Lebetwood. + +Aire and I barked astonishment. + +Miss Mertoun, who had been clinging to the American girl’s arm, said, +“Do go on, Paula. Tell them what we saw.” + +“It’s very little after all,” said Miss Lebetwood. “We had driven down +to the Wye Valley, had tea, and come back again by five-thirty, and +someone suggested going north to Ludlow before returning to the House. +But Millicent and I said we’d rather be excused; so one car waited on +the main road while the other brought us up and dropped us at the +bridge. We walked very slowly, and it wasn’t until about half an hour +ago that we reached the House. It was pretty dark, you know, even +then, but light from one or two kitchen windows showed in the garden; +so we weren’t scared at all.” + +“Ah,” remarked Aire. “You didn’t come by the drive, then?” + +“Oh, no, it was too dull for us. We came round through the grove under +Whimble and across the lawn south of the House to the cat-head door. +The door wasn’t latched, and we simply walked into the vestibule, and +we would have gone straight upstairs, but Millicent remembered a book +she had left in the Hall of the Moth. So she went in there to get it, +and I waited by the steps, but a moment later I heard her give a small +scream. I ran in—” + +“What had you seen, Miss Mertoun?” asked Aire, turning to the English +girl. + +“Something looked in the window. Paula saw it, too.” + +“‘Something’ is a trifle vague, isn’t it?” + +“But we don’t know what it was.” + +“Well, what was its shape, and how was it dressed?” + +“It was as tall as a man, maybe taller,” said Miss Lebetwood, “and it +was wrapped in a long black robe from the top of its—head to the +ground.” + +“That’s the creature Oxford and I saw on the lawn that first night,” I +exclaimed. + +Aire asked, “What was its face like?” + +Miss Lebetwood spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “It didn’t have any +face.” + +Aire actually staggered back a step, and I reached out for something +to support me, but encountering nothing, concluded to stand upright. + +I found my voice. “You mean you couldn’t see any.” + +“On the contrary, I was quite near the window—that one by the armoury +door. Millicent had left her book on the cabinet there, and had +reached the place before she saw the shape, and I naturally went to +her side. We had all the light there was, and would have seen a face +if there had been any there.” + +Stricken by a memory, I put my hand on Aire’s arm. “Remember, Doctor, +how Maryvale put no face in his portrait?” + +He ignored me, and said, “What then?” + +“We were petrified, of course. It seemed to peer in, if you can +understand, even without a face. The whole attitude of the thing was +inquiring, curious. And then perhaps it saw us, for suddenly it +twisted and hurried away.” + +“Why didn’t you get the servants?” I put in. + +“Things were bad enough without that.” + +“What shall we do, Bannerlee?” + +“Go after it, don’t you think?” + +“Right. You have a torch, haven’t you?” + +“Yes; I’ll fetch it. You stay here to guard the womenfolk.” + +I made dizzy haste up the spiral stairs and down again, and found the +three outside the french window where the intruder had stood. Aire was +lighting matches in search of footprints, but as had been predicted, +vainly. We agreed that it would be best for the two girls to return to +the conservatory and keep watch through the windows, having care to +remain invisible. If anything untoward happened, they were to signal +us by switching on the light, at the same time ringing for the +servants if danger was evident. + +Aire and I went side by side over the lawn toward the small solitary +copse. First one of us flashed the light along the sward while the +other tried to penetrate the darkness ahead; then we reversed duties. +As for footprints, if there were any they were exceedingly light and +vague, and singularly small, but we could not even agree there was a +definite trail. + +The distance from the House to the cypresses was over two hundred +feet, and before we had covered the distance the Vale was filled with +a soft illumination, as if twilight had re-begun. On our right, the +moon was rising over Whimble, a crescent moon glowing like white-hot +metal. Then Aire, who had been looking ahead, drew up. + +“Something’s among the trees for sure.” + +While he spoke I saw movement underneath the horizontal branches, and +that queer, black-robed, conic figure—unmistakably the same I had seen +on the evening of my arrival—swiftened from the shelter of the +cypresses toward the expansive darkness of the park where the +summer-house stood. The long loose-flying sleeves flapped curiously as +if there were no arms within them. The wide garment spread along the +ground, but we had no sight of legs or feet, and I admit I felt uneasy +at the thought that if we caught this unknown, it might prove to have +no face. + +We ran in pursuit, but I was careful not to outstrip Aire, lest the +thing should turn and fell us separately. In consequence, we barely +maintained our distance, and had the mortification of seeing the black +robe merge with the night among the sycamores of the park. + +“Hear that?” + +“It’s jumped into the stream.” + +“Or fallen in.” + +A little way within the park we found the steep-sided channel of the +brook which flowed across the farm of the sisters Delambre, later on +passed beneath the elaborated bridge, and eventually joined Aidenn +Water. The bank at this point was five or six feet high. + +“What next?” + +Aire slid and floundered down to the edge of the rivulet which +whispered along the channel. + +“Can’t tell for certain, but I believe it went toward the bridge.” + +I got down beside him, and we sped between the banks, which gradually +lifted above us. Dry land was scarce, and we did a deal of splashing +in the brook, but by the aid of my torch I seemed to see ahead muddy +traces of other splashing before ours. A wild rose growing on the edge +of the water had been trampled down. + +A couple of short turns in the course of the brook brought us to the +stone bridge, a structure magnificently heavy in the body, but leaving +a semicircular arch only about eighteen inches high for the passage of +water. + +“It’s a blind alley. No man—or woman—could have gone through there. +There isn’t room for a good-sized dog.” + +I bent down and shot the light underneath; there was nothing but water +there. + +“Well—” + +“Up the bank, did it go?” + +I flashed the torch up and down both sides of us. On the one hand was +a miniature precipice more than ten feet high, on the other was a wall +of earth nearly vertical, thickly grown with ivy-leaved toad-flax +showing no sign that anything larger than a mite had travelled over +it. + +“I never—” Aire began. + +I could not repress a tremor when he suddenly looked skyward, showing +that the spell of magic could exist in his bones. I turned my gaze up, +too, as if I really expected to see a black-robed figure floating over +the ruined summer-house or receding into the depths of the night sky. +But it was eastward that Aire was looking, and while we stared, some +solitary winged form flapped across the narrow surface of the moon. + +“We’re beaten,” said Aire. + +“Let’s get out of here. I need a tonic.” + +“Shall we go back?” + +“No; I’ll give you a leg up, and you reach down a hand to me.” + +In this wise we crawled up the toad-flax, and a minute later our wet +feet were taking us back toward the cypress grove again. I kept my +light running along the ground, though my hope was feeble of +discovering any traces of the unknown. But when we had reached the +grove itself, Aire darted forward with a chortling cry. + +No need to tell me what the white thing was that he picked up and held +in a trembling hand. He tried to decipher it in the moonlight before +my torch made the letters clear: + + L o O k O U T F o R m E T o N I G h T P A R S O N L O L L Y + +There was singularly little reaction on the part of anyone; I think +most of the minds in the House are drugged with dangers and alarums. + +“But, I say,” protested Charlton Oxford. “The beastly placard says +to-night, y’know.” + +“Can you use a pistol?” asked Crofts. + +“Yes, but—” + +“You can have mine, then. As for me, I’m going to sleep with one ear +and one eye open, and shan’t be surprised at anything, including being +murdered.” + +Alberta rang for someone to remove the coffee-cups. “And nobody must +whisper a word of it to the servants, must they, Crofts?” + +“Of course not.” + +Blenkinson himself entered, slipped about the room with deferential +soft-footedness, collected the débris, and carried it out on two +trays. I noticed his eyes once or twice sliding into their corners +while he stole an inscrutable look at Miss Lebetwood. + +“Extraordinary staff of servants you have,” remarked Aire, as soon as +the butler had departed. + +“I’m paying double wages,” said Crofts shortly. + +“I agree with Stephen,” declared Belvoir. “And I don’t think wages +alone cut much figure.” + +“Tell them, Crofts,” said Alberta. + +Her husband looked a bit abashed, but having encountered the steady +beam of her eye, growled, “Blenkinson.” + +“Elucidate,” I said. + +“Blest if I know,” confessed Crofts. “But there’s the fact. The +fellow’s a perfect lord among the community, and somehow he’s induced +the lot to believe that he’s able to protect ’em. I don’t know his +method. He just assured me I could depend on him.” + +Silence fell, in which the clock was audible, and I noticed that it +was a quarter to ten. + +Alberta yawned and made a gesture of weariness. “What do you say to +ten o’clock bed, people?” + +Assent was unanimous. + + +Those gate-house towers that nod to me across the lawn—may they +harbour the Parson? Those locked cellars that no one has seen for +years. Who or what may not be down there? There are persons +unaccounted for in the Vale. And where now is the drowning-pit? In +olden days this castle must have had one. Discovering it, would I know +more about the Parson, or about the perfidious tree, or about the +cat’s claw? + +Some of these questions I may be able to answer, if— + +Yes, just now, at eleven minutes to twelve, I tossed a sixpence to +decide. It fell spinning on the table, wobbled provokingly, and said, +“Go forth.” + +Let the Parson beware! If I catch him—or her—to-night! + + + Five minutes to twelve. + +Great God, through my open window— + +Some woman’s voice, very faint. . . . I am not sure whose. It is not +Paula Lebetwood’s. + +It called “Sean, poor Sean!” many times, and died away. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +The Midnight Expedition + + October 8. 11 A.M. + +Furtively, yet with a strange half-fearful pleasure, I made my way in +safety to the top of the stairs and down. I knew it was useless to +inspect the rooms which had been examined many times by day during the +past week. So I would have passed the library entrance without a +moment’s check in my rapid movement, had not a streak of light shot +forth from beneath the door just as I reached the bottom stair. +Someone had lit the chandelier. + +I felt shock. I curdled. To investigate is one thing; to run +point-blank on revelations in the wrong place is another. I had a +panicky impulse to slip upstairs again and lock myself in. But instead +I loitered where I stood, staring at the yellow drugget spread from +the lintel. + +The door was slightly ajar, and I saw a portion of the panelling of +the library wall; yet no sound came from within. A pale screen of +light, of which the edge drew a line on the opposite side of the +corridor, indicated that I might peep into the room through the slit +of the door. And though my curiosity had somehow turned sick within +me, presently I found myself with my eye at the crack. + +My legs seemed to wilt. If it had been Cosgrove himself, burly as +life, I could not have had a worse turn. A trim young fellow, clad in +dinner clothes and wearing a black cap, was inside, and he was a +stranger! + +He had been standing beyond the table, apparently in thought, his head +three-quarters from me, so that I caught only the remote profile of +his smooth face, and a narrow slice of his white shirt-front. But now +he moved across the room to a bookcase just within my triangle of +vision, drew open its glass doors, and commenced looking for some +volume. He stood in full view with his back toward me, turning his +head from side to side in a survey of the upper shelves. I could see +then that though slight of stature, he was, for his height, no mere +skeleton, but of fairly solid build, being even a bit broader across +the hips than at the shoulders. + +A minute later he was beneath the light, his chosen volume lay open +before him. I recognized it instantly as the Book of Sylvan Armitage. +With his face cast into shadow by the peak of his cap, he leaned +across the table with one hand flat on the red velvet, while the other +ran through the pages. I could tell that the outspread hand was +delicate and tapering, an “artistic” hand; but what I wanted to see +plainly was that clean-shaved face. + +Of a sudden he picked the book up from the table, pushed himself erect +from his leaning position, walked toward the armoury door and beyond +my range of vision. There was a click, and the chandelier faded out; a +moment later I heard a tiny jingling sound, as of curtain rings +disturbed. The young man was restoring the portières to their original +places. Then—nothing. + +The debonair manner I discerned in this youth even during observation +so brief and cramped, the easy, natural way in which his dapper feet +carried him across the floor, as if the place belonged to him—all so +much at variance with the stealthy habits of a lawless intruder—rather +increased the numb, foreboding ill-ease I felt. + +At last I ventured into the library, and found it, as I expected, in +moon-bathed vacancy. The armoury and the Hall of the Moth were also +empty save for their furnishings. I stood in the midst of the Hall, +wondering where the young chap had betaken himself, whether out of +doors, which seemed unlikely, whether into some crypt or cove in the +massive walls, which seemed unlikely, too, or into thin air, which, in +spite of the compulsion of ancient sorceries, seemed less likely than +either. Anyhow, he was gone, and it remained for me to consider what +course to take. + +No need to retail my devious thoughts. In the end I saw no good in +rousing the house, particularly since I must reveal my secret +projects. I went on as before, with caution redoubled. + +The corridor—no one there, apparently. The dinner-room—no one there +for certain. The kitchen—now I was in unknown territory. I waited, +listened, breathless. Only the whistle of a bat outside, the creak of +a timber within. I ran the shifting circle of my torch about the +walls, across the floor. A cockroach, devil’s coachman, fled across +the flags, and a great moth with eyes glimmering green fluttered +toward me from some corner. There on its pillar hung the gate-house +key; there, beside the chimney-place where a modern stove presided, +was the door I sought. + +With prodigious care I passed through this portal, for besides leading +ultimately to the bowels of the earth, it ushered me at first into a +passage off which opened the precincts of the servants. These +half-subterranean chambers lay beneath the dinner-room and +conservatory. While I stole past the doors, I had audible evidence +a-plenty that the dwellers within were sleeping soundly enough. + +This passage I was traversing had a distinct downward tendency and +stretched underneath the corridor of the ground floor. It terminated +in a door which, when I passed my light over it, appeared very black +and cumbrous. The key was in the lock. + +To my surprise, when by a series of graded pressures I commenced to +turn this key, it moved easy and soundless, as if very recently oiled. +Beyond was a winding stone stair. + +By way of sensible precaution I removed the key and brought it with +me, having no wish to be immured in the depths for any cause +whatsoever. The stairs, a dozen or so in number, brought me to the +entrance of another passage beneath the first, leading me in exactly +the opposite direction. While it proceeded it widened into a goodly +cellar, and I made out the yawning mouths of bins on either side, a +comforting sight. There were dark archways leading to other caverns. +And when I stamped, an unmistakable hollow sound came from below, +proof that some buried chamber existed there. + +The trap-doors by which one gained these sub-cellars, Crofts had said, +were long disused, inch-deep in dust. And a few seconds later I came +upon one of them, a heavy iron plate in the floor, clamped down with a +clumsy padlock—but the dust was cleared away, and the padlock was not +fastened at all! I picked the thing up from where it was lying by the +flange, and stared at it stupidly. It would never lock anything again; +it had been forced. + +Now, surely, this was none of Salt’s work; he had promised to do no +more than inspect the dust-covered entrances. It became increasingly +evident that someone had preceded me in this search, someone careful +not to be detected while he came, but careless whether it was known +that he had been. God forbid that he was still below! + +With one fierce tug I lifted the door by a ring in the centre; it fell +backward with a heavy clang, and an atmosphere of choking damp came up +from the hole it left. + +A stair descended therein, very steep and narrow, with a thinnish +fuzzy coating which must have been dust, though where it came from +would have been difficult to tell. In the dust there were footprints, +big footprints. + +I didn’t like it, but I went on down. The rough stone walls were +crumbling with water-rot and the sheer decay of age. While the air +grew more smothering, I ran my head into stalactitic cobwebs and +rubbed elbows with evil fungi sprouting in every crevice. + +It seemed as if there must be a hundred of those steps, though +actually they were about the same number as had been in the winding +stair. At length I saw that I had come to the last of them, for the +big footsteps tramped across a lumpy floor, athwart the glistening +path of a snail. The door was earth, soggy and covered with that same +thin dust-layer. + +Midnight was midnight there indeed. Without my torch, I should never +have returned a sane man. Nor did my light, dancing about from wall to +wall, make it endurable. Fungi grew riotously everywhere, and the +cobwebs, black as a funeral, hung down thick from the vaulted ceiling, +like infamous hair. One or two spiders darted out and scurried +immediately back into their loathsome jungle. Whenever I shifted my +light, I had a feeling that from the place left in darkness the vile +growth was reaching out tentacles to grasp and cling to me. + +I intended to make my business here as brief as possible, but first I +must find what the other visitor had been doing before me. I followed +the big footprints across the marshy floor, and noted a thick mark +drawn beside them. Something had been dragged. + +Then the traces ceased, and I drew back suddenly with a cry at my +lips. I had had a narrow escape. + +There was little to tell that the floor stopped here, for like it the +water was covered with an unclean growth. I stood on the brink of the +water-pit, where Aidenn’s lord had once drowned thirty wretches in a +single day! If ever a place was accurst for the cruelties performed +there, this is it. + +Over the stagnant pit the ghastly festoons hung so thick that the +torchlight could scarcely pierce the darkness to the farther wall. +From that wall a queer shape protruded, round like an enormous barrel, +but too vague to be identified. + +I suddenly caught sight of an object beside me on the verge of the +water. A stake had been driven into the earth through the gathered-up +mouth of a large cloth bag. The bottom of the bag hung over the edge +and down into the water, and the weight of its contents drew the whole +bag taut. + +I gave a prolonged look through the shaggy gloom, where the black +streamers faintly shivered in the air my body had stirred. Was some +obscene presence spying on me from the murk? + +Banishing fear, I wrenched up the stake, lifted the bag from the pool, +and let its burden fall upon the floor. Stark and stiff, with its eyes +staring, its tongue thrust out, its fur tousled into knarls and lumps, +its claws extended, the enormous cat of the sisters Delambre lay +outstretched at my feet. I stooped over the body; my fingers touched a +cord drawn tight about the neck. + +So Maryvale had made this abysmal journey before me, and there had +been substance in his madness when he announced that Parson Lolly is +no more. Since bullets would not kill, with cord and water he made +assurance double. The long despairing cry will never shudder down the +Vale again. + +I must have stood there a long while almost oblivious, gazing into the +invisible, until the darkness seemed to enter my brain. The most +infinitesimal sounds crept into my consciousness: the muffled murmur +of water in motion somewhere, the charnel breath of the things that +drooped from the vault, the very voice of silence! Then disgust at my +surroundings mounted in an instant almost to nausea, and I wheeled +about in flight to the cellar above. + +I took the stairs in a leap and a scramble, the trap-cover closed with +a shout behind me while I darted among the bins and arches to the +winding steps. At the top of these I paused to replace the key but not +to turn it, then made tiptoes past the doors until I gained the +kitchen. With the key of the gate-house in my hand I passed into the +dinner-room, thence through the corridor into the conservatory, one of +whose smaller windows I proposed to use as a means of egress. + +The valley seemed pale and quiet in the moonlight. In a trice I had +the casement open and had stepped through to the ground, concealed +beneath those outside stairs leading to the door at the end of the +first floor corridor. I pushed the window shut, and on the instant the +long screech of some predatory night-bird shrilled from the +summer-house park. If it was an omen, it was not for good—and my path +lay among those shadows! + +This was for secrecy. If I passed directly across the lawn, some +wakeful eye in one of the long range of windows might find me out; so +I had no choice but a long three parts of a circle screened by trees. +First I stole behind the birches where I concealed myself at dawn the +other day on catching sight of the red-bearded runner, next through +the cypresses, then the sycamores of the park, and finally the +strawberry trees. These last extended far enough south to enable me to +reach the towers from the side opposite the House. The door was on the +other side, unconcealed, but I had to risk being seen while I unlocked +it. + +I stood still beneath the twin, mute towers for a minute or two before +gathering determination for my effort. Salt, of course, visited this +place the day after his arrival, but has kept his discoveries secret. +My hope, of course, was that someone came here _after_ Salt, in +particular the black-robed object of our pursuit to-night. + +I noticed that the moon was near setting, since it had but a short +progress to make from eastern to western hill. When it was down, the +Vale would be dark indeed. Was it worth waiting until that happened? + +Impatience decided not. I sped around the tower that contained the +door, turned the monumental key, got safely inside the entrance, and +stood with bated breath. Seen or unseen, I was in for it now. Heaven +help me if I found a presence inside these walls. + +My light showed the beginning of the spiral stair; there was +absolutely no sound. I commenced to climb. + +It was a long way up. My stockinged feet were all but noiseless on the +overlapping stony steps, and more than once I checked myself, thinking +that I heard footfalls following mine. The torch, directed downward, +revealed the empty stair winding into nether darkness. This delusion +persisted; indeed, when I was at the point of entering the little room +atop the tower, I thought that I heard even the breath of some +stealthy climber. The light showed only the bare winding beneath me, +and I spoke a murrain on the narrow tower which had no well to enable +me to see clear to the bottom. + +My imagination cooled down, and I set about examining the circular +chamber. Owing to the thickness of the walls, it was only some five +feet in diameter. It was low, and save in the centre, where the +pointed roof gave space, I could not stand upright. For windows it had +three slots, through one of which the moon cast a slanting beam. The +floor was thickly daubed with mud, but this in itself was not +surprising when one considered that Salt had sloshed through here on +the morning of the downpour. + +But that mud would have dried long ago, and this showed signs of damp! + +Eagerly, critically, I bent and studied the floor in the full glare of +my torch. There were dubious faintly moist impressions, of feet, I +believed; but I could make nothing of them. No entire footprint was +evident. Over the general surface of the dirt, however, something +sopping wet had recently been trailed, but not so heavily as to +disturb the topography of the mud. The little ridges and knolls left +by Salt’s rubber boots remained intact, but portions of that +microscopic countryside looked as if they were recovering from an +inundation; in one or two hollows there were positive pools, +one-sixteenth of an inch deep. + +Something exceedingly wet, but not very heavy—what else but the gown +of the creature that had fled from Aire and me and plunged into the +stream? Only, how in the name of magic did that creature evade us to +get here, unless it skipped _up_ the stream, which both Aire and I are +prepared to attest on oath it did not do? + +A flat-headed aperture led the way across the bridge between the +towers. In that direction the water-trail appeared to tend, although +at the edge of the dirt, where the gown had been drawn along the +stones themselves, almost complete evaporation had taken place. +Further along there was no sign of damp at all; I suppose the intruder +had observed the puddles he was making and had lifted the garment +clear from the floor, perhaps doffed it and rolled it under his arm. + +I had to crouch nearly double in that low passageway to reach the +inner room, which now I believed to be the headquarters of Parson +Lolly. My light, cast ahead, showed that it was a chamber of identical +mould with the one I had just quitted, and, much to my relief, it was +empty. One difference there was, indeed: the corresponding stairway +which led down from this tower had for some reason been walled up. I +tested the mortared stones; I pounded them with my fist; I butted them +with my shoulder. They were sound and secure, leaving no doubt that +those stairs condemned to everlasting darkness held no secret +connected with the present mysteries. + +When I had reached this comfortable certainty, I made a detailed +search of the turret. Someone, for sure, had been in the habit of +coming there; I found what appeared to me sufficient evidence of +occupation, and of hurried, perhaps permanent, departure. + +There were pencil-whittlings on the floor, from an indelible pencil; I +know the nasty taste of the aniline preparation. Now, when I +re-examined the Parson’s placard inside the House this evening, I saw, +though I did not comment on the fact, that such a pencil had been used +in writing it. + +There were two or three dark stains, splashes now quite dried, which +yet had a dim, offensive odour when my nose was close to them. To my +mind, no more proof is needed that a young pig was murdered here. + +There were a few short lengths, an inch to four or five inches, of +some pliant fibrous wood, perhaps bamboo, which I cannot account for. +With these, perhaps, are associated the fragments of black crepe I +found cut in wedges, rhombs, and various irregular shapes. + +I detected, while bending near one of the slender openings, a +sub-acrid, faded scent, which seemed specially localized on the sill, +so to speak, of the window, as if some pungent stuff had once been +spilt there and removed. In its proper context the source of the odour +would, I am sure, have been obvious in an instant; yet here it baffled +me. + +Last I found a torn end of paper. The side uppermost was blank, but to +my joy the other proved to contain printed words. The piece was +obviously detached from the title-page of some old book, octavo size, +with which I am not acquainted, though “CATTI” looks obscurely +familiar. I shall hardly have any trouble in identifying it.¹ + + ¹ Reproduced on following page. (V. Markham.) + +I felt actual elation, for Salt would never have overlooked this, or +left it here, supposing he had found it in the course of his +inspection. + +[Illustration: A torn piece of paper, missing much of the left side. +The printing on the paper is laid out like a handbill or a book’s +title page. What can be read says: “The ―es & Vagaries of ―on Catti, +―ones, Esq., ―d Wag of Wales; by ―yn Prichard”.] + +Five minutes had revealed these things; an hour could not reveal more. +I tucked the slip of paper into my breast pocket and departed from the +turret. Half-way across the bridge I was again aware of the sound of +footsteps climbing to the first chamber, but dismissed the idea as a +renewal of the delusion which had troubled me before. + +But there was no mistake this time, as I realized very soon. The +pad-pad of the unknown feet was growing louder, coming nearer. At once +I was terrified, yet possessed of reason. I knew it might be fatal to +let this creature see me before I saw him—it—her. Particularly +disastrous it would be to be caught in this low passageway where I +must go with my head almost touching my knees. I snapped off my light, +staggered into the room beyond, and stood at the edge of the +stair-head, leaning perforce on account of the funnel-roof. It was a +position of vantage. There I was in darkness, whereas whatever was +coming must emerge into the moonlight that shot through the opposite +slit. I might even escape undetected down the stairs if the creature +hurried past me to the bridge and the farther tower. + +But this hope was abortive. The creature knew I was there: that belief +stuck like a knife in my heart. + +The steady steps were only ten feet below, one twist of the stair. +They were like the steps of any ordinary man. + +The moon must have been nearly swallowed by the hills all this time, +for now it went down with appalling suddenness and left the room in +thick and absolute night. I could not see my foe in darkness; could it +see me? + +Every nerve in me was ringing its own alarm. The subtle glue that +holds the body-cells in friendly ties dissolved; it was every cell for +itself. I was fleeing in all directions. + +The creature actually passed me by; I felt the touch of some part of +it, cold as an Arctic stone, on my arm. + +It was like awakening from an evil dream. My fear welled up in fury. +Silently I launched an attack; with the torch I held I let fly in +blind and murderous onslaught. I struck something a blow that glanced; +the torch slipped from my grasp, but the creature staggered and sank +to the floor. I had my hands on its body now, and a crazy exultation +took hold of me when I realized that my opponent was merely a man like +myself and at my mercy. The stroke I had given blindly seemed to have +stunned him, for he made no resistance, but lay crumpled up, as I +found by groping. His breath came harsh and irregular. + +Who was he? For what seemed immeasurable time I searched, but I could +not find my torch. + +Obviously I had made an important capture, and the best thing to do, +since my light was lost, would be to lock the fellow-prisoner in and +go for reinforcements. + +I had a handkerchief; so had he. With their assistance I triced him in +a position from which he would not easily free himself. I placed him +face downward, with his head turned aside for breathing and his legs +doubled back, and I clipped each wrist to the opposite ankle. + +Then I groped my way down the long turnings, found the darkened world +again, locked the tower door, and made for the House. + +The rest was like the return of horrid dreams. With the moon gone, +still the stars gave a grey cast to the darkness. I saw some +fluttering-draped figure descend from the first storey by the outside +stairs; I heard distracted sobbing. I saw vague forms that followed +one another on the lawn, heard phantom calls and a queer hysteric +laughter. The place seemed more alive by night than at any hour of +day. + +Maryvale, I discovered afterward, had come out again, clambered down +all the way by the ivy. Lib, in the room next his, had heard him this +time, caught sight of him, fled across the passage to Mrs. +Bartholomew, shared that lady’s dismay on finding me also flown, +summoned Pendleton, who had roused Aire and come helter-skelter in +pursuit of the errant man of business. Lib and Mrs. Bartholomew, in +different styles of negligée, now stood spectators of the course. +Millicent Mertoun, too, had come crying out of doors by those northern +stairs, in her sleep, as she had come that first night with the +American girl watchfully by her side. + +But to-night she roved alone. Where was Paula Lebetwood, whose room is +next the stairs, and who, however soundly she may have slept, must +have heard her dear friend’s weeping? + +Lights were awakening in various chambers. Maryvale, much surprised at +the solicitude of his captors, was explaining courteously that he had +merely descended to “pick herbs.” Alberta Pendleton had appeared and +was taking Miss Mertoun back to the House. + +By the time I had called attention to myself and had caused my story +to penetrate Crofts’ brain, many minutes had gone by. Four of us, +followed by those audacious females, Lib and Mrs. Bartholomew, +approached the towers. The door stood open. The intruder, securely +trussed and locked in by me, had made off. He had taken my torch, +invaluable as both light and weapon. + +_Satis._ + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +The Beginning of the End: Parabola + + Same day. 3 P.M. + +In spite of early bed last night, no one was downstairs early this +bright morning, Sunday. I myself wanted breakfast at nine, but then I +am the one person in the House who has anything concrete to do (to +wit, this writing)—hence I require the less repose. + +I visited the library before I went for food. To my grim pleasure, the +Book of Sylvan Armitage was back on its shelf. I am always grimly +pleased nowadays when anything baffling turns up. Crofts, by the way, +has proved blatantly sceptical about my experience last night; he said +that if I must go crawling about the House when decent folk are abed, +I mustn’t hold him responsible for what I think I see. + +The telephone jangled in the corridor while I was at the table. I +heard Soames answer and take some message. Presently the servant came +to me. + +“Superintendent Salt is holding on, sir, if you please.” + +“Me, he wants?” + +“He asked for any of the gentlemen, sir. Would you mind speaking to +him?” + +“Not at all.” A few moments later I was saying, “Hello, +Superintendent; this is Bannerlee. Anything I can do for you?” + +“Thanks very much, Mr. Bannerlee. Would you mind givin’ a message to +the doctor—Doctor Aire, I mean?” + +“Delighted.” + +“I’ve been lookin’ up _his_ whereabouts the two days before he came +down to Radnorshire.” + +“_His!_” + +“Yes. Nothing like thoroughness, is there? He might like to know he’s +not the Parson. Tell him he’s absolved, clean character, goes +scot-free.” + +“He’ll be grateful, I’m sure.” + +“Certain to be. Another thing, too, sir. I took the +liberty—unpardonable—of checkin’ _you_ also.” + +“_Me!_” + +The sound must have deafened Salt, for it was a little while before he +resumed, with smothered amusement. “Couldn’t help it, sir. All in the +way of routine. You’re acquitted, too, and can go your ways.” + +“Thanks awfully.” + +“Don’t mention it. By the way, I just told that man to inform Mr. +Pendleton that I’m comin’ up there this afternoon early, around +dinner-time. I’m bringin’ someone with me.” + +“Oh? Any harm in asking who it is?” + +“None at all,” chuckled Salt. “Good-bye.” + +It was about one o’clock when I came downstairs again, after setting +down the record of last night’s expedition. I think everyone was in +the Hall, surrounding Salt and a young fellow in a neat grey suit, who +was lank and had freckles and brown hair. His appearance and manner—he +was smiling most of the time—were engaging. Salt also wore a +respectful grin; in fact, everyone looked brighter for this chap’s +presence, especially Crofts. + +“Come on, Bannerlee,” he said; “let me introduce the beginning of the +end. You can guess who this is.” + +I had a flash of genius. “Yes, I can, by George. It’s Harry—Mr. +Heatheringham.” + +“Right!” declared the young man. “But after all, Mr. Bannerlee, you’ve +an unfair advantage in this guessing business.” + +“You mean—?” + +He winked, took my torch out of his pocket, and handed it to me with a +low bow, such as I had seen somewhere not long before. “Many thanks +for this. I had to borrow it when my own failed last night.” + +“Gods! was it you I hit? I’m most awfully sorry.” + +“It didn’t hurt, really, but for a little while I didn’t know where I +stood—er, that is, I wasn’t standing at all.” He felt a place on the +back of his head. “It’s hardly the size of a teacup—I mean the bump. +And I wasn’t dazed for long either.” + +“I’m glad to hear it,” I avowed. “You certainly lost no time waking +and legging it.” + +“Oh, I was awake, wide enough, when you were fastening me up—and a +neat job, that.” + +“You don’t mean to say—” + +“Yes, but I thought it was better to let you do your worst and untie +myself afterward. I wasn’t sure that the time for explanations had +come, and I wasn’t sure—then—just what you yourself were up to.” + +“But if I’d been someone else, you might have been killed.” + +His eyes were merry. “I knew it wasn’t somebody else. Suppose we call +it a draw.” + +“We’re dying to hear how you escaped,” said Lib. “Why do you keep it +bottled up?” + +“It’s my living, you see,” returned Heatheringham apologetically, but +with his customary smile. “I have to be up to a few of the little +secrets of my trade, or I don’t get any bread and butter. Some do it +on the stage for money, but in my business it comes in valuable in +good earnest to carry a few skeleton keys and know how to twist a hand +out of a knotted handkerchief.” + +Gradually, while talk went on, we disposed ourselves in chairs, making +a group about this young man who showed from the first minute of +acquaintance such a winning, and even naïve, nature. He sat in the +midst of us now, busy parrying all sorts of questions, and I noticed +that while he spoke lightly, he glanced from person to person, making +brief, sharp studies of us. Particularly he kept stealing looks at +Miss Lebetwood and the two younger Americans. + +I had returned the study intensively, striving to capture some elusive +recollection. “Pardon me, Mr. Heatheringham, but really I believe I’ve +met you somewhere—another time, I mean. Am I right?” + +“Yes, indeed, we have met. We’ve been having lovers’ meetings all over +the place. You recollect the umbrella?” + +The menagerie-keeper! I uttered a great gasp. “That was never you in +the crooked black beard!” + +“Wasn’t it, though?” he retorted brightly. “I can see your eyes +popping now, Mr. Bannerlee, when I said, ‘I won’t need finger-nails.’” + +“Incredible! That man was bulbous.” I pointed to the detective’s +hands, which were brown and lean. “Don’t tell me you owned the great +red wrists and fingers that fellow had.” + +“Try a tightly-bound cuff or any other constriction around the wrist +and keep your arms down—see what happens. Your hands will look like +hams. The rest was just a matter of accessories, an inflated +chest-protector, some dowdy clothes, some black hair. A bad disguise, +on the whole.” + +“On the contrary, your twin brother wouldn’t have recognized you.” + +“No, but he would have had me arrested. Disguise should be +unobtrusive, but that one shouted all over the place. To tell the +truth, I used it more to give my friend Crofts Pendleton something to +worry about than for any other reason.” + +“Oh, you did, did you?” said Crofts. + +“Yes, old man. I didn’t realize the situation here might actually be +serious. I merely supposed some sneak-thief was snooping in the +neighbourhood. But it did seem a good chance to have a little sport +with you. You will let yourself in for it,” he accused our muttering +host. “I thought I’d make myself up into a figure of fun and have a +reconnaissance of the scene a couple of nights, just to assure myself +there was no cause for alarm. Then I’d be seen on purpose by some good +honest yokels and perhaps a village idiot or so, and pop in in a day +or two to see what the effect had been in the Vale. But matters turned +out differently from what I had expected, and by the time I met with +you, Mr. Bannerlee, the last thing on earth I wanted was to have it +known I was in the neighbourhood. So I improvised some unnatural +eccentricities and made up a line of desperate talk that I knew would +spoil the last chance of Crofts’ guessing it was me, in case you told +him of your experience, as I felt certain you would.” + +“But I didn’t.” + +“No, you didn’t. And it made no difference, for what I said about the +bothersome watch-dogs wouldn’t have made much impression, would it, +unless our friend knew where it came from? All those men you sent +out,” he told Crofts, “kept treading on my toes. I had to leg it twice +to slip away from them. And that was after I had made some very +material discoveries and would have given a year of my life not to be +seen.” + +“How was I to know that?” said Crofts. “What discoveries do you mean?” + +“I ran into a chap who must have been Sir Brooke Mortimer from what I +know now. He seemed to have lost his way, quite a distance up the +Vale. I set the gentleman going in the right direction and watched him +start back downstream. A bit unsteady, I thought he was—oh, nothing +wrong with him that way, but I could see his eyes weren’t too good. He +didn’t seem able to pick his footing, and he might have stepped into a +hole as big as a house without knowing what had happened to him.” + +“And do you mean to say that he followed your directions +unhesitatingly when according to yourself you looked like something +out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales?” asked Lord Ludlow, who had been playing +finger-exercises on his knees. + +“I don’t believe he quite took me in, my Lord. I’m telling you his +eyesight couldn’t have been good. He might have thought I was a +gentleman-farmer, for all I know—and he seemed like an unsuspicious, +trusting little chap.” + +I saw that the subject was a painful one to be discussed in full +session this way, and I wanted to divert the course of conversation. I +nodded to Salt. + +“The discovery of Mr. Heatheringham knocks one off the list of your +favourite suspects, eh, Superintendent?” + +“Can’t say it does,” he rejoined, with that slow smoulder of humour +underneath the surface. “I’ve known about Mr. Heatheringham since he +arrived in our little community over a week ago.” + +He had! More surprises were let loose. As a measure of sensible +precaution the detective had reported his presence to Salt as soon as +he arrived in New Aidenn. In the early dawn after meeting me, having +learned that there was something worth attention in the way of mystery +in the Vale, the young man discarded the crooked black beard of the +menagerie-keeper and glorified his chin with a rich red one, finely +adapted to his complexion. This emblem he had attached properly, using +separate hairs at the edges and trimming the whole to a nicety. He +commenced a campaign of deceit. + +First Foggins’ driver was tempted from the path of duty with a +five-pound note, and reported sick. While Foggins the milkman was +tearing his hair, in walked the unblushing detective, and Foggins fell +victim to his wiles. That very noon the newly-employed had driven the +milk cart up the Vale. He had explained at the kitchen door, with a +certain amount of wit, though with his ready tongue all the time in +his cheek, why the service was so much delayed and how he had fallen +heir to the position. The listener to this merry tale was Rosa Clay. +It gained the young man a means of contact with affairs inside the +House which might have been extremely valuable had the storm not cut +off the Vale from Foggins’ circuit. + +During the week Heatheringham formed with the Post Office attendant a +mushroom friendship that passeth all legality. So it came about that +Crofts’ impassioned letters were handed to their recipient direct, +without going to Worcester and back. It was, moreover, the detective +himself who had been on the Post Office end of the ’phone when Crofts +dictated his telegram Thursday afternoon with many maledictions on the +stumbling clerk who took the message. + +The dinner-bell had rung and we were on our feet. Salt announced he +mustn’t stay, but would leave the field clear for the younger man. “Do +what he tells you,” he said. “He has an idea from time to time.” + +Heatheringham drew me apart, until the rest were gone, even waving +Crofts ahead. + +“You can do me a favour, Mr. Bannerlee, if you will,” he said with a +laugh in his voice, as if he might have something in the way of a +surprise to try on me. + +“I suppose I owe you a month’s hard labour for battering you last +night—but, of course, I want to help you if I can. What shall it be?” + +“You’re keeping a written record of events, aren’t you?” + +“Crofts told you!” I exclaimed reproachfully—reproachfully in +reference to Crofts, that is. + +“Not a bit of it—just my prowling. I’ve noticed your candles burning +until all hours, and last night I brought a small telescope with me +and had a squint at you from a tree way out by the Water. I could +hardly think that you wrote letters all night, could I?” + +“Well, your guess is right, as it happens, but my penmanship is rather +free and easy, and I don’t think you’ll find much value—” I was +speaking slowly but thinking fast. Had I put down anything positively +libellous, anything I’d hesitate to sign my name to? + +“Let me try, all the same. You and I are both detached onlookers in +this thing, Mr. Bannerlee, and I shouldn’t be surprised if we +supplement each other pretty fully. I’m quite frankly selfish, you +see,” he admitted easily. “I want to know all you know without telling +you what I know.” + +“Oh, I’ll trust you to repay me, not later than noon to-morrow,” I +said. “Come along upstairs with me while I get the sheets for +you—unless you’ll wait until after dinner.” + +“There’s no after dinner for me; I’m not taking dinner,” he answered, +and we went up the stairs together. “I had a snack in New Aidenn with +something like this in prospect. Time’s what counts. It will be dark +too soon to suit me.” + + + Same day. 7 P.M. + +Please God, the experiment is over. It was not long. + +About five this afternoon Heatheringham came into the library where I +was writing about the events of the day. He had wrestled with my +script since I had left him to go down to dinner, and he seemed even +better-humoured than before. + +“I want some tea,” he said. “I want some tea, and yet, while there’s +light, I want a little assistance from the people here.” + +“Are you commandeering the servants, too?” + +“No, I can do without the servants, except that one who brought the +hot water.” + +“Soames?” + +“Right.” + +“Well, you’ll find the rest of us in the conservatory, waiting for +both tea and you. Since the tragedy outside the Hall, the venue of tea +has been shifted.” + +“I suppose they could wait fifteen minutes for their feeding, if I +suffered with them?” + +“We have been in training for martyrdom all week. But what on earth is +this rigmarole you’re going to put us through?” + +“I want you to rehearse a little drama you have already performed +without rehearsal.” + +It was just that. + +“I’m sorry if this is painful to some of you,” he said later in the +conservatory. “But it’s vital. I need to check some observations, and +there’s no way else. I’m awfully sorry to trouble you; really I am, +but it’s my living, you know.” He gave a sly smile. “It’s my living, +and it will help you to escape from here to-morrow. Is it a bargain?” + +From the time Cosgrove left the Hall until Miss Lebetwood found him +dying outside may have been an hour. We were asked to re-enact as +precisely as possible our movements during the last quarter of this +period. + +“You would be asleep, sir, over by the gate-house, if I’m not +mistaken,” said Heatheringham to Oxford. “I’ll let you off the +sleeping. Just be on hand, if you don’t mind. You,” addressing +Belvoir, “would be coming toward the towers and meeting Miss Mertoun +and Lord Herbert. Presently you’d commence monkeying with the winch.” +He spoke to me. “You were returning from the Delambre cottage, weren’t +you? Doctor Aire and Mr. Maryvale must see you from the summer-house. +I think you’ll all work into it.” + +“But how silly!” said Miss Lebetwood. “All I can do is to wander about +the strawberry trees looking for tennis balls I know won’t be there.” + +“It’s all make-believe, you know,” answered Heatheringham. “And I +can’t change the parts around, can I?” + +“I don’t see how my doing that can help.” + +“Still,” insisted the detective deferentially, “it will assist me a +lot if you’ll just go through the motions. Now, is everybody clear +about what he’s to do?” + +“Shall I fetch hot water for Mr. Bannerlee, sir?” asked Soames, who +had been admitted to our company. + +“That’s hardly essential. But you might carry an empty pannikin to +give mental support. Now, shall we commence? Some of the ladies may +need coats. It’s beginning to blow a bit.” + +“Not fair unless you tell us what you’re going to do yourself,” +protested Lib. + +“I’m going to be here, there, and everywhere,” said Heatheringham. +“You may even hear me giving a few stage directions. Come on, people, +I want my tea. One, two, three, go.” + +Little gusts of wind were stirring. Evening frost had caused a +marvellous change in the foliage, and the air was chromatic with +flying leaves. They blew in my face while I breasted my way to the +north end of the sycamore park, where I turned to retrace my steps. +Through the dim light of the wood, I saw the black forms of Maryvale +and Doctor Aire together on the porch of the abandoned summer-house. +They nodded when I came nearest them. I reached the bridge, the +cypresses, the lawn, the mansion itself. I saw people beyond the +gate-house. + +Suddenly I remembered that to keep in character I must peer into the +Hall, and my flesh began to crawl at the thought of seeing the grim, +phantasmal bone. I would not see it, of course, but if I did— + +Then I caught a glimpse of Heatheringham over a hundred yards south of +the House. He seemed to be waving me on, and I assumed that I must be +a little behind my schedule. Without a glance into any of the windows +I obediently rounded the library tower, entered the half-opened door, +not omitting to ring, since I had done so on the previous occasion. +The footman answered the bell with what would have been appalling +suddenness had I not known he had been waiting for me. He received my +instructions for hot water with the same obeisance and the same +perfunctory words in the identical tone as before. I climbed the empty +House to my room. + +I was in a quandary, for it would do no manner of good to take off my +coat and repeat the little battle with myself whose result had been a +wounded finger. I certainly wouldn’t subject my digit to the +safety-razor’s mercies a second time. But for the sake of keeping in +the rhythm of the other day I might perform some of the milder +motions. First I must go out to the balcony, where I had picked up the +odd little scrap of rope. + +I pressed through the window and, standing on the roof outside, saw +the forms of people anticking about the tower and heard the rasp of +the winch. Someone was on the lawn a little distance beyond the walk +that skirts the House—Heatheringham himself. + +“Hello!” I called aloud in the high wind. “Everything working +smoothly?” + +He must have seen me before, for he answered quickly, cupping his +hands. “Yes, I think they’re all in their places. You did come out +there the other day, didn’t you?” + +“I did, and should go in again now if I keep in step.” + +“Did you order that hot water?” + +“Yes, indeed.” + +“How did the servant behave?” + +“Admirably; he didn’t turn a hair.” + +“No, I should think not. Well, carry on. I’m bound this way.” He +shouted the last words in a bristling wind, and set off walking toward +the north. + +“Good hunting,” I called after him. + +I had now been on the roof for nearly five minutes and had equalled +the span of time I spent there before. I returned to my chamber. + +I laid my watch on the table and timed my own part of the programme, +to make as near the proper _rapprochement_ with Soames as I could. I +allowed half a minute for divesting myself of coat and shirt, and as +long again for my struggle with the oak chest and my mishap with the +stool. (The handle of the chest was gone now; no use repeating that +fracas.) Thirty seconds more of searching for a place to attach my +strop, perhaps the remainder of the minute spent in that unhappy +stropping (for luck and devilment I gave the curlicued bracket a jerk +and a smash), fifteen seconds to stare like a fool at the place where +I had formerly cut my finger, a few moments for crossing to the door +and listening for Soames— + +My heart missed a beat or two. Someone _was_ climbing the stairs! + +It was silly of me, of course, to be taken aback by the very thing I +was waiting for, I had heard no one but Soames himself ascending at +his proper time. + +But the slam of the door down below and the deep brawling laughter +which followed— Dear God! they, too, reverberated, and the sound of +that inhuman mirth now held a ghastly message which it had not on the +first occasion. + +And early above the sound of the laughter had I heard a single sharp +explosion, like the report of a firearm? + +I leaped across to the window. This time there was no fan of light +spreading from the Hall, but I saw indecipherable forms criss-crossing +on the lawn, and the sound of conflicting cries floated up in the +lapse of the wind. + +To leave the chamber, to reach the stair-head, took but a second or +two. Again I saw Soames green as an old statue, a grotesque caricature +of Aquarius, stony-lipped with mortal fear, the little empty water-can +dangling from his hand. + +I ignored him, but heard his feet pound down the stairs behind me. +Down at the front entrance, just outside the door, I caught sight of +Lib, still as wax. We looked at each other, mirroring the dread we +saw. + +“Did you hear it?” I said at last. + +Her voice was weak. “The shot, you mean?” + +“Was there a shot?” + +“There was if my ears are working.” + +“Where?” + +She shook her head miserably. “I—I don’t know. I think it was out on +the lawn.” + +“Then why were you coming in?” + +She clenched both little fists and shook them tremblingly. “I was only +doing what the detective told me to do. Besides, he—he came in first.” + +“_He came in!_” + +“He went in this door while I was quite a way from the House.” + +“Then what’s become of him? He couldn’t have fired that shot outside!” + +“Don’t ask me. Don’t ask me. I don’t know anything about it. I got to +the door in time to hear the tail-end of that laugh—that was enough +for me. I don’t want to lead the searching-party. This is the last +time I officiate for any detective.” + +“Come along with me, then. He must be here somewhere.” + +“I think they’re trying to find him outside, sir,” said Soames, who +had stepped warily to the corner of the House. + +“That’s because they don’t know he went in here. Come along, both of +you.” + +We passed into the portrait-corridor, and I shouted Heatheringham’s +name a couple of times, without effect. + +Several of the servants had emerged from their quarters and were +clustered about me while I stood at the door beneath the musicians’ +gallery, scrutinizing the vast gloom of the Hall. Somehow, I was loath +to enter or to switch on the light ready to my hand. + +“Nobody here,” said Lib beside me, in a tone of relief. + +I still moved my glance through the spaces of the room. Feet were +pouring through the front door. I heard Crofts’ voice raised: + +“Heatheringham’s missing. What in thunder are you up to?” + +Then I saw something limned against the dark expanse of the central +window of the Hall: the shape of a man who leaned heavily against the +window-frame, looking out to the lawn. The moment my eyes had +distinguished him, I knew it was Heatheringham. But he was awfully +still! Why hadn’t he heard my shout? + +“Heatheringham!” I called, and was shocked how strained the syllables +crept from my lips. “Heather—” + +“Where is he? Do you see him?” demanded Crofts, pressing to the door. +“Why didn’t you light up—good God!” + +He had switched on the electricity. From outside, beyond the window, +came cry upon excited cry when the form of the detective was revealed +by the blazing chandelier. But we who were behind Harry Heatheringham +could see why he did not answer us, why he did not move. There was a +gaping wound at the base of his brain, and the whole back of his trim +grey coat was black with blood. + +“Lawks!” cried Soames, and seemed about to faint. + +Persons were rushing in from outside now, through the french windows. +Doctor Aire took one look at the wound, and his face was filled with +the most complete astonishment. His little dark eyes came out of their +hiding-places, and even his tobacco-leaf complexion went several +shades wan. + +“Keep the women away,” he snapped at Soames, “and don’t let Maryvale +come in here.” + +“This is horrible, horrible,” Crofts kept saying. + +“Is—is he dead?” asked Bob Cullen timidly, but no one smiled. + +“He is,” answered the Doctor. “Men with holes in their heads like this +are dead as Pharaoh.” + +I ventured to touch the left hand that hung with such dreadful +listlessness. “Why, he’s stiff!” I blurted, and a great shudder shook +me. “He’s stiff! He must have been dead a long time. But, Doctor, I +was talking to him less than five minutes ago!” + +“You were!” exclaimed Crofts in an incredulous bull-voice. + +“Quite so,” said Aire. “I noticed it the moment I saw the poor +fellow.” He, too, touched the left hand. “Stiff, yes, but not cold +yet.” + +“What’s it all mean?” asked Belvoir. + +“He could never be leaning there in that semi-lifelike manner if it +weren’t the case,” said Aire. “I observed it, as I said, when I had +the first glimpse of him. I have heard of it, but I’ve never seen a +case before.” + +“A case of what?” + +“Instant _rigor mortis_. It occurs sometimes, under certain +conditions, in sudden death.” + +Ludlow, who stood near the body on the other side, was regarding it +with awe, but his sharp face quickened with discovery. “Have you +looked at his other hand? There’s a revolver in it.” + +“Then he did fire the shot,” I cried. + +“I’ll stake my life the shot was from somewhere outside,” avouched +Crofts. + +“I’m sure it was,” said Belvoir quietly. + +“The point I wish to make,” said Ludlow, “is that the revolver is +outside. He’s put his hand right through.” + +It was so. Concealed by the fact that the body pressed close to the +window, the right arm half-way to the elbow had been thrust through +the glass and the wrist was supported by one of the cross-bars between +the small panes. The weapon was tightly clutched in the hand, and its +nose pointed upward! + +“What in the name of reason could he have fired at up there?” + +It was when we laid the dead detective, stiff in the original posture, +revolver clamped in hand, on the carpet spread over the _Brocade de +Lyons_ creation that we looked beyond that article of elegance and saw +what had been concealed behind it. + +Splashes of blood from Heatheringham’s wound were on the floor at our +feet, between the body and the couch. Now we beheld more blood, a +trail of it across the floor in drops that led in a long, irregular, +parabolic curve from the couch to the open door by the clock-corner, +and so out into the corridor. There the track ceased abruptly. + +“Hm,” said Aire, standing at the spot. “Here’s where the assailant +tucked his bludgeon away.” He looked up and down the gallery. “Friend +Crofts, why not have another search and see if one of these priceless +paintings doesn’t conceal a door?” + +“There has never been, and is not any secret passage in the House,” +said Crofts decisively. “You can say amen to that.” + +Aire shrugged his shoulders. Lord Ludlow shook his head several times, +though what at no one could tell. Belvoir stared at the last drop of +blood where it stained the blue-carpeted floor as if he were +fascinated by it. Bob Cullen pursed his lips and whistled a ditty of +no tone. Crofts kept putting his hands in his pockets and taking them +out again. + +Insensibly, instinctively, we drew the tiniest bit closer to one +another. Spiritually, we huddled. We were all little men, badly +frightened, in the great House where murder stalked invisible. + + +If this is “the beginning of the end,” what will the end itself be +like? + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +Miss Lebetwood and a Campstool + + October 9. Noon. + +“No,” said Miss Lebetwood, “I certainly didn’t do what he wanted me +to. What good would that have been?” + +Salt’s brow was very grave, but his eyes were narrowly upon her. “You +watched him, you say?” + +“Yes, as long as he was in sight from the edge of the strawberry +trees.” + +“What happened?” + +She bit her lip. “Nothing that will really help you.” + +“Let me be the judge of that,” said Salt gently. “What did you see?” + +“By the time I reached the strawberry trees and looked back, the lawn +was empty. It was still empty when—” + +“Excuse me, Miss; what about the gate-house?” + +“I couldn’t see the towers from that spot; I was on the wrong side of +the knoll that overlooks the court.” + +“Quite. Thank you, Miss.” + +“So I watched the lawn and the House. I could almost see it growing +darker while I waited, the light changes so rapidly in the Vale. And I +hate the twilight—all the really terrible things here happen then.” +She broke off, and we knew that she must be thinking of that one +terrible thing in the gloaming of a week ago. Alberta made a movement +as if to check her from continuing. “No, it’s all right. I was just +realizing what a fool I am. The time of day can’t possibly make any +difference.” + +“I don’t believe it does,” acquiesced Salt. “But go on, if you +please.” + +“It was darkening so suddenly that I thought I shouldn’t be able to +recognize anyone who might appear. But when Mr. Bannerlee came out of +the park, I saw him quite plainly. He seemed to hesitate when he came +past the Hall, but then he went on faster and disappeared in the +direction of the front entrance.” + +“Heatheringham beckoned me to hurry,” I put in. + +“There was nobody in sight then, but I believe I heard the winch +working under the towers. A minute or two later Mr. Heatheringham +appeared from down below, looking this side and that, and occasionally +glancing upward.” + +“Are you sure?” asked Salt. + +“Yes, because he caught sight of Mr. Bannerlee, who had come out his +window and was standing on the roof. Mr. Bannerlee waved his hand, and +I could just hear the sound of his voice when he hailed Mr. +Heatheringham, the wind was rushing on so just then. After that I +heard nothing of their voices, but soon afterward Mr. Bannerlee went +in and Mr. Heatheringham commenced to walk quickly up toward the +cypresses. He was looking this side and that again; I thought he was +more intent than before. He broke into a run, but while he was running +he turned—” + +“Turned!” + +“Yes, and ran all the way back to the south end of the House. At the +library corner he slowed to a walk and went out of sight. Then Lib +came along from down the lawn, and she had almost disappeared beyond +the library tower—going toward the main entrance, you know—when I +heard the crack of the revolver. Lib rather tightened up then, and I +saw her look every way at once, but she apparently decided to +disbelieve her ears, for she went on out of sight.” + +“And met Soames and me,” I said. + +“Well, everybody seemed to have heard the shot, though nobody knew +where it had come from. Mr. Pendleton, Lord Ludlow, and the rest began +crossing the lawn this way and that, shouting directions at one +another that nobody heeded. I came on from the trees, but nobody +seemed to see me. After that—well, you know.” + +Salt nodded. “Mr. Pendleton’s told me how they found the body. Just +one question more, Miss, and thank you very much. You couldn’t have +seen anything in the air that Heatheringham might have some reason to +take a shot at? No large bird of any description?” + +“No, sir.” + +“You didn’t hear something like a bird call—something that might have +attracted his attention?” + +“I could hear nothing but the wind. Anyhow, Mr. Heatheringham was +inside the House.” + +“Of course he was,” said Salt. + +But he is no longer. The detective’s body was taken to New Aidenn in +the dead of night. + +Salt’s laborious questions to each one of us went on until eleven, but +the problem of Harry Heatheringham’s taking off remains to-day more +cryptic than Cosgrove’s. The Superintendent acknowledged defeat, and +had the Chief Constable on the ’phone shortly after eleven. Scotland +Yard will be with us presently, although the lack of decent train +connections out of Worcester will prevent the Inspector from reaching +New Aidenn before late dinner time to-night. + +Six burly constables, in pairs, were patrolling the grounds from nine +o’clock until morning, but I think most persons within the House kept +anxious vigil as well. For my own part, I flung myself on my ancient +four-poster and found sleep—sleep, but not rest, for I was visited by +tormenting dreams. The world was mist seethed, and through the long +black lanes between the billows swept a procession of the souls of +murdered ones. Down from the invisible above the swirl sounded a +terrible voice: “Let traitors beware,” and from time to time a blaze +of light burst through, throwing on the curtain of fog the gigantic +shadow of an arm. + +I awoke, and lay awake in a world of real mist until I could endure +inactivity no longer. I dressed and went downstairs, earlier than ever +before, save on that morning when I tried to discover “lost content” +on the hills. It did not surprise me to find Salt already hard at +work; he was examining with almost microscopic care the gouted trail +of blood. But a surprise awaited me. + +It was much too early for breakfast; yet Miss Lebetwood was standing +at the window of the dining-room. Attired in a navy blue sweater and +serge skirt and high laced boots, she appeared very alert and full of +business. + +Seeing that I “took her in,” she smiled and said, “I’m going to follow +in your steps this morning. As soon as I’ve had some breakfast, I’m +off for the hills.” + +“On account of—?” + +“Yes.” + +I simulated a groan. “I should never have let you have it if I thought +it would make you reckless.” + +Now, the fact is that she struck me in a heap last evening by coming +straight up to me and asking to read this diary. How _she_ ever came +to hear of it I can’t imagine, and she was obdurate to my demands for +enlightenment. Only she told me very seriously that since no one else +seemed certain to grapple successfully with the many problems in the +Vale, she was going a step beyond “thinking” and would take an active +course. + +“Somehow I’m sure I’ll be the best detective of the lot,” she said. “I +have kept my mind unprejudiced, you see. And really, Mr. Bannerlee, +I’m positive you have several facts locked away in your book that I +never knew.” + +The end was that she marched away with the book, I may say entirely +against my sense of discretion, while I shuddered at the thought of +her perusing some of the personal comments I had included. + +And now she was bound for the hills! + +I looked through the window, and saw the landscape grey. A bank of fog +stood motionless about the base of Whimble. + +“This is scarcely the day for it, is it? It’s easy to be lost up there +in the mist.” + +She turned from the drear panorama and looked at me kindly. “I can +tell from your voice that you’re very much concerned about me, but +really you shouldn’t be. I’ve had harder climbs than this heaps of +times, and you can depend on me to be back early this afternoon. You +may begin to worry about two o’clock if I don’t appear then”—her chin +tilted with determination—“with what I want.” + +I returned her kind look. “Really, Miss Lebetwood, I hope my, er, +jottings haven’t set you on some false lead.” + +“There’s a lot more in your journal than jottings,” she said, with +serious lines of thought about the eyes. She gave me a glancing look. +“I see you are sceptical.” + +“It’s hardly fair,” I laughed, “that because you’ve turned detective +in earnest, you should try to mystify me like the other sleuths.” + +“What’s this? what’s this?” asked Salt, presenting himself. + +She beckoned him in. “Mr. Salt, have you finished with that horrible +gore for now? Because I want you to ’phone a telegram for me when the +Post Office opens. Will you, please?” + +“With pleasure, Miss. But why honour me with Mr. Bannerlee so handy?” + +“I believe you’re fishing! But didn’t you appoint yourself censor and +want to know all the messages that go out of the Vale?” + +“Not any more, Miss,” responded Salt, running his eye over a slip of +paper she had brought from a skirt pocket. He raised his brows. “To +the Welsh National Library, eh? Aberystwyth, of course.” Again, more +slowly, he perused the message. “H’m, very interestin’, Miss. I’ll +send it without delay, and you’ll know by the time you get back if the +bookworms have the information.” + +“Show it to Mr. Bannerlee, please,” she said. “I don’t want him to +think I’m rude.” + +“No, not for the world,” I smiled, with negative hand raised to +decline the proffered paper. “Since I’m to be denied the pleasure of +accompanying you this morning, I wash my hands of the whole affair. +You shall not have my invaluable advice.” + +“If you went with me this morning,” said Miss Lebetwood, making a +small grimace, “I could promise you one thing: you’d be unutterly +bored. Well, thank goodness, at last here comes my breakfast.” + +Now, a quarter of an hour later, when my own special breakfast had +arrived on a tray, hers had disappeared. We had been talking of tramps +and journeys, comparing experiences, but I noticed that for the last +few minutes her remarks had been very general and not wholly relevant. +It was obvious that she was preoccupied. At last, having built up a +little tower of sugar cubes and toppled it with her finger, she said: + +“I was the man in the library.” + +Naturally, this was too much for me to comprehend and adjust myself to +in a split-second, and I was still groping like a man stunned when she +continued: + +“Yes, the cap was my own, and I had borrowed Bob’s tuxedo and come +down to get that book; it had a fascination for me, and I must say I +was surprised”—with a careful inclination of the head toward the +corridor—“that _he_ hadn’t kept it under lock and key.” + +“Quite so.” + +“So you see why I didn’t come out even when Millicent was wandering +again. I had gone back to my room the way I’d come—that was by the +outer stairs and through one of the french windows I’d undone the +catch of after Blenkinson had gone the rounds—and I was gobbling up +the book, still in borrowed plumage, when the commotion began. I +couldn’t have appeared without starting more fuss than ever; I suppose +I shouldn’t have much more than a rag of reputation left. They +wouldn’t be so surprised in America at a girl’s dressing like a +man—the movies have helped a lot there.” + +“Well, you needn’t take the appalling risk again,” I promised her. “If +you should wish to gorge yourself clandestinely on the pages of Sylvan +Armitage, you may have my copy in perfect secrecy.” + +“Oh, your copy came? Don’t get up, please, and please excuse me if I +don’t wait. Your breakfast will all get cold if I keep you talking.” + +“Not at all. Yes, my copy came through.” + +She had arisen and walked to the door. I had noticed a small campstool +folded and leaning against the wall, and now was surprised to see her +pick it up and tuck it beneath her arm. + +“Are you taking that?” + +She held it so that it opened, showing its green canvas seat. “Yes, +aren’t you in favour of it?” + +“It’s æsthetic, if that’s what you mean. But how odd! If you want +something to sit on, why not take a blanket or an old coat?” + +“Perhaps this isn’t to sit down on.” + +I gaped. “What—what do you mean?” + +She folded the stool and tucked it away again. Her smile was very +sweet and provoking, and it held that little token of wistfulness +which had never left it since Cosgrove’s death. + +The skirt swung briskly out, and the sound of the little boots receded +and died away. On what wild search was she bound? + +Then I stopped eating, while the idea that grew in my mind spread its +ugly branches. What might a stranger think? Not I, of course, who +would stake my life she is better than gold, but some newcomer from +the outside world, such as the Scotland Yard official due here this +evening? Might it not seem a pose? This resolve to play the rôle of +detective, this secret roaming through the House in man’s attire, this +interest in my diary, and this secretive hunting on the hills—would +they not appear parts of an assumed character? Ridiculous, of +course—unthinkable, in actuality—but might it not be thought? And what +trouble, even disaster, might not follow such a false impression? + +Somehow I was not at all amused toward noon by an argument that +sprouted up in the library between Crofts and Aire in connection with +some phase of the Parson Lolly legend. Aire was devil’s advocate in +this discussion, and Crofts persisted in pooh-poohing the tale as all +nonsense, tommyrot, and rubbish. + +“I thought you were a scientist,” bullied our host, but Aire contented +himself with a chuckle, and moved toward the Hall, whence the voice of +Lord Ludlow came in a kind of shrill moan: + +“. . . fundamental decencies . . . civilized life.” + +And I judged that Belvoir had just uttered some devastating platitude +about the geisha girls or the way women choose their husbands in +British Guiana. It occurred to me then a bit strongly that Belvoir +plays the fool, and that if he really thinks our British morality +unsuitable for a civilized temperament (_i. e._ his) he had better +emigrate to the bush or to Terra del Fuego, where he may be uncramped +among the broader and merrier folkways. + +I have mentioned more than once, I believe, the sub-irritant effect +Mrs. Belvoir has upon me; her hazy personality, taken with the odd +remarks she lets fall, hint at something I can’t quite define, but +would like to very much. + +When Aire went through the armoury door, only four of us were left in +the library: Mrs. Belvoir, Alberta, Crofts, and I (in the seclusion of +the tower). Mrs. Belvoir watched the Doctor’s departure, then turned +to Crofts with the promptitude of one who has at last the opportunity +she has been waiting for. + +“I do hope you won’t mind to-night,” she said. + +It would not have been surprising if Crofts had failed to extract a +meaning from this wish, but he seemed to grasp it. His cheek remained +at the same full flush it had reached during the Aire controversy, +while he turned his eyes slowly toward Mrs. Belvoir, and I thought +that the lady had not chosen the likeliest time for wooing his good +graces. + +“You don’t mean to say—” he rumbled. + +“But dear Alberta doesn’t mind—do you?” she asked in sudden appeal +that was answered with ardour rather less than half its own. + +“I didn’t think it could do any harm,” said Alberta, divided between a +reassuring smile at her guest and a warning frown at her husband. +“Probably the Scotland Yard man—” + +“But it’s for him I especially want to give a demonstration,” declared +Mrs. Belvoir with emphatic faintness. “I can help him so much. I think +that perhaps the real difficulty we have had all along is that we have +not looked beyond the visible. I do so wish Sir Brooke were here; he +was so sympathetic. There were always such things of _real value_ +learned when he was present.” + +“I have it!” I exclaimed from my obscurity, striking my thigh. “Mrs. +Belvoir, you are a spiritualistic medium!” + +They all regarded me with amazement bold on their faces, and I turned +my blatancy into apologetic curiosity. “Sorry, but I didn’t know +before, you see. How frightfully interesting. I hope you do give us a +séance to-night, Mrs. Belvoir.” + +“Oh, all right,” muttered Crofts. “But it’s the police you’ll have to +convince, really.” + +“I’ll deal with the police,” said Mrs. Belvoir. + +“As for Sir Brooke’s absence,” I remarked, “why may he not be present? +Perhaps we shall have a message from him, Mrs. Belvoir.” + +I think she discerned levity in me. “Really, Mr. Bannerlee, you may be +surprised by having that very thing happen.” She glided from the room. + +Crofts looked at me bitterly, as if he held me responsible for the +whole business, but instead of pouring out vials of wrath he said, +“How about a drink, Bannerlee? I need one.” + +“Oh, Crofts,” reproached Alberta, “you know it’s still morning.” + +“Well, I haven’t had one so far, have I?” he retorted, ringing, and +stared in oafish surprise when she departed promptly from the room. +“What have I done now, I’d like to know?” + +“You _are_ getting peppered from all directions,” I laughed. “But +cheer up, old man,” I added, hearing a measured tread in the corridor. +“This staff of servants of yours certainly outdoes the crew of any +sinking ship I’ve ever heard of in devotion to duty. After last +night’s catastrophe—well, they deserve medals, platinum ones.” + +Soames slid in and Crofts said, “Whiskey,” cocking an eye at me to see +if I approved. + +“Yes, and by the way, Soames,” I called, while the servant turned on +his heel, “just tell us the truth, will you? Why aren’t you and Morgan +and the rest fifty miles away from here and running for your lives?” + +His face was a flat mask, with expression ironed out of every feature. +“I—I beg your pardon, sir? I don’t understand.” + +“Oh, yes, you do. Come on, man,” I rallied him. “What’s this hold +Blenkinson’s got over you?” + +His countenance remained under rigid muscular control, but his legs +gave a little shiver. He looked at me, and his face was empty of +thought, but then his gaze met his master’s. He paled, for Crofts’ +glare demanded rather than invited confession. + +“It’s—it’s Mr. Blenkinson’s, er, theory, sir.” + +“My God, has Blenkinson a theory too!” Crofts shouted. “A speculative +butler! What next? I don’t pay him to have theories.” + +“No, sir,” agreed Soames. “We all ’ave the greatest confidence in Mr. +Blenkinson.” + +“No doubt,” I said. “And Soames, ah, what is the nature of Mr. +Blenkinson’s theory?” + +The servant had the look of a man ground between millstones. His neck +undulated in a series of gulps. + +“Out with it,” I urged. “Confession is good for the soul.” + +Soames turned an imploring look at me, his eyes like those of a wretch +_in extremis_. + +“Oh, Blenkinson’s theory be damned,” growled Crofts impatiently; “but +don’t tell him I said so. Fetch the whiskey.” + +The servant dashed for the door, and it was Toby who brought in the +decanter and glasses. + + + It is now 2.30 P.M. + +An hour ago it was clear and mild; then the mist redoubled and a chill +came into the air, something we have not experienced before by day. + +She has not returned. I shall try to organize a searching party at +once, and if no one else regards the situation seriously, I’ll go +alone to find her. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Bannerlee’s Secret + + 2.45 P.M. + +Salt shared my perturbation. Indeed, he adopted the idea of a +searching expedition with such alacrity and energy that one might +suppose Miss Lebetwood to be fleeing from justice! + +There were some bitter things said of her, though, by those, even, who +volunteered readiest for the search. Repressed criticisms of her +seemingly callous behaviour since Cosgrove’s death outcropped now. I +stood by, a coward, for hot answers rose to my lips and I suppressed +them. I remembered that from these hostile thoughts, thoughts more +sinister might spring. + +Just as they were going, I observed that Maryvale was not present. +(Aire, too, was not among us.) Tenney volunteered the information, +gained from Harmony, that Maryvale has again locked himself in his +room. Seeking admittance in her morning round of the bedrooms, she +found the door fastened and received a gruff intimation that she need +not trouble to knock again until further notice. + +I am almost as unwilling to leave Maryvale to his own devices as to +leave Paula Lebetwood unsought for on the hills. But we _must_ find +her! + + + 7.45 P.M. + +The last stragglers have not even yet returned from the uplands. + +Hours of starved hope they were, while I stumbled along the half-blind +paths, often bewildered, once quite lost myself. It was dogged work. I +never should have struggled through without an inexorable motive and +the faintest glimmer of a clue, a clue offered me by Salt many days +ago. Had he not told how in his boyhood he had found “something like” +the oratory of St. Tarw? I had kept the directions he had given, and +now in a forlorn hazard I followed them, since they alone might lead +me to some definite place that she, too, might have sought. + +In observing Salt’s tuition, I was obliged to keep for the most part +below the crown of the hills. The flanks were cut by gorges where +water had eaten its way. In these places I made but indifferent +progress. In a dusky dingle I did no better, and although I gasped in +relief at finding what seemed a path, it proved unfriendly, for it led +me into a covert of dogwood whose small green berries were turning +purple-black, and deserted me there. I got out somehow, although +spines clutched me. Before me, stretching into the upper fog, extended +a curtain of rock and gravel. I attacked it with feet and hands. + +It seemed to go up and up forever. In that frantic climb, out of a +bottom soon invisible, up to a summit veiled in fog, I tore a +finger-nail and broke into the flesh of my left palm. I paused on a +splintery ledge to bind my handkerchief over the wound, and rested +there awhile. It was then that I thought of looking, not up or down, +but sidewise. + +A brief cry escaped me. I could see further on the left, and what I +saw quickened my heart. + +A few yards away the rock curtain ended somewhat abruptly, and beyond +appeared a brief slope full of stunted trees. Even further in the same +direction, the trees gave place to shorter, tangled growth intermixed +with grassy patches. Here and there a monolith thrust up from the +surface, which on the whole was fairly level, though a vague darkness +in the background showed that this clearing was not the summit of any +hill, but a platform more or less below the highest elevation. + +Along the outer edge of the cleared space stood a regiment of trees, +whose ranks were quite dense enough to conceal what lay behind from +eyes in the hollow of the Vale. Having gained the grassy platform with +its curious black stones sprouting and littered about, I found that +while I continued in the same direction over the tumbled grass full of +small scarlet toadstools, the ground grew higher and the dark mass of +the hilltop closer, while the platform narrowed. + +My hope caught fire and blazed. I kept peering ahead and slightly +upward, for the gentle slope persisted. Suddenly I saw Miss Lebetwood, +very dim in the mist. + +She was seated close under the shadowy brow of the hill, with her face +away from me, and her head thrown back, leaning against something. + +A lovely picture she had been that first night by the gate-house +tower; now again I paused, rapt by the grace of her languid, lissome +body, by the pale abstraction of her face—against the ancient gloom of +the oratory of St. Tarw! + +There was not the slightest doubt that this had been the devotional +cell of the saint. Here stood the rude arch, still discernible though +one or two of its stones had been displaced and the rest were mantled +in moss and grass grown downward from above. The projection beside the +door, where her head leaned, had surely once upon a time been the +support of a holy shrine. These scattered rocky benches: on them had +sat the small, dark, half-savage hill-folk, the strange congregations +of the venerable man. + +No, I would not rouse her from that mood of thought or vacancy; I +would be still until she turned and looked at me. So minutes passed, +while her image impressed itself in my mind, in my very heart of +hearts. While I stood there in the grass, awaiting the first movement +of her weary head, even breathing softly that she might not be +disturbed, for the first time I dared to say to myself, bold and +unafraid, “I love her.” + +She did quicken from her inanimate pose, she did turn her head and see +me. She rose swiftly; already I had come very near to her. + +When she attempted to speak, her voice faltered. “So—so you found me?” + +“Yes, Paula,” I said. + +“I was waiting. I heard—” + +My own queer voice filled the pause. “You don’t mean that—you were +waiting—for me?” + +“Yes.” + +“You heard the others calling, and you waited for me?” + +“Yes.” + +Then—I cannot describe what was, only what must have been, for the +white-heat of those moments has annihilated the memory of them—she was +close within my arms, and my lips reached hers. Yes, for that +ineffable once, I must have kissed her, since I remember too well that +when I would have drawn her to me again, she put me away with a gentle +pressure of her hand against my arm. + +She shook her head slowly, her gaze searching mine. +“You—misunderstood, I think. I—I let you because of what I saw in your +eyes. They were soft and wistful for a moment.” + +“But—Paula—” + +“Now I think that you must never do that again.” + +My mind went cold and grey as the world about us. “I’m sorry, then. +Indeed, I must have misunderstood.” + +I saw that some change had rushed over her. Her face became dull and +sad, as if the clammy gloaming that darkened about us had penetrated +to her heart. “Don’t misunderstand me all over again; please don’t. +Your kisses might be very sweet, and their meaning might be dear to +dream about. But you know that I have to set all the woman in me +aside. . . . I must forget dreams,” she said bitterly, and to my +astonishment she put both hands across her eyes and commenced to sob, +sinking down on the stone seat again. I stood by and felt the iron +grind into my soul. + +But half a minute later she looked up with a rueful smile through her +tears. “How perfectly ridiculous of me. What must you think! Don’t +imagine for a minute that I was crying for any such preposterous +reason as I said. It’s just that I’m awfully, awfully tired, and I +_felt_ tired that moment. I was up nearly all last night over your +diary. Please, have you a handkerchief I can use? I’ve nothing but one +of these silly little women’s affairs.” + +I handed over a fairly clean one. “Up all last night and in the hills +all day! You’re a Trojan. But at least you found what you were looking +for?” + +She ceased dabbing for a moment to give me a half-moist look. “Here, +do you mean?” + +“Why, of course.” + +“I found what I wanted, but it wasn’t here. This was afterward. I +somehow had a feeling that you would come here and discover me sooner +or later. These _inane_ tears.” + +I brooded on this for a while, while she removed the last traces of +them. “I suppose it’s no good asking where you found what you really +wanted?” + +“Why, yes—up there on Mynydd Tarw.” + +“But at least you aren’t bringing it back with you as you declared you +would, are you?” + +She gave a strange laugh. “It was too big, a million times too big. So +I have to be satisfied with carrying it here.” She placed a finger +against her forehead. “Now I am ready, sir, if you’ll take me back +down with you. Please let’s go now. There is so much to be done +to-night.” + +“You shall rest to-night, nothing else.” + +“On the contrary—don’t think I’m rude—there’s everything else. Yes, +yes, really. Come, let’s go.” + +She picked up the little campstool, but I took it from her. Slowly we +turned and went away from that place, and while we passed through a +huddling hazel wood where sheep had made a track before us, the sun at +last thridded the mist with hazy golden beams. While we descended the +glen, I looked at her face with the light playing upon its firm, +rounded surfaces and gleaming in her eyes. She was weary, indeed, with +what seemed more than physical exhaustion; I slipped my arm about her +when she appeared almost unable to pick her footing on the precarious +slope. But, “Oh, no, no,” she said, resisting so softly that I pitied +her, and took my arm away. + +When we had discovered the path that led down to Aidenn Water and were +well on our slanting way to the valley bottom, she found more strength +in the smoother footing. Suddenly I felt that she was scrutinizing me, +and I turned my head to hear her ask: + +“What did it remind you of—that place up there?” + +“A graveyard,” I answered almost without thought. + +“Just so. Tell me honestly; have you never been there before?” + +“Before?—there?” I repeated, quite truly surprised. + +“Don’t temporize, please. Confess that you were there before but +didn’t set it down when you wrote your journal. That was the place +where you fell when you escaped from the bull, and it was where you +took shelter from the storm the day you saw the rainbow. Wasn’t it?” I +did not answer but she insisted. “I suppose you had some foolish fear +that if you wrote about it and someone—like poor me—read of the +discovery before you had published it to the world, you might lose the +credit for it. Yes? For it _was_ your discovery, and I only followed +the hints you gave.” + +“Yes,” I said promptly, since my secret was guessed. “It was my +discovery, and I wanted to preserve it for myself. I thought I had +written enough, without being explicit to the point of revelation, to +sustain any claim I might need to make afterward. I suppose you think +I was a very large and egregious idiot?” + +For a little while she did not answer. When I turned to look at her, +her eyes seemed to dwell not on the present but on the past, and there +was the intention of a smile in her face. “No; I think you were +an—antiquarian. Ah, you scholars!” + +“Well, in archæological circles you know—” I broke off. + +“Archæological circles seem about as important as ant-hills to me, +just now. One thing, though, I really learned last night and today—a +platitude I never quite believed in.” + +“A platitude—and not yet discredited?” + +She gave a little laugh. “I mean the one about boxing up truth. You +can hammer down board after board, but the truth is like smoke: it +always finds a new chink in the cover to escape from. Don’t you +see”—she gave a smothered laugh—“the moment you began keeping your +archæological cat in the bag, you had to use all kinds of devices of +wire and rope to keep it there, and more often than not it was you and +not the cat who was tangled!” + +I looked at her in comic dismay. “Well! If you’ve found that out from +the diary you must be a perfect demon of ratiocination!” + +“Hardly; it was obvious. For instance, when Mr. Salt offered you his +suggestions for finding the oratory, you felt obliged to skid all +around the truth that you already knew where it was. You even said +that finding it seemed ‘superfluous.’ That was rather neat, I +thought.” + +I grinned. “So do I. As a fact, I followed his route to the oratory +to-day. And now I have a gleam in my prophetic soul that you found +discrepancies in the rainbow section of the diary.” + +She weighed her answer. “Well, I don’t know. I saw the discrepancies +readily enough. You never were on Whimble all that afternoon, were +you, in spite of the suggestions you scattered to that effect? I +always thought archæologists were profound people, but I had no idea +they were so sly.” + +I mused. “Hm. You are perfectly right. ‘I headed straight for +Whimble. . . .’” + +“Yes, and afterward, ‘It would take me some time to get from where I +was to the edge of Mynydd Tarw.’ That was so, no doubt, but I’d bet +a—a lot that you were on Mynydd Tarw all the while.” + +“Naturally, but I wasn’t going to say so, when the oratory was under +the edge of that particular hill. Yes, you’re right: my secret +entailed quite a number of peccadilloes.” + +I saw her smiling at me. “They became quite inveterate, didn’t they? +But the whole thing goes back to the platitude. Squeeze the truth in +one place and it sticks out in another. Because you _would_ have the +secret of the oratory all to yourself, you had to conceal the innocent +fact that you accidentally left a book there.” + +I stared at her as at a miracle, which indeed she was. “Come, come; +this is on the thick side. You must have been shadowing me.” + +“Only in brain-waves. It was your copy of the Book of Sylvan Armitage, +wasn’t it? How did you happen to leave it there? I can guess you had +it out of your knapsack and studied it for comparison with the place +you had fallen to. Then, perhaps, you laid it down—” + +“I did, and leaned back to rest, just as I found you doing this +afternoon. The Book slipped off the stone and fell inside the shelter +of the oratory. I didn’t notice it when I started up and left the +place. But how on earth did you know?” + +“You mustn’t think it was so wonderful for me to see a plain nose on a +plain face. To begin with, I was surprised to death when I learned +that you hadn’t brought your own copy of the Armitage with you, but +had to send for it from Balzing. Was it likely that you would leave +behind the one work which referred to the oratory of St. Tarw? Then +that evening in the library after the rainbow, some of Lib’s +remarks—‘Having the hump,’ and so forth—sounded as if you might be +concealing something that you had brought with you under your coat. +And finally—well this alone would have been enough to tell me—the day +you were supposed to receive it through the mail, you didn’t call at +the Post Office for it; when you came home from Old Aidenn, you gave +New Aidenn a wide berth and crossed the Smatcher.” + +“Out of my own inkwell I stand condemned,” I laughed. “It’s uncanny, +that’s what it is, the way you get inside my cranium and read my +secret thoughts. Still, you haven’t told me what the fundamental +deduction was. It couldn’t have been a mere guess. How did you _know_ +that I wasn’t on Whimble when I drew the map?” + +“I think you are playing Doctor Watson on purpose. Why, that was the +essence of simplicity. Why, a _primitive_ mind could have told that. +What do you suppose I brought the campstool for? It was as simple +as—as rule of three. You’ll have to discover that for yourself.” + +After silence: + +“What was that you said—about the rapture you felt the first time you +wandered on the uplands? You never could feel the same freedom? You +never could be so happy again?” + +“I think I never shall.” + +“Nor I. I hate this place. It has robbed me of something—something +more than love or any little thing like that.” + +“What do you mean?” I asked, appalled—and when she did not answer, I +asked again, with my hand clenched about her wrist and my eyes burning +into her face, “What do you mean?” + +“I’m not sure . . . but I suppose I mean . . . innocence. Since I came +here, something has happened that I never can forget. I think it will +make all my life worse.” + +We went on. The sunlight was dying. The trees became spectral. In me, +who walked beside this wonderful, clear-spirited girl, a monstrous +horror welled. + +I had a sense of vast, dark, insufferable wings hovering down. Was it +fated that I should need to protect her against herself? Long before +we reached the House, that I had sworn to do, at all costs, whatever +should betide. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +The Flight of Parson Lolly + + (There ended my diary. Thenceforth I was to be like a man in a + maelstrom. And now that circumstances have stayed my hand from its + task for weeks on end, I have no confidence that I can record with + due proportion and emphasis events which seem to have been fantastic + and instantaneous as dreams. Frantic suspense, frozen horror, and + the rest are now a whirling memory. But I hope, above all else, that + whoever reads these lines may feel, as those who knew her did, the + splendid nervous courage, the shrewd discernment, and the strange + compassion and mercy, of Paula Lebetwood!) + +Make no mistake. The weary, faltering girl at my side—never, never for +an instant did I suspect her. + +Yet while we lagged through a ruined fairyland, past the wreck of Sir +Pharamond’s first hold, beneath branches where the rooks were +brawling, and between the ordered files of the summer-house park—all +the way my heart grew blacker, and the incubus weighed heavier on my +soul. I feared for her, and fear pressed cold fingers against my lips. + +Blasphemous thoughts; they were not mine. I had no thoughts of her but +reverence. + +They might have been the jangling voices of the birds themselves: +“Look! Here comes the foreign woman who was pledged to the Kingmaker, +but is going to marry his millions instead! Why has she never wept a +tear for the man in his shroud?” What if the trees had voices, these +grey and sombre sycamores? “We saw what happened in the two twilights. +We know where the golden-haired girl was when Cosgrove met his fate. +We know when she left the strawberry grove the day that Heatheringham +rushed toward death. We saw her slip across the shadowed lawn—” + +No, no! If trees could speak, they would declare her innocence. + +Not trees but men would be her judges, cunning men, who might weave +about her a web of suspicion with strands as fine and strong as silk. + +Scotland Yard might be waiting for us when we returned; that is, a +brisk, clear-headed, observant, utterly unprejudiced investigator, a +person whose mind as nearly as might be resembled an inductive and +deductive machine. He would sweep the ground clear of the débris of +false starts and idle speculations, and construct anew. + +The deaths: what would the lynx of justice discover immediately in +respect of them? He would hear of a motive, money. How should he know +better than to impute a sordid impulse to this high-minded girl? He +would hear of a quarrel on the afternoon of Cosgrove’s death. How +should he know that there had been more than mere anger in her mood +when she parted from us, that there had been dignity, aloofness, a +temper far above reprisal? + +But there was worse, much worse. She may have been with Cosgrove the +moment he was struck down! + +Belvoir, coming toward the towers, had seen the Irishman with canvas +lifted regarding the puny battle-axe. In the mixed light, Belvoir had +not been positive he _had_ seen Cosgrove, but the likelihood was that +he had attested to less rather than more than the truth. The American +girl might have been beyond the Irishman at that moment, concealed +partly by his bulk, partly by the darkness of her gown in the +twilight. I, of course, had come past the spot afterward and found the +lawn empty, but the two might easily have gone through one of the +entrances of the House and re-emerged shortly after I had made my +reconnaissance from the parapet. What brief, passionate scene could +then have taken place, such as would have ended by Cosgrove’s turning +away and her hammering him with a rough-and-ready chunk of rock +snatched up from the rim of the flower-bed, I left to the professional +imagination. + +In Heatheringham’s death, we knew her insistence that she had +disobeyed his bidding, and her declaration of what she had seen. But, +again, there was not a tittle of proof of her assertion that she had +remained on the edge of the strawberry trees. Quite safely she could +have slipped back into the House. I wondered, in spite of the arm +thrust through the glass, if the detective might not have been outside +the House when he pressed the trigger, and that straightway he rushed +into the Hall (pursuing something?)—to meet his death. Who waited for +him there? No one could have, save Paula Lebetwood. + +Black—it was black. + +I tried to gain comfort from the obscurities that would confront +Scotland Yard if he tried to build up a theory in this wise. I +recalled the bone, the laugh, the pig’s gore, and other unsolved +conundrums. But Scotland Yard, being an experienced hand, would be +sure to fit them in somewhere. I was sick at heart. + +Yes, I must protect her against the world, and, if need be, against +herself. The proof would be in action. I began wondering whom I could +trust. + +When we came to the fringe of the sycamore park and passed alongside +the cypress trees, one first-storey window showed light in the +northern wall of the House, and we could see radiance from others down +the long façade. + +“Miss Mertoun has returned.” It was the only speech either of us had +offered in two dark and desolate miles. + +“Millicent?” The American girl halted in surprise. “Did they make her +go out, too?” + +“She volunteered like the rest of the ladies for searching in the Vale +itself.” + +“Darling Millicent. I love her better than anything else on earth. She +shouldn’t have tried to find me, Mr. Bannerlee. She isn’t strong, you +know, and this has been a terrible, tragic week for her. She should +never have come to Aidenn Vale, but I didn’t—understand then, as I do +now.” + +Somehow we did not go straight on, but lingered there by the cypresses +with their low-hung darkness. + +“But her week has not been as tragic as yours.” + +Her voice was sombre. “More, much more.” + +“What!” I came closer, peered into her face, where the dusk had +erected shadows. “What do you mean?” + +“You haven’t wondered, I see, about Millicent and Sean.” + +“Wondered? Wondered what, in God’s name?” + +She spoke wearily. “You didn’t know Sean, of course. Neither did I, I +suppose.” + +“What do you mean?” I cried again, with an intolerable heaviness in +me, remembering Lib. + +“Religion and sensuality: they go together often, don’t they? I +thought that if I recognized that—streak in Sean I might disregard it +and it would be like a thing that never was. If that had been +all. . . .” + +I caught up the silence. “You can never make me believe—that Miss +Mertoun—” + +“Oh, of course not. She wasn’t like the others. . . . She hasn’t +offended me; I’m the offender. . . .” + +“Paula, you mustn’t stop. Tell me what you mean.” + +“It’s beastly of me, I suppose . . . especially when someone +else . . . I wonder why it is we confide in people we half-know +instead of our closest friends. But it’s horrible to have a thing pent +up in your brain . . . like a deadly growth.” + +“Tell me, Paula.” + +“If I hadn’t come along, Millicent would be Mrs. Cosgrove now. It +sounds—almost grotesque, doesn’t it? But there it was, a fact that +months and even years couldn’t kill. I never had the least inkling of +it—oh, Millicent’s been a loyal friend to me—until we were all here +and it was—too late. Millicent came, you see, since if she didn’t—I +would never have had a Bidding Feast without Millicent, and she knew +it. But I never guessed . . . until she told me, after midnight, the +night you came.” + +“She—loved him still?” + +“No, hated him then. But the old heart-wound would break out during +sleep. His music, as she called it, came to her through her dreams. +Then she answered what she believed to be—his call.” + +A little wind came winding down the Vale and wrapped its chilly arm +about us. She said, very low: “That was what I meant, partly, when I +spoke of lost innocence a little while ago. I have changed toward +people since I came here. I think I can never trust a person again.” +Then quickly, “We must go in. They’ll be wanting to know I’m safe.” + +I followed where she made a road through the darkness. + +We reached the House at seven-fifteen. At the bottom of the stairs she +turned. “Thank you—thank you more than I can say. May I have the +campstool? I must go up now, really. I—I—have to—think over to-night.” + +I handed over the stool. “If ever—” I commenced, feeling my voice +shake in my throat. + +The boy Toby, his hair all on end as usual, crossed the corridor from +the dinner-room to the Hall. She called his name, and the lad +reappeared, coming toward us bashfully. His eyes, turned on her, were +filled with something like awe, and I remembered how she had made this +seemingly lumpish lad her excellent and devoted scholar. He now +carried a few yards of insulated wire. + +“Has Superintendent Salt returned?” + +“Yes, from the hills, Miss. He came back early, but he’s gone away +again.” + +“Did he leave any message?” + +“He said you wasn’t to mind if he didn’t bring his friend +from—somewhere—” + +“Scotland Yard?” + +“Yes, that’s right. He wouldn’t bring him to-night. He said you was to +go ahead anyhow because the French womenfolks was coming with +Constable Pritchard.” + +“French women!” I exclaimed in surprise and pleasure. “Does he mean +that the sisters Delambre have been brought back?” + +“Sure to be,” said Toby. + +“By George, I’ll be tickled to see what they look like. But what does +it all mean? No one could imagine—” + +Miss Lebetwood silenced me with a gesture and an eager question. “He +was working here this afternoon, then, wasn’t he?” + +“Yes, Miss, but it was a secret or somefing. He put the maids out of +the house at half-past three.” + +“Three-thirty!” I exclaimed again, indignantly now. “He didn’t waste +much of his precious time in the search!” I asked the lad, “Why did he +make the women-servants leave the building? He did, didn’t he?” + +“Yes, sir; he was going to use some gas from a little tank he had with +him all over the ground floor of the House. He said it was a deadly +poisonous gas, and unless they were looking for their deaths if they +got a whiff they had better go down to New Aidenn for the rest of the +afternoon. Wheeler was in the search; so I drove ’em all down to the +bridge in the big car,” Toby recited with pride. + +“And did you come back for a whiff?” asked Miss Lebetwood, smiling +faintly. + +“No, Miss; I went to my workroom in the stables and did some more on +my radio. I only remembered about a quarter past six that I had to fix +the lights in the Hall, and when I came to the House I met Mr. Salt +and the constable’s brother that wasn’t here before coming out with +the gas tank. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Tell ’em they can go +anywhere they like now. I’ve sucked the gas back into the respirator; +so there’s no danger for that matter of fact.’ And then he told me +what I told you.” + +“I suppose most of our people have returned?” + +“Yes, Miss. The ladies are all upstairs or somewhere. There’s them +back from New Aidenn, too, and Mr. Blenkinson and some of the others +from the hills. If you wasn’t found by nine o’clock, they was going to +’phone up Penybont and Bleddfa and maybe get a bloodhound and have a +grand search like they almost had for Sir Brooke Mortimer.” + +“Thank you, Toby,” said the girl, “and thank you again, Mr. Bannerlee. +I _shall_ have to do a bit of thinking now.” She went quickly, almost +lightly, up the steps. Somehow, she had drawn comfort from Salt’s +strange behaviour. + +I followed Toby into the Hall. Quite by chance I had found the person +I could trust, one whose allegiance to the American girl might be as +great as mine. + +He was upon a lofty step-ladder planted beneath the chandelier which +hung some distance clear of the musicians’ gallery. Below him rested a +bushel basket partly filled with electric bulbs. + +“Will you be there long, Toby?” + +“Only to take out the rest of the bulbs, sir, and connect a bit of +wire with the wall-fixture in case they needs it. Only a minute or +two, sir.” + +I drew close to the foot of the ladder and spoke very softly. +“Toby—can you get an hour off before very late to-night—to do +something for Miss Lebetwood?” + +“For Miss Paula?” His funny hair seemed to be a forest of notes of +exclamation. “Of _course_ I can, sir, for Miss Paula.” + +“Right! I knew you would. Come down here a minute, and I’ll give you +directions. This is very secret, mind. If you should meet even Miss +Paula herself, remember you’re not to show a sign you’re the wiser.” + +I laid the trappings of mystery on very thick, enough to make the +souls of a dozen lads lick their lips. I explained how a message might +be delivered at the House later on to-night that would make it +necessary for Miss Lebetwood, and perhaps Miss Mertoun, to leave +without word or warning to anyone by the eleven o’clock train. Secrecy +and haste were the points I stressed. He fell into the plot with so +much spirit that I felt a little ashamed of the deception I was +practising. With eagerness that ran before my suggestions, he promised +to be at New Aidenn station when it opened for the 9.40 train, and to +purchase with money I gave him two tickets for London available by the +late express. He would leave the tickets for me _in the mail_. We went +into the armoury and agreed on a definite spot. He would also secrete +two ladies’ bicycles, property of the Clays, beneath the bush opposite +the third oak tree on the left-hand side of the drive after passing +the gate-house. We went over that complex direction again and again. + +Yes, in these days of the many-tentacled police, the telegraph, and +the radio, I was planning for Paula Lebetwood an escape by flight. +With two hours’ clear start, for I would see that the telephone did +not function and that the shaky bridge should go down behind the +pursued, I could almost guarantee scot-freedom. For of course those +tickets would not be used for getting to London, not when the express +connected at Leominster with fast trains running both north and south. +To what destination I would direct the fugitives, I had better not +say, but it was one which would afford a refuge almost before the +wires were singing with the alarm for her capture. + +At that moment Aire slipped in from the darkness through one of the +french windows. His head was bare, his clothing was somewhat +dishevelled, and he seemed to lack for breath. His mouth was set, with +its thin blue-whitish lips drawn back from the teeth. He stared at us +some time before speaking; then his voice, the first time I had known +it to be so, was instinct with fear. + +“Bannerlee, seen Maryvale?” + +“I’ve just returned with Miss Lebetwood. What makes you ask?” + +“He’s—gone.” + +“He’ll come back.” + +“I’m sure he will. Come in here, Bannerlee.” + +Quite astonished by his tone, I followed him toward the library, +turning at the door to give a pithy glance at the boy, whose hair now +looked like a forest of query-notes. When I entered the library, Aire +had thrown himself down in one of the big leather arm-chairs in a +posture of complete relaxation, and was breathing heavily. Again it +was some time before he spoke. + +“He’s gone, God knows where. He left me an hour ago while we were +walking among the strawberry trees. Went snap off, like breaking a +stick, while I was in the middle of a sentence.” + +“Why, Doctor,” I exclaimed, with a snort of assumed cheerfulness, +“surely you’re making too much of this.” + +He sprang up, paced the breadth of the room, ugly wrinkles on his +brow. “I hope I am. I hope I am. But I’ve bitched the thing so. And +this afternoon he seemed in perfect possession of himself. I’ve been +so damned optimistic that now the reverse— He seemed perfectly normal +late this afternoon, you understand; in fact the two of us were +planning—no matter. I must go out again.” + +“I’ll come along with you.” + +“No, thanks. I’ll have to manage him alone. It will be ‘Horse and +Hattock in the Devil’s name,’ and I fancy I’m the only one who can +play up to him.” + +“But you’ll be in danger.” + +He gave a short laugh. “I think not. I’m more afraid of the things +that can’t hurt.” He looked out to the lawn. “Thank God for a clear +night, and moonlight. You know, the trees seem to have faces in their +trunks; they seem to be grinning and mowing in the wind. That’s the +sort of drivel this thing’s brought me to. Well, I’m off.” + +He made toward the door, but paused with his hand on it. “Don’t say a +word of this to anyone, Bannerlee. I’ll need a free hand if I’m to +bring it off. Cheerio.” + +He plunged into the night. I saw him cross the silver carpet of the +lawn and disappear between the gigantic jaws of the gate-house towers. + +A moment later in the corridor I met Harmony carrying a tray up to +“the young ladies.” She told me that cold viands were laid out in the +dinner-room for those lagging in from the hills. But in spite of my +three hours’ struggle, I was in no humour for feeding, especially +since I was bound to encounter the others and would have to repeat my +adventures again and again. + +I asked the girl if there had been any fresh development during my +absence. + +“Did you hear about what they dug up this afternoon, sir?” + +“Great Scott! You don’t mean another corpse?” + +“Lor’, no, sir, not human. In the garden, it was, where the dogs were +scratching the place to pieces. Someone said get a spade and dig and +see what’s there, and they found it.” + +“What did they find?” + +“A little pig, sir. And it was wrapped in some black cloth they said +must be Parson Lolly’s gown, only it was all tore up and full of holes +and had some funny bits of red paper pinned to it. They do say that +Parson Lolly is too tall for a gown like that. We met Superintendent +Salt when we were coming back from the town, and he was carrying it +with him.” + +“So,” I remarked. “It looks to me as if the Superintendent took +advantage of Miss Lebetwood’s absence to spend a busy afternoon down +here.” + +“Lor’, yes, sir. He was using the gas-expirator and fair drove us out +of the house.” + +“I’m glad he made such a thorough job of inspirating the gas again.” + +“Yes, sir, or it wouldn’t be safe. It’s that wonderful, sir.” + +“It is,” I agreed heartily, and cursed—to myself. + +She with her tray went down the passage while I went up the second +flight, feeling not the shadow of a suspicion of my darling, but the +certainty that before the night was past, she would be accused. I +hurried past Maryvale’s portal with an aching heart. + +Yet such was the settled habit of the week that when I reached my own +door, the turmoil of my mind was stilled. This lonely chamber, which +had such baneful associations for me a week ago, had become a harbour +of refuge. Whatever strife and doom might wait outside, here the +ceiling aslope, the candle-bracket askew, the oaken chest, and the +narrow window before my table invited me to my work. + +I fell to. I wrote steadily. I forgot to be hungry. Once the sound of +a gong quivered through the House, but not until long after it had +died away did I consider what it meant. Then I set down my pen. Mrs. +Belvoir’s séance must be in progress, and Scotland Yard was doubtless +there. I must attend. + +I secured my invaluable pocket light before setting out. Past +Maryvale’s door forbid, down the long stairs, through the corridor of +faces—until a murmurous voice reached me from the Hall of the Moth, a +voice whose tone I recognized though the words were indistinct. Yes, +Mrs. Belvoir was probing beyond the visible. + +Softly I opened the door behind the musicians’ stair, tiptoed over the +threshold, and stood concealed within. Great curtains shut out the +moonlight from the Hall, which was dark indeed, save for the circle of +bulbs on the circumference of the chandelier. These, cased by Toby in +paper, gave very little illumination, and that of a mysterious tinge. +At the other end of the room wavered a lazy fire, composed for the +most part of bluish flame. + +The people seated around the table, which had been placed not far from +the musicians’ stairs, were so vague that I could not tell their +attitude toward the proceedings. I observed at once that Mrs. Belvoir +was not going to “bring the spirits and all,” not yet, at any rate. +For on the table was spread some dark cloth above which I caught the +faint glimmer of glass: a crystal sphere. The woman seated deep in her +chair before the ball must be the pythoness herself. + +Her voice had lapsed when I entered, and a long silence ensued. Then +she said: “It’s no use. I’ve lost it again,” and I saw a white arm +reach up. Instantly a dazzling light shone above her head, from a +special globe connected with the wall-fixture, and Mrs. Belvoir was +gazing intently into the crystal ball. I now saw that the sphere was +erected on a small tripod with legs of different-coloured metals, and +that this structure stood upon a square yellow velvet cloth laid over +a cloth of blue. A mouldy, triangular crust of bread was placed +underneath the crystal, and some statement I had once heard or read, +that “bread possesses a potent protective magic against evil forces,” +occurred to me to explain its presence. + +Neither Salt nor any stranger was there. Mrs. Belvoir, attired in pale +mauve ninon, a heliotrope band above her forehead, and an amethyst pin +at her breast, was brooding over the crystal with eyes that widened +and narrowed with the phase of her thought. Those pale sapphire eyes +were darkened with intensity, and the customary indistinctness of her +face—a mermaid-under-water look—was quite gone. Sometimes her hands +clasped or slid about the sphere; sometimes her fingers rested on her +temples or tapped them gently. Beyond a doubt, she was sincere. + +The assisting parties were either slightly embarrassed or strongly +impressed, all save Belvoir, who sat opposite her; on his face lived a +smile of scepticism. Up went the arm and the Hall was dim once more. + +“I have it now,” said the seeress: “I am in fog, deep fog.” + +“Good,” came a _sotto voce_ from the other end of the table, but the +word was drowned in the current of her speech. Leaning back, but +apparently still gazing at the sphere, in trance-life passivity, she +seemed not so much to utter words as to let the words flow from her +mouth. + +“I am in fog, thick fog; it clings about me.” Her hands made dim +outward movements, as if pressing away the mist that enveloped her. “I +am lost, and there is a malignant spirit nearby, but I am not sure I +know that—yet. I sit down—on a rock. I am not very hungry, but since +there is nothing else to do, I eat what I have brought with me. I wait +for light to penetrate the fog. I wish to find something; perhaps I +fear the malignant spirit that is near. I wish to find the ancient +hermit’s cell. It is a place hallowed by good works and piety. The +malignant spirit will not dare come near me there. I eat and wait. The +mist clears partly away at last. I go on. The sun shines on me; I am +glorified. . . .” + +I suddenly realized it was my story she told. There was nothing +wonderful in this, to be sure, for the narrative of my afternoon on +the hills had long been common property. I listened with care, to see +if she included some detail proving her version to be a brain-picture +really evoked by the crystal and having objective authority. But all +she added to the fable was the “malignant spirit” hovering near me all +the while, a presence which I certainly had no idea was dogging me on +the hilltops. + +It became apparent that the seeress was not interested in me but in +the spirit, and some time before the dénouement I had an inkling of +how the story would end. + +“I am fleeing from the malignant spirit in its carnal shape. I allow +it to overtake me—so far, no farther. We are approaching the brink of +the cliff. I leap aside, and the animal plunges into the gulf. I am +saved, and I hear the carnal shape of the spirit go thundering down, +down, down. I am saved, and the bull is dead.” + +Silence. . . . When Mrs. Belvoir spoke again, her voice had lost its +dreaminess and become positive. But she spoke with effort; the phrases +seemed wrung out of her. + +“The bull is dead. . . . But spiritual force . . . is never +destroyed. . . . The bull is dead. . . . The malignant spirit is +living still. . . . It never ceases to operate. . . . It is +localized. . . .” + +A small sound shattered the tension of that moment: merely the opening +of one of the french windows. + +“My God, what’s that?” cried Eve Bartholomew, before someone reached +above Mrs. Belvoir’s head and lit the bright globe once more. Mrs. +Belvoir turned, intending angry remonstrance, but her voice was +stilled by one look at Doctor Aire. + +He was coatless and collarless, and his shirt and trousers were miry. +His small yellow head seemed to have turned almost white, save for a +ragged cut across his forehead, and while he spoke the man leaned hard +on the back of the _Brocade de Lyons_ couch as if in the last throes +of exhaustion. + +Everyone was standing up; my presence excited no surprise. + +“Maryvale’s—somewhere near.” + +“Doctor! What’s happened to you?” cried Crofts. + +“I’ve had a bout with him on the tennis court. He was a few stone too +heavy for me. I saw him heading for the House—probably wants something +that’s in his room. I’m afraid—he’s insane.” + +“What shall we do, then?” asked Crofts, become very cool in the +crisis. + +“Keep a watch at every entrance, enough of us at each place to tackle +him safely.” + +“Stephen, you mustn’t go out again. You’ve done too much already,” +said Alberta. + +But Aire, though he swayed, hung on grittily, and shook his head. “No, +thanks. A stiff drink will put me right. Just have the men-servants in +here, Crofts, and—” + +Miss Mertoun gave a shrill scream. A creature was looking at us +through the open entrance behind Aire—a strange creature. + +The thing that looked at us was using Maryvale’s face, but it was not +Maryvale any longer. The countenance, blank of any jot of humanity, +had become a mere bag with features. It lingered there only for a +moment, staring at us with incomprehension so complete that a pang of +pity thrilled through me. A woman sobbed. The face was gone. + +Pell-mell the men were gone, too, in a wild chase scattering across +the lawn, and I among them. Yet sorry as I was for Maryvale, he did +not concern me now. I had sterner work even than trammelling a +moonlight madman. + +I determined to risk the notice of my absence in order to make certain +that the bicycles were properly waiting where Toby had promised to +conceal them. Keeping under the shadow of trees where I could, I +hastened across the southern lawn toward the oaks that guard the drive +below the gate-house towers. I was just in time to see someone drag +one of the bicycles from its bushy covert into the full moonlight and +bend over the front tyre with a gleaming blade ready to slash. I +sprang upon this man, mastered him more by the surprise of my leap +than by main strength. He fell face upward, groaning. His knife lay on +the grass ten feet away. + +“Morgan! What crazy work is this?” + +He thrashed about in my inexorable grip, and blurted out his words in +speech that reverted toward the primitive. “The killers, the killers! +They bikes was for them. I saw the lad fetch ’em and hide ’em, aye I +did. ’E’s sweet on ’er since she took notice of ’im.” + +“What are you talking about?” I blustered. “What do you know about the +murderers?” + +He struggled to rise, but I let my weight bear down, and he relapsed +with another groan, though certainly not hurt. “I know who did the +killin’. I’ve known all along.” + +I shook him roughly by the shoulders. “Don’t lie to me. Come, out with +it, now, or I’ll throttle you.” + +“Mr. Blenkinson told us. It’s the sure truth.” + +“_Blenkinson!_” I bawled. “By God, Blenkinson’s got something to +answer for to me. What lies has he been spreading?” + +“He has the proofs. It’s sure as if ’e saw ’em with ’is own eyes.” + +“Saw _what_? Saw _who_?” + +“Saw the killin’s. The three Americans did ’em, and they’ll make +shares of Mr. Cosgrove’s money.” + +My fingers itched for his throat, but black fear blazed in my heart. +“Liar!” I screamed. “They’ll hang you sooner than _her_! Don’t you +know she won’t touch a penny of it until the killer’s found!” + +The man on the ground maintained a sullen obstinacy. “Sometimes them +hangs as isn’t guilty, and them suffers as finds out. The milkman knew +it was ’er, and look what ’appened to ’im.” + +“You poor, blind fool,” I exclaimed bitterly. “There’s jealousy and +hatred in this somewhere. Damn Blenkinson. Why, there isn’t a particle +of evidence—” + +“There is, there is,” he gasped. “There’s court evidence to ’ang ’er +when Mr. Blenkinson comes out with it.” + +“What evidence? Tell me!” + +He writhed in my clutch. “The beetle-stone as she lost from ’er ring +that day. She tried to keep it secret, but it got about. Mr. +Blenkinson found it right in the same place as the stone she did the +killin’ with. There wasn’t a foot between ’em.” + +I pressed my fists against his chest, with a downward thrust now and +then for emphasis. “Your fine Blenkinson’s a liar, do you hear? His +evidence, as you call it, isn’t worth a pin. And if he whispers a word +of his slander, and it comes to my ears, I’ll thrash him within an +inch of his life, do you hear? And the same applies to you—you +contemptible—” + +I stood up quickly. Men were crowding out of the plantation near +Whimble-foot and clamouring toward the House. Had the quarry turned? I +must be present now at any cost. + +This man was cowed sufficiently. He still lay supine; I prodded him +with my foot. “Remember!” I warned him darkly, and commenced running +toward the mansion, stooping to seize the knife where it glittered on +the turf. + +Once only I paused for a moment and looked back. Was there +something—someone—moving stealthily toward the man, who was sitting up +now and feeling himself for bruises? A moment later the figure of a +woman emerged from the shadows, crossed quickly to Morgan, and seemed +to lift him bodily from the ground. I did not immediately grasp that +she had lugged him up by the ear. Now they were arguing, +gesticulating, and though I had heard it seldom, I knew the prim voice +of Miss Ardelia Lacy. + +Smiling to myself, I pressed on. + +The half-dozen men who reached the corner of the House more or less in +a pack were in the nick of time to see the wretched Maryvale, driven +from cover to cover like a hunted beast, drag his body, which had +never before seemed ponderous, to the base of one of the gate-house +towers. He carried what seemed a club with an enormous broadened head. + +He turned there at bay while we closed in upon him, and the awful +wreck of his face with its glaring eyes and bared teeth in the +moonlight will haunt me to my death. He was a beast. While we stood +speechless, he began to climb. + +One hand gripped the queer-looking club, but grasping the ivy with one +hand alone, he raised himself steadily. It was agony to watch this +man-turned-ape mounting where none of us dared to follow. In the thick +wavering growth that clung to the tower sometimes he swung +pendulum-wise, sometimes was almost buried in the foliage, but his +ascent was sure as if he climbed the stairs within. We cried out to +him appeals and abuse; I do not think he heard us. Someone ran to the +stables, shouting for a ladder. + +Maryvale reached the angle where the covered bridge meets the wall of +the tower. Here the ivy thins, and the man made a wide stop to the +roof of the bridge. Then, surely, I felt the supreme horror, when +Maryvale, using the base of a window-slit for foot-rest, lifted +himself over the edge of the turret-roof and carefully but +expeditiously crawled up the slope of stone toward the pointed top. + +We held on shouting, some of us, in sheer desperation. Pendleton made +a frenzied effort to climb the ivy, failed. Maryvale crept on, his +whole body flat against the roof, save for the arm which held the +club-like mass. He reached the pinnacle and lifted himself to a +precarious standing posture, one foot firm on the very apex, the side +of the other foot pressed against the slope. + +For a few moments he bent over the object he had carried; then when he +straightened his body, his arm above his head brandished a flaming, +sizzling torch, and he uttered the only words I had heard him speak +that day. He called out to the night at large: + +“Lolly, Lolly, Parson Lolly!” His voice gloated above the hiss of the +torch. “Who’s the Parson? I’M THE PARSON! AND NOW I’M GOING OVER THE +HILLS: PARSON LOLLY FLIES!” + +The torchlight danced in his face while he laughed shrilly. Then he +launched himself into the air in an enormous leap. + +He fell almost but not quite clear of the sloping roof. Striking it +all awry, he dashed against the roof of the bridge and on down. +Mercifully, he was hurled toward the wall of the tower, and his foot +caught for a second in some loop of the ivy-twine twenty feet from the +ground. His swinging body struck the wall a terrific blow, and he hung +head downward for a moment; his torch, which had drawn a flaming mark +across the night, now blazed upward enveloping him with its flames. +Only for an instant, however. The impact of the collision with the +wall had stunned him, and the torch fell from his hand. The ivy gave +way, and the madman, part of his clothing afire, fell insensible to +the ground at our feet. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Blood on the Portrait + +We had carried Maryvale down to the bridge, and the ambulance from the +Cottage Hospital at Kington had been waiting to take the unfortunate +man away. We did not know until later, of course, that Maryvale would +never walk again, though the delusion which had unhinged his mind no +longer held him in thrall. + +Now we were returning to the House, I and the remnant of the men of +the Bidding Feast. We were a straggling squad. The sense of Fate, of +dark wings closing down, of stern gates clashing, swept over me again +while I wondered which of us would be the next to suffer. One by one +our little group reassembled in the library. There the women were +waiting; there, too, stood Maryvale’s picture of the headless Parson, +more enigmatic than before. Yes, even with the madman’s words ringing +in our ears, none of us could believe that he had indeed been the +arch-lord of disorder who may have destroyed two men. + +Mrs. Belvoir, purpureal priestess, was making agitated efforts to +reassemble her devotees that she might reveal the further activities +of the “malignant spirit”; but the devotees were very slippery. +Indeed, it was natural that after the catastrophe of Maryvale, other +things should disintegrate, and although the terror spread through the +House tightened the little knot of us, soon we might have wandered off +to bed, unless a sudden loud knocking had been audible. + +“The front door, isn’t it?” asked Miss Lebetwood. + +Our host said it was, and added he wondered what the devil— + +“It is a sign for me, I think.” Addressing Mrs. Belvoir: “Marvel, you +must let me take charge now.” + +“Why, what do you mean?” demanded the seeress. + +“We shall see in a moment.” + +Alberta’s firm hand had restrained Crofts from jumping into the +corridor to answer the knock himself. Presently Soames sidled into the +room with a salver which he presented to Miss Lebetwood. Regarding him +closely, I thought he gave her a slanting, snake-like look of mingled +fear and malevolence—and yet on the surface his countenance remained +perfectly respectful. + +“A telegram for you, Miss.” + +“Thank you.” + +Lib gurgled, “Why, Paula, someone’s had the cheek to open it!” + +“I know,” answered Miss Lebetwood, withdrawing two closely-filled +sheets from the envelope already slit. “Those were my instructions.” + +Crofts asked sharply, “Don’t they know those should be ’phoned here?” + +“My directions again,” said the American girl evenly, without glancing +up from the sheet in her hand. Her brief, self-possessed words made us +realize of a sudden that she had assumed leadership quietly and +confidently. “There will be no answer, Soames,” she remarked, and the +man slid out shadow-wise. + +A silence supervened, while we stared at her and she read the message +to the very end. When she was through, her clear blue eyes were bright +with exultation. + +“Yes, it’s what I expected! I think, people, that we will see the end +of our ghastly bewilderment to-night. Won’t you be glad? Oh, I will!” + +Mrs. Belvoir, aware that she was likely to lose the post of cynosure, +countered vaguely. “What do you mean?” she repeated. “I haven’t +finished—” + +“You won’t need to, Marvel dear. I have found a better way to deal +with the malignant spirit you spoke of. I have Mr. Salt’s approval for +what I do. In fact”—she smiled slightly—“I am his deputy.” + +Lord Ludlow’s eyebrows gave a jerk. “His deputy?” + +“Yes, and I believe I am to have a Police-Constable to enforce my +authority. And the—the Frenchwomen from the farm, the Delambres, have +kindly consented to be present here to-night as witnesses.” + +“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Crofts. “Will people be coming in here +all night? Who owns this place, anyhow?” + +Alberta struck a counter-blow. “Of course, Paula dearest, we shall do +anything you like. Shall we have to wait long for those queer old +women?” + +“_They_ are waiting for _you_,” said the American girl, standing by +the door which led through the armoury into the Hall. “Will you enter, +please, and take your seats as before?” + +“I don’t like this,” objected Crofts, blocking our way. “In my opinion +there should be no jiggery-pokery without Salt or this Scotland Yard +man he was supposed to bring. Why doesn’t he do as he intended?” + +“Hush, dear,” said Alberta, “or Paula will have her Constable arrest +you and lock you up in the gate-house.” + +“He may appear later on, of course,” the American girl suggested, not +very hopefully. “You can trust me, though, to—” + +“Later? Later?” Crofts grumbled. “Are we going to be kept up all +night?” + +But now Paula Lebetwood ignored him. “Please follow me,” she said, +brushing past, and Crofts gave way. + +Like creatures under a spell we moved into the Hall, a place still +obscured from the moon and illumined now only by the pale ring of +lights from the chandelier by the gallery. I offered to switch on the +other chandelier, which hung near the chimney-piece, but she said she +wished it to remain dark for the present. While she spoke, she lit the +one bright globe beneath which Mrs. Belvoir had sat, and took her own +place beneath it. + +“Please interrupt me as little as possible,” she requested, +“especially in this early part where I know my way. I’ll try not to +waste time, though I don’t expect this to be a really short meeting. +No, don’t say anything, yet.” + +It was hard to repress some exclamation of wonder when I saw the two +women who sat in semi-darkness near the great expanse of the +chimney-piece. Very quiet they had been, and took no notice of us +while we entered. They seemed to be absorbed in the embers of the +fire, from which only an occasional blue flame winked like an eye. One +of them, the squatter of the two, seemed particularly aloof, and only +her flattish nose and broad forehead peeped beyond the queer +old-fashioned hood still drawn over her head. The other, who wore an +expansive coverchief, was taller and more stalwart, with a strong +face, large chin, and eyes which shone even in the gloom. She appeared +from time to time to take some interest in us and our proceedings. But +on the whole the presence of these foreign sisters was eerie and +evasive. + +More stolid than either of these appeared the bovine Constable who sat +near them and seemed to have them in charge. + +“Geewhilikins!” emitted Bob, and the state of Lib could be imagined +from the fact that she brazenly allowed him to clutch her hand and +keep it. + +Paula Lebetwood indicated the sisters Delambre with a gesture. +“These—gentlewomen: you know who they are, of course. Before to-night +is over we shall all be grateful to them for coming here. But it’s +late, I know, and you are all anxious to hear my—revelation; so I’ll +commence at once.” + +Her revelation! God grant that no prank of fate should cause _her_ to +be snared in whatever trap she was setting! + +“Don’t think, please, that I am certain myself what to-night’s result +is going to be,” she went on while we settled into our seats around +the shadowy board. “If I did, I wouldn’t waste your time. But I +think—yes, I am almost certain—that you will find out before you leave +your places. And perhaps I had better put this in evidence first.” + +She picked up the creased sheets of the telegram which lay on the +table before her and handed them to Charlton Oxford. “It’s the answer +to a wire Mr. Salt sent for me this morning. As you see, it’s from the +Welsh National Library at Aberystwyth.” + +“That is surely far afield,” remarked Ludlow. + +“It may seem so. But I believe that when Mr. Salt hears of it, he’ll +agree with me that it’s an important item in our list. In fact, my +Lord, it’s the keystone of my arch.” + +While his eyes travelled along the lines, Oxford’s face was blank. +Obviously he did not perceive the slightest link between the matter of +the telegram and the matter in hand. He was not even puzzled; he was +irretrievably befogged. + +“Will someone repeat it aloud, please? It will save so much time.” + +Crofts snatched the sheets from Oxford’s fingers and commenced to +read. The eagerness in his voice subsided while he went on to an +uncomfortable conclusion with an air that he was being made a fool. +Our confusion increased with rapt attention, but the sisters Delambre +seemed utterly uninterested, and I believe that the Constable had +already dropped into a doze. The message ran about as follows:¹ + + ¹ The original has been supplied. (V. Markham.) + + ADEQUATE DESCRIPTION MANUSCRIPT IN CATALOGUE MOSTYN COLLECTION TO + WHICH IT FORMERLY BELONGED STOP ORIGINAL NOW IN CARDIFF UNIVERSITY + LIBRARY STOP COPIES MAY EXIST STOP MOSTYN SAYS ELIS GRUFFYDD SELF + STYLED SOLDIER OF CALAIS WAS NATIVE GRONNANT UCHA IN PARISH LLANASSA + FLINTSHIRE LIVED ABOUT 1490–1560 STOP CUSTODIAN WINGFIELD PALACE + SEVEN YEARS BEFORE JOINING RETINUE AT CALAIS STOP BEST KNOWN AS + AUTHOR AND SCRIBE OF LARGE POLYCHRONICON IN WELSH IN TWO MANUSCRIPT + VOLUMES STOP FIRST BEGINS CREATION ENDING BATTLE OF HASTINGS STOP + SECOND CONTINUES TO 1552 STOP FOLIOS 365–657 CONTAIN EYE WITNESS + ACCOUNTS MANY TRANSACTIONS INCLUDING TRIALS IN STAR CHAMBER STOP NO + MENTION IN MOSTYN OF REFERENCE TO CWM MELIN OR AIDENN VALE STOP CAN + ASSURE YOU NO PASSAGE OF THIS MANUSCRIPT HAS BEEN PUBLISHED STOP. + +“May I have it back? Thank you. And now straight to the point. People, +I suppose you think that if we could only put our fingers down tight +on one person, our troubles would be over. I mean Parson Lolly—not the +Parson of Mr. Maryvale’s sad delusion, but the real one.” + +“I should say so,” remarked Crofts. + +“Well,” she said very quietly, “if there is one part of these +mysteries I know I hold the clue of, it’s the Parson. I _know_ who the +Parson is.” + +The tableful of us stiffened as if we had been plunged in an electric +bath. + +“Then who, who, who?” Crofts burst out. + +“You mustn’t excite yourself. There never was any reason to be excited +about Parson Lolly. Parson Lolly is a dud.” + +“Yes, he is!” hooted Bob incredulously. + +“Yes, he is, I tell you. I can’t believe for a minute that he has any +unusual power. You can hardly say that he has any power at all; at +least, it’s delusive rather than formidable. Why, he’s done nothing +but deliver threats and make gestures, and some of us have been +imagining we’re the victims of supernatural pranks.” + +“Supernatural or not,” growled Crofts, “I’ll give him a fine quarter +of an hour when I lay hands on him. Who is he?” + +The American girl looked him straight in the eye, severely, and he +subsided with vague rumblings. “Now, I stipulate that you shall do +nothing of the sort. If you intend to make this the excuse for working +off your surplus bad temper, I won’t go any further.” + +“I’ll go bail for him,” promised Alberta. + +“Oh, don’t pay any attention to me,” said Crofts. + +The American girl leaned her chin in her hand and studied the table +with thoughtful eyes. She spoke slowly, tentatively. “Suppose I set +the evidence before you and see if your conclusion isn’t the same as +mine. Beginning, perhaps, with that night Millicent wandered out on +the lawn, and I with her. It was the clock in the corner there that +started all the trouble; neither the Parson nor any human being here +could have foreseen the effect that melody would have on Millicent +when she heard it through her dreams. But somewhere on the lawn we two +collided, you might say, with a separate series of events. First of +all it was the devilish, goggling face that glared down at us from an +instant from the air. And let me remind you that it was not only an +enormous face—I was frightened, but I’m not exaggerating—it was also +high up in the air. We know the Parson is tall when he stands full +length, but even he can’t extend indefinitely. Well, we saw this +perfectly hellish face, just for an instant, and it hasn’t been seen +again—that way. Mr. Salt took most of it away with him when he left +the Vale this evening.” + +“What’s that?” jogged in Crofts. + +“Let me go on, please. The head was one thing. Then there was the +placard: ‘Parson Lolly sends regards. Look out for Parson Lolly.’ That +was the first of a number of such messages that have been found all +about the place, and why _this_ one, at any rate, should have caused +us such great alarm, I can only account for by supposing that we’d +caught the spirit of panic from the servants. On sober reflection, I +should think that that placard demonstrated a sort of ingenuousness in +Parson Lolly.” + +“A damned funny sort of ingenuousness,” remarked our host. “What about +the axe and the blood we found?” + +“I was just going to remind you of them. The blood, as you know, we +learned to be that of one of a batch of little pigs, and its carcass +was found this afternoon along with the head. As for the axe, you +remember that Doctor Aire pointed out how light and impracticable it +was, and how it had been removed from low down on the armoury wall. +The final thing was that Mr. Bannerlee’s hat had been deposited on the +lawn. The rest was merely excitement. I am able, though, to add a +point or two borrowed from Mr. Bannerlee.” + +I received a burning glance from Crofts. “From you? Have you been +holding something back all this time?” + +The American girl swiftly continued. “These are notes from the diary +Mr. Bannerlee commenced that night.” + +They all exclaimed, “Diary!” + +“Yes, yes; don’t be so surprised at everything, or we shan’t get +through. Don’t let them bother you, Mr. Bannerlee. A little later I’ll +say something more general about the diary, but now I confine myself +to a pair of small points. One is that while he came down the path +from the uplands to the Vale, he heard a voice somewhere in the fog +below, shouting—an indeterminate sort of voice with a quality he +couldn’t quite describe. Now, I believe that was Parson Lolly’s voice, +the same queer voice we heard the night before Mr. Bannerlee came. And +the second point is this. Late in the afternoon before Sean met his +death, Mr. Bannerlee was standing on the roof outside his window. +Crofts had told him how the sun strikes the tumulus in Great Rhos at +sunset. Mr. Bannerlee looked down, as it chanced, and saw a tiny piece +of rope beneath the parapet that runs along there. It was lying at the +edge of one of the merlons, which have been scraped fairly smooth and +have their corners sharp. It is my belief that this scrap was part of +the clothes-line rope and that it had something to do with Parson +Lolly’s visit the night the conservatory window was smashed, also on +the night previous to Mr. Bannerlee’s advent.” + +“Look here,” Crofts broke in. He had gradually been sliding to the +edge of his chair again. “Why can’t you give up beating about the bush +and tell us out and out?” + +“I’d have to go over it all anyhow,” returned Miss Lebetwood. “I’m +wondering if these straws seem to you to point the way I think they +do. You must let me tell this in my own way. There isn’t much more, +and for that I have to thank Mr. Bannerlee also.” + +“You mean my visit to the tower?” I asked. “The Superintendent could +help you there. He must have scoured the place long before me.” + +“He did, as it happens. But he left matters there as he found them, +and it was through reading your diary that I heard of the variegated +lot of objects which probably belonged to the Parson. For instance, +you found shavings from the pencil which had written the placards. You +also saw some splashes, unquestionably the blood of the little pig. +Then there were fragments of wood and scraps of crêpe, left over from +the construction of the head. Another thing was a pungent smell that +you couldn’t identify. I think that was all except a torn-off corner +of the title-page of a book; something ending in ‘CATTI.’ I would have +telegraphed for information about that, too, this morning, but when I +asked the Superintendent, he was able to tell me right away what the +book is. It’s been quite a common one in Wales for generations: ‘The +Adventures and Vagaries of Twm Shon Catti,’ who is described as a wild +wag of Wales. He was a real person two hundred years ago, Mr. Salt +told me, and a great many legends have sprung up about him, so that +his exploits as a highwayman and a hero and a man of chivalry make up +quite a readable book. It was borrowed from your library, Crofts, but +I noticed this morning that it was back in its place.” + +Our host now seemed sunk in meditative gloom. “What of it?” + +“Well, suppose I recapitulate. As I see it, the night before Mr. +Bannerlee came, the Parson intended to invade the House, but his plans +were awry. Although the head was made, he didn’t bring it with him; +this was to be an experimental sortie. He came by way of the kitchen +yard, and took down the clothes-line that was hanging there and +brought it with him. He made a loop, a lasso, with one end of the rope +and flung it up the side of the House until he succeeded in drawing it +tight about one of the merlons of the battlement. Then he began +shouting through a megaphone, and even if you had heard his voice +previously you wouldn’t have recognized it then. And he was still +shouting while he commenced to walk up the wall of the House.” + +I thought Crofts was going to levitate from his chair. “A megaphone!” + +“But, my dear young lady,” objected Aire, “the man must have had a +hand too many. I grant you, he might have hauled himself up the +outside of the House, but he’d need both hands for it; where does the +megaphone come in?” + +“You people will interrupt,” said the American girl. “The explanation +is simple. The megaphone came from old Watts’ storeroom, of course. +Don’t you remember that there are relics in there of early days of +sport—even some oars and a sliding seat from a shell? A rowing +coxswain uses a megaphone, doesn’t he, and there’s an attachment for +keeping it tight against his mouth while both hands are occupied with +the rudder chains. Parson Lolly, I imagine, can manage as well as most +coxswains. Anyhow, he _was_ climbing, and he _was_ shouting when his +foot slipped and there he dangled. Instead of letting go the rope, he +held on, and the result was that he began to sway back and forth. Of +course he tried to steady himself by reaching one foot out to the +wall, but instead of checking his momentum he kicked away from the +wall, and his pendulum swing carried him neatly through the window of +the conservatory. He wasn’t as much as scratched.” + +“Unbelievable,” declared Crofts. “And supposing by a miracle he wasn’t +cut to pieces, what became of him?” + +The American girl went on quietly. “When my brother was a high-school +lad, he had a soccer ball at home. One evening in an unlit hall he +stepped on it accidentally and it sent him clean through a glass door +without his losing a drop of blood. It isn’t an unusual thing, after +all. As for how the Parson got away, he really didn’t—then. You see, +the swing of the rope had gradually ground it to bits where it rubbed +against the sharpened merlon. When the Parson swung through the +window, the rope broke and he came down on his feet inside the +conservatory. Lucky for him, perhaps, that he did, if he wanted to +evade us, for all he had to do was to draw the rope in after him and +wait until we had spent our patience looking for him in the grounds. +None of us had a thought of searching inside.” + +“Well, I’m—” Crofts muttered, breaking off into stupefaction. No one +else said a word, only stared at the American girl, and waited. + +“That night we may assume Parson Lolly escaped as soon as the coast +was clear. But he escaped only to plan new mischief for the next +evening. And again his schemes miscarried. I think it is easier to +reconstruct what happened this time. For one thing, he brought the +head with him.” Crofts seemed about to break in, but desisted. “He was +carrying the blood as well; he must have slaughtered the piglet a +little while before he set out from the tower, for the blood had not +begun to clot. Earlier, he had been prowling inside the House and had +pilfered the little battle-axe and the cap belonging to Mr. +Bannerlee.” + +“But, dearest, you aren’t making it a bit clearer,” said Alberta. +“What could it have all been for?” + +“It was to give us the scare of our lives.” + +“And didn’t it?” muttered Oxford. “Dash him!” + +“But not as planned. Sean pointed that out at once, I believe. The +Parson’s intention that night was to stage a fictitious murder. There +were the weapon, the gore, and the hat which was to be discovered +reeking with blood. We were to find these things, and in the midst of +our excitement we were to be thrown into a panic when the head—went +off—probably somewhere on the battlement, or even above.” + +“The head, the infernal head!” + +“Yes, Crofts; it appeared when they dug it up this afternoon—Harmony +told me—that it had been constructed somewhat like a kite and could +have been flown quite easily. That occurred, in fact. When Millicent +and I inadvertently crossed the Parson’s path and he dropped +everything and legged it, the kite did fly up a little way, and +then—went off.” She addressed me. “When it crashed to the ground, Mr. +Bannerlee, the Parson still held the cord, and you distinguished the +head as a black mass sliding across the lawn.” + +“I grant you the kite and the rest of the fol-de-rol,” cut in Lord +Ludlow, in a voice like the broken edge of a cake of ice. “I fancy, +however, that this ‘going off,’ as you call it, needs more explanation +than you’ll readily find.” + +“The hellish thing couldn’t have been lit with a match like a +Hallowe’en turnip,” added Crofts. + +The American girl slowly shook her head and smiled. “On the contrary, +for me that was about the easiest guess of all as soon as I read how +Mr. Bannerlee smelt powder in the tower. Don’t you see, the Parson +must have carried a small dry battery connected by a length of wire +with the magnesium charge in the head? It was an ordinary flash-light +powder such as is used for taking photographs.” + +There was a long interval of sagging silence. I cannot speak for +others, but my own mind struggled with an obstacle it could not grasp. +There must be some egregious contradiction involved in this idea. +Flashlight! Who had owned a flashlight? + +“But, Miss Lebetwood, you yourself—it can’t be—you’re the photography +expert here. You didn’t—yourself—” + +“Wait a moment! I’ve got it!” Aire whistled. “Someone told me other +other day—you’d been teaching Toby how to take flashlight photographs. +Didn’t you bring down some old apparatus of yours and give it to him +last week?” + +“Quite right,” said the American girl. “It’s been Toby all along, of +course.” + +“Toby!” Crofts was only beginning to see the light. + +“Toby, who else?” + +“God!” Crofts seemed to choke for breath. “Do you mean to say that lad +killed Cosgrove—killed Heatheringham? I can’t believe it.” + +“He never killed anybody. Don’t you see, Parson Lolly has no +connection with these murders?” + +“Eh, what?” + +“Well, what do you know about that?” + +“I’ll be switched!” + +“I’ll be damned!” + +The American girl gave Ludlow a particular look. “It hardly needed the +new psychology to give us the right lead. I’m amazed, really I am, +that no one has thought of it before. Why, what activities did the +Parson engage in? His plots were just the sort of thing that an +artless—and artful—child would plan to frighten a grown person.” + +“Or a grown person to frighten a child,” appended Aire. + +“Yes, I think so, but there could be no such intention here, of +course. As soon as I got my wits about me the night Mr. Bannerlee +arrived, I suspected some juvenile escapade. The details unfolded to +fit the theory. There was the little battle-axe from low on the wall, +whereas the big ones hung out of reach. That later night, who but a +small boy could have crawled underneath the arch of the bridge in the +park when the Doctor and Mr. Bannerlee were so brisk on his trail? +Then there was the book: hardly anyone but a lad nowadays would take +much interest in a work as naïve as ‘Twm Shon Catti.’ A boy, however, +might be much struck with it, and it probably fired Toby to emulation +of Twm—a bloodyish emulation. There was his cloak, too—that was rather +puerile, although it was a neat dodge all the same.” + +“Where does the neat dodge come in?” I asked. + +“Why, to add to his stature. A tiny Parson Lolly would be in danger of +being identified with a boy, if there happened to be a boy in the +neighbourhood. That was the reason for the exceedingly large and +flowing garb. He must have had strapped to his shoulders one of those +contrivances that magicians use to ‘produce’ objects, an apparatus +that could be folded or extended by pressure on some spring. No wonder +Millicent and I saw no head on him! That sort of stunt is as old as +conjuring, I believe, and the appliance probably came from the +exhaustless variety of old Watts’ attics.” + +The American girl leaned back in her chair, settling her head against +the leather and closing her eyes, as if grateful for a chance to rest. +The accumulation of details which she had picked out left no doubt +whatever that the houseful of us had been hoaxed and flummoxed by a +child, that Aidenn Vale was Cock Lane repeated on a twentieth century +scale. + +_But it could not be!_ + +There were facts, cold, stony facts, that loomed mountain high, +cutting off this path. These facts could not be avoided. + +“But, Miss Lebetwood!” I cried hoarsely, “it won’t do.” + +“Won’t do!” resounded the voice of our host, a man of imponderable +mind. + +“The placards!” I insisted. “Why, I remember clearly the one in +Cosgrove’s room had been left after Toby had gone to wherever-it-was +to fetch my bag—absolutely no question about that. That afternoon, +too, the one Mrs. Bartholomew picked up by the library tower: I’ll +swear by the beard of the Prophet it wasn’t there when I went past a +few minutes before the tragedy occurred. And Toby was peeling potatoes +then. It’s inconceivable—absolutely inconceivable—that he could have +had anything to do with them.” + +Her eyes still shut, Miss Lebetwood said quietly, “I think I can tell +who it was. Not Toby, I’ll admit, but that doesn’t alter the rest of +what I’ve said about him. Toby didn’t write those placards, or leave +them, and I am sure he knows no more about them than he knows +about—that one there!” + +The hair at the back of my neck prickled, and my spine seemed to be +wriggling in convulsions. A dozen cries, loud or stunned, sounded as +if from one multi-vocal throat. For the American girl’s eyes were open +now, and her arm pointed to the musicians’ gallery. Indistinct, +hanging outside the bright zone of the globe, but unmistakable, a +fifth placard was suspended from the rail of the balustrade. + +“My God!” + +“I’ll take oath that wasn’t there when we came in,” declared Crofts, +and many voices supported him. + +It was I who rose like a brisk automaton, kicked my chair back against +the wall, and sped up the stairs to the gallery, where I had never set +foot before. The placard hung by a black thread attached to a pin. I +seized it, carried it down to the light. Now we might have been some +multi-headed creature studying the inscription: + + T O n i g H T m y L A s t N i G H t B e S t R E G a r d s + P A R S O N L O L L Y + +Only the American girl remained limp in her chair, not bending forward +for a sight of the words. While my gaze, as it must, fell on her and +lingered there, ever such a shadowy smile crept from her lips to her +eyes. + +“Good people, good, good people, please don’t misjudge me. That +placard has been hanging there since long before you came in. You +didn’t see it because you weren’t on the look-out for it.” + +“You knew it was there?” Crofts boomed. “And you didn’t warn us?” + +“Warn you? Against myself?” + +“Against yourself, dearest?” cried Millicent Mertoun, her face +suddenly worn with anxiety. + +Miss Lebetwood said, “I wrote that placard. I wrote it this evening +and put it up there after Marvel’s crystal-gazing to-night. I did it +just to show you that anybody could make a placard like that. This is +the fifth, and perhaps the four others were done by four different +persons.” + +Accompanying the last words of her speech, the first strokes of twelve +began to sound from the clock in the corner. There was a spell in the +sound of its old music. We were hushed. + +For the only time I saw Lord Ludlow’s face absolutely grey with fear. +“There’s something moving in the wall!” + +“Not in the wall—on the wall!” + +Indeed, high up, above our solitary light, something rubbed and +scraped near the portrait of Sir Pharamond. From somewhere else in the +room came a soft murmur, as of a smooth-running reel. Belvoir caught +hold of the bulb by its brass top and raised it overhead. Within the +brightness now, the colours of the portrait were sharper and more +brilliant than they had appeared in the austere dimness of the Hall. + +But Sir Pharamond was not still; he writhed and rocked, and a loud +outcry was evidence we saw the blood oozing from the wound upon his +cheek. + +A moment later down fell Sir Pharamond with a sound of splintering +wood and ripping canvas. The wall where the portrait had been was +quite smooth and blank. + +The quiet chime of the old clock had not ceased to ring. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +The Purr of the Cat! + +Blood on the pallid cheek of Sir Pharamond, and his downfall, as had +been prophesied in the olden time! I saw no one else, heard no one +else, only gaped at the ruined portrait and was conscious of the +clock’s melodious voice. An epoch seemed to pass before my senses +ceased to dance, and I found myself one of the faltering semicircle +which closed about the shattered portrait. + +But beyond the area of brightness I made out indistinctly the most +amazing thing of all. The sisters Delambre sat by the fireplace +precisely as they had been since we entered the Hall. The short, +stodgy one seemed quite absorbed in the flickering embers; the taller +of the two had merely turned her head in our direction. Even the +Constable seemed bereft of reflexes. This lack of surprise, this +apathy, this uncanny silence impressed me just then as a thing more +incredible than the disaster close at hand. + +I still stared at the strange pair, while conscious that Aire had +slipped before us, standing over the wreck of the portrait. He turned +and faced us, and the small voice of the man seemed charged with a +booming importance. + +I heard him vaguely. “I told Salt,” came in somewhere, and then, +“Crofts put me up to it, really.” + +“You’re crazy, crazy,” claimed Crofts. + +“I tell you it never would have happened if you hadn’t been so +fractious this morning. I said this sort of thing might conceivably +take place. Well, it has, that’s all.” + +Eve Bartholomew ventured. “You mean that you—you—” + +“Very simply indeed.” Aire hunched his shoulders appreciatively. “A +matter of two spools and a bit of string connected with the mechanism +of the chimes. A scurvy conjurer’s trick; that’s all. I apologize.” + +“But the blood!” I cried in a sudden access of emotion. “Spools and +strings don’t produce blood. I saw it oozing from the cheek!” + +Aire smiled, shook his head slightly. “No, they don’t. But then, you +didn’t see blood oozing from the cheek.” + +Half a dozen hot affirmatives contradicted him. + +“I tell you no. You’re all acquainted with the prophecy of the bloody +cheek, and you were all hypnotized.” + +“Don’t try to tell me,” bullied Crofts, brushing the little man aside +and bending to the wreckage. + +Aire smiled dryly. “That’s not blood, you see; it’s painted blood.” + +“Wh-at!” cried Crofts, holding up a portion of the canvas. “You daubed +this stuff on my painting?” + +“Not I; Maryvale. And that’s not your painting, by the way.” + +Crofts could only mutter. + +“Don’t be disturbed, my friend. This portrait is a rush order, as they +say in America, a copy done for me this afternoon by Maryvale. You’ll +find the original under his mattress, poor chap.” + +“Well, of all—” Crofts relapsed into dumb glowering. + +Aire made a slight movement of disdain. “Why be so upset? It was only +a trick—a cheap trick, I admit—and I take the full responsibility, +ladies and gentlemen. I almost wish it hadn’t occurred, but dogmatic +people sometimes get on my nerves. And now let’s forget about it and +get back to the table; we were really learning something there. Paula, +I hope this hasn’t too awfully disconcerted you? You can go on with +it?” + +She forced a smile. “Yes, certainly. Do come on, people; it’s getting +awfully late.” + +We returned to our places not much more comforted than when we had +sprung from them a few minutes before. It was all very well to speak +of parlour tricks, but there was no ease in sitting around the table +in that darkened room with those images of lethargy dwelling by the +fire, and no cheer in waiting through the lonesome night, wondering +from what direction some new terror might leap upon us. But there we +were. + +“. . . bearings of Sean’s death,” Paula Lebetwood was saying. She went +on in a strange voice: “He was struck and fell dying where I found him +by the tower. Then the weapon, as we now know, was hurled down there, +too. But we have to admit that as far as we can tell none of us could +have been at the tower at that time. Nobody except Wheeler met Sean—or +will admit he did—after our quarrel in the Hall. So, stated in those +terms, there is an irreconcilable contradiction in Sean’s death. Only +there is no contradiction save in words; for we know, well enough, +that somebody _must_ have struck him, and therefore somebody must have +been there. + +“In Mr. Heatheringham’s death there were differences, though in some +respects it was much the same. In the first place, he must have seen +something hostile or there would have been no revolver shot. The trail +of blood across the floor, too, showed what had been the murderer’s +line of retreat. But the most unusual thing, surely, is one that +Doctor Aire can explain better than I. Will you, Doctor?” + +Aire looked at her inquiringly. “I suppose you mean the +rigidity—cadaveric spasm, as we call it? What do you want me to—?” + +“It shows something about the way he was killed, doesn’t it?” + +“Yes, it does. The topic is of great interest to one of my profession; +we come across it so seldom, save on the battlefield. We know +something about it, though, enough to be sure that there are certain +definite predisposing factors.” + +She nodded. “Yes, I meant that. Please go on.” + +“_Sudden_ death is one, and death due to violent disturbance of +nervous system. Then the last contraction of the muscles during life +persists with more rigidity even than in the usual _rigor_.” + +“I’m sure you people see what I mean by harping on these gruesome +things,” said the girl. “Thank you, Doctor. This abnormal state of +things taken with the shot through the broken window proves that Mr. +Heatheringham was killed right where we found him. I mean he couldn’t +have been bludgeoned outside—say where I found Sean lying—and have +crawled back into the Hall and raised himself to the window to fire at +whoever might have been there. So far, we have no idea who was with +him; yet I think it must have been one of the servants or one of +us—more likely one of us.” + +No one chose to say anything in the brief silence she left. Presently, +in a fresher tone, she resumed. + +“That’s how the problem stood yesterday: just death, simple and +inexplicable—violent death without a real motive—violent death without +an agent, apparently. Even the discovery of the stone has been no help +in finding the agent; anybody could have grabbed a stone from the +rockery.” + +Crofts muttered, “Why go over all that again? We’ve known it from the +start.” + +“I apologize. I only mentioned those things to go on to say that it’s +useless to think about them any longer. We could continue for weeks +and months mulling over motive and method—mulling over time and place +and all the rest of it that makes an endless circle. Last night, +though, I thought of a new way.” + +“New?” the words sprang from Belvoir’s lips. + +She paused and looked about the table. “I—I’m a little nervous about +telling you my idea. The thing was, I suddenly thought of Mr. +Bannerlee’s diary.” + +“That’s a fine one!” I put in ironically. “You thought of it when +nobody but Crofts and Heatheringham had ever heard of it—unless +Heatheringham told Salt!” + +“As it happens, I’ve known about it all along. A few minutes before +luncheon the day of Sean’s death, you and Crofts came upstairs to the +first-storey landing together. I had changed after playing tennis and +was just going downstairs. Although the two of you suddenly lowered +your voices when you saw me, I had already heard you, Mr. Bannerlee, +say that you had been up till nearly morning and had done more than +five thousand words. Crofts said he hoped you had got it straight, and +that left no doubt what you had been writing. But I was much too +polite, then, to let you know I guessed what you were doing. . . . And +before I go on, people, let me say that as far as I can tell, no +record has ever been written with fewer mistakes.” + +“Thank you,” I acknowledged. + +“Humanly and”—here she slipped in a smile—“archæologically speaking, +that is. You can’t expect one person to write a story that would +satisfy every question that flits through another person’s mind. I’m +not sure that I like his style, either,” she remarked, rather +abstractedly, “though you couldn’t judge it very well in that +fragmentary state—except, I think, he fancies his power of description +and likes to make a passage effective now and then. But while I read, +I began to feel the diary was just suited to the purpose I had in +mind.” + +“Which was—?” said Lord Ludlow, who gave the impression of +long-suffering patience. + +“I wanted to find the killer without bothering how he killed. I +expected the diary would help me to look on all you people divested of +my own prejudices. Through the diary I could judge you more fairly, +and more strictly than I could in my own mind. Meeting you there would +be like meeting new persons, all of you except Crofts and Alberta +being new to Mr. Bannerlee. The diary is really full of side-lights on +people and little bits of character. Maybe, though, I was expecting +too much from Mr. Bannerlee. How could he come to know us in a day, or +a week? He couldn’t. He saw us only from the outside and the diary +reveals only the outside of us. Without being disrespectful either to +you or to Mr. Bannerlee, I must say I was reminded of clowns in a +circus. Most of us seemed to be doing the same thing over and over +again. Ted Belvoir and Lord Ludlow were eternally carrying on a silly +debate; Eve was making a fresh prophecy every day, and not one of them +came true; Crofts seemed to be growing grouchier every time he was +mentioned; Gilbert Maryvale spent most of his afternoons leaving +cryptic remarks about, so to speak; Lib’s mission in life was talking +gibberish to Mr. Bannerlee. Everyone seemed to be posing as an idiot, +quite an innocent idiot. Well, it turned out that my most important +discovery in the diary wasn’t a character after all, but a fact.” + +“A fact you didn’t know before?” asked Belvoir. + +The American girl smiled faintly. “First of all, though, if Mr. +Bannerlee doesn’t mind, I want to tell you the big secret he’s been +keeping from us. Do you mind, Mr. Bannerlee?” + +I bowed the responsibility on to her shoulders with a smile. “I think +you should tell us beforehand how you found out—what you did. I’d like +to know myself.” + +“I was going to. People, you remember the other day, Mr. Bannerlee +went on the hilltops again, and he was so taken with the view of +distant mountains that he drew sighting lines on his map to show which +ones were visible. The sighting lines, of course, were drawn from the +same spot, and that spot was on Whimble. After orienting his map, he +squinted across it, looking toward the Malvern Hills and the Black +Mountain and elsewhere to establish lines of vision. He could even see +to Plinlimon; that’s about thirty miles away. You did see Plinlimon +that day, didn’t you?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Well, that was how I knew you hadn’t been on Whimble, whose highest +point has an elevation of about 1950 feet. The highest point on +Plinlimon is less than 2500. Thirty miles apart and only five hundred +feet difference. Now, if Mr. Bannerlee stood anywhere on Whimble and +he looked toward Plinlimon, Great Rhos, just across the Vale, would be +between him and the mountain. Great Rhos is a flattish sort of hill, +and its elevation is 2166. Think that over.” + +“How idiotically, infernally stupid of me!” I cried. + +“But I don’t see—” said Eve Bartholomew blankly. + +Others about the table uttered exclamations that showed their +understanding or betrayed their confusion. + +The American girl turned to Mrs. Bartholomew. “You see, dear, if you +were nineteen feet high and wanted to see something ten yards away +that was five feet higher than you, you couldn’t do it if there was a +wall a foot higher than you less than a yard away.” + +To give her credit, Mrs. Bartholomew grasped the point instantly. But +she still was dubious. “Then how did Mr. Bannerlee see the mountain?” + +“He must have been somewhere else.” + +“But you said he _said_ he was on Whimble.” + +I laughed. “No, I didn’t say so, Mrs. Bartholomew. I was satisfied to +let people think so, though.” + +“Why was that?” interjected Lord Ludlow sharply. + +The American girl turned to him. “He wanted to reserve a little share +of glory for himself. Why should he have told us his special secret, +or even write it down in the House, before he knew what kind of people +we were? I think Mr. Bannerlee was very sensible.” + +I smiled, recalling a somewhat different reaction to my +“antiquarianism” that afternoon. + +“But what does it all mean?” Mrs. Bartholomew came in plaintively. + +“That’s what I wondered this morning,” answered the American girl. +“Mr. Bannerlee, I suppose by this time you know the reason why I took +that campstool; in fact, you had written the reason yourself +somewhere. ‘What a difference a few feet make in the prospect!’ You +are a bit taller than I am, and there was just that barest risk that +you could see further from Whimble than I could. But when I reached +the tippy-top of the hill and set my campstool there and stood on it, +I knew I had as good a chance as you of peeping over Great Rhos. But I +couldn’t. So I knew you must have been somewhere else when you saw +Plinlimon, and I could only suppose that the reason you’d hidden your +whereabouts was your discovery of the oratory, after three hundred +years.” + +“The oratory!” Doctor Aire reached out a hand to me. “My +congratulations, Bannerlee!” + +“And mine!” said Belvoir. + +“After three hundred years!” + +“The oratory!” cried Lib. “Bannerlee, you’ve been false to me. +Couldn’t you trust lil’ Lib?” + +“So that was it,” muttered Crofts. “You needn’t have been so close +about it.” + +“Really a downy bird,” giggled Alberta. + +I faced the American girl. “This is almost—gratuitous, you know. These +unfortunate people are waiting for you to cast some light upon their +darkness, not to herald any trifling discovery of mine.” + +“Yes, I _had_ better be getting on toward solving the mystery, if +we’re ever to be done to-night. The queer thing is that guessing about +Mr. Bannerlee’s discovery is what put me on some sort of a track. In +fact, if Mr. Bannerlee’s matches hadn’t given out that afternoon he +saw the rainbow, I never, never would have seen the path—that sounds +like a figure of speech almost, and a paradox, but I mean just that.” + +“Matches!” + +“Yes, Mr. Bannerlee, by the time you had reached the House you might +have been excused for thinking Fate was playing with you. And, by the +way, people, a little while ago Mr. Bannerlee explained to me how he +had brought his quarto of Sylvan Armitage to Radnorshire with him +after all. Naturally, when he left it in the oratory by chance, he did +not care to tell us about it, on account of his precious secret. So he +had just recovered his copy and was bringing it down the Vale with him +that afternoon.” + +“Aren’t you going to get out of the sixteenth century?” inquired +Ludlow. “It seems to me that you are leading this discussion along the +lines of a wranglers’ tea-party.” + +“Do forgive me for wasting so much time. The Book of Sylvan Armitage +interests me so much; indeed, it helped me tremendously. Mr. Bannerlee +caught me reading it the other night; did he tell you?” + +“Nothing criminal in that,” said Belvoir. + +“N-no, but it was slightly—unconventional. The passage where Armitage +happened upon the oratory was an admirable parallel to Mr. Bannerlee’s +account in his diary, as I learned later. Yes, I came to be very glad +indeed that I had stolen down at midnight to get the Book. . . . Now, +people, I can’t go any further without telling you another secret +about Mr. Bannerlee. He won’t forgive me for this, I’m afraid. But +he’s not only a gentleman and a scholar”—I suppressed my indignation +at this outrageous statement—“not only a discoverer of things so old +that they are new—he is also an altruist!” + +I bowed my head giddily under this monstrous charge, and heard her go +on to say: “He is defending one of us, one, I think, whom he had never +seen before!” + +If dismay were a sign of guilt, there was not an innocent one among +them. Their alarm testified, I think, to the fact that they had hoped, +and hope begot belief, that the crime would be traced at last to +someone outside the Vale. They had all been innocent to each other +before; now to suppose the murderer sat among them was a shock as +great as murder itself. + +“Someone in this room?” whispered Crofts in a voice far different from +his bullying voice. + +“Someone at this table?” asked Eve Bartholomew. + +“Someone at this table.” + +Belvoir made a show of pulling himself together. “See here, Bannerlee, +is this true?” + +“That’s not a fair question, is it?” said the American girl. “Mr. +Bannerlee cannot know how much I know about—” + +I said, “Frankly, Miss Lebetwood, you are not being as direct as you +promised to be. I am at a loss as to the ‘altruism’ you refer to. Tell +us plainly what you mean, and perhaps I can be of some assistance. You +are mistaken if you believe that I would shield anyone for a moment +who had deliberate murder at his door.” + +“That’s fair. Well, my trump-card is that I know who burned the +evidence that incriminated one of us; no matter how I know. You burnt +it, Mr. Bannerlee, you yourself.” + +Their haggard white faces were turned on me. I felt my cheeks flush. +“I think you are alarming our fellow-guests without good reason. Why, +granting, as you believe, I _did_ drop the paper in the fire, and +supposing there were the least connection between the writer and the +crime—which seems improbable—the mere fact that the Book at this +moment belongs to Crofts’ library doesn’t indicate that one of you +discovered the parchment during some visit here and filled an idle +hour doing its contents into an obsolete style of English. None of +you, as far as I know, are Celtic experts.” + +“Emphatically!” declared Lord Ludlow, fixing a reproachful gaze on the +American girl. “Miss, you are confusing a wild shot in the dark with +the reasoning process. This piece of translator’s work, probably done +by someone outside this Valley and quite unknown to us, can have no +connection with any atrocity committed here. You are far afield, and I +do not think you will help us much unless, as I said, you lift us from +the plane of a wranglers’ tea-party.” + +“You may be right,” she confessed. “I shan’t try to convince you. But +it was a tempting lead. And surely it’s not true to say there’s no +connection between the parchment story and events which have occurred +this week.” Elbows on table, she rested her head on her hands, +speaking very thoughtfully. “For instance, in the old story Hughes +related after lunch that day he called this place the castle on the +mill-site. An old, old map in the library gives Aidenn Vale as ‘Cwm +Melin,’ which means ‘Mill Valley,’ I’ve learned, and that is what the +Vale was called in the manuscript; do you remember? The parchment +explains, too, what was meant by the ‘spanning and roofing of the +waters,’ one of Mr. Maryvale’s mystifying utterances. It referred +simply to the fact that when Sir Pharamond built his second castle +here, he roofed in the Water; I suppose the present stream beyond the +towers is a deflected one and the channel where Sir Brooke was found +is the original course. That may seem far-fetched, but the proof is +that Doctor Aire took from Sir Brooke’s forehead a splinter of the +petrified wood of the mill-wheel itself. When Sir Brooke was carried +down the subterranean stream, his body must have collided with the +edge of the mill-wheel, and passed on. Mr. Bannerlee, in his +expedition to the cellar, must have actually seen the casing of the +wheel, all overgrown with hideous fungi. So there _are_ connections, +of a sort.” + +“Quite interesting in the abstract,” said Ludlow tartly. “We are +looking for something, however, which has a tangible link with a crime +of violence. May I suggest that if you have nothing more to offer us, +this meeting adjourns?” + +She had not lifted her head; her fists ground into her forehead. “I +shall try to satisfy you, sir, again with Mr. Bannerlee’s assistance. +I think you will recall that there was a sentence in the parchment to +the effect that Sir Pharamond disposed of his enemies ‘with no more +trouble than snuffing a night-light.’ Now, within five minutes after +reaching the House, Mr. Bannerlee discovered a curious thing. Looking +through the armoury window, he saw _you_, Ludlow. _And what were you +doing there? You were snuffing a candle that stood in the old bracket +on the wall!_” + +Ludlow’s chair was flung back. He was on his feet, putty-faced, +staring at her in utter consternation. + +“Are you accusing me?” + +Before she could answer, our attention swung to the other end of the +Hall. From somewhere in that semi-darkness came a muffled rasping +sound, as of some huge beast that purred. + +Crofts was on his feet now, with eyes that strained to overcome the +gloom. He called, “What’s that?” + +Aire strode half-way to the fireplace, turning his head this way and +that. “There _is_ something moving in the wall this time. Only where?” + +“No!” I shouted, above the increasing hubbub. “IT’S THE PURR OF THE +CAT! The purr of the cat means death! Clear the Hall!” + +But I was too late. A glaring light leaped from nowhere, light so +intense it pierced the brain. The walls and roof blazed with white +fire. The persons in the Hall were like figures of clay, presented and +fixed for all eternity in one or another cast of horror. Some had +cowered back beneath the gallery, some had their hands before their +faces, some were forever fleeing, foot lifted, toward the door. + +The Constable and one of the sisters had retreated from the +chimney-piece, while the other woman stooped low before the fireplace. +A thing with the size and form of a man had been lying there at their +feet, unseen. In this white instant I saw the woman grasp this figure, +raising it above her head. + +The collapse of the mantelshelf—a black projectile flying toward me +and veering away—a stunning crash—a long greedy laughter rising from +below, clutching us, tearing us, subsiding in a sudden burst of +silence. + +Darkness succeeded light. The strong arm of the Delambre woman still +held the man upright: a headless body. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +The Crash + +Again I smelt powder. + +In tingling silence some of us crossed the Hall and regarded the +headless thing. Belvoir lit the other chandelier, and in its sparkle, +to my immeasurable relief, the figure proved to be the scarecrow which +had served in the sisters’ field. The woman who had stooped in the +fireplace and held the effigy in the path of the leaping, swinging bar +sat in her chair, again impassive. I noted her admirable hands, strong +and hairy like a man’s, her face, broad and full of flesh, but firm +and capable. The bumpkinish policeman touched me on the sleeve and +pointed to the table, a sign we should keep to our own end of the +Hall. + +I noted a disturbance there. Crofts, towering over the American girl, +shook her with rude fingers clamped into her shoulders. + +“You—you—” + +While I returned to our group, I was struck with the curious feeling +that someone was missing there. Someone had slipped out. Vaguely I +wondered who it had been, and whether his absence would be revealed +when we took our places once more. But we were not to sit down +together again that night. + +The American girl had drawn away from Crofts and stood looking at him, +not angrily, but with a certain speculation in her gaze. My blood +rushed up when I saw her white skin bruised by the marks his fingers +had made. She said, “You think I—?” + +“Murderess!” That was like Crofts. + +Several of us protested at his folly; the rest were horrified into +dumbness. + +Her steady gaze did not fail. “You do suspect me. So did Mr. +Heatheringham—and Mr. Blenkinson has done me the honour also. But I +didn’t do it, people, and—sometimes—I wonder if anybody did . . . at +least in the sense we’ve been thinking.” + +“Nobody did! with that damned engine—that thunderbolt! Nobody did!” + +“Don’t shout so. That engine, as you call it, was Mr. Salt’s discovery +this afternoon while the House was cleared. I had nothing to do with +it just now.” + +Crofts’ jaw fell. “Cleared? The House cleared? There wasn’t anything +in this ‘lost’ business?” + +“Very little. I did want to find Mr. Bannerlee’s oratory, but +principally I hoped to draw you kind people out of the Vale. Mr. Salt +and I have been associated in a lawful conspiracy. He and the Scotland +Yard Inspector—” + +“Who?” + +“The Scotland Yard man. He was to arrive at New Aidenn by motor early +in the afternoon since the trains were slow. While the House was +empty, they investigated, and found this machine. Mr. Salt expected +something like it. This was the real weapon, of course; that stone +half buried in the loam was a blind.” + +“You’ve known this—long?” + +“How could I? I had a hint of it when I kept finding in so many places +how the old castle here was built on a mill-site: Cwm Melin, you know. +It even happened that Mr. Bannerlee knew that name and that name only +for this place. He had never heard of Aidenn Vale.” + +“The devil with Bannerlee. What’s a mill got to do with it?” + +“The mill-wheel, don’t you see, winds up the spring of the machine. It +must be quite automatic, and I dare say at this moment the cat’s +claw—I suppose that’s what it is—the long heavy arm of iron, is ready +to leap out again.” + +Doctor Aire’s face revealed a ferment within. “By jingo—I think I have +it. That mocking roar—hideous—was the sound of water tumbling into a +cistern, or a heavy cask. Then if the cistern discharged over the +wheel, the gear actuating the arm would wind until—yes, by thunder, +that’s it!” + +“What’s what?” + +“We heard the purr. That was the gear winding against the resistance +of the spring—a sword-spring, perhaps. When the tension exceeded the +strength of the spring, the accursed thing let fly. There must be a +shaft. . . .” The Doctor lapsed into mumbling. + +“Beneath the perfidious tree!” screamed Mrs. Bartholomew so suddenly +that we all jumped. “What does that mean?” + +Miss Lebetwood answered, “There was once a cross—see the traces—carved +on the chimney.” + +Aire had his eye shrewdly on her. “We can credit you with the +flashlight, can’t we?” + +She nodded. “Yes; the camera’s in the gallery, and there were powders +attached to several places on the wall. Constable Pritchard +manipulated the electric button that ignited them. I hope we have +obtained a decent picture of the claw in mid-air.” + +“But who—who’s responsible?” asked Mrs. Bartholomew plaintively, with +outspread hands. + +“Dead too long to make any difference,” said Aire. + +“Could this, er, machine last for centuries?” Crofts demanded, +shouldering his way to the Doctor. + +“For millenniums, without oiling,” returned Aire. “Why not? The really +important thing is—” + +“I’ve got it!” I cried. “About your question, Mrs. Bartholomew. +Remember, Miss Lebetwood, what Maryvale told me the day he finished +his picture? Someone, he said, of the house of Kay. And, by heaven, he +was right!” + +“The really necessary thing,” persisted Aire, “is to dismantle this +machine without getting killed. It will be ticklish work, though, +since it’s automatically prepared to lunge out with its claw on five +seconds’ notice. We’ll have to make a start with the cistern and the +wheel.” + +“That’s not the first thing, Doctor,” said the American girl. + +Aire turned toward her in surprise. “Nothing can be more urgent. You +wouldn’t leave this thing for a night or for an hour, would you, like +a gun primed and cocked? Why, at any moment, sooner or later, the +equilibrium—” + +“I think not, and if we hear the purr again we can keep our distance. +Something needs to be done, however, before you take the machine +apart. We must find the real murderer.” + +We gave vent to all kinds of sounds, mainly incredulous. + +“Listen! We have _not_ discovered yet the person here who knows Welsh +and whom Mr. Bannerlee is shielding.” + +I commenced a vain “I haven’t admitted—” but my speech was charged +down. + +“I can prove you are!” she cried. “Yes, sir! I want to know why you +are shielding him, or her. All day long I haven’t got my mind off +those matches you wanted so badly after recovering your own copy of +the Book. Do you know, it’s my belief you knew you were carrying +evidence dangerous to someone, and you wanted to destroy it before you +reached the House. I think it was the translation you actually did +destroy later on.” + +“Look here—” put in Crofts, reaching out a hand. His face might have +been that of a man sinking under water for the third time. “Look +here—” + +“Crofts!” cried Alberta, her eyes bright with agony. + +“The parchment and translation were in old Watts’ copy,” Belvoir +snapped. + +I doubt if she heard them, intent as she was on the molten stream of +her thought. “This translation, done off-hand, betrayed someone of us +who had a competent knowledge of Welsh and consequently a head-start, +at any rate, in knowledge of the cat’s claw.” + +“It was in old Watts’ copy,” muttered Belvoir. + +“When you came into the library, Mr. Bannerlee, you were about +satiated with your attempts to burn the paper. But even if you +couldn’t destroy it, you could get it off your person, and you did +that. You told how you ‘reached your hand up into a dark corner,’ and +you might have added ‘and changed my quarto with the one on the +shelf.’ What happened a few minutes later when you and Lib were +looking over your copy? A flake of moss fell to the floor; Lib must +have noticed it, for you were scrupulous to mention it in the diary, +and you passed it off with some remark about careless dusting. But I +read in Armitage about moss, and I read about mossy stones in the +diary, and I’ve seen plenty of mossy ones around the oratory, and you +can’t tell me that the copy with the parchment in it wasn’t the one +you’d left up there last week. So I imagine you knew well enough what +Lib had found when she called out to you while you were leaving the +library.” + +“How absurd!” I cried. + +“‘Imagine’ is a well-chosen word,” said Lord Ludlow crisply. “I am not +much edified by this botanical excursion. You can’t accuse a man of +being accessory to murder because of the way he turns a phrase.” + +“Thanks, Ludlow,” I nodded. “There’s no need, really—” + +“The thing I am driving at,” said the American girl in a quiet little +voice that drilled its way into our brains, “is that you, Mr. +Bannerlee, wrote the translation yourself. There is no other +conclusion, is there?” + +“Wilder and wilder!” I exclaimed. “This is too bad, Miss Lebetwood, +when you’ve realized all along that I have no knowledge of Welsh.” + +Our speech had settled into a duel with unmerciful give-and-take. “Are +you sure? Consider this: In the diary your early references to the +Welsh language were all natural and ambiguous, which puzzled me +mightily when I came to other things later on. Then I saw that you +must be taking advantage of those early references to conceal the fact +that you are really quite adept in Welsh.” + +“Took advantage? That’s rather strong, isn’t it?” + +“Well, just think. You made a pun on the name of St. Tarw, which means +‘bull.’ You even went out of your way to use an American expression, +that it was a ‘bully name.’ A little later, when the man you call the +gorilla-man shouted at you in Irish, you knew quite definitely that he +did _not_ shout in Welsh, although Welsh and Irish belong to the same +race of languages, and that particular expression must sound about the +same in one language as in the other. + +“But these were trivial compared with the point they hinted at, and +that telegram there clinches the point. You told Lib all about how you +read Ellis Griffiths’ history, and now we know the manuscript has +never been printed, let alone translated.” + +She came close to me, still speaking, and I yielded a step before the +accusations she flung out like weapons. “You destroyed the manuscript +you yourself had made. You hurled the stone from the rockery into the +earth from the balcony outside your room. And at the same time you +dropped the placard the wind carried down to the corner of the House, +and it was you who left the earlier placard in Sean’s room that +morning when everyone else was downstairs.” + +My voice sounded horribly ineffective in its attempt at surprise. “You +accuse _me_! You accuse _me_—of—?” + +“I do, I do! Haven’t I been putting you on your guard all morning and +all afternoon—ever since I showed you the campstool? Haven’t I been +telling you what I know and hinting what I’ve guessed? Haven’t I done +enough—?” + +My laugh, to show contempt, was also a failure. “Preposterous. It’s +a—vertebrate without a skeleton: your theory. I didn’t want to kill +your lover. What motive could I have had?” + +Those blue eyes could be as sharp as steel. She seemed to be the +embodiment of intellect become passionate. “Motive? Something +overwhelmed you stronger than any motive: impulse. If you had thought +two minutes, Sean would be alive to-day. You had motive, yes, though +I’m ashamed to describe it, but the impulse dwarfed the cause behind +it, for once. You had been thinking about it, hadn’t you, ever since +the night before, and all day long, or there would have been no +threatening message in Sean’s room—but it was that chance, that chance +in a thousand that settled it. I understand now what has always seemed +to me the greatest mystery of all: the motive you had for the diary +and the tremendous trouble you took in writing five thousand words +overnight.” + +“I set down the reason plainly: I wanted to clear up the muddle we all +were in.” + +“That may have been so when you took up your pen, but before you laid +it down the diary had become a greater thing than any mere alignment +of facts; it had become your defence! You were someone else, Mr. +Bannerlee; the bright and cheery, affable, not-too-scholarly, +antiquarian and athlete—all that part of you subservient now to +something else: Iago!” + +“Who was Iago?” asked Mrs. Bartholomew with troubled mouth. “Something +in Shakes—” + +“The spider spins its web with all its cunning bound up in instinct. +While you spun your web, Mr. Bannerlee, all your cunning was bound up +in intellect, and you loved each shrewd knot and strand. Yes, that was +it; you came to be in love with artifice, you laughed in your sleeve +at Salt and Doctor Aire and Heatheringham and me—all people who were +trying to break through your web.” + +I had hold of myself now, in spite of the tumult of my heart, and +could return blow for blow. “What nonsense! What a fool I’d be if I +killed a man to preen myself for intellectual superiority. I tell you +again, I never wanted to kill your lover. What reason had I?” + +Her eyes fell for a moment before mine, and a little storm of wrinkles +crossed her brow. “Impulse, impulse, I said, didn’t I? I think you +wrote of it, three times at least. That first night by the tower—when +I and the Parson’s sign were together inside the circle your torch had +cast? Again, after Sean and I had quarrelled, and yet again as you +walked up the Vale in the twilight and could not forget the quarrel. +Afterward too, when you were so depressed on learning that I was to be +immensely rich. You covered it well, oh, yes! But could I fail to know +what was tugging at you all the while?” She raised her eyes to mine +for a long, grave look. “I suppose you would call it being in love +with me, wouldn’t you?” + +I fought down the thing in my throat. “And suppose I was—suppose I +am—what difference does it make? Must I plead guilty to a crime I +never dreamed of because I had the bad luck to take a fancy to the +face of a woman who’s denied to me? I was well enough when I walked on +the mountain and felt as if I could move the earth. I wish to God I +had stayed up there, and not come down into this place where Fate +takes the strings and plays her hellish tricks!” + +She gave me the most mournful look I have ever seen on any face. +“That’s why I can’t despise you, you know, though I’ve tried. I can’t +look on you as a—a thing of horror. You’ve played the game right +through: you put down every prevarication and evasion you had made, +and then you let me read the diary. You just—gave yourself away, and +did it without a murmur. When you were up there alone on the Forest +and exulted in your loneliness, you were a man any woman would have +given a lot to march beside. And then you came down here among us—and +how quickly you proved that all our gods have feet of clay.” + +My indignation howled at highest pitch. “I tell you for the last time +that I deny absolutely the trumped-up charge you keep senselessly +repeating.” + +She shook her head. “Denial’s no good. Do you think, as everyone seems +to believe, that terrible machine worked by chance just now, by some +overplus of pressure or loss of equilibrium? No, Mr. Bannerlee; a man +set the cat purring and the claw lunging. Do you know where he is?” + +Silence. . . . + +“A man did it?” I repeated, my voice parched and scraping, my body +numb as a block of wood. “A man—did it?” I remembered I had felt that +one of us had secretly left the Hall. But no—that had been after the +deviltry of the machine. + +“A man in this House—in your room, Mr. Bannerlee. Twelve-fifteen was +the time set.” + +I saw faces leaping and jigging around me, one of them with great blue +eyes and crown of golden hair swinging enormous toward me and swinging +giddily away again. The door into the corridor, which I had not seen +opened, was suddenly closed from outside. I heard a sea of voices, and +above them shot out the voice of Crofts, booming like a huge wave: + +“But my God, how was it done?” + +“They found out this afternoon,” said the American girl, “and Mr. Salt +scratched off a few details for me. The mantelpiece is as old as the +castle, and looks and feels sound enough, but it swings down by means +of an invisible hinge. The claw operates it. The claw must be +articulated in some way with a shaft driven from a water-wheel in the +wall below. The purring sound from the clash of the teeth would draw +anyone toward the fireplace, just in the path of the flying bar as he +stooped to find where the noise came from. The blow was so terrific it +drove Sean through the opening of the french windows, to crawl a yard +or two—and die. Heatheringham was already dead when he was hurled +against the glass, and his arm striking upward and through the pane +that way caused the revolver he was carrying cocked to explode. I +think—that’s all.” + +She had recited all this with the most studied coolness and precision, +this account of the machine—a device surely the creation of a haunted +and tortuous brain. The account completed, the driving-force which had +sustained her was gone, and she looked weary almost to haggardness. +Pity and shame and grief wrenched me for the part I had played in the +fatal story. When Mrs. Belvoir ended her close-lipped listening of an +hour with a querulous question, I heard someone, Alfred Bannerlee, +speaking as if from far away. + +“I’ll tell you about that. It was the cats’ heads stuck everywhere +about here that made me wonder if I hadn’t dropped into Cwm Melin, as +it was called in the parchment account. ‘Hear the cat purring under +the perfidious tree’ was fresh in my mind. There was a cat’s head on +the firearch, and there had been a cross above. I can’t say that, er, +gave the show away, but it stirred me up a bit. Upstairs, though, when +I saw the bracket on the wall and thought of ‘no more trouble than +snuffing a night-light,’ an idea seemed spread out as plain as an open +book. I never thought of the mechanism as a certainty, only as a +possibility—barely that. I swear that when I tugged with my razor +strop and brought the wretched bracket down, I had no idea what might +happen. From what I hear, there must be some sort of weighted valve +controlling the flow from the cistern to the water-wheel. A chain from +the bracket operates the valve and sets the whole damned business in +motion. But I didn’t understand that then. It was all like a +dream—what happened—” + +The faces passed into a blur again, jerking up and down. Voices roared +and voices were thin echoes shivering into silence. Everything was +moving, even the sisters Delambre. One strode across the room like a +tempest, tossing her garments this way and that. The other came +waddling after, and was engaged in a mighty struggle with her hood. +The hood came away, revealing a goodly beard. + +A comic-opera transformation had taken place. Suddenly it was Salt who +was standing before me, Salt and a giant of a man with beefy face. +Salt’s expression was ridiculous, for he was doing his best to make it +stern and menacing. The words in the air seemed to come from his lips: + +“Quietly, Mr. Bannerlee.” + +Then I thought that I had fainted. But I had not; instantaneous, utter +darkness had swept into the Hall. + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +Rescue + +Like an imbecile, I waited stock-still in the darkness for the light +to return. The sudden eclipse, however, had checked my foes as well. I +heard their footsteps cease like those of men who had walked over a +cliff. + +Not a gleam penetrated the murk. There were cries for light, and +someone tried to scratch a match, ineffectually. I began to move. + +I partly lost my balance, lurched against a man, and heard his +Lordship’s bitter plaint from the level of my knees. I blundered into +the passage without disabling anyone else. Intuition kept me from +blundering toward the front entrance; later I realized that would have +been too obvious a way. I groped to the left, feeling along the +right-hand wall. + +I seemed to wake up in the dinner-room. + +Someone else was in there. I heard an anxious whisper: “Bannerlee +. . . Bannerlee . . . that you?” + +I recognized a friend. “Yes.” + +From the invisible a small, damp, clutching paw clasped my hand. “You +gotta get out of this. Out the window. Snap into it.” + +We were together on the east lawn, running. Thank God the moon had +gone down. Thank God the servants were asleep. + +“It’s a—wise egg that knows—its own rooster. Bannerlee, your +offsprings—couldn’t spot you—as the bloke that finished Cosgrove. Step +on it! I can—keep up.” + +“What happened to the lights?” + +“I happened to ’em—that’s all.” + +We approached a black smudge across the greater dark: a band of trees. +We entered into their depths. I stopped, held her back. + +She whispered frantically, “Step on it! You can’t stay here!” + +“No, but I have to decide what comes next. Steady on! Don’t worry +about me; I’ll come clear. What did you do? Are the lights finished +for good?” + +“Did you notice I’d sneaked out? I was afraid the lid ’ud blow off, +soon and I wanted to do my bit. I had the dickens of a time finding +the fuse-box in the kitchen. I pulled off the handle of the big switch +com_pletely_, and gave the rest of the works a kick so a lot of stuff +fell down to the floor. I also cut the telephone connection into bits +to round off a good night’s effort.” + +“Wonderful. I’m surprised you weren’t killed by the current.” + +“Never mind wonderful. I know my electricity. All in the good cause. +Only step on the gas!” + +“By Jove, I will!” I cried, divining the sense of this saying. “I must +get a tin of petrol—no, two tins. First, though, listen. Will you do +something more for me?” + +“Yes, yes—anything. But make it snappy.” + +“I want my diary. Get hold of it and wait for word from me. Where can +I write you safely?” + +“You’re crazy. They’ll trace you sure as—” + +“Not if you do this right. The book is in the desk drawer in my room. +It’s not locked. It’s your part to conceal the thing, here, until the +wind blows over a bit. The police will believe I have it, and I want +it—for a good reason. Eventually you can recover it and mail it to the +name and address I write you. Where can a letter reach you safely?” + +“I don’t know. American Express, London.” + +“No good. Are you going to be in the Continent this winter?” + +“I think so. Mummy’s hipped on Nice.” + +“American Express, Nice, then. You can send for my letter if you don’t +go there after all. By the way, it will be addressed to Miss, er, +Sarah Vale. Can you remember?” + +“Yes, yes; I’ll write it down when I get in.” She hung on my arm +imploringly. “Step on it now! You’ll get caught if you keep hanging +around with these by-the-ways and can-you-remembers. My God, you’ve +only a couple o’ minutes’ leeway. I don’t see how you’ll make it.” + +I laughed and patted her shoulder. “My dear Lib, I have a start of at +least two hours, probably more. But I shan’t be foolhardy and lessen +the time I have. Goodbye, Lib. I can never thank you for what you’ve +done.” + +“Good-bye forever, Bannerlee.” Dim white arms reached around my neck, +and her lips touched mine in a brisk little kiss. “I’m awful sorry +Paula had to spill the beans. She took the line Cosgrove was her man, +and—and all that sort of rot. Say you aren’t mad at me, or anything. +’Cause I’m to blame for all this trouble, I guess.” + +“No! How could you be?” + +“I saw you drop the translation in the fire that night, and like an +ass I let Paula find it out. But I didn’t mean any harm; honest I +didn’t.” + +I touched her cheek with my fingers. “You’re absolved, little Lib. It +could have made no difference, eventually. You’re going to be Mrs. +Cullen some day, aren’t you?” + +“Oh, gee, I don’t know. I s’pose I’ll have to be, to get some peace +and quiet.” + +“I shall send you a beautiful present from Central Africa or Siam or +elsewhere. May I kiss the bride again?” + +I might. And yet again. + +I turned away, but swung back. “Tell her—I’ll never forget her. And +I’ll always be sorry for the pain I’ve caused her. That’s all.” + +“I will; sure I will. But, Bannerlee, I want to say something. I think +it’s the limit a real man like you has to light out because something +happened to that doggone Irishman. I think it’s a goldarn pity Paula +couldn’t have fallen for you—hard. Then she would have kept quiet if +they’d torn out her finger-nails, instead of seeing her duty and doing +it to-night, like a fool. I’m awful sorry. _Now step on it!_” + +She glided and glimmered away. I was a lone outlaw against the world. + +Not a moment squandered now. I dashed for the stables, with which I +was fairly familiar. Cautiously using my torch, I penetrated the +section transformed into the garage. A minute later, with two petrol +tins hugged to my breast, I fled down the Vale for life. There had not +been a single shout from the environs of the House. + +I carried the tins across Aidenn Water and set one down, returning +with the other to the temporary log bridge, which I must burn behind +me. It must have made a comfortable blaze, soaked as it was with +petrol, but I could not stop to witness this holocaust to Mercury. + +Salt’s car was waiting there. I deposited the emergency tin of petrol +in the rear, jumped in, and had no difficulty in starting the engine. +The key had been left on the dashboard, as I knew it would be. With +the fire rising behind me, merrily I rolled out of the mouth of the +Vale to the main road and toward New Aidenn, embarking on a brief +career of constructive vandalism. + +My object was to cut off for as long as might be the communications of +my enemies, the inhabitants of the earth. The torch revealed that +along the edge of the road eight or ten telephone wires were strung, +but shortly before entering the town I jumped out of the car, +clambered up the short pole, and with the aid of gloves and other +things in the tool-box snipped both right and left. + +There were no street lamps in New Aidenn, I had heard, and I thought +it safe to assume that no constable would venture out of doors there +as late as one o’clock in the morning to recognize my borrowed motor. +Not a soul was stirring; the Police Station was dark. I passed through +safely, and halted the car on the other side of the town to give some +attention to the wires running that way. + +My destination was Hereford, but I had until nearly three o’clock to +reach there, and no danger of my losing my road. So I often halted in +my journey when I had passed a village which might contain a +telephone, in order to secure it from business too early in the +morning. Thus I reached Hereford about ten minutes before the +north-to-west express was due. + +I left the useful car in an alley near the station, hoping it would be +recognized about dawn and not until then. When the train was puffing +beside the platform, I boldly applied at the window for a first-class +ticket to Exeter (I had been about to say “Bristol,” when I happened +to think “Don’t be so childishly obvious, like an ordinary criminal. +Let Salt think he’s up against a real antagonist.”) I explained that I +had intended to drop off at Hereford, but would not break my journey +until further on because a person I had met on the train told me there +wasn’t a decent hotel in the place. I needed some excuse, of course, +for the fact that I was not wearing hat and coat. The booking-clerk +seemed rather sleepy, and I remained a little longer talking to him, +to insure that he would remember me. + +Then I boarded the train and entered a first-class compartment where a +gentleman was sleeping. His hat and coat, however, would not fit me. I +merely scraped some of the mud (quite distinctive mud that said +“Aidenn Vale” as plainly as words) on the floor there. I thought of +leaving more “clues,” but decided not to butter the bread too thick. I +passed on to another compartment in search of vestments. From a +gentleman who was slumbering with his head hanging off the seat I +obtained not only hat and coat, but a mackintosh which from a distance +would look just as well inside-out. + +I then found an empty compartment and sat there, wearing my new-found +raiment, until the engine snorted and hunched its shoulders and +commenced crawling southward. When the train had left the platform, I +glanced from the off window to insure that the station yard was dark, +then unlatched the door and dropped safely to the ground. + +All immediately required was to keep out of sight until the +corresponding express from west to north should come in. It should +have arrived a quarter of an hour afterward, but to my disgust it was +late, and I had a worried thirty minutes among some coals. I devoted +the time to cleaning my boots with my handkerchief, which I stuffed in +my pocket, to be burned later. At length the express pulled in, and +when all appeared ready for departure, I walked quickly up the track +beside it. The south-bound platform was deserted now. This fact +enabled me to choose an empty compartment and enter it by the off +door. + +Suddenly remembering my plans for the morrow, however, I stepped out +on the platform and bought some fruit from a yawning lad who conducted +a buffet on wheels. I had thought at first of stealing the stuff, but +buying it would be less ostentatious. When I had paid for what I had +chosen, I took the first opportunity to steal quite a bit more. + +I had really been very lucky. During my absence from the compartment, +tickets had been inspected and doors locked. Lacking a ticket for this +particular train, I might have been embarrassed. Now I walked +hurriedly toward the end of the train, past the ticket-inspector, +around the rear coach, and along to the off door of my empty +compartment again. + +I rode north. + +At Shrewsbury I alighted for precaution just before the train drew +into the platform, and re-entered my compartment when the engine had +been changed. Near Crewe I definitely abandoned the train, climbed the +bank of a shallow cutting, and got over the hedge. It was still rather +dark, but I had no difficulty in finding a satisfactory bit of +woodland where I might lie hidden all day. + +I was staking everything on one chance, that Paula Lebetwood had +remembered the references to the Bonnet yacht and that my +ticket-taking and perhaps the mud from my boots would serve to +concentrate the attention of the authorities upon Bristol. If Jack and +Mary hadn’t altered their plans, they would be slipping out of harbour +this morning with the tide, probably five hours before the dogs of +righteousness would arrive hungry at the docks. It seemed reasonable +that the authorities should assume that I was aboard the barque. I +knew for certain that she carried no wireless, and that barring an +unexpected encounter there was no chance of police disillusionment +until she put in in Norway—or Africa. + +I intended never to be seen unless for urgent cause, and then, if +possible, by the under-intelligent. Empty compartments on fast trains +by night were to be had for the taking, and even if the expresses +should be crowded, the stopping trains were available, though on them +it would be necessary to turn out at every station. In the barely +credible contingency of my being nipped and made to pay my fare, I had +plenty of money, for I had cashed a fairly large cheque before setting +out for Aidenn Forest, and I had not stopped to tip the servants +before leaving Highglen House. The train by night and secluded slumber +by day; these were indicated for my recovery. + +I shall not detail my week-long, decidedly boring expedition to Hull. +After a couple of days my personal appearance became run-down, and I +dropped into a small market town on market day, asked a constable +directing traffic to assist me to a hairdresser’s, found the place +down a dark dead-end and up a shaky stair, and enjoyed a haircutting, +shampoo, and shave. I told the attendant that I looked and felt a new +man, bought a packet of safety-razor blades, tipped him enough but not +too much, chatted pleasantly about the price of heifers, and departed. + +About nine that evening, in a restaurant in a larger town, I expressed +a predilection for pickled walnuts. + +Not long afterwards I stepped out of a station wash-room, an +unobtrusive dark gentleman to the roots of my hair, with eyebrows that +gave a special appearance to my face. + +I carried a passport, thanks to Jack and Mary. From Hull one Albert +Barrerdale sailed eight days after Alfred Bannerlee had stumbled out +of the Hall of the Moth. Praises be for the men who are supposed to +scrutinize the details on passports, and don’t. + + +Now on my Mediterranean island (whose name, pardon me, I do not mean +to give) I enjoy perpetual sun and the fruits of never-ceasing summer. +I might rest here secure for the term of my natural life, and I might +achieve a sort of happiness, for here no sensuous pleasure is withheld +from man. Air, sea, and land conspire to lull the soul, and at night +from the village creep up strains of music sweet and spicy. I might +remain—but I think I shall move on. + +The Bonnets saved me; no doubt of that. Overweening sleuth-hounds met +a sharp rebuff three months later when the Bonnet barque, not having +touched at any port, returned to Bristol dock. The emphatic statement +of Jack and Mary that I had not been on board, a statement which they +later attested in order to dispel public mutterings against their +veracity, stunned the police, who had been sitting back and waiting +for me to be delivered up to them from India or Madagascar. The hounds +then were willing, but found no scent. Moreover, since I had not been +aboard the barque, they _knew_ that I could not have escaped from +England, knowledge that must have proved rather a hindrance than a +help. + +The diary reached me in a picturesque village in a small Balkan +country. Its disappearance that night, by the way, gave rise to the +amazing belief among several of my fellow-guests that I had secreted +myself within the House, and the consequence was a general desertion +next day. After receiving the pages, I carried them with me for weeks +before lighting on my isle and commencing my work anew. Now the +manuscript is ready to return, rounded, coherent, and decked with +proper ornament. + +My purpose? I have done it for _her_ sake. I don’t care a penny for +the gaping world; all I ask is, let this book stand as the monument of +an ardour which exceeded the orthodox. Let it be a fantastic tribute +to a mistress who never can be mine. Let it take the place of a sigh +and a sob for love’s labours lost. While I handled and recast this +matter, I lived near her again in Highglen House, shared hours that +held all life’s sweetness, and remembered that she did not despise me! + +If I may offer a suggestion to you who are to receive this manuscript, +I advise that you present it unaltered to the public as a piece of +fiction, with the name of some obscure but ambitious author upon the +title-page. And if he will be so generous, I trust that Lord Ludlow +will write a foreword to give the thing the stamp of reality. + +I trust, finally, that I may be forgiven if I remark that this is the +_last_ that will ever be heard of me. + +Paula! + + + +THE COMMUNICATION OF APRIL 17, 1926 + +No matter where I am. It is a different place from where you think, +and it will be no good tracing this letter, for you’ll find only that +you are mistaken. The man who is going to take it to Rangoon and mail +it two months hence, is an outcast like myself and will certainly keep +faith. + +Occasionally a paper gets through to me from England, and I read it +with more or less amusement. Bloodthirsty wretches, the English, who +would like nothing better than to see me suspended between time and +eternity. But it shall not be. + +There has been some discussion as to what “really” happened the +evening Maryvale attempted to shoot the cat. One copy of a newspaper I +came across contained a sort of symposium on the subject. One or two +letters came near the simple truth, which was that, being afraid of +Maryvale’s revolver, I took the chance which was offered to remove the +bullets from as many cartridges as I could, managing to insure that +his first three shots would be ineffective. Hints that I deliberately +intended to craze the poor fellow, for whom I had a sincere liking, +are false. + +Through Lord Ludlow my diary has reached the authorities upon +guarantee that it will not be confiscated, and from official +announcements it seems they believe it to be an equal mixture of +necessary truth and designing falsehood. To my astonishment, moreover, +they have reported that it is a masterpiece of indiscretion—which is +nonsense. About myself, to be sure, I have perhaps written a thing or +two that most men would not care to have known of them during life. +But I am dead. Yes, in all that concerns life as I knew it, my +friends, my studies, my pleasures—in all that matters—I am dead. The +authorities, however, scoff at the diary, and adduce the “mystic +bone.” + +Fools! The episode of the bone hanging white in the gloom was not +invention, or delusion either. It was the white patch on Cosgrove’s +head while he waited in the darkness and surveyed the Hall, planning +Noah’s Flood and the crisis which would arise when Sir Brooke met the +gorilla-man. The close-cropped nape of his neck between his black hair +and the black collar of his sportsman’s coat, and the knobs that were +his ears—I did not comprehend at first that these were what I saw. +When my amazement and alarm had subsided, and I realized that Cosgrove +was in there—I think I hated him then. His odious behaviour toward his +intended wife and the sinister hint beneath Bob’s bitter outbreak had +rankled. My survey from outside my window a minute later happened to +prove that no one was in the immediate vicinity of the Hall. Otherwise +I should hardly have felt the sense of satisfaction snug at the heart +of my shivering soul when—after the bracket had given way—I realized +that _something had happened_! But not until I reached the lawn did I +know that it had happened to Cosgrove. I shall never be sure in my +inmost soul whether or not I was quite aware that this trivial act +might loose some destructive force—whether I am a murderer or the toy +of Fate. + +They say, however, that the placards I left and the stone I cast down +from the balcony convince me of malice prepense. They do not, though +they seem to do so. + +The placard I left in Cosgrove’s chamber that morning (the bottom of a +cardboard box I found in the store-rooms) meant no more than what it +said: mischief. I never had any delusion about the supernatural aspect +of Parson Lolly; indeed, the stressing of that element had made +me a little suspicious of Cosgrove himself. Celts do odd things. I +believed that for some clandestine reason he might be behind the +manifestations, and I thought it would be good sport to play his own +game against him. I merely proved to be wrong. + +The second placard was a flash of inspiration, after the bracket had +given way and pandemonium burst out below me. There might be a way of +shifting the onus, if anything actually catastrophic had taken +place!—if there _had_ been a cat’s claw, and—! Parson Lolly again! It +did not take twenty seconds to dash into the storeroom, find the cover +of the same box, scrawl the words, and fling the placard out of the +window for the wind to carry. Later I destroyed every scrap of the +box. + +The stone I pitched down late that night. It was an obvious +afterthought, and a good one. + +As for Heatheringham’s death, it was black misfortune and nothing +else. It appears that on account of Cosgrove’s Will he looked askance +on Paula Lebetwood, but even had he suspected me, I do not think I +could have been so callous as to wipe him from the earth in a bloody +smear. I was doubtful that minute in my room, which was the more +prudent course for me: to dash the bracket down, creating a new +disturbance, or to leave it untouched. Prudence certainly decided to +let the accursed thing alone, but one moment’s recklessness defied +prudence. I solemnly assert that I believed the Hall was empty and +Heatheringham somewhere in the twilight north of the House. + +Salt, it seems, was a shrewder fellow than his appearance betokened. +He had suspected me from the first night he came to the House. “The +way he looked at Miss Lebetwood, or rather the way he avoided looking +at her, set me thinking”; such are the words which commence an +interview given to one of the more lurid newspapers. Salt’s homely yet +somehow handsome face, accompanied by well-combed beard, adorns this +report, which concludes with an irony I suppose must be accidental: “I +am glad Mr. Bannerlee didn’t injure my car.” + +While irony is fresh in mind, irony was never more dramatic than in +that business of the water-wheel, facts they found when the claw was +dismantled and the channel investigated. That the Knight’s dead body, +blundering down the channel, should have dislodged the obstruction +which otherwise would have prevented the wheel from turning and the +claw from darting out! So Sir Brooke, elderly and infirm, stumbling to +his death, fulfilled his mission after all. + +I have received a message from Lib, and I may as well close with that. +It was transmitted to me through an American newspaper, by means of a +simple “dictionary” cipher code I explained to her in a farewell +letter from that Mediterranean isle of mine: + + “Dear Bannerlee Paula’s going to marry a guy named Frank Andrews she + knew here in the States before she bumped into Cosgrove Bobby and I + too as soon as Bobby is twenty one the first boy will be named after + you why not I hope you are not too sad in that place wherever you + are and I wish you could come and see us sometime but I guess you’d + better not a plain-clothes policeman says good morning to me every + day when I go round the corner so it wouldn’t be healthy for you + here I sure wish Paula had met you before this Andrews or Cosgrove + there would have been nothing to it and everything would be rosy + Paula is terribly sorry but she doesn’t hate you Love Lib.” + +Well, some day in the forties, when the Radnorshire riddles are buried +in oblivion beneath the ashes of a hundred other mysteries—I shall +return! I shall visit little Lib, and find it difficult to recognize +in her matronly staidness a trace of the dash and frankness of her +liking for me. Perhaps, too, I shall pat that “first boy” on the head. + +Shall I dare to see _her_? Or, shall I stand outside her lighted +window, remembering. That would be better, I believe. I can be nothing +to her then, but once— + +After all, she did not despise me! + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + +This transcription follows the text of the Jacobsen Publishing Company +edition published in 1928. However, the following alterations have +been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the +text: + + * “Pharmond” has been changed to “Pharamond” (Preface). + * “morsal” has been changed to “morsel” (Chapter IV). + * “catridge-belt” has been changed to “cartridge-belt” (Chapter VII). + * “rerespectively” has been changed to “respectively” (Chapter X). + * “rcok” has been changed to “rock” (Chapter XV). + * “scyamores” has been changed to “sycamores” (Chapter XXI). + * “criss-crosing” has been changed to “criss-crossing” + (Chapter XXII). + * “mose” has been changed to “most” (Chapter XXIII). + * “Mrs Belvoir” has been changed to “Mrs. Belvoir” (Chapter XXIII). + * “Whimple” has been changed to “Whimble” (Chapter XXIV). + * “had same funny bits” has been changed to “had some funny bits” + (Chapter XXV). + * Five occurrences of mismatched quotation marks has been repaired. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75273 *** |