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The Green Eyes of Bâst

by Sax Rohmer · English · Gutenberg #15323 · 442,104 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Green Eyes of Bâst

Author: Sax Rohmer


        
Release date: March 11, 2005 [eBook #15323]
                Most recently updated: April 13, 2025

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREEN EYES OF BÂST ***




THE GREEN EYES
OF BÂST

BY SAX ROHMER

AUTHOR OF

"_The Golden Scorpion_," "_Dope_," "_The Hand of Fu-Manchu_,"
"_The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu_," "_The Return of Fu-Manchu_,"
"_Tales of Secret Egypt_," "_The Yellow Claw_,"
"_The Quest of the Sacred Slipper_," _etc._


A.L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with Robert M. McBride & Co.
Copyright, 1920, by

ROBERT M. MCBRIDE & Co.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Printed in the
United States of America_




CONTENTS


CHAPTER PAGE

     I. I SEE THE EYES                                   1
    II. THE SIGN OF THE CAT                             12
   III. THE GREEN IMAGE                                 22
    IV. ISOBEL                                          32
     V. THE INTERRUPTED SUPPER                          41
    VI. THE VOICE                                       52
   VII. THE CAT OF BUBASTIS                             63
  VIII. MY VISITOR                                      73
    IX. THE VELVET CURTAIN                              84
     X. "HANGING EVIDENCE"                              95
    XI. THE SCARRED MAN                                105
   XII. I DREAM OF GREEN EYES                          117
  XIII. DR. DAMAR GREEFE                               125
   XIV. THE BLACK DOCTOR                               135
    XV. I RECEIVE VISITORS                             147
   XVI. THE GOLDEN CAT                                 158
  XVII. THE NUBIAN MUTE                                169
 XVIII. THE SECRET OF FRIAR'S PARK                     177
   XIX. THE MAN ON THE TOWER                           187
    XX. GATTON'S STORY                                 198
   XXI. IN LONDON AGAIN                                212
  XXII. THE GRAY MIST                                  225
 XXIII. THE INEVITABLE                                 240
  XXIV. A CONFERENCE--INTERRUPTED                      251
   XXV. STATEMENT OF DAMAR GREEFE, M.D.                263
  XXVI. STATEMENT OF DR. DAMAR GREEFE (CONTINUED)      273
 XXVII. STATEMENT OF DR. DAMAR GREEFE (CONCLUDED)      285
XXVIII. THE CLAWS OF THE CAT                           300
  XXIX. AN AFTERWORD                                   309



THE GREEN EYES OF BÂST




CHAPTER I

I SEE THE EYES


"Good evening, sir. A bit gusty?"

"Very much so, sergeant," I replied. "I think I will step into your
hut for a moment and light my pipe if I may."

"Certainly, sir. Matches are too scarce nowadays to take risks with
'em. But it looks as if the storm had blown over."

"I'm not sorry," said I, entering the little hut like a sentry-box
which stands at the entrance to this old village high street for
accommodation of the officer on point duty at that spot. "I have a
longish walk before me."

"Yes. Your place is right off the beat, isn't it?" mused my
acquaintance, as sheltered from the keen wind I began to load my
briar. "Very inconvenient I've always thought it for a gentleman who
gets about as much as you do."

"That's why I like it," I explained. "If I lived anywhere accessible I
should never get a moment's peace, you see. At the same time I have to
be within an hour's journey of Fleet Street."

I often stopped for a chat at this point and I was acquainted with
most of the men of P. division on whom the duty devolved from time to
time. It was a lonely spot at night when the residents in the
neighborhood had retired, so that the darkened houses seemed to
withdraw yet farther into the gardens separating them from the
highroad. A relic of the days when trains and motor-buses were not,
dusk restored something of an old-world atmosphere to the village
street, disguising the red brick and stucco which in many cases had
displaced the half-timbered houses of the past. Yet it was possible in
still weather to hear the muted bombilation of the sleepless city and
when the wind was in the north to count the hammer-strokes of the
great bell of St. Paul's.

Standing in the shelter of the little hut, I listened to the rain
dripping from over-reaching branches and to the gurgling of a turgid
little stream which flowed along the gutter near my feet whilst now
and again swift gusts of the expiring tempest would set tossing the
branches of the trees which lined the way.

"It's much cooler to-night," said the sergeant.

I nodded, being in the act of lighting my pipe. The storm had
interrupted a spell of that tropical weather which sometimes in July
and August brings the breath of Africa to London, and this coolness
resulting from the storm was very welcome. Then:

"Well, good night," I said, and was about to pursue my way when the
telephone bell in the police-hut rang sharply.

"Hullo," called the sergeant.

I paused, idly curious concerning the message, and:

"The Red House," continued the sergeant, "in College Road? Yes, I know
it. It's on Bolton's beat, and he is due here now. Very good; I'll
tell him."

He hung up the receiver and, turning to me, smiled and nodded his head
resignedly.

"The police get some funny jobs, sir," he confided. "Only last night a
gentleman rang up the station and asked them to tell me to stop a
short, stout lady with yellow hair and a big blue hat (that was the
only description) as she passed this point and to inform her that her
husband had had to go out but that he had left the door-key just
inside the dog-kennel!"

He laughed good-humoredly.

"Now to-night," he resumed, "here's somebody just rung up to say that
he thinks, only _thinks_, mind you, that he has forgotten to lock his
garage and will the constable on that beat see if the keys have been
left behind. If so, will he lock the door from the inside, go out
through the back, lock that door and leave the keys at the station on
coming off duty!"

"Yes," I said. "There are some absent-minded people in the world. But
do you mean the Red House in College Road?"

"That's it," replied the sergeant, stepping out of the hut and looking
intently to the left.

"Ah, here comes Bolton."

He referred to a stolid, red-faced constable who at that moment came
plodding across the muddy road, and:

"A job for you, Bolton," he cried. "Listen. You know the Red House in
College Road?"

Bolton removed his helmet and scratched his closely-cropped head.

"Let me see," he mused; "it's on the right--"

"No, no," I interrupted. "It is a house about half-way down on the
left; very secluded, with a high brick wall in front."

"Oh! You mean the _empty_ house?" inquired the constable.

"Just what I was about to remark, sergeant," said I, turning to my
acquaintance. "To the best of my knowledge the Red House has been
vacant for twelve months or more."

"Has it?" exclaimed the sergeant. "That's funny. Still, it's none of
my business; besides it may have been let within the last few days.
Anyway, listen, Bolton. You are to see if the garage is unlocked. If
it is and the keys are there, go in and lock the door behind you.
There's another door at the other end; go out and lock that too. Leave
the keys at the depôt when you go off. Got that fixed?"

"Yes," replied Bolton, and he stood helmet in hand, half inaudibly
muttering the sergeant's instructions, evidently with the idea of
impressing them upon his memory.

"I have to pass the Red House, constable," I interrupted, "and as you
seem doubtful respecting its whereabouts, I will point the place out
to you."

"Thank you, sir," said Bolton, replacing his helmet and ceasing to
mutter.

"Once more--good night, sergeant," I cried, and met by a keen gust of
wind which came sweeping down the village street, showering cascades
of water from the leaves above, I set out in step with my stolid
companion.

It is supposed poetically that unusual events cast their shadows
before them, and I am prepared to maintain the correctness of such a
belief. But unless the silence of the constable who walked beside me
was due to the unseen presence of such a shadow, and not to a habitual
taciturnity, there was nothing in that march through the deserted
streets calculated to arouse me to the fact that I was entering upon
the first phase of an experience more strange and infinitely more
horrible than any of which I had ever known or even read.

The shadow had not yet reached me.

We talked little enough on the way, for the breeze when it came was
keen and troublesome, so that I was often engaged in clutching my hat.
Except for a dejected-looking object, obviously a member of the tramp
fraternity, who passed us near the gate of the old chapel, we met
never a soul from the time that we left the police-box until the
moment when the high brick wall guarding the Red House came into view
beyond a line of glistening wet hedgerow.

"This is the house, constable," I said. "The garage is beyond the main
entrance."

We proceeded as far as the closed gates, whereupon:

"There you are, sir," said Bolton triumphantly. "I told you it was
empty."

An estate agent's bill faced us, setting forth the desirable features
of the residence, the number of bedrooms and reception rooms, modern
conveniences, garage, etc., together with the extent of the garden,
lawn and orchard.

A faint creaking sound drew my glance upward, and stepping back a pace
I stared at a hatchet-board projecting above the wall which bore two
duplicates of the bill posted upon the gate.

"That seems to confirm it," I declared, peering through the trees in
the direction of the house. "The place has all the appearance of being
deserted."

"There's some mistake," muttered Bolton.

"Then the mistake is not ours," I replied. "See, the bills are headed
'To be let or sold. The Red House, etc.'"

"H'm," growled Bolton. "It's a funny go, this is. Suppose we have a
look at the garage."

We walked along together to where, set back in a recess, I had often
observed the doors of a garage evidently added to the building by some
recent occupier. Dangling from a key placed in the lock was a ring to
which another key was attached!

"Well, I'm blowed," said Bolton, "this _is_ a funny go, this is."

He unlocked the door and swept the interior of the place with a ray of
light cast by his lantern. There were one or two petrol cans and some
odd lumber suggesting that the garage had been recently used, but no
car, and indeed nothing of sufficient value to have interested even
such a derelict as the man whom we had passed some ten minutes before.
That is if I except a large and stoutly-made packing-case which
rested only a foot or so from the entrance so as partly to block it,
and which from its appearance might possibly have contained spare
parts. I noticed, with vague curiosity, a device crudely representing
a seated cat which was painted in green upon the case.

"If there ever was anything here," said Bolton, "it's been pinched and
we're locking the stable door after the horse has gone. You'll bear me
out, sir, if there's any complaint?"

"Certainly," I replied. "Technically I shall be trespassing if I come
in with you, so I shall say good night."

"Good night, sir," cried the constable, and entering the empty garage,
he closed the door behind him.

I set off briskly alone towards the cottage which I had made my home.
I have since thought that the motives which had induced me to choose
this secluded residence were of a peculiarly selfish order. Whilst I
liked sometimes to be among my fellowmen and whilst I rarely missed an
important first night in London, my inherent weakness for obscure
studies and another motive to which I may refer later had caused me to
abandon my chambers in the Temple and to retire with my library to
this odd little backwater where my only link with Fleet Street, with
the land of theaters and clubs and noise and glitter, was the
telephone. I scarcely need add that I had sufficient private means to
enable me to indulge these whims, otherwise as a working journalist I
must have been content to remain nearer to the heart of things. As it
was I followed the careless existence of the independent free-lance,
and since my work was accounted above the average I was enabled to
pick and choose the subjects with which I should deal. Mine was not an
ambitious nature--or it may have been that stimulus was lacking--and
all I wrote I wrote for the mere joy of writing, whilst my studies, of
which I shall have occasion to speak presently, were not of a nature
calculated to swell my coffers in this commercial-minded age.

Little did I know how abruptly this chosen calm of my life was to be
broken nor how these same studies were to be turned in a new and
strange direction. But if on this night which was to witness the
overture of a horrible drama, I had not hitherto experienced any
premonition of the coming of those dark forces which were to change
the whole tenor of my existence, suddenly, now, in sight of the elm
tree which stood before my cottage the _shadow_ reached me.

Only thus can I describe a feeling otherwise unaccountable which
prompted me to check my steps and to listen. A gust of wind had just
died away, leaving the night silent save for the dripping of rain from
the leaves and the vague and remote roar of the town. Once, faintly, I
thought I detected the howling of a dog. I had heard nothing in the
nature of following footsteps, yet, turning swiftly, I did not doubt
that I should detect the presence of a follower of some kind. This
conviction seized me suddenly and, as I have said, unaccountably. Nor
was I wrong in my surmise.

Fifty yards behind me a vaguely defined figure showed for an instant
outlined against the light of a distant lamp--ere melting into the
dense shadow cast by a clump of trees near the roadside.

Standing quite still, I stared in the direction of the patch of shadow
for several moments. It may be said that there was nothing to occasion
alarm or even curiosity in the appearance of a stray pedestrian at
that hour; for it was little after midnight. Indeed thus I argued with
myself, whereby I admit that at sight of that figure I had experienced
a sensation which was compounded not only of alarm and curiosity but
also of some other emotion which even now I find it hard to define.
Instantly I knew that the lithe shape, glimpsed but instantaneously,
was that of no chance pedestrian--was indeed that of no ordinary
being. At the same moment I heard again, unmistakably, the howling of
a dog.

Having said so much, why should I not admit that, turning again very
quickly, I hurried on to the gate of my cottage and heaved a great
sigh of relief when I heard the reassuring bang of the door as I
closed it behind me? Coates, my batman, had turned in, having placed a
cold repast upon the table in the little dining-room; but although I
required nothing to eat I partook of a stiff whisky and soda, idly
glancing at two or three letters which lay upon the table.

They proved to contain nothing of very great importance, and having
smoked a final cigarette, I turned out the light in the dining-room
and walked into the bedroom--for the cottage was of bungalow
pattern--and, crossing the darkened room, stood looking out of the
window.

It commanded a view of a little kitchen-garden and beyond of a high
hedge, with glimpses of sentinel trees lining the main road. The wind
had dropped entirely, but clouds were racing across the sky at a
tremendous speed so that the nearly full moon alternately appeared and
disappeared, producing an ever-changing effect of light and shadow. At
one moment a moon-bathed prospect stretched before me as far as the
eye could reach, in the next I might have been looking into a cavern
as some angry cloud swept across the face of the moon to plunge the
scene into utter darkness.

And it was during such a dark spell and at the very moment that I
turned aside to light the lamp that I saw _the eyes_.

From a spot ten yards removed, low down under the hedges bordering the
garden, they looked up at me--those great, glittering cat's eyes, so
that I stifled an exclamation, drawing back instinctively from the
window. A tiger, I thought, or some kindred wild beast, must have
escaped from captivity. And so rapidly does the mind work at such
times that instinctively I had reviewed the several sporting pieces in
my possession and had selected a rifle which had proved serviceable in
India ere I had taken one step towards the door.

Before that step could be taken the light of the moon again flooded
the garden; and although there was no opening in the hedge by which
even a small animal could have retired, no living thing was in sight!
But, near and remote, dogs were howling mournfully.




CHAPTER II

THE SIGN OF THE CAT


When Coates brought in my tea, newspapers and letters in the morning,
I awakened with a start, and:

"Has there been any rain during the night, Coates?" I asked.

Coates, whose unruffled calm at all times provided an excellent
sedative, replied:

"Not since a little before midnight, sir."

"Ah!" said I, "and have you been in the garden this morning, Coates?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, "for raspberries for breakfast, sir."

"But not on this side of the cottage?"

"Not on this side."

"Then will you step out, Coates, keeping carefully to the paths, and
proceed as far as the tool-shed? Particularly note if the beds have
been disturbed between the hedge and the path, but don't make any
marks yourself. You are looking for _spoor_, you understand?"

"Spoor? Very good, sir. Of big game?"

"Of big game, yes, Coates."

Unmoved by the strangeness of his instructions, Coates, an
object-lesson for those who decry the excellence of British Army
disciplinary methods, departed.

It was with not a little curiosity and interest that I awaited his
report. As I sat sipping my tea I could hear his regular tread as he
passed along the garden path outside the window. Then it ceased and
was followed by a vague muttering. He had found something. All traces
of the storm had disappeared and there was every indication of a
renewal of the heat-wave; but I knew that the wet soil would have
preserved a perfect impression of any imprint made upon it on the
previous night. Nevertheless, with the early morning sun streaming
into my window out of a sky as near to turquoise as I had ever seen it
in England, I found it impossible to recapture that uncanny thrill
which had come to me in the dark hours when out of the shadows under
the hedge the great cat's eyes had looked up at me.

And now, becoming more fully awake, I remembered something else which
hitherto I had not associated with the latter phenomenon. I remembered
that lithe and evasive pursuing shape which I had detected behind me
on the road. Even now, however, it was difficult to associate one with
the other; for whereas the dimly-seen figure had resembled that of a
man (or, more closely, that of a woman) the eyes had looked out upon
me from a point low down near the ground, like those of some crouching
feline.

Coates' footsteps sounded again upon the path and I heard him walking
round the cottage and through the kitchen. Finally he reëntered the
bedroom and stood just within the doorway in that attitude of
attention which was part and parcel of the man. His appearance would
doubtless have violated the proprieties of the Albany, for in my rural
retreat he was called upon to perform other and more important
services than those of a valet. His neatly shaved chin, stolid red
countenance and perfectly brushed hair were unexceptionable of course,
but because his duties would presently take him into the garden he
wore, not the regulation black, but an ancient shooting-jacket, khaki
breeches and brown gaiters, looking every inch of him the old soldier
that he was.

"Well, Coates?" said I.

He cleared his throat.

"There are footprints in the radish-beds, sir," he reported.

"Footprints?"

"Yes, sir. Very deep. As though some one had jumped over the hedge and
landed there."

"Jumped over the hedge!" I exclaimed. "That would be a considerable
jump, Coates, from the road."

"It would, sir. Maybe she scrambled up."

"She?"

Coates cleared his throat again.

"There are three sets of prints in all. First a very deep one where
the party had landed, then another broken up like, where she had
turned round, and the third set with the heel-marks very deep where
she had sprung back over the hedge."

_"She?"_ I shouted.

"The prints, sir," resumed Coates, unmoved, "are those of a lady's
high-heeled shoes."

I sat bolt upright in bed, staring at the man and scarcely able to
credit my senses. Words failed me. Whereupon:

"Will you have tea or coffee for breakfast?" inquired Coates.

"Tea or coffee be damned, Coates!" I cried. "I'm going out to look at
those footprints! If you had seen what I saw last night, even your old
mahogany countenance would relax for once, I assure you."

"Indeed, sir," said Coates; "did you see the lady, then?"

"Lady!" I exclaimed, tumbling out of bed. "If the eyes that looked at
me last night belonged to a 'lady' either I am mad or the 'lady' is of
another world."

I pulled on a bath-robe and hurried out into the garden, Coates
showing me the spot where he had found the mysterious foot-prints. A
very brief examination sufficed to convince me that his account had
been correct. Some one wearing high-heeled shoes clearly enough had
stood there at some time whilst the soil was quite wet; and as no
track led to or from the marks, Coates' conclusion that the person who
had made them must have come over the hedge was the only feasible one.
I turned to him in amazement, but recognizing in time the wildly
fantastic nature of the sight which I had seen in the night, I
refrained from speaking of the blazing eyes and made my way to the
bathroom wondering if some chance reflection might not have deceived
me and the presence of a woman's footmarks at the same spot be no
more than a singular coincidence. Even so the mystery of their
presence there remained unexplained.

My thoughts were diverted from a trend of profitless conjecture when
shortly after breakfast time my 'phone bell rang. It was the editor of
the _Planet_, to whom I had been indebted for a number of special
commissions--including my fascinating quest of the Giant Gnu, which,
generally supposed to be extinct, was reported by certain natives and
others to survive in a remote corner of the Dark Continent.

Readers of the _Planet_ will remember that although I failed to
discover the Gnu I came upon a number of notable things on my journey
through the almost unexplored country about the head-waters of the
Niger.

"A most extraordinary case has cropped up," he said, "quite in your
line, I think, Addison. Evidently a murder, and the circumstances seem
to be most dramatic and unusual. I should be glad if you would take it
up."

I inquired without much enthusiasm for details. Criminology was one of
my hobbies, and in several instances I had traced cases of alleged
haunting and other supposedly supernatural happenings to a criminal
source; but the ordinary sordid murder did not interest me.

"The body of Sir Marcus Coverly has been found in a crate!" explained
my friend. "The crate was being lowered into the hold of the S.S.
_Oritoga_ at the West India Docks. It had been delivered by a
conveyance specially hired for the purpose apparently, as the
_Oritoga_ is due to sail in an hour. There are all sorts of curious
details but these you can learn for yourself. Don't trouble to call at
the office; proceed straight to the dock."

"Right!" I said shortly. "I'll start immediately."

And this sudden decision had been brought about by the mention of the
victim's name. Indeed, as I replaced the receiver on the hook I
observed that my hand was shaking and I have little doubt that I had
grown pale.

In the first place, then, let me confess that my retirement to the odd
little retreat which at this time was my home, and my absorption in
the obscure studies to which I have referred were not so much due to
any natural liking for the life of a recluse as to the shattering of
certain matrimonial designs. I had learned of the wreck of my hopes
upon reading a press paragraph which announced the engagement of
Isobel Merlin to Eric Coverly. And it was as much to conceal my
disappointment from the world as for any better reason that I had
slunk into retirement; for if I am slow to come to a decision in such
a matter, once come to, it is of no light moment.

Yet although I had breathed no word of my lost dreams to Isobel but
had congratulated her with the rest, often and bitterly I had cursed
myself for a sluggard. Too late I had learned that she had but awaited
a word from me; and I had gone off to Mesopotamia, leaving that word
unspoken. During my absence Coverly had won the prize which I had
thrown away. He was heir to the title, for his cousin, Sir Marcus,
was unmarried. Now here, a bolt from the blue, came the news of his
cousin's death!

It can well be imagined with what intense excitement I hurried to the
docks. All other plans abandoned, Coates, arrayed in his neat blue
uniform, ran the Rover round from the garage, and ere long we were
jolting along the hideously uneven Commercial Road, East, dodging
traction-engines drawing strings of lorries, and continually meeting
delay in the form of those breakdowns which are of hourly occurrence
in this congested but rugged highway.

In the West India Dock Road the way became slightly more open, but
when at last I alighted and entered the dock gates I recognized that
every newspaper and news agency in the kingdom was apparently
represented. Jones, of the _Gleaner_, was coming out as I went in,
and:

"Hello, Addison!" he cried, "this is quite in your line! It's as mad
as 'Alice in Wonderland.'"

I did not delay, however, but hurried on in the direction of a dock
building, at the door of which was gathered a heterogeneous group
comprising newspaper men, dock officials, police and others who were
unclassifiable. Half a dozen acquaintances greeted me as I came up,
and I saw that the door was closed and that a constable stood on duty
before it.

"I call it damned impudence, Addison!" exclaimed one pressman. "The
dock people are refusing everybody information until Inspector
Somebody-or-Other arrives from New Scotland Yard. I should think he
has stopped on the way to get his lunch."

The speaker glanced impatiently at his watch and I went to speak to
the man on duty.

"You have orders to admit no one, constable?" I asked.

"That's so, sir," he replied. "We're waiting for Detective-Inspector
Gatton, who has been put in charge of the case."

"Ah! Gatton," I muttered, and, stepping aside from the expectant
group, I filled and lighted my pipe, convinced that anything to be
learned I should learn from Inspector Gatton, for he and I were old
friends, having been mutually concerned in several interesting cases.

A few minutes later the Inspector arrived--a thick-set, clean-shaven,
very bronzed man, his dark hair streaked with gray, and with all the
appearance of a retired naval officer, in his well-cut blue serge suit
and soft felt hat; a very reserved man whose innocent-looking blue
eyes gave him that frank and open expression which is more often
associated with a seaman than with a detective. He nodded to several
acquaintances in the group, and then, observing me where I stood, came
over and shook hands.

"Open the door, constable," he ordered quietly.

The constable produced a key and unlocked the door of the small stone
building. Immediately there was a forward movement of the whole
waiting group, but:

"If you please, gentlemen," said Gatton, raising his hand. "I must
make my examination first; and Mr. Addison," he added, seeing the
resentment written upon the faces of my disappointed confrères, "has
special information which I am going to ask him to place at my
disposal."

The constable stood aside and I followed Inspector Gatton into the
stone shed.

"Lock the door again, constable," he ordered; "no one is to be
admitted."

Thereupon I looked about me, and the scene which I beheld was so
strange and gruesome that its every detail remains imprinted upon my
memory.

The building then was lighted by four barred windows set so high in
the walls that no one could look in from the outside. Blazing sunlight
poured in at the two southerly windows and drew a sharp black pattern
of the bars across the paved floor. Kneeling beside a stretcher, fully
in this path of light, so that he presented a curious striped
appearance, was a man who presently proved to be the divisional
surgeon, and two paces beyond stood a police inspector who was engaged
at the moment of our entrance in making entries in his note-book.

On the stretcher, so covered up that only his face was visible, lay
one whom at first I failed to recognize, for the horribly contorted
features presented a kind of mottled green appearance utterly
indescribable.

Stifling an exclamation of horror, I stared and stared at that ghastly
face, then:

"My God!" I muttered. "Yes! it _is_ Sir Marcus!"

The surgeon stood up and the inspector advanced to meet Gatton, but my
horrified gaze had strayed from the stretcher to a badly damaged and
splintered packing-case, which was the only other object in the
otherwise empty shed. At this I stared as much aghast as I had stared
at the dead man.

The iron bands were broken and twisted and the whole of one side lay
in fragments on the floor; but upon a board which had formed part of
the top I perceived the figure of a cat roughly traced in green paint.

Beyond any shadow of doubt this crate was the same which on the night
before had lain in the garage of the Red House!




CHAPTER III

THE GREEN IMAGE


"Yes," said Gatton, "I was speaking no more than the truth when I told
them that you had special information which I hoped you would place at
my disposal. Some of the particulars were given to me over the 'phone,
you see, and I was glad to find you here when I arrived. I should have
consulted you in any event, and principally about--that."

He pointed to an object which I held in my hand. It was a little green
enamel image; the crouching figure of a woman having a cat's head, a
piece of Egyptian workmanship probably of the fourth century B.C.
Considered in conjunction with the figure painted upon the crate, the
presence of this little image was so amazing a circumstance that from
the moment when it had been placed in my hand I had stood staring at
it almost dazedly.

The divisional surgeon had gone, and only the local officer remained
with Gatton and myself in the building. Sir Marcus Coverly presented
all the frightful appearance of one who has died by asphyxia, and
although of course there would be an autopsy, little doubt existed
respecting the mode of his death. The marks of violence found upon the
body could be accounted for by the fact that the crate had fallen a
distance of thirty feet into the hold, and the surgeon was convinced
that the injuries to the body had all been received after death, death
having taken place in his opinion fully twelve hours before.

"You see," said Gatton, "when the crate broke several things which
presumably were in Sir Marcus' pockets were found lying loose amongst
the wreckage. That cat-woman was one of them."

"Yet it may not have been in any of his pockets at all," said I.

"It _may_ not," agreed Gatton. "But that it was somewhere in the crate
is beyond dispute, I think. Besides this is more than a coincidence."

And he pointed to the painted cat upon the lid of the packing-case. I
had already told him of the episode at the Red House on the previous
night, and now:

"The fates are on our side," I said, "for at least we know where the
crate was despatched from."

"Quite so," agreed Gatton. "We should have got that from the carter
later, of course, but every minute saved in an affair such as this is
worth considering. As a pressman you will probably disagree with me,
but I propose to suppress these two pieces of evidence. Premature
publication of clews too often handicaps us. Now, what _is_ that
figure exactly?"

"It is a votive offering of a kind used in Ancient Egypt by pilgrims
to Bubastis. It is a genuine antique, and if you think the history of
such relics is likely to assist the investigation I can give you some
further particulars this evening if you have time to call at my
place."

"I think," said Gatton, taking the figure from me and looking at it
with a singular expression on his face, "that the history of the thing
is very important. The fact that a rough reproduction of a somewhat
similar figure is painted upon the case cannot possibly be a
coincidence."

I stared at him silently for a moment, then:

"You mean that the crate was specially designed to contain the body?"
I asked.

"I am certainly of that opinion," declared Inspector Heath, the local
officer. "It is of just the right size and shape for the purpose."

Once more I began to examine the fragments stacked upon the floor, and
then I looked again at the several objects which lay beside the crate.
They were the personal belongings of the dead baronet and the police
had carefully noted in which of his pockets each object had been
found. He was in evening dress and a light top-coat had been packed
into the crate beside him. In this had been found a cigar-case and a
pair of gloves; a wallet containing £20 in Treasury notes and a number
of cards and personal papers had fallen out of the crate together with
the cat statuette. The face of his watch was broken. It had been in
his waistcoat pocket but it still ticked steadily on where it lay
there beside its dead owner. A gold-mounted malacca cane also figured
amongst the relics of the gruesome crime; so that whatever had been
the object of the murderer, that of robbery was out of the question.

"The next thing to do," said Gatton, "is to trace Sir Marcus's
movements from the time that he left home last night to the time that
he met his death. I am going out now to 'phone to the Yard. We ought
to have succeeded in tracing the carter who brought the crate here
before the evening. I personally shall proceed to Sir Marcus's rooms
and then to this Red House around which it seems to me that the
mystery centers."

He put the enamel figure into his pocket and taking up the broken
board which bore the painted cat:

"You are carrying a top-coat," he said. "Hide this under it!"

He turned to Inspector Heath, nodding shortly.

"All right," he said, with a grim smile, "go out now and talk to the
crowd!"

Having issued certain telephonic instructions touching the carter who
had delivered the crate to the docks, and then imparting to the
representatives of the press a guarded statement for publication,
Inspector Gatton succeeded in wedging himself into my little
two-seater and ere long we were lurching and bumping along the
ill-paved East-end streets.

The late Sir Marcus's London address, which had been unknown to me, we
had learned from his cards, and it was with the keenest anticipation
of a notable discovery that I presently found myself with Gatton
mounting the stairs to the chambers of the murdered baronet.

At the very moment of our arrival the door was opened and a man--quite
obviously a constable in plain clothes--came out. Behind him I
observed one whom I took to be the late Sir Marcus's servant, a
pathetic and somewhat disheveled figure.

"Hello, Blythe!" said Gatton, "who instructed you to come here?"

"Sir Marcus's man--Morris--telephoned the Yard," was the reply, "as he
couldn't understand what had become of his master and I was sent along
to see him."

"Oh," said Gatton, "very good. Report to me in due course."

Blythe departed, and Gatton and I entered the hall. The man, Morris,
closed the door, and led us into a small library. Beside the telephone
stood a tray bearing decanter and glasses, and there was evidence that
Morris had partaken of a hurried breakfast consisting only of biscuits
and whisky and soda.

"I haven't been to bed all night, gentlemen," he began the moment that
we entered the room. "Sir Marcus was a good master and if he was
sleeping away from home he never failed to advise me, so that I knew
even before the dreadful news reached me that something was amiss."

He was quite unstrung and his voice was unsteady. The reputation of
the late baronet had been one which I personally did not envy him, but
whatever his faults, and I knew they had been many, he had evidently
possessed the redeeming virtue of being a good employer.

"A couple of hours' sleep would make a new man of you," said Gatton
kindly. "I understand your feelings, but no amount of sorrow can mend
matters, unfortunately. Now, I don't want to worry you, but there are
one or two points which I must ask you to clear up. In the first place
did you ever see this before?"

From his pocket he took out the little figure of Bâst, the
cat-goddess, and held it up before Morris.

The man stared at it with lack-luster eyes, scratching his unshaven
chin; then he shook his head slowly.

"Never," he declared. "No, I am positive I never saw a figure like
that before."

"Then, secondly," continued Gatton, "was your master ever in Egypt?"

"Not that I am aware of; certainly not since I have been with him--six
years on the thirty-first of this month."

"Ah," said Gatton. "Now, when did you last see Sir Marcus?"

"At half-past six last night, sir. He was dining at his club and then
going to the New Avenue Theater. I booked a seat for him myself."

"He was going alone, then?"

"Yes."

Gatton glanced at me significantly and I experienced an uncomfortable
thrill. In the inspector's glance I had read that he suspected the
presence of a woman in the case and at the mention of the New Avenue
Theater it had instantly occurred to me that Isobel Merlin was
appearing there! Gatton turned again to Morris.

"Sir Marcus had not led you to suppose that there was any likelihood
of his _not_ returning last night?"

"No, sir; that was why, knowing his regular custom, I became so
alarmed when he failed to come back or to 'phone."

Gatton stared hard at the speaker and:

"It will be no breach of confidence on your part," he said, speaking
slowly and deliberately, "for you to answer my next question. The best
service you can do your late master now will be to help us to
apprehend his murderer."

He paused a moment, then:

"Was Sir Marcus interested in some one engaged at the New Avenue
Theater?" he asked.

Morris glanced from face to face in a pathetic, troubled fashion. He
rubbed the stubble on his chin again and hesitated. Finally:

"I believe," he replied, "that there was a lady there who--"

He paused, swallowing, and:

"Yes," Gatton prompted, "who--?"

"Who--interested Sir Marcus; but I don't know her name nor anything
about her," he declared. "I knew about--some of the others, but Sir
Marcus was--very reserved about this lady, which made me think--"

"Yes?"

"That he perhaps hadn't been so successful."

Morris ceased speaking and sat staring at a bookcase vacantly.

"Ah," murmured Gatton. Then, abruptly: "Did Sir Marcus ever visit any
one who lived in College Road?" he demanded.

Morris looked up wearily.

"College Road?" he repeated. "Where is that, sir?"

"It doesn't matter," said Gatton shortly, "if the name is unfamiliar
to you. Had Sir Marcus a car?"

"Not latterly, sir."

"Any other servants?"

"No. As a bachelor he had no use for a large establishment, and
Friars' Park remains in the possession of the late Sir Burnham's
widow."

"Sir Burnham? Sir Marcus's uncle?"

"Yes."

"What living relatives had Sir Marcus?"

"His aunt--Lady Burnham Coverly--with whom I believe he was on bad
terms. Her own son, who ought to have inherited the title, was dead,
you see. I think she felt bitterly towards my master. The only other
relative I ever heard of was Mr. Eric--Sir Marcus's second cousin--now
_Sir_ Eric, of course."

I turned aside, glancing at some books which lay scattered on the
table. The wound was a new one and I suppose I was not man enough to
hide the pain which mention of Eric Coverly still occasioned me.

"Were the cousins good friends?" continued the even, remorseless voice
of the inquisitor.

Morris looked up quickly.

"They were not, sir," he answered. "They never had been. But some few
months back a fresh quarrel arose and one night in this very room it
almost came to blows."

"Indeed? What was the quarrel about?"

The old hesitancy claimed Morris again, but at last:

"Of course," he said, with visible embarrassment, "it was--a woman."

I felt my heart leaping wildly, but I managed to preserve an outward
show of composure.

"What woman?" demanded Gatton.

"I don't know, sir."

"Do you mean it?"

A fierce note of challenge had come into the quiet voice, but Morris
looked up and met Gatton's searching stare unflinchingly.

"I swear it," he said. "I never was an eavesdropper."

"I suggest it was the same woman that Sir Marcus went to see last
night?" Gatton continued.

The examination of Morris had reached a point at which I found myself
hard put to it to retain even a seeming of composure. All Gatton's
questions had been leading up to this suggestion, as I now perceived
clearly enough; and from the cousins' quarrel to Isobel, Eric's
_fiancée_, who was engaged at the New Avenue Theater, was an
inevitable step. But:

"Possibly, sir," was Morris's only answer.

Inspector Gatton stared hard at the man for a moment or so, then:

"Very well," he said. "Take my advice and turn in. There will be much
for you to do presently, I am afraid. Who was Sir Marcus's solicitor?"

Morris gave the desired information in a tired, toneless voice, and we
departed. Little did Gatton realize that his words were barbed, when,
as we descended to the street, he said:

"I have a call to make at Scotland Yard next, after which my first
visit will be to the stage-doorkeeper of the New Avenue Theater."

"Can I be of further assistance to you at the moment?" I asked,
endeavoring to speak casually.

"Thanks, no. But I should welcome your company this afternoon at my
examination of the Red House. I understand that it is in your
neighborhood, so perhaps as you are also professionally interested in
the case, you might arrange to meet me there. Are you returning home
now or going to the _Planet_ office?"

"I think to the office," I replied. "In any event 'phone there making
an appointment and I will meet you at the Red House."




CHAPTER IV

ISOBEL


Ten minutes later I was standing in a charming little boudoir which
too often figured in my daydreams. My own photograph was upon the
mantelpiece, and in Isobel's dark eyes when she greeted me there was a
light which I lacked the courage to try to understand. I had not at
that time learned what I learned later, and have already indicated,
that my own foolish silence had wounded Isobel as deeply as her
subsequent engagement to Eric Coverly had wounded me.

The psychology of a woman is intriguing in its very naïveté, and now
as she stood before me, slim and graceful in her well-cut walking
costume, a quick flicker of red flaming in her cheeks and her eyes
alight with that sweet tantalizing look in which expectation and a hot
pride were mingled, I wondered and felt sick at heart. Desirable she
was beyond any other woman I had known, and I called myself witling
coward, to have avoided putting my fortune to the test on that fatal
day of my departure for Mesopotamia. For just as she looked at me now
she had looked at me then. But to-day she was evidently on the point
of setting out--I did not doubt with the purpose of meeting Eric
Coverly; on that day of the irrevocable past she had been free and I
had been silent.

"You nearly missed me, Jack," she said gayly. "I was just going out."

By the very good-fellowship of her greeting she restored me to myself
and enabled me to stamp down--at least temporarily--the monster
through whose greedy eyes I had found myself considering the happiness
of Eric Coverly.

"I am afraid, Isobel," I replied, "that what I have to tell you is not
by any means pleasant--although--"

"Yes?" she prompted, noting how I hesitated.

"Although it means that you are now the future Lady Coverly."

The bright color left her cheeks. That some black tragedy underlay my
words she had intuitively perceived, but I could see that she failed
to grasp the whole meaning of my bald statement. She sank down slowly
into a cushioned chair, so that a beam of golden light pouring in
through the opened window set aglowing the russet tints in her dark
brown hair.

"Did you know Sir Marcus?" I asked, speaking as gently as I could.

With what intense, if hidden, emotion I awaited her answer it were
impossible to describe.

"Do you mean--"

She met my glance, and I nodded gravely.

"Oh, Jack! When did it happen?"

"Last night. But you have not told me if you knew him?" I persisted.

Isobel shook her head.

"Not in any way--intimately," she replied. "Eric"--she hesitated,
glancing up quickly and as quickly down again--"and he were not on
good terms."

"But you had met him?" I persisted; for I had detected in her manner a
reluctance to discuss Sir Marcus which I failed to understand.

"I used to meet him, Jack, when--when you were away. He came once or
twice with Eric. They were not good friends, even then. But I never
liked him. I quite lost sight of him from the time that he came into
the title--about four years ago, was it not?--until quite recently. He
had been in Russia, I think. Then he--" Again she hesitated. It was
odd how often people hesitated, as if seeking for words, when speaking
of the late baronet. "He called at the theater. Considering that he
knew of my engagement to Eric, his manner was not quite nice. But I
was anxious to prevent trouble, and did not mention the visit to Eric.
Sir Marcus was very persistent, however. One night Eric saw him
leaving the stage-door and I believe there was a dreadful scene at
Eric's rooms."

"And that is all you know of him, Isobel?"

"Practically all, except what I have heard, of course. I might add
that I instructed Marie to tell Sir Marcus I was engaged whenever he
might call in future."

"And did he call again?"

"Marie said that he sent his card up on several occasions, but she
knew how the affair worried me and did not tell me at the time. I saw
him in the stalls occasionally, and--oh!--"

The last word was a mere murmur. Isobel's expression grew more than
ever troubled.

"He was there last night," she whispered, and raising her eyes to me:
"Tell me how it happened, and where--"

But ere I had time to begin there was an interruption. Dimly, a
telephone bell rang. I could hear the voice of Marie, Isobel's maid,
answering the call then:

"Mr. Coverly to speak to you, madam," said Marie, entering the room.

"He must have only just heard the news!" cried Isobel, rising swiftly
and going out.

Consumed by impatience, I walked up and down the dainty apartment
listening to Isobel's muffled voice speaking in the lobby. Twice I
went to the window and peered down into the street, expecting to see
the thick-set figure of Inspector Gatton approaching. My frame of mind
was peculiar and troubled. Gatton's inquiries pointed unmistakably to
a suspicion that Sir Marcus's last hours had been spent, if not
actually with, at any rate near to Isobel. And since the man who would
most directly profit by the baronet's death happened also to be
Isobel's _fiancé_, I foresaw a dreadful ordeal for both if Eric
Coverly was not in a position to establish an alibi.

I had been about to ask her if Coverly had been in her company on the
previous night when the interruption had occurred. Now if Gatton
should arrive and find me in Isobel's flat, what construction would he
put upon my presence?

Yet again I went to the window and peered anxiously up and down the
street. Every cab that approached I expected to contain the inspector,
and I heaved a sigh of relief as one after another passed the door.
Pedestrians who turned the distant corner I scrutinized closely and
was so employed when Isobel came running back to the room.

All her color had fled and her eyes were wide and fear-stricken.

"Oh, Jack, Jack!" she cried, "it is horrible, horrible! Eric is at his
solicitors' and they tell him that suspicion is bound to fall on
_him_! It's preposterous--unthinkable. It must have been some fiend
who committed such a crime, not a human being--"

"Then," I interrupted excitedly, "Coverly was not with you last
night?"

"No! That is the crowning tragedy of it all. He 'phoned me early in
the evening saying that he had an unavoidable business appointment to
keep. From the tone of his voice--"

She ceased speaking abruptly, and stared at me rather wildly.

"Isobel," I said, "you should surely know that you can trust your life
to me--and the life of any one dear to you."

She quickly laid her hand on my arm and her face flushed sweetly. I
fear I had infused my words with an ardor which exhibited at an
earlier and more opportune moment might have changed the course of
both our lives.

"Of course I know, Jack," she said. "But I am so frightened that I
distrust my very self. Well, then, I thought that I noticed a change
in Eric's manner last night--in the tone of his voice. In fact I asked
him if I had done anything of which he had disapproved." She gave me a
quick little embarrassed glance. "He is somewhat exacting, you know.
He laughed at the idea, but in rather a forced way, it seemed. Then he
arranged to meet me for lunch at the Carlton to-day."

"But surely he can satisfactorily account for his movements? He must
have been seen by those who know him."

Isobel frowned in a troubled manner that awakened strange, wild
longings.

"I cannot make it out," she replied. "He appears to be keeping
something back."

"He is very ill-advised. He will certainly have to make up his mind to
speak out when Inspector Gatton examines him. I cannot disguise from
you, Isobel, that the police know that Sir Marcus was at the New
Avenue last night, and since his death occurred some hours later the
nature of their suspicion is obvious enough. Are you joining him at
the solicitors', Isobel?"

"Yes, he asked me to do so."

"Then come along at once. I expect a Scotland Yard man to arrive at
any moment and it would be advisable to see Coverly and to take a
legal opinion before you give your testimony."

"But, Jack!" Isobel confronted me. "You don't think that I or Eric
have anything to hide?"

"Certainly not. You must know that I do not think so. But on the other
hand, the legal mind being used to considering problems of evidence, a
solicitor will be able to advise you of the best course to adopt, and
that most likely to result in your being spared all association with
the inquiry. Meanwhile--let us hurry. I prefer to give Inspector
Gatton my own account of this visit rather than to be discovered here
by him. He will learn from Marie that I have called, of course, but
that doesn't matter."

We had now quitted the flat and were descending the stairs. On
reaching the street I glanced sharply to right and left. But Gatton
was not in sight.

I secured a taxi at the corner and Isobel set out for the office of
Coverly's solicitor. I stood looking after the cab until it was out of
sight and then I set out to walk to the _Planet_ office. By the time
that I had reached Fleet Street I had my ideas in some sort of order
and I sat down to write the first of my articles on the "_Oritoga_
mystery"--for under that title the murder of Sir Marcus Coverly was
destined to figure as the _cause célèbre_ of the moment. I had more
than one reason for reticence and indeed I experienced no little
difficulty in preparing the requisite amount of copy without involving
Isobel and Eric Coverly. Half-way through my task I paused, laid down
my pen, and was on the point of tearing up the pages already written
and declining the commission at the eleventh hour.

A few minutes' reflection, however, enabled me to see that the best
service I could offer to the suspected man (always assuming that he
had no alibi to offer) was that of representing the facts as I saw
them to the vast public reached by this influential journal. In my own
mind I had never entertained a shadow of suspicion that Coverly was
the culprit. Underlying the horrible case I thought I could perceive
even darker things--a mystery within a mystery; a horror overtopping
horror.

I had just resumed work, then, when a boy came in to inform me that
Gatton had rung up and wished to speak to me.

Half fearful of what I should hear, I went to the adjoining room and
took up the receiver. Presently:

"Hullo! Is that Mr. Addison?" came Gatton's voice.

"Yes, speaking. What developments, Gatton?"

"Several. I've got the report of the estate-agent and I've seen the
stage-doorkeeper of the New Avenue! You mustn't write anything until I
see you, but in order to regularize things a bit I've spoken to the
Chief and formally asked his permission to consult you on the
case--about the Egyptian figures, you know. He remembered you at once,
so it's all square. But I've got a bone to pick with you."

"What is that?"

"Never mind now. Can you meet me at the Red House at five o'clock?"

"Yes. I will be there."

"Good. I don't hope for much. It's the strangest case I ever touched.
We are dealing with unusual people, not ordinary criminals."

"I agree."

"If there is any man in London who can see daylight through the
mystery I believe you are the man. Do you know on what I think the
whole thing turns?"

"On some undiscovered incident in Sir Marcus's past, beyond a doubt.
Probably an amorous adventure."

"You're wrong," said Gatton grimly. "It turns on the figure of the
green cat. Good-by. Five o'clock."




CHAPTER V

THE INTERRUPTED SUPPER


I arrived at the Red House before Inspector Gatton. A constable was on
duty at the gate and as I came up and paused he regarded me rather
doubtfully until I told him that I had an appointment with Gatton. I
stared up the drive towards the house. It was not, apparently, a very
old building, presenting some of the worst features of the
mid-Victorian period, and from whence it derived its name I could not
conjecture unless from the fact that the greater part of the facade
was overgrown with some kind of red creeper.

The half-moon formed by the crescent-shaped carriage-way and the wall
bordering the road was filled with rather unkempt shrubbery, laurels
and rhododendrons for the most part, from amid which arose several big
trees. In the blaze of the afternoon sun the place looked commonplace
enough with estate agents' bills pasted in the dirty windows, and it
was difficult to conceive that it had been the scene of the mysterious
crime of which at that hour all London was talking and which later was
to form a subject of debate throughout the civilized world.

Gatton joined me within a few minutes of my arrival. He was
accompanied by Constable Bolton with whom I had first visited the Red
House. Bolton was now in plain clothes, and he had that
fish-out-of-water appearance which characterizes the constable in
mufti. Indeed he looked rather dazed, and on arriving before the house
he removed his bowler and mopped his red face with a large
handkerchief, nodding to me as he did so.

"Good afternoon, sir; it was lucky you came along with me last night.
I thought it was a funny go and I was right, it seems."

"Quite right," said Gatton shortly, "and now here are the keys which
you returned to the depôt this morning."

From his pocket the Inspector produced a steel ring bearing a large
and a small key which I recognized as that which had hung from the
lock of the garage door on the previous night.

We walked along to the garage and Inspector Gatton placed the key in
the lock; then turning to Bolton:

"Now," he directed, "show us exactly what you did."

Bolton replaced his bowler, which hitherto he had carried in his hand,
hesitated for a moment, and then unlocked the door.

"Of course I had my lantern with me last night," he explained, "and
this gentleman and myself stood looking in for a moment."

"Mr. Addison has already described to me exactly what he saw," said
Gatton. "Show us what you did after Mr. Addison left you."

Bolton, with a far-away look in his eyes betokening an effort of
retrospection, withdrew the key from the lock and entered the garage,
Gatton and I following. There was a sky window to light the place, so
that when Bolton reclosed the door we could see well enough. His
movements were as follows: Relocking the door from the inside, he
walked slowly along to a smaller door at the opposite end and with the
other key attached to the ring unfastened it.

"Wait a moment," said Gatton. "Did you look about you at all before
opening this door?"

"Only long enough to find where it was, sir. Just about as long as I
showed you."

"All right. Go on, then."

We followed Bolton out into a very narrow hedge-bordered path,
evidently a tradesman's entrance, and he turned and locked the door
behind him. Slipping the keys into his pocket, he tramped stolidly out
to the main road whereon we emerged immediately beside the garage.

"Ah," murmured Gatton. "Now give me the keys," and as the man did so:
"Throughout all this time did you see or hear anything of an unusual
nature?"

Bolton removed his bowler once more. I had gathered by this time that
he regarded fresh air as an aid to reflection.

"Well, sir," he replied in a puzzled way, "that first door--"

"Well," said Gatton, as the man hesitated.

"It seemed to open more easily just now than it did last night. There
seemed to be a sort of hitch before when it was about half-way open."

"Perhaps the crate was in the way?" suggested Gatton. "Except for the
absence of the crate do you notice anything different, anything
missing, or anything there now that was not there before?"

Bolton shook his head.

"No," he answered; "it looks just the same to me--except, as I say,
that the door seemed to open more easily."

"H'm," muttered Gatton; "and you carried the keys in your pocket until
you went off duty?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. You can go now."

Bolton touched his bowler and departed, and Gatton turned to me with a
grim smile.

"We'll just step inside again," he said, "so as not to attract any
undue attention."

He again unlocked the garage door and closed it as we entered.

"Now," said he, "before we go any further what was your idea in
keeping back the fact that one of the missing links in the chain of
evidence was already in your possession?"

"No doubt," I said rather guiltily, "you refer to the fact of my
acquaintance with Miss Isobel Merlin?"

"I do!" said Gatton, "and to the fact that you nipped in ahead of me
and interviewed this important witness before I had even heard of her
existence." He continued to smile, but the thoroughness and
unflinching pursuit of duty which were the outstanding features of
the man, underlay his tone of badinage. "I want to say," he continued,
"that for your cooperation, which has been very useful to me on many
occasions, I am always grateful, but if in return I give you
facilities which no other pressman has, I don't expect you to abuse
them."

"Really, Inspector," I replied, "you go almost too far. I have done
nothing to prejudice your case nor could I possibly have known until
my interview this morning with Miss Merlin, that it was she in whom
the late Sir Marcus was interested."

"H'm," said Gatton, but still rather dubiously, his frank, wide-open
eyes regarding me in that naïve manner which was so deceptive.

"All that I learned," I continued, "is unequivocally at your disposal.
Finally I may tell you--and I would confess it to few men--that Miss
Merlin is a very old friend and might have been something more if I
had not been a fool."

"Oh!" said Gatton, and his expression underwent a subtle change--"Oh!
That's rather awkward; in fact"--he frowned perplexedly--"it's damned
awkward!"

"What do you mean?" I demanded.

"Well," said he, "I don't know what account Miss Merlin gave to you of
her relations with Sir Marcus--"

"Relations!" I said hotly, "the man was a mere acquaintance; she
hadn't even seen him, except from the stage, for some months past."

"Oh," replied Gatton, "is that so?" He looked at me very queerly. "It
doesn't seem to dovetail with the evidence of the stage-doorkeeper."

I felt myself changing color, and:

"What, then, does the stage-doorkeeper assert?" I asked.

Gatton continued to look at me in that perplexed way, and believing
that I detected the trend of his reflections:

"Look here, Inspector," I said, "let us understand one another.
Whatever may be the evidence of stage-doorkeepers and others, upon one
point you can be assured. Miss Merlin had nothing whatever to do with
this horrible crime. The idea is unthinkable. So confident am I of
this, that you can be perfectly open with me and I give you my word of
honor that I shall be equally frank with you. The truth of the matter
cannot possibly injure her in the end and I am as anxious to discover
it as you are."

Gatton suddenly extended his hand, and:

"Good!" he said. "We understand one another, but how is Miss Merlin
going to explain this?"

He drew a note-book from his pocket, turned over several leaves, and
then:

"On no fewer than six occasions," he said, "I have approximate dates
here, Sir Marcus sent his card to Miss Merlin's dressing-room."

"I know," I interrupted him; "he persecuted her, but she never saw
him."

"Wait a minute. Last night"--Gatton glanced at me sharply--"Marie,
the maid, came down after Sir Marcus's card had been sent to the
dressing-room and talked for several minutes to the late baronet, just
by the doorkeeper's box, but out of earshot. That was at ten o'clock.
At eleven, that is after the performance, Sir Marcus returned, and
again Marie came down to see him. They went out into the street
together and Sir Marcus entered a cab which was waiting and drove off.
Miss Merlin left a quarter of an hour later."

Our glances met and a silence of some moments' duration fell between
us; then:

"You suggest," I said, "that Miss Merlin had arranged a rendezvous
with him and to save appearances had joined him there later?"

"Well"--Gatton raised his eyebrows--"what do _you_ suggest?"

I found myself temporarily at a loss for words, but:

"Knowing nothing of this," I explained, "naturally I was not in a
position to tax Miss Merlin with it. Possibly you have done so. What
is her explanation?"

"I have not seen her," confessed Gatton; "I arrived at her flat ten
minutes after she had gone out--with you."

"You saw Marie?"

"Unfortunately Marie was also out, but I saw an old charwoman who
attends daily, I understand, and it was from her that I learned of
your visit."

"Marie," I said, "may be able to throw some light on the matter."

"I don't doubt it!" replied Gatton grimly. "Meanwhile we have
sufficient evidence to show that Sir Marcus drove from the New Avenue
Theater to this house."

"He may not have driven here at all," I interrupted; "he may have
driven somewhere else and performed the latter part of his journey
here--"

"In the crate!" cried Gatton. "Yes, you are right; his body may
actually have been inside the crate at the time that you and Bolton
arrived here last night; for that would be fully an hour after Sir
Marcus left the stage-door."

"But who can have rung up the police station last night?" I cried,
"and what can have been the object of this unknown person?"

"That we have to find out," said Gatton quietly; "undoubtedly it
formed part of a scheme planned with extraordinary cunning; it was not
an accident or an oversight, I mean. The men who are assisting me
haven't been idle, for we have already learned some most amazing facts
about the case. I haven't yet visited the house myself, but I have
here the report of one of my assistants who has done so; also I have
the keys. The garage I will inspect more carefully later on."

He glanced quickly about the place before we left it, then, leaving
the door locked behind us, we walked along to the gate before which
the constable stood on duty, and from thence proceeded up the drive to
the front entrance. There was a deep porch supported by pillars and
densely overgrown with creeper. I noted, too, a heavy and unhealthy
odor as of decaying leaves, and observed that a perfect carpet of
these lay on the path. In the shade of the big trees it was
comparatively cool, but the heavy malarious smell did not please me
and I imagined that it must have repelled more than one would-be
lessee.

As we approached the porch I saw that the windows of the rooms
immediately left and right of it had been stripped of the agent's
bills, for I could see where fragments of paper still adhered to the
glass. There were no bills in the porch either; but when Gatton opened
the front door I uttered an exclamation of surprise.

We stood in a small lounge-hall. There was a staircase on the left and
three doors opened on to the hall. But although the Red House was
palpably unoccupied, the hall was furnished! There were some rugs upon
the polished floor, a heavy bronze club-fender in front of the grate,
several chairs against the walls and a large palm in a Chinese pot.

"Why," I exclaimed, "the place is furnished and the stairs are
carpeted too!"

"Yes," said Gatton, looking keenly about him, "but according to report
if you will step upstairs you will get a surprise."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, suppose we go and see."

Gatton led the way and I followed up the stairs as far as the first
landing. Here I paused in amazement. For at this point all attempts at
furnishing ceased. The landing was quite bare and so were the stairs
above it! Seeing my expression of incredulous surprise:

"Yes," said Gatton, smiling, "it's a strange arrangement, isn't it?"

We descended again to the furnished hall.

"Look here," continued my companion.

He unlocked a door on the left, having tried several keys from the
bunch which he carried without success, but finally discovering the
right one.

A long rectangular room was revealed, evidently intended for a
dining-room. It was empty and unfurnished, odds and ends of newspaper
and other rubbish lying here and there upon the floor. My astonishment
was momentarily increasing. A second door, that in the center, Gatton
opened, revealing another empty room, but:

"I have reserved this one for the last," he said: "you will find that
it is unlocked."

He pointed to the third door, that on the right, and as he evidently
intended me to open it, I stepped forward, turned the handle and
entered a small square room, exquisitely furnished.

A heavy Persian carpet was spread upon the floor and the windows were
draped with some kind of brightly colored Madras. Tastefully-framed
water-colors hung upon the wall. There was a quaint cabinet in the
room, too; a low cushioned settee and two armchairs. In the center was
a table upon which stood a lamp with a large mosaic shade. Two
high-backed chairs were set to the table--and the table was laid for
supper! A bottle of wine stood in an ice-pail, in which the ice had
long since melted, and a tempting cold repast was spread. The table
was decorated with a bowl of perfect white roses. The silver was good;
the napery was snowy.

Like a fool I stood gaping at the spectacle, until, noting the
direction of Gatton's glance, I turned my attention to the mantelpiece
upon which a clock was ticking with a dull and solemn note.

Standing beside the clock, in a curious carved frame, was a large
photograph of Isobel!




CHAPTER VI

THE VOICE


"This is where the mystery centers," said Gatton.

I made no reply, for I had not yet recovered from the shock of that
discovery in the deserted supper room. It was so wholly unexpected and
yet it so cruelly confirmed the Inspector's undisguised suspicions
that it seemed to me to have created a sort of impalpable barrier
between us. Of this Gatton was evidently conscious. He endeavored to
arouse my interest in the inquiries which he was conducting in the
garage, but for long enough I saw nothing of the place in which we
stood; I could only see that photograph smiling at me inquiringly
through a haze of doubt, and my companion's words reached me in a
muffled fashion. Finally, however, I succeeded in rousing myself from
this dazed condition, and confident as ever that Isobel was innocent
of all complicity in the matter:

"The presence of the photograph," I said, "takes us a step further.
Don't you see, Inspector, that this is a deeply and cunningly laid
trap? What I had taken for a series of unfortunate coincidences I
perceive now to be the workings of an elaborate scheme involving
perfectly innocent people in the crime."

"H'm," said Gatton doubtfully; "it may be as you suggest; at any rate
it is a new point of view and one which I confess had not occurred to
me. There is one witness who can clear up any doubt on the subject."

"You mean Marie?"

"Exactly. She will lie, beyond doubt, but we shall find means to reach
the truth."

"Would it not be advisable, Inspector," I asked excitedly, "to make
sure of her at once?"

Gatton smiled grimly, and:

"Marie would have to make herself invisible to evade Scotland Yard
now," he replied. "She is being watched closely. But," he continued,
"what do you make of these marks on the door?"

We had reclosed the garage door and now were standing immediately
inside. The marks to which my companion had drawn my attention were
situated high up near the roof.

"This may account for the statement of Bolton that the door seemed
more difficult to open last night than to-day," he said. "Unless I am
greatly mistaken, some sort of attachment existed here until quite
recently."

"Possibly a contrivance for reclosing the door?" I suggested.

The marks in fact roughly corresponded to those which would be made by
the presence of such a contrivance and there seemed to have been some
attempt where it had been removed to disguise the holes left by the
screws.

"But the purpose of it?" muttered Gatton helplessly.

"God knows," I said; "the purpose of the whole thing is a mystery
beyond me entirely."

"Assuming that such a piece of mechanism as you suggest had been
attached to the door," mused Gatton, "you would have noticed its
operation last night, unless one of you held the door open."

"Neither of us held the door!" I interrupted excitedly. "I remember
that we stood just outside looking in. I was behind the constable and
he was directing the rays of his lantern into the place."

"H'm," muttered Gatton. "Then it wasn't a contrivance for closing the
door; it was something else. Suppose we investigate the other door?"

We proceeded to the other door and I became aware of an intense
curiosity respecting what we should find, and of a conviction too that
there would be evidence here of another attachment. In this I was
quite correct. Some piece of mechanism had evidently been fastened to
this door also. Together we stood staring up at these tell-tale
screw-holes and then rather blankly we stared at one another.

"We only lack one thing," said Gatton; "the scheme upon which all
these contrivances and apparently isolated episodes were hung
together. Nothing, as we have already assumed, was accident, and
nothing coincidence. It was with some deliberate purpose that the
constable was instructed to walk through this garage, opening and
shutting the doors behind him."

"From whom did these instructions come?"

"That is one of the minor points which I have already cleared up," he
replied. "On my way here I called at the house agent's, as you know,
since I have the keys; I also called at the station. The sergeant who
was on duty last night I could not see, unfortunately, but I
learned--that it was a woman who rang up."

My heart sank lower and lower. It seemed to me as we stood in that
empty garage that an invisible hand was drawing a net closer and
closer about Isobel and my ideas became increasingly chaotic, for the
purpose of it all eluded me, try how I would to conceive of a scheme
by which any one could profit which necessitated the imprisonment, or
worse, of Isobel.

"And the agent?" I asked in a rather toneless voice.

Gatton shook his head.

"I have no reason to doubt the word of this man of business," he
replied, "because at the time when I saw him he could not possibly
have learned of the crime, but nevertheless his account is almost
unbelievable. It appears then, he, too, received his instructions
throughout by telephone."

"What?" I exclaimed.

"By telephone," repeated Gatton. "He was rung up about ten days ago by
some one who made a verbal offer to lease the Red House for a period
of twelve months. A foreigner, who in lieu of the usual references,
was prepared to pay the annual rent in advance. As the Red House, to
use an Irishism, was regarded as something of a white elephant, the
agent was interested, apparently; and when on the following day the
sum agreed upon arrived by post, he did not demur about delivering the
keys to the prospective lessee, who desired to take certain
measurements in regard to carpets and so forth."

"Wait a moment," I interrupted; "to whom did he deliver these keys?"

"To a district messenger who called for them, as the agent had been
advised that one would do."

"Very well. What then?"

"That is all that the agent had to say."

"What, that is all?"

"Substantially there is nothing more. It is quite evident that the
sole intention of this unknown lessee was to secure possession of the
house for the purpose of the crime only."

"Do you mean that from first to last no one but the district messenger
appeared in the matter?"

"No one," Gatton assured me, "and the rent, payment of which quite
disarmed the agent of course, was sent in the form of Treasury notes
and not by check."

"But surely some name, some address, must have been given?"

"A name was given," replied Gatton, "and a hotel address, but
confirmation of their accuracy was never sought, after the receipt of
the money."

"And the voice on the telephone?"

Again I saw that odd expression creep over Gatton's face, and:

"It was a woman's voice," he answered.

"Great heavens!" I muttered--"what does it all mean?"

That the evidence of the cabman when he was discovered and of the
carter who had taken the box from the garage to the docks, and (for it
was possibly the same man) who had first delivered it at the Red
House, would but tighten the net about Isobel, whom I knew to be
innocent, I felt assured.

"Gatton," I said, "this case appears to me to resolve itself into a
deliberate conspiracy of which the end was not the assassination of
Sir Marcus, but the conviction of Miss Merlin!"

Gatton looked at me with evident complexity written all over him.

"I begin to think the same," he confessed. "This business was never
planned and carried out by a woman, I'll swear to that. There is a
woman concerned in it, for at every point we come upon evidence of her
voice issuing the mysterious instructions; but she is not alone in the
matter. Already the intricacy of the thing points to a criminal of
genius. When we know the whole truth, if we ever do, that the crime
was planned by a man of amazing, if perverted, intellect, will be put
beyond dispute, I think."

"What is puzzling me, Gatton," I said, "is the connection existing
between the incidents which took place in this garage and those,
unknown at present, which took place in the furnished room in the Red
House."

"Obviously," replied Gatton, "a supper for two had been prepared, and
that one of those two was the late Sir Marcus is perfectly obvious.
That he expected the other to be Miss Merlin is at least suggested by
the presence of her photograph in the room; for you will have noticed
that it is the _only_ photograph there."

"Nevertheless," I said firmly, "I am positive that no one would be
more surprised than herself to learn of its presence."

"And as I have already said," replied Gatton, "I am rapidly coming
round to your way of thinking. But even if I were quite sure of it the
evidence at the moment is all the other way, you will admit. As to the
connection between this garage and the interrupted supper party (for
obviously it was interrupted) this it must be my business to find
out."

"Don't you think," I said, "that we are attaching perhaps undue
importance to the fact that some kind of fittings have been removed
from the doors? They may have been removed by the late occupier, and
the call to the police depôt may have been made with the idea of
securing a witness, and a credible one, to the presence of the crate
here on the night of the murder."

"At the moment," replied Gatton, musingly, "I cannot see that this
would have served any useful purpose; but nevertheless you may be
right. I am going to assume, however, that you are wrong, and that the
object of sending Bolton here last night was to open and shut these
doors. I propose now to return again to the scene of the interrupted
supper."

Leaving the garage not very much wiser than when we had entered it,
we paced once more up the drive in the shade of the big trees and
were greeted again by the malarious smell of rotting leaves. Entering
the Red House, Gatton and I proceeded first to that incredible oasis
in the desert of empty rooms and my companion made a detailed
examination of everything in the place, even sounding the walls,
examining the fittings of the door, and finally proceeding through the
hall in the direction of the south wing of the house--that nearest to
the garage.

What he expected to find I had no idea, but his attention seemed to be
more particularly directed towards the wainscot and the picture-rails
of the empty and uncarpeted rooms which we entered. Whatever he had
sought he failed to find, and at last we stood in a desolate apartment
looking out into the tangled shrubbery before the windows. The back of
the garage was visible from there and I viewed it dully, wondering
what evil secret it held, and marveling at the trick of fate which had
made me witness of an act in this gruesome drama.

"Of course, Gatton," I said, "we are all along assuming that Sir
Marcus actually met his death in this house. We must remember that he
may merely have been brought here after the crime."

"Such a short period elapsed," replied the Inspector, "between his
leaving the New Avenue Theater and the approximate time of his death
that it seems unlikely that he visited any intermediate spot."

"But he may not have been in the crate when Bolton and I saw it."

"I don't believe he was in the crate then," replied Gatton, "but I
think he was at the Red House nevertheless."

I stared at him with curiosity.

"You mean that he was in the house at the time that the constable and
I opened the garage?"

"I do. I think he was in that room where supper was laid for two."

"Good God!" I exclaimed; for there was something horrible in the idea
of the man who now lay murdered having been in the house presumably
alive, whilst Bolton and I had stood within forty yards of him; in the
idea that it had lain in our power, except for those human limitations
which rendered us ignorant of his presence, to have averted his fate,
perhaps to have checked the remorseless movement of this elaborate
murder machine which seemingly had been set up in the Red House.

"Some one was here last night," declared Gatton suddenly, as we turned
to leave the deserted room, "after you and Bolton had gone. Everything
incriminating the assassin has been removed. Looking at the matter
judicially, it becomes quite evident that any one clever enough to
have planned this crime could not possibly have been guilty of an act
of such glaring stupidity as that of accidentally leaving a photograph
planted upon the mantelpiece."

That this fact had presented itself to the Inspector with such a force
of conviction raised a great load from my mind. It had all along been
evident to me, but I had feared that to the official outlook of my
companion, and the official outlook is always peculiar, it might have
seemed otherwise.

"The clever and cunning villain who planned this thing," I said, "has
overstepped himself, as you say, Gatton. If the murder was planned
artistically, in his attempt to throw the onus of the crime upon
innocent shoulders he has been guilty of a piece of very mediocre
work. It would not deceive a child."

"No, I agree with you there. The discovery of that photograph has done
more to convince me of the innocence of Miss Merlin than any amount of
testimonials to her good character could ever have done. You see," he
added, smiling whimsically, "all sorts of people hitherto unsuspected
by their closest friends of criminal tendency, develop that taint, so
that I am never surprised to find a convicted thief or assassin
possessed of credentials which would do justice to an Archbishop. But
when I see an obviously artificial clew I recognize it a mile off.
Real clews never stare you in the face like that."

Coming out of the front door, we walked down the leaf-strewn drive to
find that the constable on duty at the gate had been joined by a
plain-clothes man who was evidently waiting to speak to the Inspector.

"Yes?" said Gatton eagerly, at sight of the newcomer.

"We have her, sir," he reported tersely.

"Does he refer to Marie?" I asked.

Gatton nodded.

"I think, Mr. Addison," he said, "I will proceed immediately to Bow
Street, where she has been taken to be interrogated. Will you come
with me or are you otherwise engaged?"

I hesitated ere I replied:

"I do not particularly want to confront this woman, but I should be
much indebted if you could let me know the result of your
examination."

"I shall do that without fail," said Gatton, "and some time to-day I
should be obliged if you could provide me with the facts concerning
the little cat-images which you said you had in your possession."

"Certainly," I agreed. "You are still of the opinion that the mark
upon the crate and the image of the cat-woman have an important
bearing upon the crime?"

"I don't doubt it," was the reply. "If the photograph clew is a false
one, the cat clew is a true one and one to be followed up. Perhaps,"
he added, "it would be as well if you returned now and looked out the
points which you think would be of interest, as when I come I may not
have long to stay."

"I will do so," I said, "although I think I can lay my hands upon the
material almost immediately."

Accordingly Gatton set off with the detective who had brought the news
of Marie's arrest and I, turning in the opposite direction, proceeded
towards my cottage in such a state of mental tumult respecting what
the end of all this would be and what it might mean for Isobel, that I
found myself unable to think connectedly; and needless to say I failed
to conjure up by any stretch of the imagination a theory which could
cover this amazing and terrible sequence of events.




CHAPTER VII

THE CAT OF BUBASTIS


"She belongs to the innumerable family of cats which suddenly came
forth from the ruins of Tell Bastah in 1878," I wrote, Sir Gaston
Maspero's "Egyptian Art" lying before me on the table, "and were in a
few years scattered over the whole world."

"She is Bâst, a goddess of good family, the worship of whom flourished
especially in the east of the delta, and she is very often drawn or
named on the monuments, although they do not tell us enough of her
myths or her origin. She was allied or related to the Sun, and was now
said to be his sister or wife, now his daughter. She sometimes filled
a gracious and beneficent rôle, protecting men against contagious
diseases or evil spirits, keeping them off by the music of her
sistrum: she had also her hours of treacherous perversity, during
which she played with her victim as with a mouse, before finishing him
off with a blow of her claws. She dwelt by preference in the city that
bore her name, Poubastit, the Bubastis of classical writers. Her
temple, at which Cheops and Chephren had worked while building their
pyramids, was rebuilt by the Pharaohs of the 22nd Dynasty, enlarged by
those of the 26th; when Herodotus visited it in the middle of the
fifth century B.C. he considered it one of the most remarkable he had
seen in the parts of Egypt through which he had traveled.

"The fêtes of Bâst attracted pilgrims from all parts of Egypt, as at
the present day those of Sidi Ahmed el-Bedawee draw people to the
modern fair of Tantah. The people of each village crowded into large
boats to get there, men and women pell-mell, with the fixed intention
of enjoying themselves on the journey, a thing they never failed to
do. They accompanied the slow progress of navigation with endless
songs, love songs rather than sacred hymns, and there were also to be
found among them flute-players and castanet-players to support or keep
time to the voices. Whenever they passed by a town they approached the
bank as near as they could without landing, and then, while the
orchestra redoubled its noise, the passengers threw volleys of insults
and coarse remarks at the women standing on the banks; they retorted,
and when they had exhausted words ..."

I finished my notes at this point; the improper behavior of the
Ancient Egyptians mentioned by the great Egyptologist having no
possible bearing upon the matter in hand, I thought. I then proceeded
to add some facts directly relating to the votive offerings laid at
the feet of the goddess.

"The greater number of pilgrims, before returning home, left a
souvenir of their visit at the feet of Bâst. It was a votive stele
with a fine inscription, and a picture showing the donor worshiping
his goddess; or a statuette in blue or green pottery, or if they were
wealthy, in bronze, silver, or sometimes gold: the goddess would be
standing, seated, crouching, with a woman's body and a cat's head, a
sistrum or an ægis in her hand. During the Greek period the figures
were in bronze or in painted or gilded wood surmounted by a cat's head
in bronze, many were life-size and modeled with elaborate art; they
had eyes of enamel and amulets on the forehead."

The learned authority went on to explain that these accumulated
offerings were after a time stored by the priests in cellars or in
pits dug expressly for them, "veritable _favissæ_ similar to those of
classical times." They accumulated in thousands, large and small, some
intact and fresh as when just made, others already out of shape and of
no value. The places of concealment were soon forgotten, and the
stores hidden therein reposed beyond the reach of men until the day
when the chances of excavation brought them to light.

My notes completed, I turned my attention to the little image of green
enamel ware which Gatton had left with me for examination. It was not
possible to determine the period at which it was buried, but judging
from the contours and general forms, together with the aspect of the
enamel, I thought I recognized the style of the second Saïte Period,
and attributed the piece to the early Ptolemies, or the fourth century
B.C. It was the time when the worship of Bâst and her subordinate
forms, Pakh, Maît, was most popular, the period when the most
extensive cemetery of cats was established in Egypt. The execution of
the little figure was pure Egyptian, and in no way betrayed Greek
influence.

So far had my studies proceeded when I heard the door-bell ring, and
Coates entered the room.

"Detective-Inspector Gatton to see you, sir."

Gatton came in looking if anything more puzzled than when I had left
him at the Red House; also I thought he looked tired, and:

"Mix yourself a drink, Inspector," I said, pointing to a side-table
upon which refreshments were placed.

"Thanks," replied Gatton. "I have not had time to stop for a drink or
even a smoke since I left you; but evidence is coming in quickly
enough now."

He helped himself to a whisky and soda, being an old visitor and one
used to the Bohemian ways of my household; then setting his glass upon
a corner of my writing-table, he dropped into the armchair and began
in leisurely fashion to fill his pipe.

Although the hour was growing late, sunset was still a long way off
and the prospect visible through the window was bathed in golden
light. From where I sat I could catch a glimpse of the tree-lined
road, and for the first time since that strange experience had
befallen me, I found myself wondering if the vaguely-perceived
follower whom I had detected on the previous night and those blazing
feline eyes which had looked out at me from beneath the shadow of the
hedge could have had any possible connection with the tragedy which at
about the same hour was being enacted in the Red House. I determined
presently to confide the strange particulars to my friend, but first I
was all anxiety to learn what evidence Marie had given; and that this
evidence, to which he had referred had done little more than to
increase Gatton's perplexity was clear enough from his expression.
Therefore:

"Tell me about Marie," I said.

Gatton smiled grimly, took a drink from his glass, and then:

"She began of course as I had anticipated, by denying all knowledge of
the matter, but recognizing that she was in a tight corner, she
presently changed her tactics, and although every available plan was
tried to induce her to change her ground, she afterwards stuck to the
extraordinary story which we first extracted from her. Briefly it was
this:

"The late Sir Marcus had been paying unwelcome attention to Miss
Merlin for a long time, and Marie had instructions that he was to be
discouraged as much as possible. In fact I am pleased to say that your
theory of Miss Merlin's ignorance respecting the murder plot is borne
out by the testimony of her maid. On several occasions, it appears,
when he sent his card to the dressing-room, Marie returned equivocal
messages and did not even inform her mistress of Sir Marcus's visit.
This had been going on for some time when one night whilst Miss Merlin
was on the stage a telephone call came for Marie and a certain
proposal was made to her.

"It was this: if on the following night Sir Marcus should present
himself she was to tell him that Miss Merlin would take supper in his
company after the performance, but that he was to observe every
possible precaution. Marie, according to her account, at first
declined to entertain the proposal, but being informed that it was
merely intended to play a practical joke upon the baronet, she
ultimately consented. I may add that the promise of a ten-pound note
undoubtedly hastened her decision and it was on her receipt of the
amount by post on the following morning that she determined to carry
out her part of the bargain.

"Her instructions had been explicit. She was to tell Sir Marcus that
Miss Merlin would see him after the performance, then when he
presented himself, to inform him that her mistress had decided it
would be more prudent for him to proceed to the rendezvous alone,
where she would join him in a quarter of an hour. She was to give him
the door key (which had arrived with the money) and to direct him to
enter and wait in the room on the right of the hall. A cabman who knew
the address would be waiting at the stage door."

Gatton paused, puffing slowly at his pipe, then: "Unknown to Miss
Merlin," he continued, "this scheme was carried out. Sir Marcus
presented himself at ten o'clock and received Marie's message; he
returned about eleven and she told him, as she had been instructed,
that her mistress would join him in a quarter of an hour. Curiosity
respecting the joke which she believed was being played upon the
baronet prompted her to go outside the stage-door to see if there was
actually a cab waiting. There was, and she heard Sir Marcus ask the
man if he knew the address to which he was to drive.

"The cabman replied that he did, and Marie claims to know no more
about the matter, except that Sir Marcus drove off in the cab, and
that her mistress returned to her flat alone about a quarter of an
hour later. Next point. Inquiries for the cabman have been made at all
the ranks since early this morning, and he turned up at the Yard about
a couple of hours ago. His story is simple enough; some one called up
the rank where he chanced to be standing that evening, instructing him
to call for Sir Marcus at the stage-door of the New Avenue Theater and
to drive him to--"

He paused:

"Yes?"

"To the Red House!"

"At last we have it!" I cried excitedly.

"There is no doubt of it," answered Gatton; "the cabman drove him
there, and it was certainly at the Red House that he met his death.
Indeed the cabby appears to be the last witness who spoke to the
murdered man. He inquired his way to the Red House from a chance
pedestrian, a tramp, whom he met at the corner of College Road. He has
even described this person to us, but I don't think his evidence of
sufficient importance to justify our searching for him. On reaching
the Red House the cabman and his fare found it to be vacant. Sir
Marcus, however, who had a very brusk manner with his inferiors,
having paid the cabman, curtly dismissed him, and the man, who admits
having bargained for a double fare for the journey, because it was
such an out-of-the-way spot, drove away vaguely curious, but not so
curious as another might have been, since London cabmen are used to
strange jobs."

"We are getting near the heart of the mystery."

"H'm," said Gatton, "I'm not so sure. The deeper we go the darker it
gets. A man has been scouring the neighborhood all day in quest of the
carter who delivered the crate to the docks, but so far without
results. I consider it a very important point that we should learn not
only how and when the crate was collected, but when and by whom it was
delivered at the garage."

"Another question," I said: "although I believe I know the answer. Was
it a man or a woman who ordered the cab?"

"Both in the case of Marie and in the case of the cab-rank," replied
Gatton, "it was a woman's voice that spoke."

"Thank God, one doubt is resolved!" I said. "It cannot possibly have
been Isobel in either of these cases!"

"Right!" agreed Gatton, promptly. "I am as glad as you are. There is
clearly a second woman in the case; yet I can't bring myself to
believe that this elaborate scheme was the work of a woman."

"Not of a _jealous_ woman?" I suggested.

"Not of any woman," he replied. "Besides--who put the body into the
crate? What kind of a woman would it be who could do a deed like
that?"

"In other words," said I, "you are still without a ghost of a clew to
the identity of the person who committed the murder, and to the means
employed?"

Resting his pipe upon an ash-tray, the Inspector took up from my
writing-table the little image of Bâst and held it up between finger
and thumb.

"We always come back to the green cat," he said slowly. "I will
trouble you now, Mr. Addison, for the history of such a little image
as this."

"Yes," I replied abstractedly. "But there is a matter about which I
have not spoken to you hitherto because quite frankly I had doubted if
it had any existence outside my imagination; but every new development
of the case is so utterly fantastic that I no longer regard my
experience as being in the least degree outside the province of
possibility. Before we go further, therefore, into the purely
archæological side of the inquiry (and I have still serious doubt
respecting the usefulness of such a quest) let me relate a peculiar
experience which I had last night after I had left Bolton."

Gatton listened in silence whilst I gave him an account of that
evasive shadow which I had perceived behind me, and then of the great
cat's eyes which had looked in through the window.

His expression of naïve wonderment was almost funny; and when I had
concluded:

"Well, Mr. Addison," said he, "if you had told me this story before I
had taken up 'the _Oritoga_ mystery,' for so I observe--" drawing an
evening paper from his pocket--"the press has agreed to entitle the
case, I should have suggested that your peculiar studies had begun to
tell upon your nerves; but this voice on the 'phone and this empty
house in which only one room was furnished, finally the green cat
painted on the packing-case and the green cat which stands there upon
the table have prepared me for even stranger things than your
adventure of last night."

"Yet," I urged, "there is no visible connection between the episodes
of the case and this strange apparition which I saw in the garden last
night."

"There was no visible connection between Sir Marcus's body in a
packing-case in the hold of the _Oritoga_ and the garage of the house
in College Road until we found one," retorted Gatton. "Anyway I am
glad you mentioned the matter to me; I will take a note of it, for it
may prove to provide a link in the chain. And now"--taking out a
note-book and pencil--"for the history of these cat things."

I sighed rather wearily as I crossed the room to my bookcase and took
down the volume of Gaston Maspero, the same which I had been reading
but had returned to its shelf as Gatton had been admitted.

"We have it here in a nutshell," I said.

Gatton methodically noted the passages which I read to him. The task
concluded:

"H'm," he muttered, scanning his notes, "very strange, very strange
indeed. 'She had also her hours of treacherous perversity, during
which she played with her victim as with a mouse, before finishing him
off with a blow of her claws.'"

He raised his eyes and stared at me strangely.

"She played with her victim as with a mouse," he murmured, "before
finishing him off with a blow--"




CHAPTER VIII

MY VISITOR


For long enough after Gatton's departure I sat thinking over our
conversation. Despite the lateness of the hour at which he had
departed, he had had no thought of rest and was setting out in quest
of further evidence to point to the author of Sir Marcus's death. The
room was laden with tobacco smoke, for our conference had lasted more
than two hours, but dusk was very fully established and when presently
as I sat there in the dark contemplating the horrible labyrinth into
which my steps had drifted, Coates entered.

"Ah, Coates," I said, "light up."

He switched on the electric light and I saw layers of smoke--clouds
drifting from the open window towards the newly opened door.

"Shall you be going out again to-night, sir?" asked Coates, standing
rigidly to attention as was his custom when addressing me.

"I think not, Coates," I replied. "I have done enough for one day, but
I should be glad if you would ring up the New Avenue Theater and
inquire if Miss Merlin will speak to me. It will be about time now for
the performance to have finished."

"Very good, sir," said Coates, and proceeded to make the call, whilst
I sat listlessly smoking and listening to his voice. Presently:

"Miss Merlin did not appear to-night, sir," he announced: "she is
indisposed."

"I thought as much," I muttered. "I could hardly have expected after
such a day of horror and excitement that she would have been capable
of appearing to-night. Ring up her flat, Coates," I added. "I should
like to speak to her, for I know she is in great trouble."

"Indeed, sir," Coates permitted himself to remark. "Is it something to
do with the discovery at the docks this morning, sir?"

"It is, Coates," I replied. "It is an utterly damnable business."

"Indeed, sir," said Coates again, and went to the telephone.

Three minutes later I was talking to Isobel.

"I find it utterly impossible to tell you what has happened," she
declared, "since I saw you last. I feel incapable of thinking, and of
course it was quite out of the question for me to go to the theater
to-night. But it is not so bad as it might have been." She hesitated,
then: "I was only able to give them very short notice unfortunately,
but from a selfish point of view, as you know--I was leaving the
stage--very shortly--"

"Yes," I answered dully, "I know; but have you seen the police?"

"I have seen Inspector Gatton," she replied; "but as he told me that
he was coming along to you, no doubt you know what took place."

"No," I replied; "he did not mention the visit, but you quite
recognize the fact, Isobel, that he does not regard you as being in
any way concerned in this ghastly affair."

"He was awfully kind," she admitted; "in fact I quite changed my
opinion regarding the methods of the police authorities after my
interview with Inspector Gatton; but although he was so extremely
tactful with me, I really cannot forgive him his suspicions, which he
was at scarcely any pains to disguise, regarding Eric."

"Regarding Eric!" I exclaimed.

"Oh," continued Isobel, "he may have concealed his views from you, as
he knows that you are--a friend of Eric's; but he was less careful
about concealing them from me. To all intents and purposes Eric is
under police surveillance!"

"But this is utterly incredible!" said I. "You don't mean to tell me,
Isobel, that Coverly has persisted in his silence respecting his
movements last night? If he has done so, in the circumstances he has
only himself to thank. Social position and everything else counts for
nothing when an inquiry concerning a murder is concerned. He knows
that perfectly well."

I think I spoke hotly, and certainly I spoke with a certain
indignation, for I very strongly resented Coverly's attitude in the
case, which could only add to the difficulties and sorrows of Isobel's
position.

Yet a moment afterwards I regretted that I had done so, for:

"Are _you_ going to quarrel with me, too?" she asked pathetically.

"What do you mean? Who has been quarreling with you?"

"Eric quarreled with me fiercely at the solicitors' to-day, and when I
begged of him to be frank respecting his movements last night, his
attitude became"--she hesitated--"almost unbearable. He did not seem
to realize that I was only thinking of him, nor did he seem to realize
the construction which I might have placed upon his silence. I mean,
Jack, what can he possibly have to conceal?"

Temporarily I felt myself to have become tongue-tied. What _could_ it
be that Coverly was concealing? The idea of complicity in the crime I
scouted; nothing could have induced me to believe it. Only one
explanation presented itself to my mind, as evidently it had presented
itself to Isobel's--another woman. However:

"You may depend," I said, endeavoring to speak soothingly, "that he
has some good and sufficient reason for this silence, and one which is
not in any way discreditable. Nevertheless he will have to reconsider
his attitude in the near future. Of course there are times when almost
every one of us would be hard put to it to establish an alibi if we
were called upon to do so--as regards witnesses of our movements, I
mean; but at least we can state roughly where we were during any hour
of the day, even if we have to trust to luck to find witnesses to
prove the truth of words. His attitude of silence, Isobel, is
ridiculous."

"Have you seen the evening papers?" she asked pathetically.

"Some of them," I replied.

"They have got my name in already," she continued, "and my photograph
appears in one. It is outrageous how they leap at an opportunity for
scandal."

"It will all be cleared up," I said, speaking with as much confidence
as I had at my command. "You know and I know that Coverly is innocent
and I don't believe that Gatton thinks him guilty."

A while longer we talked and then I returned rather wearily to my
chair in the room where the air was still laden with tobacco fumes.

Without believing it to contain any very special significance as I had
supposed, but merely attracted by the strangeness of the passage, I
remembered how Gatton had harped upon Maspero's description of the
attributes of Bâst. "Sometimes she plays with her victim as with a
mouse," etc. The big book with its fine plates, several of them
representing cats similar to that which Gatton had left behind for my
more particular examination, still lay open upon the table, and I
reread those passages appertaining to the character of the
cat-goddess, which I had marked for Gatton's information. Scarce
noting what I read--for all the time I was turning over in my mind the
manifold problems of the case--I sat there for an hour perhaps, in
fact until I was interrupted by the entrance of Coates.

"Shall you require me again to-night, sir?" he inquired.

"No," I replied; "you had better turn in now, as in all probability we
shall be early afoot to-morrow, Coates. Inspector Gatton will probably
be calling for me."

"Very good. Good-night, sir," said Coates; and performing a smart
about-turn, he walked out of the room.

I went on reading, not in quest of any particular information, but in
that idle mood when one reads anything, interesting or otherwise. For
a time I heard my conscientious batman fastening doors and windows as
was his nightly custom; then the door of his own room closed and I
heard him no more.

When I first became aware of the howling of distant dogs I know not;
but it was with a great start that I was aroused from my semi-reverie
by the ringing of the door-bell. I realized that I had sat much longer
than I had supposed. It was a quarter to one.

Gatton was my first thought; there must be an unexpected development
in the case calling in some way for my services. Coates was a sound
sleeper and evidently had not been awakened by the ringing of the
bell; therefore, arrayed as I was in pajamas, slippers and bath-robe
(for this, during the hot weather was my indoor costume) I walked out
along the little corridor, unbolted the front door and opened it.

A woman stood there.

For a moment I thought foolishly that it was Isobel, and my heart gave
a great leap. But the delusion was instantly dispelled when my visitor
spoke.

Her voice had a totally different tone from that of Isobel--it was a
low, almost caressing voice, with a vaguely husky note in it,
fascinating in a way, yet although I found myself unable to account
for the fact, vaguely uncanny--queer.

"Please excuse me," she said. "You will naturally wonder what has
brought a visitor to your door at this hour of the night, and indeed
my explanation is a strange one."

She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder as she spoke, out into
the darkness of the roadway. I observed that she was apparently in
evening dress and wore a very handsome cloak, having a thick silk
scarf so draped about her head and shoulders that her face was quite
concealed. Very clearly, now, I could hear the howling of dogs.

Instinct is a curious thing, and that which it prompted me to do at
the moment when I found myself confronting this strange woman was
promptly to awaken Coates! Honestly I was afraid of her and wished for
nothing better than to have the closed door between us. This was all
the more unaccountable as she had the appearance and manners of a
cultured woman, presenting indeed a figure of great elegance as she
stood there with her tall slender form outlined by the moonlight which
slanted down through the trees to form a scimitar of light upon the
path behind her.

Of course I could never have acted upon this singular instinct, but
the decision was taken out of my hands; for suddenly my visitor
uttered a low cry of fear, swayed dizzily and seemed about to fall.

Perforce I stepped forward to support her and before I knew what had
happened, she had tottered into the passage, resting heavily upon my
shoulder.

"Close the door!" she said in that low husky voice. "Quick! Quick! I
have seen them again!"

An unpleasant chill communicated itself to me.

"The eyes!" she whispered. "Two great eyes have followed me! That was
why I knocked at your door. I was afraid."

It was enough, the mention of two great eyes. Leaving my visitor
temporarily to take care of herself, I sprang to the door and closed
it hurriedly. As I turned, in the light from the partly open study
door I saw the woman walking slowly ahead of me. I overtook her,
holding the door fully open for her to pass in.

"Please sit down a while," I said. "You have evidently been seriously
alarmed."

Still there was no sign from Coates, whose voice would have been
welcome music to my ears, for I could not reconcile myself to this
woman's presence, strive how I might, nor could I understand how she
had come to be wandering alone in such a place at that hour. One bond
of sympathy there was between us. I could forgive any one fearing
those awful eyes, for I had feared them myself; and I could no longer
doubt that some strange apparition was haunting the vicinity.

"Believe me, I quite understand," I said, turning to my visitor. "It
is most extraordinary, but I believe there is some unusually large cat
frequenting the neighborhood at present."

I stood by the side table and was on the point of pouring out a glass
of water when the woman raised her white-gloved hand in a gesture of
refusal.

"Thank you," she said, "thank you, but I am quite recovered, and
indeed if the cause of my alarm is no more than a cat, as you say, I
will proceed."

She laughed, and her laughter was low-pitched, but very musical. In
the light of the shaded table-lamp I could see the gleam of white
teeth through her veil, but I could not imagine why she swathed
herself in that manner. Yet in spite of this enwrapping she could not
disguise the fact that she possessed remarkably large and beautiful
eyes. She seemed now to have recovered her composure, but I noted that
she made no attempt to remove her veil.

"Are you quite sure that you will not be nervous on your way?" I
asked.

"Oh, no. I am staying with some friends quite near," she explained,
detecting my curiosity; "and I was indiscreet enough to wander out at
this hour to post a letter."

Possibly this explanation might have satisfied me; it is even possible
that I should have thought little more about the incident at that time
when I lived in a constant turmoil of episodes even stranger, but by
one of those accidents which sometimes seem to be directed by the hand
of an impish fate, I was to learn who or what my visitor was. When I
say I was to learn what she was, perhaps I err; more correctly I was
to learn what she was not, namely, an ordinary human being.

It was as she rose to depart that the hand of fate intervened. I had
only one lamp burning in the room, a table-lamp; and at this moment,
preceded by a sudden accession of light due to some flaw of the
generating plant, the filament expired, plunging the room into
darkness! I stood up with a startled cry. I do not deny that I felt
ill at ease in the gloom with my strange visitor; but worse was to
come. Looking across the darkened room to the chair upon which she was
seated, I saw a pair of blazing eyes regarding me fixedly!

Something in their horrid, luminous watchfulness told me that my
slightest movement was perceptible to my uncanny visitor of whom I
could see nothing but those two fiery eyes.

What I did or what occurred within the next few seconds I am not
prepared to state in detail. I know I uttered a hoarse cry and threw
myself back from those dreadful eyes which seemed to be advancing upon
me. The cry awakened Coates. I heard the pad of his bare feet upon the
floor as he leaped out of bed, and an instant later his door was
opened and he came blundering out into the darkened passage.

"Hello, sir!" he cried, in a half-dazed voice. "Here, Coates!" I
replied, and my tones were far from normal.

Falling over a chair on his way, Coates came running into the study.
An impression I had of a flying shape, and the dimly seen square of
the open window (for that side of the cottage lay in shadow) seemed
momentarily to become blackened.

"Bring a light, Coates!" I cried. "The lamp has gone out."

"Matches on the table, sir," said Coates.

Instantly I remembered that this was the case, that they lay in fact
near to my hand. I struck one, and in its flickering light looked
about the room. My visitor had gone--palpably through the window, for
certainly the front door had not been opened.

"She has gone, Coates!" I exclaimed.

And on this occasion it was Coates who repeated in an amazed voice:

"_She_?"

But even as he spoke, my attention had become diverted.

I was staring at that portion of the table upon which Maspero's book
lay. Beside it had stood the little Bubastis statuette ... but the
statuette was there no longer!




CHAPTER IX

THE VELVET CURTAIN


"This gets me well out of my depth, Mr. Addison," said Inspector
Gatton.

We were standing in the garden at a point near to my open study
window. A small flower-bed intervened between the path and the high
privet hedge. It lay much in shade, and Coates had set tobacco plants
there. But the soil was softer here than elsewhere.

Clearly marked upon it were the imprints of little high-heeled shoes.

"It seems to take us back to the days of 'Spring-heeled Jack,'" my
friend continued; "which was before my time! I don't think _that_
mystery was ever cleared up?"

"No," I replied, meeting his questioning glance; "it never was,
satisfactorily. Therefore the analogy is an unfortunate one. But as
you say, it certainly looks as though my visitor had sprung across a
six-foot hedge!"

"It's absolutely mad," said Gatton gloomily. "Far from helping us, it
only plunges us deeper in the mire."

We returned to the study, and:

"You will have seen the daily papers?" asked the Inspector.

I nodded.

"Practically all of them. They give a hateful prominence to the name
of Miss Merlin."

"And to that of the new baronet--Sir Eric," said Gatton significantly.

I stared at him straightly.

"Do you seriously believe," said I, "that Eric Coverly had anything
whatever to do with the death of his cousin?"

Gatton stirred uneasily in his chair.

"Well," he answered, "ignoring everything else for the moment, who
else benefits by Sir Marcus Coverly's death?"

It was a poser--a question which I had dreaded because I had known it
to be unanswerable.

"He inherits the title," continued Gatton, "and on the death of Lady
Burnham Coverly he inherits Friars' Park. There is some clause or
entail, or legal hotchpotch whereby the estate and revenue remain hers
during her lifetime."

"But I understand the estate is mortgaged?"

"That I have to confirm, Mr. Addison," replied Gatton. "Sir Eric's
solicitor has no information on the point and that of Sir Marcus's man
of business is inexact. But even supposing that only the title is
concerned, many a man has lost his life for less. Then you have to
consider--Miss Merlin."

"In what way?" I demanded

"In relation to the attitude of Sir Marcus. Jealousy makes men (and
women) do strange and desperate things. The character of Eric Coverly,
the new baronet, is a very odd one."

"He is headstrong and in some respects weak," I admitted. "But
otherwise he is an ordinary English gentleman, with the traditions of
an old name and a public school to back him up. I tell you, Gatton,
it's nonsense. His army career alone shows him to be a sound man."

"Yes," murmured Gatton; "he was awarded a decoration for distinguished
service in Egypt."

That seemingly simple remark struck me with all the force of a
physical blow. Gatton began quietly to load his pipe, without even
glancing in my direction; but the covert significance of his words was
all too apparent:

"Gatton," I said--"what the devil are you driving at?"

He slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"What you may term the hocus-pocus side of the case," he replied,
"turns on matters Egyptian, doesn't it? Very well. Who else, that we
know about, is associated, or ever has been associated with Egypt?"

"But--the woman?"

"Ah!" said Gatton. "Now you are getting down to the depths. But
assuming that the extraordinary characteristics of this visitor of
yours can be explained in some way, by deliberate trickery, for
example, might she not be a woman whom Eric Coverly met in Egypt?"

I stared silently a while, and then:

"In short, a rival of Miss Merlin's?" I suggested.

"Precisely. The trick with the photograph was just of the kind one
would expect from a madly jealous woman. Everything planned with
supreme cunning, but the scene at which the hated rival enters the
scheme badly overdone."

"And you believe Coverly's silence to be due to the fact that he is
shielding some one?"

"Well, that or shielding himself. What else can it mean? A man
suspected of murder doesn't hesitate to establish an alibi unless he
is in a desperately tight corner. The exact position of your
strange-eyed acquaintance in the case is not apparent to me at the
moment, I'll admit, but I seem to have heard that there have been rare
instances of human beings with luminous eyes."

"Quite right, Inspector," I agreed; "I hope very shortly to have some
further particulars for you bearing upon this point. I am endeavoring
to obtain a work by Saint-Hilaire dealing with teratology."

"As to her extraordinary activity and agility," Gatton continued, "we
must remember that a privet hedge is not like a stone wall. I mean she
may not have actually cleared the whole six feet, and after all, this
is the age of the athletic girl. There are women athletes who can
perform some extraordinary feats of high-jumping. Of course, there are
still a number of witnesses to be discovered and examined, but I know
by now exactly what to expect. It's an ingenious idea, although not
entirely new to me.

"The whole thing has been managed by means of the telephone--a
powerful ally of the modern criminal. Briefly what happened was this:
The Red House--selected because of its lonely position, but also
because it was fairly accessible--was leased by our missing assassin
without any personal interview taking place. We have to look then in
the first instance for some one possessing considerable financial
resources. It was by the effective substitution of a year's rent--in
cash--for the more usual references, that our man--or woman--whom I
will call 'A' secured possession of the keys and right of entry to the
premises. A limited amount of furniture was obtained in the same
manner. We haven't found the firm who supplied it, but I don't doubt
that the business was done over the telephone, cash being paid as
before. Duplicate keys must have been made for some of the doors, I
think--a simple matter. We shall find that the furnishing people as
well as the caterer who later on supplied the supper were admitted to
the Red House by a district messenger or else had the keys posted to
them for the purpose.

"The whole business was built up around a central idea, simple in
itself: that of inveigling Sir Marcus into the prepared supper-room.
His attendance at the New Avenue Theater last night was doubtless
assured--although we may never prove it--by another of these
mysterious telephone messages, probably purporting to come from Miss
Merlin. The cold-blooded thoroughness with which 'A' arranged for a
crate to be delivered at the garage and for the body of the murdered
man to be taken to the docks and shipped to the West Indies,
illuminates the character of the person we have to seek.

"Discovery sooner or later was inevitable, of course. It came sooner
because of the accident at the docks. Had it come later I don't doubt
that 'A' would have dismantled the Red House again so that the
investigation would have been severely handicapped. As it is, the only
dismantling done was the most important of all."

"You mean?" I said with keen interest.

"The death-machine," answered Gatton. "The cunning device around which
all these trappings were erected. We don't have to wait for the
coroner's inquest nor the pathologists' report to know that Sir Marcus
was asphyxiated."

"In that room where supper was laid for two?" I muttered.

"Can you doubt it?"

"No," I said, "and I don't."

"I have allowed nothing to be touched," continued Gatton, "and I am
going around there now to make a final attempt to unravel the mystery
of how Sir Marcus met his death."

"There is one detail," said I, "which it seems impossible to fit into
its proper place in the scheme. The figure of Bâst painted upon the
crate--you have that at Scotland Yard--and the little image of the
goddess which was stolen from my table last night."

Gatton stood up, uttering a sigh.

"I have always found, Mr. Addison," he replied, "that it is these
outstanding features of a case, these pieces which don't seem to fit,
that are the most valuable clews. It's the apparently simple cases in
which there is no outstanding point that are the most baffling."

I laughed shortly.

"One could not very well complain of the lack of such features in 'the
_Oritoga_ mystery,'" I said. "As a confrère of mine remarked when the
body of Sir Marcus was discovered in the crate, the whole thing is as
mad as 'Alice in Wonderland'!"

Gatton presently departed for the Red House and I accompanied him, for
I was intensely curious to learn by what means the murder of Sir
Marcus had been accomplished. As I proposed later in the morning to
call on Isobel, Coates drove Gatton and myself as far as the Red House
and I instructed the man to wait for me.

Although the morning was still young, the prominence given by the
press to this sensational crime had resulted in the presence of quite
a considerable group of pilgrims who even thus early had arrived to
look upon the scene of the mysterious tragedy. London is a city of
onlookers. The most trivial street accident never lacks its interested
audience, and a house in which a murder is reputed to have taken place
becomes a center upon which the idly curious focus from the four
points of the compass.

Our arrival created a subdued excitement amongst the nondescript group
gathered upon the pavement. Despite the efforts of a constable on
duty, men, women and children persistently gathered before the gates
of the drive peering up at the empty house as if they anticipated
seeing the face of the murderer or an apparition of the victim appear
behind one of the windows. A considerable group, too, was gathered
before the garage, but as Gatton and I descended and began to walk up
the drive there was a general movement in our direction.

"I wonder," said I, "if 'A,' the wanted man, is among the crowd? One
reads that murderers are irresistibly drawn back to the scene of their
crimes."

"He may be," replied Gatton; "anyway there are two C.I.D. men there
for certain, so that 'A' will do well to be upon his guard."

A few moments later I found myself again in the lounge-hall of the Red
House; and the place now seemed to me to have taken on an air of
oppressive mystery. In the very deserted silence of the house I
detected something sinister. Of course, no doubt this was merely an
effect created upon my mind by the ghastly associations of the place;
but I know that whereas on the previous day surprise and curiosity had
been the most characteristic emotions aroused by our discoveries
there, this morning something darker seemed to have taken their place;
and I found myself listening for a sound that never came and wondering
vaguely and vainly, what secret was hidden in this desolate mansion.

By Gatton's orders the room in which that gruesome supper was laid had
been left undisturbed and once more we stood surveying the spotless
napery and sparkling silver. I listened to the ticking of the clock
upon the mantelpiece and stared dully at the wine resting in the
ice-pail which now contained nothing but dirty water. A big dish of
fruit stood upon the table, peaches and apricots and nectarines; and
several large wasps had entered through one of the windows which some
one had opened, and were buzzing sleepily around the dish.
Lastly--there beside the clock stood Isobel's photograph.

For any evidence of a struggle I looked in vain, but the nature of my
companion's investigation was more obscure. Again the whole of his
attention seemed to be directed upon the wall, the window-ledges and
the door-frame. Suddenly:

"Ah," I said, "I know what you are looking for! Some connection
between this room and the garage?"

Gatton, who was kneeling examining a lower panel of the door, looked
up with a grim smile.

"Perhaps I am," he replied.

By the tone of his voice I knew that whatever he had sought he had
failed once more to find. Presently, desisting from this quest of his,
he stood and stared curiously for some time at a recess immediately
behind one of the high-backed chairs drawn up to the supper table. We
had already explored this recess and had found it to be vacant. Gatton
advanced towards it and drew aside the curtain which was draped in the
opening.

It was a recess about four feet wide by three deep and it contained
nothing in the nature of furniture or ornament.

"Does anything strike you as curious about this arrangement?" said my
companion.

I looked for a long time, but failed to detect anything of a notable
nature.

"Nothing," I said, "except that it seems a peculiar idea to drape a
curtain before a recess in that way."

"And such a curtain!" said Gatton, fingering the texture.

I in turn touched the material with my fingers and found it to be an
extremely heavy velvet. Looking upward, I noticed that it was attached
to a rod set so high in the wall on either side that the top of the
drapery actually touched the ceiling.

"Well," said Gatton, looking at me oddly, "in addition to the texture
of the curtain do you notice anything else?"

"No," I confessed.

"Well," he continued, "you may remember that yesterday when I examined
this place, I had to drape the curtain over a chair, which I moved
here for the purpose, in order to see the recess."

"So you did," I said; "I remember."

"Well, doesn't it strike you as odd? If you'll notice the way it is
fastened above, you will see that it is not upon rings. In other words
it is not intended to be opened. You see that it is in one piece so
that anybody having occasion to enter the recess would have to lift it
aside and let it fall to behind him."

I studied the arrangement of the drapings more closely and saw that
his statement was correct; also I saw something else, and:

"This room has been lighted by gas at some time!" I cried. "Here, up
under the picture-rail, is a plug."

"Most houses are provided both with gas and electric light about
here," replied Gatton abstractedly.

But even before he had finished speaking I saw his expression change,
and in a moment he had dragged a chair into the recess.

"Hold the curtain back," he directed sharply.

Standing on the chair, he began to examine the little brass plug to
which I had drawn his attention. For some time I watched him in
silence, and then:

"What do you think you have found?" I inquired.

He glanced down over his shoulder.

"I think I have found a _clew_!" he replied.




CHAPTER X

"HANGING EVIDENCE"


Isobel came into the room and approached the chair from which I had
arisen. In her plain morning frock, with the sun bringing out those
wonderful russet tints in her hair, but having that frightened look
still in her eyes, she had never seemed more beautiful. Yet I saw as I
rose to greet her that she was laboring under the influence of
dangerous nervous excitement.

"You are worried about Eric?" I said, when we had exchanged those
rather formal greetings in which I think we took mutual shelter.
Certainly I did, and later I was to know that Isobel did so, too.

"Every day seems to make the case grow blacker against him," she
replied, sinking down upon the settee beside me.

And indeed the shadow which had fallen upon all of us seemed at that
moment almost palpable--a thing to be felt like the darkness of Egypt
and not to be dispelled even by the brightness of the morning.

"When did you last see Coverly?"

Isobel raised her head wearily.

"Last night, and he seemed to think that some one was following him--a
detective."

I noticed that Isobel spoke of Eric Coverly with a certain manner of
restraint for which I could not account. Yet perhaps it was only
natural that she should do so, but at the time I was foolishly blind
to the opposing emotions which fought and conflicted within her.

"He still refused to explain his movements on the night of the
murder?" I asked.

"Yes, he persisted in his extraordinary silence," said Isobel.

The look of trouble in her eyes grew more acute.

"What I cannot understand is a sort of attitude of resentment which he
has lately adopted."

"Of resentment? Towards whom?"

"Towards _me_."

"But--"

"Oh, it's quite incomprehensible, Jack, and it is making me horribly
unhappy. He complained so bitterly too about this police surveillance
to which he is subjected. He realizes that the coroner is almost
certain to put a wrong construction on his silence, but instead of
being frank about it he adopts, even when alone with me, this
incomprehensible attitude of resentment. In fact his behavior almost
suggests that _I_ am responsible for his present misfortunes."

"He must be mad," I said, and I expect I spoke bitterly, for Isobel
lowered her eyes and her face flushed with embarrassment.

"Don't think that I condemn him," I added hastily, "but really in
justice to you, if not in order to clear his own good name, he should
speak out at once. Are you expecting to see him to-day?"

Isobel nodded.

"I am expecting him at almost any moment," she replied; then glancing
aside at a number of daily papers which lay littered upon the floor
beside the settee: "Of course you have seen what the press has to say
about it?" she added.

I nodded.

"What can you expect?" said I. "It is one of those cases in which
practically all the evidence, although it is of a purely
circumstantial nature, points to an innocent man as the culprit. I
feel very keenly annoyed with Coverly, for not only is he involving
both of you in a most unsavory case but he is also hindering the work
of justice. In fact by his inexplicable silence he is, although no
doubt unconsciously, affording the murderer time to elude the law."

Even as I spoke the words I heard a cab draw up in the street below,
and glancing out of the window, I saw Coverly alight from the cab, pay
the man and enter the doorway. His bearing was oddly furtive, that, as
I thought with a sudden pang, of a fugitive. A few moments later he
came into the room and his expression when he found me there was one
of marked hostility.

Eric Coverly bore no resemblance whatever to the deceased baronet from
whom he inherited the title, belonging as he did to quite another
branch of the family. Whereas Sir Marcus had been of a dark and sallow
type, Eric Coverly was one of those fair, fresh-colored, open-air
English types, handsome in an undistinguished way, and as a rule of a
light and careless disposition. There had never been any very close
sympathy between us, for the studies to which I devoted so much time
were by him regarded as frankly laughable absurdities. Although well
enough informed, he was typical of his class, and no one could justly
have catalogued him as an intellectual.

"Good morning, Addison," he said, having greeted Isobel in a
perfunctory fashion which I assumed to be accounted for by my
unwelcome presence. "The men of your Fleet Street tribe have conspired
to hang me, I see."

"Don't talk nonsense, Coverly," I said bruskly; "this misapprehension
is bound to arise if you decline to give any account of your
movements."

"But it is an outrage!" cried Coverly hotly. "What the devil do _I_
know about Marcus's death?"

"I am perfectly convinced that you know nothing whatever; but then I
have known you for many years. The 'Fleet Street tribe' to whom you
refer merely regard you as a unit of our rather large population. In a
case of this kind, Coverly, all men are equal."

Whilst I had been delivering myself of this somewhat priggish
speech--designed, I may add, in self-defense, to spur Coverly to a
rejoinder which might throw some light upon the mystery--he had
regarded me with an expression of ever increasing dislike. I noted
that there were shadows under his eyes, and that he was in a highly
nervous and excited condition. He had slept but little I judged during
the last forty-eight hours and had possibly had recourse to stimulants
to enable him to face the new trials which arose with every day.

"I don't feel called upon," he said angrily, "to give an account of my
movements to every policeman who cares to inquire. I know nothing
whatever about the matter. I have said so, and I am not accustomed to
have my word doubted."

"My dear Coverly," said I, "you must be perfectly well aware that
sooner or later you will have to relinquish this heroic pose. Will you
allow no one to advise you? You will have to answer the coroner, and
if you persist in this extraordinary refusal to give a simple answer
to a simple question, surely you realize that the matter will be
transferred to a higher tribunal?"

"Oh, I told you that they had hanged me in Fleet Street already,
Isobel!" cried Coverly, with a burst of unmirthful laughter.

But (and no man could have construed the thing favorably to Coverly)
to my anger and amazement he added:

"Let them do it! I'll speak if I choose, but not otherwise!"

That I was annoyed with the young fool already, my remarks to him,
which had transgressed every code of good taste, must sufficiently
have shown. But I had hoped to provoke him to a declaration which
would clear his name from the shadow which was settling darkly upon
it, and which would raise that shadow from the girl who stood beside
him, watching me with a sort of reproachful look in her dark eyes.

Now I recognized that I could remain no longer and keep the peace,
therefore:

"Perhaps it is time that I went about my own business," I said,
conjuring up a smile, although it must have been a dreary one, "and
ceased to interfere with the affairs of other people. Good-by, Isobel.
Anything I can do, you know you may command. Good-by, Coverly. I am
deeply sorry about this business."

He barely touched my extended hand, but instantly turned and walked to
the bay window. Descending to the street, I had immediate confirmation
of Coverly's statement that his movements were watched.

In the porch below a man stood talking to the hall-porter. As I
appeared he immediately averted his face and began to light a
cigarette. Nevertheless I had had time to recognize him as the man who
had brought Gatton news of Marie's detention.

It was in a truly perturbed frame of mind that I proceeded on my way
to the _Planet_ offices. I would have sacrificed much to have been
afforded means to comfort Isobel; a furious anger towards the man who
thus deliberately had brought doubt and unhappiness upon her had taken
up permanent quarters in my mind. I counted Coverly's declination to
clear himself little better than the attitude of a cad.

I read religiously through a pile of cuttings bearing upon the case,
and found the unmistakable trend of opinion to be directed towards
Coverly as the culprit. The use made of Isobel's name enraged me to
boiling point and I presently took up the entire bundle of cuttings
and crammed them into a waste-paper basket. I was engaged in stamping
them down with my foot when I was called to the telephone.

Inspector Gatton was speaking from New Scotland Yard; and his voice
was very grave.

"Can you possibly come along at once?" he asked. "There is a new
development; a most unpleasant one."

He would say no more over the telephone. Therefore I hurried out to
where Coates was waiting, and in ten minutes found myself in one of
those bare, comfortless apartments which characterize the headquarters
of the Metropolitan Police Force.

With his hat off Gatton looked more like a seaman than ever, for he
had short, crisply curly hair and that kind of bull-dog line of
cranium which one associates with members of the senior service. Upon
a chair set in a recess formed by one of the lofty windows a leather
grip rested. It was wet and stained, and had palpably been recovered
but recently from the water. Seeing my glance straying towards this
object at the moment of my entrance, the Inspector nodded.

"Yes," said he, "it has just come in."

"What is it?"

"Well," replied Gatton, sitting upon a corner of the table and folding
his arms, "it is a piece of evidence sufficient to hang the most
innocent man breathing."

He eyed me in a significant manner and I felt my heart beginning to
beat more rapidly.

"May I know the particulars?"

"Certainly. I asked you to come along for the purpose of telling you.
Sir Eric Coverly's refusal to answer the questions put to him had
necessitated his being watched, as you know. I mean to say, it's
sheerly automatic; the Commissioner himself couldn't make an
exception. Well, last night he left his chambers and started for Miss
Merlin's flat. He came out of a back door and went along a narrow
passage, instead of going out at the front. He evidently thought he
had got away unobserved. He was carrying--that."

"Good heavens!" I said. "The young fool seems determined to put a rope
around his own neck."

"As a matter of fact," continued Gatton, "he was _not_ unobserved. He
was followed right across St. James's Park. By the lake he lingered
for some time; and the man tracking him kept carefully out of sight,
of course. There was nobody else about at the moment, and presently,
thinking himself safe, Coverly dropped his bag in the water!
Immediately he set off walking rapidly again, and he was followed
right to Miss Merlin's door. But the spot where he had dropped the bag
had been marked, of course, and when I came in here to-day it had been
fished, up--and placed there for my inspection."

With ever-growing misgivings:

"What does it contain?" I asked.

Inspector Gatton walked across to the chair and threw the bag open.
First he took out several lumps of wet coal.

"To weight it, of course," he said.

Then one by one he withdrew from the clammy interior a series of
ragged garments, the garments of a tramp. A pair of heavy boots there
were, a pair of patched trousers and an old shabby coat, a greasy cap,
and finally a threadbare red muffler!

Gatton looked hard at me.

"He will have to break his obstinate silence now," he said. "Failing
our discovery of new clews pointing in another direction, this is
hanging evidence!"

"It is maddening!" I cried. "Can nothing be done, Gatton? Is there no
possible line of inquiry hitherto neglected which might lead to the
discovery of the truth? For whatever your own ideas may be, personally
I am certain that Coverly is innocent."

Gatton replaced the sodden garments one by one in the bag, frowning as
he did so, and:

"It occurred to me this morning," he replied, "that there _is_ one
inquiry which in justice to the suspected man and in order to round
off the investigation, should be instituted. I'm afraid Coverly will
have a bad time in the Coroner's court, but it is even possible that
something might be done before the inquest. Now--"

He looked at me quizzically, and:

"Knowing your keen personal interest in the case, I am going to make a
suggestion. It is probably going outside the intentions of the chief
in regard to your share of the inquiry, but I'll risk that. I
stipulate, however, that anything you learn is to be communicated
direct to me, not to the _Planet_. Is this arrangement consistent with
your journalistic conscience?"

"Quite," I said eagerly; "my contributions to the _Planet_ are always
subject, of course, to your censorship. What is it that you propose I
should do?"

"This," said Gatton tersely; "I should like to know under what
circumstances Mr. Roger Coverly died."

"Roger Coverly?" I echoed.

"The son of Sir Burnham Coverly," continued Gatton, "and therefore the
direct heir to the title. He died somewhere abroad about five or six
years ago, and as a result the late Sir Marcus inherited the baronetcy
on the death of his uncle, Sir Burnham. You will remember that the
man, Morris, spoke of the ill-feeling existing between Lady Burnham
Coverly and Sir Marcus, because of the premature death of her own son,
of course."

"I follow you," I said eagerly. "You suggest that I should go down to
Friar's Park and interview Lady Burnham Coverly?"

"Exactly," replied Gatton. "It's very irregular, of course, but I know
you well enough to take my chance of a carpeting. I may send a C.I.D.
man down as well. I've too much to do in town to think of going
myself; but I will advise you of any such step."

The motive underlying Inspector Gatton's suggestion was perfectly
evident to me and I experienced a feeling of gratitude for the
humanity which directed it. I held out my hand, and:

"Thanks, Gatton," I said; "you can leave the matter in my care with
every confidence. I will start for Friar's Park to-day."

"Good," replied Gatton. "Let me give you a hint. Take a good pistol
with you!"




CHAPTER XI

THE SCARRED MAN


It was towards the hour of seven in the evening that I reached the
Abbey Inn at Upper Crossleys, itself among the most hoary buildings of
the ancient village. It belonged to the days when white-clad brethren
from the once great monastery of Croix-de-lis had labored in the abbey
meadows and fished in the little stream which ran slowly through a
neighboring valley. Time had scarred it deeply and the balcony
overhanging the coachyard sagged in a rather alarming fashion as
though about to drop down from sheer old age.

The surrounding country had impressed me at first sight. There were
long billowing hills and vales, much of their surface densely wooded,
but with wide spaces under cultivation and even greater tracts of a
sort of heath-land very wild in aspect and conjuring up pictures of
outlaws' camps and the clash of battling feudal days. Hard by had
resided of old a warden of the marches, and the ruins of his stronghold
might still be seen on the crest of a near-by hill.

From the room allotted to me I could look out over a varied prospect
of farmland and heath, terminated by the woody slopes which everywhere
hemmed in the valley. Peeping above the outer fringe of trees showed
a tower of some old house whereof the rest was hidden by verdure.

Having partaken of a typical country dinner, the small number of
courses being amply compensated by their quantity, I lighted my pipe
and went down to the bar-parlor, being minded to learn something of
the neighborhood at first hand from any chance visitor who might serve
my purpose.

The landlord, a somewhat taciturn member of his class, sat behind the
bar, pipe in mouth, as I entered, and only one other man was in the
room. This was a gipsy-looking fellow, with a very wild eye, attired
in the manner of a game-keeper, and wearing leggings and a fur cap. A
sporting rifle stood in the corner beside him. The landlord nodded,
and the other gave me a "Good evening" as I entered, whereupon I
determined to try the game-keeper as the more likely source of
information, and:

"Is the shooting good hereabouts?" I asked, by way of opening a
conversation.

My inquiry seemed hugely to amuse the man.

"None better," was the reply; "it's thick with game, sir, it is for
sure--and nobody to profit, only"--he winked at the landlord--"young
Jim Corder!"

The landlord emitted a deep grunt which was evidently recognized by
the other as a laugh; for he himself laughed in a wild and not wholly
pleasant manner, whereby I concluded that "young Jim Corder" was a
standing joke in the neighborhood.

"You look as though you knew a hare from a partridge," said I, "so
I'll take your word for it."

This remark provoked a second and deeper growl from the landlord and a
further burst of outlandish laughter from my acquaintance, the
game-keeper. Presently:

"Why, sir, if I tell you," declared the latter, "them birds all know
me like I was their father, they do. I says, 'Good morning' regular
and them birds all bows to me, they does."

When the laughter had subsided, scenting possible information:

"I gather," said I, "that you get few shooting-parties nowadays?"

Gloom descended upon both my gossips.

"You're right, you are, sir," replied the game-keeper. "He's right,
ain't he, Martin?"

Martin, the landlord, growled. It occurred to me that he regarded the
other with a certain disfavor.

"This 'ere country," continued the game-keeper, vaguely waving his arm
around, "is a blighted spot. A blighted spot, ain't it, Martin?"

Martin growled, whilst the game-keeper studied him covertly.

"Since Sir Burnham went to his long rest these 'ere parts ain't knowed
themselves. I'm tellin' you, sir. Ain't knowed 'emselves. It's all
that quiet, winter and summer alike. The Park all shut up; and the
Park _was_ the Park in them days--warn't it, Martin?"

Martin achieved speech; he removed his pipe, and:

"It were, Hawkins," he concurred.

Silence fell for a minute or two. My new acquaintance, Hawkins, and
Martin both seemed to be pondering upon the degeneracy of Upper
Crossleys, and I could not help thinking that Hawkins took a secret
delight in it. Then:

"Surely the Park is still occupied by Lady Coverly?" I asked.

"Aye," Hawkins nodded. "She's kep' me on, me and the missus, she has,
like the real lady she is. But things is different; things is wrong.
Ain't they, Martin?" he asked, with a mischievous glance at the stolid
host.

"Things is," agreed Martin.

"Best part of Park be shut up," declared Hawkins. "Horses gone,
carriages gone, everybody gone; only me and my old woman."

"There must be house servants," I interjected.

"My old woman!" cried Hawkins triumphantly; "same as I'm tellin' you!"

"You mean that Lady Coverly lives alone in the place with only--er,
Mrs. Hawkins to look after her?"

It was Martin the landlord who answered my question.

"Things ain't right," he observed, and returned to his mouth the pipe
which he had removed for the purpose of addressing me.

"You don't know half of it," declared Hawkins. "What's _my_ job, for
instance? I ask you--what is it?"

Having thus spoken, he exchanged a significant look with the landlord
and relapsed into silence. Even my offer to replenish his tankard,
although it was accepted, did not result in any further confidences.
Prospects of crops and fruit were briefly touched upon, but that
exchange of glances between mine host and Hawkins seemed to have been
mutually understood to mean that the conversation touching Friar's
Park had proceeded far enough.

It was very mystifying, and naturally it served only to pique my
curiosity. A certain quality of loneliness which had seemed to belong
to the village, even in the brightness of the summer evening, now
asserted itself potently. Seated there in the quiet little inn parlor,
I recalled that many of the old-world cottages to right and left of
the Abbey Inn had exhibited every indication of being deserted, and
the lack of patrons instanced by the emptiness of the bar-parlor was
certainly not ascribable to the quality of the ale, which was
excellent. A sort of blight it would seem had descended upon humanity
in Upper Crossleys. It was all very curious.

Reflecting upon the matter, and sometimes interjecting a word or two
into the purely technical and very desultory conversation proceeding
between the landlord and Hawkins, I sat looking from one to the other,
more than ever convinced that no friendship was lost between them. My
position in the room was such that any one entering would not detect
my presence until he was right up to the bar, and to this sheltered
seat I was undoubtedly indebted for a very strange experience.

During a lull in the patently forced conversation I heard footsteps
upon the cobbles outside. Hawkins and the landlord exchanged a swift
glance, and then to my surprise they both stared at me questioningly.
Before a word could be exchanged, however, and before I had time even
to surmise what this covert uneasiness might portend, a young fellow
entered whose carriage and dress immediately attracted my attention.

He was attired, then, in a sort of burlesque "fashionable" lounge suit
and wore a straw hat set rakishly backward on his well-oiled dark
hair. He carried gloves and a malacca cane, and his gait was one of
assured superiority. He was a stoutly-built, muscular young fellow and
might ordinarily have been good-looking after a rustic fashion, but
what principally rendered him noticeable was the fact that he wore
surgical bandages around his neck in lieu of a collar and that his
face was literally a mosaic of sticking-plaster!

"Evening, Martin--evening, Hawkins," he said jauntily; and advancing
to the bar, "The usual, Martin."

As he gave the order and as the landlord turned to execute it,
exhibiting a sort of half-amused deference, the embarrassed glance of
Hawkins, who was watching me uncomfortably, drew the newcomer's
attention to my presence. He turned in a flash and I saw those parts
of his face which were visible between the pieces of strapping to turn
fierily red. His brown eyes glared at me, and:

"Martin!" he cried, throwing out his hand in the landlord's direction,
"Martin, damn you! There is a stranger here! Why the devil didn't you
tell me?"

"Sorry, Mr. Edward," said the landlord, setting a glass of whisky
before the excited man. "No time."

"It's a lie!" cried the other, with a wild fury which so trivial a
matter did not seem to warrant, "a deliberate damned lie! You want to
make me the laughing-stock of the place!"

Taking up the newly-filled glass, he dashed it violently to the sanded
floor, so that it was shattered to bits. Then, snatching off his hat,
he held it as a shield between my inquiring gaze and his plastered
face, and ran out of the room. At the door:

"Damn you all!" he shouted back at us.

I heard his quick footsteps receding. Then, as he turned the corner
the sound died away. I looked across at Hawkins. He was staring into
his tankard with which he was describing slow circles as if to stir
the contents. Martin, having raised the bar-flap was phlegmatically
engaged in sweeping up the fragments of glass into a dustpan. It came
to me all at once that these simple folk regarded the other's outburst
as a personal matter; their attitude was that of the grieved elders of
a family, some member of which has misbehaved himself. But assuredly I
was not prepared to concur in this shielding silence; the pressman
within me demanded an explanation.

"A strange young man," I said tentatively. "Very touchy, I should
think?"

"Touchy?" repeated Hawkins, glancing up quickly. "I seen him take Tom
Pike by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants and pitch him
in the horse-trough for askin' of him who his tailor was, I have."

"Indeed," said I, "a local Carpentier, no doubt?"

"Ah," said Martin, glancing at me as he turned to his seat behind the
bar. "Very 'andy with 'is 'ands."

"He is evidently acutely sensitive of his present disfigurement. Might
I suggest that his most recent encounter was with a barbed-wire
entanglement?"

But to my acute disappointment, Martin merely growled, shaking his
head gloomily; and in this significant gesture he was closely imitated
by Hawkins. Therefore:

"Is he badly disfigured?" I persisted.

"Only one is deep," replied Hawkins, glancing almost apologetically at
the landlord. The unfortunate incident seemed to have drawn them more
closely together. "The one on his neck. But he prides himself on his
looks, don't he, Martin?"

"He do," agreed Martin.

I took the bull by the horns. I never neglect an opportunity of this
nature, for however irrelevant to the matter in hand an episode may
seem to be, not infrequently I have found that it is by the pursuit of
such chance clews that one is led to the very piece of news that is
sought.

"Drink up, gentlemen," I said, "and as the night draws on, we shall
just have time for a peg of whisky before ten o'clock."

My effort proved successful, for whilst Martin prepared the ordered
drinks, almost with alacrity, Hawkins became quite confidential.

"Young Mr. Edward Hines that was, sir," he confided, in a church
whisper. "His father is the biggest farmer round these parts and young
Mr. Edward is a terror with the gals, he is. Mind you, he's straight
out about it. Comes in here, he do, and says straight out who he's
after. And it's woe betide the one who takes him up on it. I'm glad my
gal is up to London, with that Mr. Edward about, I am."

The drinks being placed upon the counter, he ceased, and:

"Good health!" said I; then: "Yes--about our mutilated young friend?"
I prompted.

"Well," continued Hawkins--"it's kind o' funny, ain't it, Martin?"

The landlord growled.

"Mr. Edward he come in here three weeks back all puffed up with
himself. Said he'd got an appointment with a lady down from London
what was coming all the way from West Wingham to see him. Didn't he,
Martin?"

Martin corroborated.

"He see her, too," declared Hawkins with a sort of schoolboy naïveté.
"And he see her again four nights after. She give him a present--a
keepsake. He showed us. Then he seen her a third time, and--"

Hawkins ceased speaking and looked at the landlord as if mutely
appealing for his aid in making clear to me what occurred at this
third tryst with the mysterious "lady from London."

"Go on," prompted Martin. "Tell him. He's stopping here; he's all
right."

I keenly appreciated the compliment conveyed by this, the landlord's
longest speech of the evening, and raised my glass to him. "Well,
then," Hawkins resumed, "we didn't see him for a night or two, but on
the Wednesday--"

"The Thursday," corrected Martin.

"Right you are, Martin," agreed Hawkins--"the Thursday it were. I met
Farmer Hines comin' back from Wingham market as I came here mid-day.
It were the Thursday. Well, then, on the Thursday young Mr. Edward he
turns up after dark. Sort of slinked in he did. There was three or
four of us here, there was that night, wasn't there, Martin? 'Course
it were market day. Slinked in he did, and his face was like you see
it to-night only worse. He never said a word to nobody and nobody
never said nothin' to him, not likely. Just gulped down a double
Scotch and slinked out. What do you think about that for a story, eh,
sir?"

He looked at me triumphantly. For my own part I must confess I was
disappointed. A cat-and-dog squabble between a rustic Lothario and
some local virago did not excite me so intensely as it seemed to
excite my companions.

"Is that all you know of the matter?" I asked.

"No," answered Martin, "it ain't. Tell him, Hawkins."

"Aye," resumed Hawkins, "he might as well know, as he's livin' here.
Well, sir, young Mr. Edward he's very quiet about what happened to
him. Maybe we shouldn't have thought so much about it like if it
hadn't been that in this very bar, six months ago, he'd plagued the
life out of young Harry Adams."

"For what reason?" I asked idly; the conversation was beginning to
bore me. But:

"Young Harry Adams," explained Hawkins with gusto, and his former
wicked look returning to his eyes, "at one time was Mr. Edward's only
rival with the gals, he was. A good-lookin' young fellow; got a
commission in the war he did. He's up to London now. Well, six months
ago young Harry Adams come staggerin' in here one night with blood
runnin' from his face and neck. He fell down in that seat where you're
sitting now and fainted right off, didn't he, Martin? We had to send
young Jim Corder (what used to come here in them days) off runnin' all
the way past Leeways for the doctor. Ah, that were a night."

"It were," agreed Martin.

"Same as Mr. Edward," continued the narrator, "young Harry Adams
wouldn't say a word about what happened to him. But when Mr. Edward
first see him, all over sticking-plaster, he laughed till the pots
nearly fell off the hooks, he did. Little did he guess his own turn
was to come!"

My interest revived.

"Then in the case of, er--Mr. Adams," I said, "you never had any
particulars whatever?"

"Never," replied Martin. "Time, please, gentlemen."

"Aye," said Hawkins, rising. "Time it be. Well, good night, sir. Good
night, Martin."

"Good night."

Hawkins moved towards the door, and indeed was on the point of going
out when I remembered something which I had meant to ask earlier, but
which, owing to lack of opportunity, I had postponed asking.

"You spoke of a gift or keepsake, which the lady from London gave to
Mr. Hines," I said. "I think you mentioned that he had shown it to
you. I am rather curious about this story. Might I ask the nature of
the gift?"

"Aye, to be sure," answered Hawkins, standing half in shadow on the
step of the bar-parlor, rifle on shoulder, where I thought he made a
very wild figure. "Brought it here, he did. All of us see it. That
stuck up about it, he was. Not as I should have thought much of it if
a party had give it to me, I do say."

"Then what was it?"

"Why--it were a little figure like--gold _he_ said it were, but brass
I reckon. Ugly it were, but he says he's goin' to wear it on his
watch-chain. Good night, sir."

He turned and departed, but:

"What kind of figure?" I called after him.

Out of the darkness his voice came back:

"A sort of a _cat_, sir."

And I heard his outlandish laughter dying away in the distance.




CHAPTER XII

I DREAM OF GREEN EYES


It was long enough before sleep visited me that night. For nearly half
an hour I stood at my open window looking across a moon-bathed slope
to where a tower projected, ghostly, above the fringe of the woods.
The landlord had informed me that it was Friar's Park which could thus
be seen peeping out from the trees, and as I stood watching that
sentinel tower a thousand strange ideas visited me.

The curious air of loneliness of which I had become conscious at the
moment of my arrival, was emphasized now that the residents in the
district had retired to their scattered habitations. No sound of bird
or beast disturbed the silence. From the time that the footsteps of
Martin the landlord had passed my door as he mounted heavily to his
bed-chamber, no sound had reached me but the muffled ticking of a
grandfather's clock upon the landing outside my room. And even this
sound, the only one intruding upon the stillness, I weaved into my
imaginings, so that presently it began to resemble the ticking of the
clock on the mantelpiece in that gruesome room at the Red House.

The view which I commanded was an extensive one and although in the
clear country air I could quite easily discern the upstanding wing of
Friar's Park, actually the house and the park were some two miles
distant. Where the park ended and the woods began it was impossible to
determine, yet such was my curious mood that I lingered there
endeavoring to puzzle out those details which were veiled from me by
distance.

To-morrow, I thought, I should be seeking admittance to that house
among the trees. In fact so great was my anxiety to plumb the depths
of the mystery in the hope of recovering some new fact which should
exculpate Coverly, that nothing but the unseemly lateness of the hour
had deterred me from presenting myself that very evening.

Yet, my night of idleness had not been altogether unfruitful. I had
met the scarred man, and from Hawkins I had heard something of his
singular story. Now as I stood there drinking in, as it were, the
loneliness of the prospect, my thoughts turned for the hundredth time
to the game-keeper's account of what had befallen the two rustic
rake-hells. I admit that the concluding part of Hawkins' story, quite
evidently regarded by him as a detail of no importance, had
re-awakened hope which had been at lowest ebb in the hour of my
arrival.

Although it was possible that the gift of a "sort of cat" to young
Edward Hines might prove on investigation to be not a clew but a
will-o'-the-wisp, I preferred to think that fate or the acute
reasoning of Inspector Gatton had sent me down to this quiet country
for a good purpose; and I built great hopes around the figure of the
"lady down from London." Indeed it appeared to me that there were more
lines of investigation demanding attention than alone I could hope to
deal with in the short time at my disposal. Except that I was
determined to visit Friar's Park early on the following day, I
scarcely knew in which direction next to prosecute my inquiries.

Determining that I should be well-advised to sleep on the problem, I
presently turned in. And when I blew out the candle with which the
chambermaid had provided me, I remember thinking that the moonlight
was so bright that it would have been possible to read moderately
large type without inconvenience.

I slept perhaps for two hours or more, an unrefreshing sleep disturbed
by dreams of a wildly grotesque nature. Figures increasingly horrible
and menacing crowded upon me; but that which proved the culminating
horror and which finally awakened me, bathed in cold perspiration, was
a dream of two huge green eyes regarding me with a fixed stare,
fascinating and hypnotic, against which evil power I fought in my
dream with all the strength of my will.

Vaguely defined as if in smoke I could perceive the body of the
creature to which these incredible eyes belonged. It was slender and
sinuous and sometimes I thought it to be that of a human being and
sometimes that of an animal. For at one moment it possessed all the
lines of a woman's form and in the next, with those terrible eyes
regarding me from low down upon the ground, it had assumed the shape
of a crouching beast of prey. This fearsome apparition seemed to be
creeping towards me--nearer and nearer, and was about to spring, I
thought, when I awakened as I have said and sat suddenly upright.

One thing I immediately perceived which may have accounted for my bad
dreams; I had been sleeping with the moonlight shining directly upon
my face. Another thing I thought I perceived, but endeavored to assure
myself that it represented the aftermath of an unpleasant nightmare.
This was a lithe shape streaking through my open window--a figment of
the imagination, as I concluded at the time, the tail-end of a dream
visibly retreating in the moment of awakening.

So self-assured of this did I become, that I did not get up to
investigate the matter, nor was there any sound from the road below to
suggest that the figure had been otherwise than imaginary, yet I found
it difficult to woo slumber again, and for nearly an hour I lay
tossing from side to side, listening to the ticking of the
grandfather's clock and constantly seeing in my mind's eye that
deserted supper-room at the Red House.

And presently as I lay thus, I became aware of two things: first of
the howling of dogs, and, second, of a sort of muttered conversation
which seemed to be taking place somewhere near me. Listening intently,
I thought I could distinguish the voice of a man and that of a woman.
Possibly I was not the only wakeful inhabitant of the Abbey Inn was my
first and most natural idea; but it presently became apparent to me
that the speakers were not in the inn, but outside in the road.

Curiosity at last overcame inclination. Of the exact time I was not
aware, but I think dawn could not have been far off, and I naturally
wondered who these might be that conversed beneath my window at such
an hour. I rose quietly and crept across the room, endeavoring to
avoid showing my head in the moonlight. By the exercise of a little
ingenuity I obtained a view of the road before the inn doors.

At first I was unable to make out from whence this muttered
conversation arose, until fixing my attention upon a patch of shadow
underlying a tall tree which stood almost immediately opposite the
window, I presently made out two figures there. Somewhere, a dog was
howling mournfully.

For a long time I failed to distinguish any more than indefinite
outlines, nor, throughout the murmured colloquy, did I once detect
even so much as a phrase. The night remained perfect and the moon
possessed a tropical brilliance, casting deep and sharply defined
shadows, and lending to the whole visible landscape a quality of
hardness which for some obscure reason set me thinking of a painting
by Wiertz.

The low-pitched voices continued in what I thought was a dispute.
Something in the voice of the woman, although I could only hear her
occasionally, piqued yet eluded my memory. But it was the voice of a
young woman, whilst that of the man suggested a foreigner of some sort
and one past youth. Subconsciously pursuing the Wiertz idea, I know
not why, I invested the dimly-visible speakers with distinct
personalities. The man became Asmodeus, master of the revels at the
Black Sabbath, and the young woman I cast for that "young witch"
depicted in one of the canvasses of the weird Belgian genius.

Everything in the black and silver scene seemed to fit the picture.
Here was the unholy tryst, and I pictured the distant woods "peopled
with gray things, the branches burdened with winged creatures arisen
from the pit; the darkness a curtain 'broidered with luminous eyes...."

And it was my recollection of that phrase, from a work on sorcery,
which now set every nerve tingling. Closely I peered into the masking
shadow, telling myself that I was the victim of a subjective
hallucination. If this was indeed the case or if what I saw was
actual, I must leave each who reads to determine for himself; and the
episodes which follow and which I must presently relate will doubtless
aid the decision.

But it seemed to me that for one fleeting moment "luminous eyes"
indeed "'broidered the darkness!'" From out of the shade below the big
tree they regarded me greenly--and I saw them no more.

A while longer I watched, but could not detect any evidence of
movement in the shadow patch. The voices, too, had ceased; so that
presently it occurred to me that the speakers must have withdrawn
along a narrow lane which I had observed during the evening and which
communicated with a footpath across the meadows.

I realized that my heart was beating with extraordinary rapidity. So
powerful and so unpleasant was the impression made upon my mind by
this possibly trivial incident and by the extraordinary dream which
had preceded it, that on returning to bed (and despite the warmth of
the night) I closed both lattices and drew the curtains.

Whether as a result of thus excluding the moonlight or because of some
other reason I know not, but I soon fell into a sound sleep from which
I did not awaken until the chambermaid knocked at the door at eight
o'clock. Neither did I experience any return of those terrifying
nightmares which had disturbed my slumbers earlier in the night.

My breakfast despatched, I smoked a pipe on the bench in the porch,
and Mr. Martin, who evidently had few visitors, became almost
communicative. Undesirable patrons, he gave me to understand, had done
his business much harm. By dint of growls and several winks he sought
to enlighten me respecting the identity of these tradekillers. But I
was no wiser on the point at the end of his exposition than I had been
at the beginning.

"Things ain't right in these parts," he concluded, and thereupon
retired within doors.

Certainly, whatever the reason might be, the village even in broad
daylight retained that indefinable aspect of neglect, of loneliness.
Many of the cottages were of very early date--and many were empty. A
deserted mill stood at one end of the village street, having something
very mournful and depressing about it, with its black, motionless
wings outspread against the blue sky like those of a great bat
transfixed.

There were rich-looking meadows no great way from the village, but
these, I learned, formed part of the property of Farmer Hines, and
Farmer Hines was counted an inhabitant of the next parish. It was,
then, this particular country about Upper Crossleys over which the
cloud hung; and I wondered if the district had been one of
those--growing rare nowadays--which had flourished under the
protection of the "big house" and had decayed with the decay of the
latter. It had been a common enough happening in the old days, and I
felt disposed to adopt this explanation.

My brief survey completed, then, I returned to the Abbey Inn for my
stick and camera, and set out forthwith for Friar's Park.

From certain atmospherical indications which I had observed, I had
anticipated a return of the electrical storm which a few days before
had interrupted the extraordinary heat-wave. And now as I left the
village behind and came out on the dusty highroad a faint breeze
greeted me--and afar off I discerned a black cloud low down upon the
distant hills.




CHAPTER XIII

DR. DAMAR GREEFE


As the crow flies Friar's Park was less than two miles from the Abbey
Inn; but the road, which according to a sign-board led "to
Hainingham," followed a tortuous course through the valley, and when
at last I came to what I assumed to be the gate-lodge, a thunderous
ebony cloud crested the hill-top above, and its edge, catching the
burning rays of the sun, glowed fiercely like the pall of Avalon in
the torchlight. Through the dense ranks of firs cloaking the slopes a
breeze presaging the coming storm whispered evilly, and here in the
hollow the birds were still.

I stared rather blankly at the ivy-covered lodge, which, if
appearances were to be trusted, was unoccupied. But I pushed open the
iron gate and tugged at a ring which was suspended from the wall. A
discordant clangor rewarded my efforts, the cracked note of a bell
which spoke from somewhere high up in the building, that seemed to be
buffeted to and fro from fir to fir, until it died away, mournfully,
in some place of shadows far up the slope.

In the voice of the bell there was something lonesome, something akin
to the atmosphere of desertion which seemed to lie upon the whole
neighborhood--something fearful, too, as though the bell would
whisper: "Return! Beware of disturbing the dwellers in this place."

The house, one wing of which I have said was visible from the inn
window, could not be seen at all from the gate. Indeed I had lost
sight of it at the moment that I had set out and had never obtained a
glimpse of it since.

Ten minutes before, I had inquired the way from a farm-laborer whom I
had met on the road, and he had answered me with a curiosity but
thinly veiled. His directions had been characterized by that rustic
vagueness which assumes in the inquirer an intimate knowledge of local
landmarks. But nevertheless I believed I had come aright. I gathered
from its name that Friar's Park was in part at least a former monastic
building, and certainly the cracked bell spoke with the voice of
ancient monasteries, and had in it the hush of cloisters and the sigh
of renunciation.

Although I had mentioned nothing of the purpose of my journey to mine
host of the Abbey Inn or to any of his cronies--and these were few in
number--I had hoped to find Hawkins at the lodge; and a second time I
awoke the ghostly bell-voice. But nothing responded to its call; man,
bird and beast had seemingly deserted Friar's Park.

Faintly I detected the lowing of cattle in some distant pasture; the
ranks of firs whispered secretly one to another; and the pall above
the hills grew blacker and began to stretch out over the valley.

Amid this ominous stillness of nature I began to ascend the
cone-strewn path. Evidently enough the extensive grounds had been
neglected for years, and that few pedestrians and fewer vehicles ever
sought Friar's Park was demonstrated by the presence of luxurious
weeds in the carriage-way. Having proceeded for some distance, until
the sheer hillside seemed to loom over me like the wall of a tower, I
paused, peering about in the ever growing darkness. I was aware of a
physical chill; certainly no ray of sunlight ever penetrated to this
tunnel through the firs. Could I have mistaken the path and be
proceeding, not towards the house, but away from it, and into the
gloom of the woods? Or perhaps the deserted lodge was that of some
other, empty establishment.

There was something uncomfortable in this reflection; momentarily I
knew a childish fear of the dim groves. I thought of the "darkness
'broidered with luminous eyes," and I walked forward rapidly,
self-assertively. Ten paces brought me to one of the many bends in the
winding road--and there, far ahead, as though out of some cavern in
the very hillside, a yellow light shone.

I pressed on with greater assurance, until the house became visible.
Now I perceived that I had indeed strayed from the carriage sweep in
some way, for the path that I was following terminated at the foot of
a short flight of moss-covered steps. I mounted the steps and found
myself at the bottom of a terrace. The main entrance was far to my
left and separated from the terrace by a neglected lawn. That portion
of the place was Hanoverian and ugly, whilst the wing nearest to me
was Tudor and picturesque. Excepting the yellow light shining out from
a window on the right of the porch, no illuminations were visible
about the house, although the brewing storm had already plunged the
hollow into premature night.

My conception of Friar's Park had been wide of the reality--and there
was no sign of occupancy about this strange-looking mansion, which
might have hidden forgotten for centuries in the horse-shoe of the
hills. The stillness of the place was of that sort which almost seems
to be palpable; that can be seen and felt. A humid chill arose
apparently from the terrace, with its stone pavings outlined in moss,
and crept up from the wilderness below and down from the fir woods
above.

I had crossed the terrace and the lawn, and now stood looking through
the open French window from which light had proceeded into a room that
evidently adjoined the hall. A great still darkness had come, and on a
littered table in this room a reading-lamp was burning.

The room was furnished as a library. Every available foot of wall
space was occupied by laden bookcases. The volumes were nearly all old
and many of them were in strange, evidently foreign, bindings. Items
of chemical apparatus and cases of specimens were visible also as well
as an amazing collection of Egyptian relics strewn about the place in
the utmost disorder.

At the table a man was seated, deep in study of a huge leather-bound
volume. He was strangely gaunt, and apparently very tall. His
clean-shaven face resembled that of Anubis, the hawk-headed god of
Ancient Egypt, and his hair, which was growing white, he wore long and
brushed back from his bony brow. His skin was of a dull, even yellow
color, and his long thin brown hands betrayed to me the fact that the
man was a Eurasian. The crunching of a piece of gravel under foot
revealed my presence. The man looked up swiftly.

I started. Those widely-opened black eyes were truly hawk-like in
their dark intensity of gaze, and the uncanny resemblance to Anubis
was heightened by them. More than ever convinced that I had made a
mistake:

"Forgive me for so rudely disturbing you," I said, "but I was under
the impression that this was Friar's Park, whereas I fear I have
trespassed."

The intense gaze never left my face for a moment, but:

"There is no trespass," answered the man at the table, speaking in a
high harsh voice and with a marked but evasive accent. "All visitors
are welcome--chance ones, or otherwise. But you have certainly lost
your way; this is the Bell House."

"And am I far from Friar's Park?"

"No great distance. May I ask if Lady Coverly knew of your proposed
visit?"

"She did not," I said with surprise.

"Then I fear your journey has been fruitless. She is an invalid and
can receive no one."

There was something peremptory and imperious in his manner which I
resented, and evidently perceiving this resentment:

"I am Lady Coverly's medical adviser," added the Eurasian. "Possibly I
can afford you some assistance. In any event I fear you will have to
accept my poor hospitality for the nonce. The alternative is a
drenching."

Even as he spoke, the hollow was illuminated by a blinding flash of
lightning, and indeed his last words were drowned in the thunder that
boomed and crashed in deepening peals over the hills.

In a sudden tropical torrent the rain descended, and I stepped forward
into the room. Its occupant rose to his great height to greet me.

"I am Dr. Damar Greefe," he said, and bowed formally.

I made myself known to him in turn, and with a sort of stately
courtesy he set a high-backed chair for me and himself resumed his
former seat.

"You are a stranger to this neighborhood, I gather?" he continued.

Now, in spite of his polished courtesy, there was that about Dr. Damar
Greefe which I did not and could not like. The voice was the voice of
a gentleman, but the face was a mask--a mask of Anubis; and seated
there in that strange untidy apartment, amid varied relics of the past
and obscure experiments possibly designed to pry into the future,
whilst thunder boomed high over the Bell House, I determined to
withhold from Dr. Damar Greefe the true nature of my mission. In fact
already I regretted having told him my name--although to have given a
fictitious one would have been a gross violation of hospitality
unhesitatingly offered.

Even now I find it hard to explain the mingled sentiments which
claimed me on the occasion of this my first meeting with a very
singular man.

"I am taking a brief rest cure," I replied; "and as I am given to
understand that Friar's Park is of much historical interest, I had
purposed seeking permission to look over the place and if possible to
take a few photographs."

Dr. Damar Greefe inclined his head gravely.

"A former monastic house, Mr. Addison," he replied. "And as you say,
of great archæological interest. But the regrettably poor health of
Lady Coverly makes it impossible for her to entertain visitors."

Something in the tone of his voice, which now he had lowered so that
some of its natural harshness was disguised, set me wondering where I
had heard it before. It needed no further scrutiny of the hawk face to
convince me that I had never hitherto met Dr. Damar Greefe; but I
certainly believed that I had previously heard his voice, although I
quite failed to recall where and under what circumstances.

"Sir Burnham has been dead for several years, I believe?" I asked
tentatively.

"For several years, yes."

Without returning to the peremptory tone which had distinguished his
earlier manner, Dr. Damar Greefe coldly but courteously blocked my
path to discussion of the Coverly family; and after several abortive
attempts to draw him out upon the point, I recognized this deliberate
design and abandoned the matter.

The storm was moving westward, and although brilliant flashes of
lightning several times lighted up the queer room, gleaming upon the
gayly-painted lid of an Egyptian sarcophagus or throwing into horrid
relief some anatomical specimen in one of the cases, the thunder
crashed no more over the house. But its booming reached my ears from
away upon a remote spur of the hills. I became aware of a growing
uneasiness in the company of my chance host, who sat by the oddly
littered table, watching me with those birdlike eyes.

"Surely," I said, "the rain has ceased?"

"Temporarily," he replied, glancing toward the terrace. "But I should
advise you to delay a few minutes longer. There is every threat of a
concluding downpour to come ere long."

"Many thanks," I returned; "I'll risk it. I have already trespassed
unwarrantably upon your time, Dr. Greefe. It was good of you to give
me shelter."

He rose, a tall thin figure, vaguely repellent, upon realizing that I
was set on departure, and conducted me out by way of the front door.
Standing in the porch:

"At any time that you chance to be again in my neighborhood, Mr.
Addison," he said, "I beg of you to call. I have few visitors."

By what process, whether of reasoning or intuition, I came to the
conclusion, I know not; but as I turned the bend of the tree-roofed
drive and saw the deserted lodge ahead, I knew beyond any possibility
of doubt that Dr. Damar Greefe had not returned to his studies, but
had swiftly passed along some path through the trees so as to head me
off! His purpose in so doing I knew not, but that he had cherished
this purpose and proposed to act upon it I had divined in some way at
the moment that I had left him in the porch.

Now, hastening my steps, I began to wonder if his design was to
intercept me or merely to watch which way I should turn on gaining the
main road. That it was the latter I presently learned; for although my
unpleasant imagination pictured the gaunt hawk-like figure lurking
amid the shadows which hemmed me in, I played the part of innocence
and never once looked back.

Coming out into the highroad, I turned sharply left, retracing the
route by which I had come to the Eurasian doctor's abode. If he had
suspected that I had intended to call at Friar's Park despite his
assurance that such a visit would prove futile, then he was
disappointed. A new and strange theory to account for "the _Oritoga_
mystery" had presented itself to me--a horrible theory, yet, so far as
my present data went, a feasible one. Above all, I realized that I had
committed a strategical error in openly seeking an interview with Lady
Coverly. But I had not, when I had formed that plan, known of the
existence of Dr. Damar Greefe.

I uttered a sigh of relief upon emerging upon the highroad. The
certainty that the white-haired Eurasian was dogging me through the
trees was an unpleasant one. And now I perceived that several courses
presented themselves; but first I must obtain more information. I
perceived a mystery within a mystery; for I was not likely to forget
that in Dr. Damar Greefe's collection I had noted a number of
_Bubastite cats_.




CHAPTER XIV

THE BLACK DOCTOR


My mail, neatly readdressed by Coates, was awaiting me when I returned
to the Abbey Inn. The postal deliveries in Upper Crossleys were
eccentric and unreliable, but having glanced through the cuttings
enclosed, I partook of a hasty lunch and sat down to the task of
preparing a column for the _Planet_ which should not deflect public
interest from the known central figures in the tragedy but which at
the same time should hint at new developments.

Many times in the intervals of writing I glanced through my open
window across the valley to where the upstanding wing of Friar's Park
jutted above the trees. Strange and terrible ideas flocked to my
mind--ideas which must be carefully excluded from the _Planet_
article. But at last the manuscript was completed and I determined to
walk into the neighboring town, some miles distant, to post it and at
the same time to despatch a code telegram to Inspector Gatton. The
long walk did me good, helping me to clear my mind of morbid vapors;
therefore, my business finished, and immune from suspicion in my
character of a London pedestrian, I set out to obtain that vital
information which I lacked.

A natural taciturnity rendered mine host of the Abbey Inn a difficult
subject for interrogation. Moreover that patriarchal outlook which had
been evidenced in his attitude towards the uncouth Edward Hines
clearly enough deterred him from imparting to me any facts detrimental
to the good name of Upper Crossleys. But on the highroad and just
before entering the outskirts of the little country town, I had
observed an inn which had seemed to be well patronized by the local
folks, and since your typical country tap-room is a clearing-house for
the gossip of the neighborhood, to "The Threshers" I made my way.

The doors had only just been opened; nevertheless as I set my foot
upon the step I met the very gossip that I sought.

"Hope you wasn't caught in the shower, this morning, sir?" said an old
man seated solitary in an armchair in the corner of the bar-parlor.
"But the country'll be all the better for the rain." He eyed me, and:
"There's many a fine walk hereabouts," he averred. "There's lots
comes down from London, especially of a Sunday."

"No doubt," said I encouragingly, stepping up to the counter.

"There's Manton-on-the-Hill," continued the ancient. "You can see the
sea from there in clear weather; and many's the time in the war I've
heard the guns in France from Upper Crowbury of a still night. Then,
four mile away, there's the old Friar's Park; though nobody's allowed
past the gate. Not as nobody wants to be," he added reflectively.

"How is that? I understood that Friar's Park was of great interest."

"Oh, ah!" murmured my acquaintance. "Oh, ah! Maybe you was thinkin' of
lookin' over it like?"

"I was--yes."

"Oh, ah! Well--there's some likes a bit o' danger."

"Danger?" I echoed. "To what danger do you refer?"

He surveyed me with cunning, old rheumy eyes, and:

"What about man-traps?" he inquired. "Ain't man-traps dangerous? And
what about shot-guns? Shot-guns can make a party feel sick, can't
they? Oh, ah!"

"But," I exclaimed, "you surely don't mean that there are traps laid
in the grounds of the Park? It isn't legal. And why should any one
shoot at visitors?"

"Maybe 'cause they're told to," he shouted. "Aye--that's the reason as
like as not; 'cause they're told to."

"Who are 'they'?"

"Old Gipsy Hawkins as used to be Sir Burnham's under-keeper. What's he
doin' of up there at Park all day? Layin' traps and such--that's what
he's doin' of. My son Jim knows it, he do. My son Jim found one of
'em--and left best part of a pair of trousers in it, too!"

These statements if true would seem to cast an unpleasant sidelight
upon the character of my acquaintance of the Abbey Inn. I wondered if
the "Jim" referred to was that "young Jim Corder" whose name seemed
to be a standing joke with the man Hawkins (I learned later that it
was so). And I wondered if Martin's mysterious references to certain
patrons, whose patronage had damaged his business, might not have
referred to the game-keeper. Moreover I now put a new construction
upon Hawkins' sly amusement when I had inquired about the "shooting"
in the neighborhood.

I began to grow keenly interested, and:

"Surely you took some steps in the matter?" I asked.

"Oh, ah. My son Jim did. He lay for days for that there Gipsy
Hawkins--but Hawkins was too wise for him."

"But," said I, "you could legally have claimed damages."

"Maybe," was the reply; "but I reckon they'd have asked what my son
Jim was doing in the Park. Oh, ah, I reckon they would."

This point of view had not hitherto presented itself to me, but that
it was a just one I did not doubt.

"What is the object of all this?" I asked. "Does Lady Coverly object
to any one entering the grounds?"

"'Tain't Lady Coverly," confided the old man; "it's that there black
doctor."

"What black doctor?" I exclaimed.

"Him they call Doctor Greefe."

"Oh," said I, "you call him the black doctor. Is he a negro?"

"He's black," was the reply, "black he is although his hair is white.
Oh, ah, there's black blood in him all right."

"And what has he to do with the man-traps in the Park?"

"Has 'em put there--has 'em put there, he does."

"But what for? Surely the property belongs not to Dr. Greefe but to
Lady Coverly."

"Belongs to her! Her own soul don't belong to her!"

I was conscious of a growing excitement. I thought that I was about to
learn the very fact which I was seeking, and accordingly:

"What is the age of Lady Burnham Coverly?" I asked.

"Lady Burnham? Well, let me see; she were not more'n about
twenty-five, I reckon, when Sir Burnham first brought her to the Park.
Them was the days, them was. These parts 'as changed cruel since I was
a young man. Then it was soon after as Sir Burnham went off to Egypt
for government, and eleven years afore he come back again."

"Did Lady Burnham accompany him to Egypt?" I asked, interestedly.

"Oh, ah, for sure she did. Poor Mr. Roger was born in Egypt. It was
eight years come October they returned home to Park, and six years
come September poor young Mr. Roger died."

"Then Lady Coverly must be something over forty years of age," said I
musingly.

One of my theories, a wild one, I must confess, was shattered by this
piece of information. In short I had conceived the idea (and the news
that Lady Coverly had resided for some years in Egypt had strengthened
it) that the woman in the case was none other than the mistress of
Friar's Park! Her antipathy towards the late baronet had seemed to
suggest a motive for the crime. But it was impossible to reconcile the
figure of this lonely and bereaved woman with that of the
supernormally agile visitant to my cottage in London, in short, with
the possessor of those dreadful green eyes. I determined to try a new
tack, and remembering that the real object of my journey to Upper
Crossleys was to learn particulars respecting the early death of Roger
Coverly:

"Did Mr. Roger Coverly die in England?" I inquired.

"Oh, no, sir; he died in foreign parts, but they brought him home to
bury him, they did."

"Do you know of what he died?"

"Oh, ah. I have heard tell it was some foreign fever like--took him
off sudden, and him only a lad. It killed poor Sir Burnham, it did."

"Then Sir Burnham died shortly afterwards?"

"Two years afterwards, and these parts has never been the same since."

"But what has Dr. Greefe to do with all this?"

"Ah, now you're asking. Seven years ago he settled here in the big
house up by the Park; part of the Park estate it is; and there he's
been ever since, him and his black servant."

"Black servant!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, ah, real black he is--not half-and-half like his master, but as
black as a lump o' coal, an' ugly--oh, ah, he's ugly right enough.
Goes up to the Abbey Inn of a night he do, him and that there Gipsy
Hawkins, the prettiest pair o' rascals in Upper Crossleys. Drove all
the decent folk away from the place, and Martin keeps the best beer
about here, too. If I was Martin," continued the ancient, truculently,
"I'd know what to say to them two, I would; aye, and what to do to
'em," he added with great ferocity.

"Oh," said I; for this unexpected clearing up of so many minor
mysteries had rather taken me aback. "Then Dr. Greefe is not popular?"

"Popular!" echoed the old man.

He drained his tankard and set it down on the table with a bang.

"He's been the ruin o' these parts, he has. He's worse than the
turnip-fly."

"But in what way is he responsible for these evils of which you
complain?"

The old man peered into his empty mug with a glance of such eloquence
that I could not mistake its import. Accordingly, I caused it to be
refilled, thus preventing any check in the flow of his eloquence, and:

"In what way?" he asked, his voice raised in a high quavering note. He
laughed, and his laughter was pitched in the same time-worn key. "That
doctor is a blot on the country. When Sir Burnham was alive--and afore
he went to Egypt--it was different; although, mind you, it's my
belief--oh, ah, it is indeed--that him coming here had as much to do
with Sir Burnham's death as the loss of his son what I told you
about. That's my belief."

I took a sip from my replenished mug, and:

"I cannot understand," I said, "why the presence of Dr. Greefe should
have brought about the death of Sir Burnham or the death of anybody
else."

"No," said the old man, cunningly; "you can't, eh? Well, there be
things none of us can understand and things some of us can. If you
ever clap eyes on that there black doctor, like enough this'll be one
of the things you'll be able to understand."

With the idea of drawing yet more intimate confidences:

"You suggest that Dr. Greefe had some hold upon the late Sir Burnham?"

"I don't suggest nothing."

"Some hold upon Lady Burnham, then?"

"Oh, ah, like enough."

"Don't think," I added solicitously, "that I doubt the truth of your
statements in any way, but what could this black doctor, as you call
him, have to gain by persecuting these people?"

"There be things," replied my aged friend, "what none of us can
understand, but there be things that all of us do. Oh, ah, there be;
and all of us in these parts knows as Upper Crossleys ain't been the
same since that black doctor settled here. Besides, first Mr. Roger
went, then Sir Burnham went. Now I do read in this 'ere paper as
another of 'em is gone."

He held up two gnarled and twitching fingers crossed before him.

"Did you ever hear tell of the evil eye?" he asked, and peered at me
cunningly. He took a long drink from his mug. "But maybe you'll laugh
at _that_," he added.

"I am in no way disposed to laugh at anything you have told me," I
assured him; "and as to the evil eye, I have certainly heard of such a
thing, although I must admit, and I am glad to admit, that I have
never met with it."

"I do trust, sir," responded the ancient, "that such a kind-hearted
gent may never meet with it. Ah, I do trust that you never may, which
is to say, so to speak, as I do trust as you'll never meet that black
doctor. If ever a man, had the evil eye, that black doctor's got it,
and old Mother Shale what lives in the cottage on the heath down
against the windmill, she warned me, she did, three days after he come
here. 'Mr. Corder,' she says, 'that black doctor has the evil eye!'
And never was a truer word spoke. He's been the bane and blight of
this 'ere place, he has."

He paused from sheer lack of breath, and having allowed him some
little interval of repose:

"But what has the evil eye to do with the laying of man-traps and the
shooting of visitors who may chance to cross the estate?" I inquired.

"Ah, that's it! But the evil eye, I'm told, goes with the evil heart,
and that man's heart's as black as his face. Blacker," he added, on
second thoughts.

"Yet you have no positive evidence that Dr. Greefe is responsible for
the setting of these man-traps and the attitude of Hawkins?"

"Nobody has," declared my acquaintance earnestly. "If anybody had,
we'd have had the law on him long ago."

"And is Lady Burnham often seen about?" I inquired.

"Never!" was the reply. "She ain't passed the gates of the Park this
twelve months and more."

He looked about him covertly, and:

"It's my belief," he affirmed, lowering his quavering voice almost to
a whisper, "that she'll never pass them gates again alive."

"Oh," said I. "This seems to be a very cheerful neighborhood. Yet in
spite of your wishes on my behalf, I must confess I should like a
glimpse of this black doctor. Does he practice about here?"

"Practice? Is it likely?"

"Then he has private means?"

"His house belongs to the estate," was the reply; "and you can't tell
me he ever pays any rent. As to his means I don't know nothing about
that."

I gathered little more of interest from my acquaintance of "The
Threshers," but indeed I had gathered enough, and as I wended my way
back to the Abbey Inn, I was turning over in my mind the extraordinary
story that he had related to me concerning Dr. Damar Greefe.

Clearly the man lived the life of a pariah and I knew not whether to
pity him or otherwise. In an ignorant community it is a dreadful thing
to earn such a reputation as that which evidently attached to the
Eurasian doctor; and this talk of the evil eye took me back
automatically to the early days of this quaint spot, where, cut off
from the larger things of life, the simple folk continued to hold the
same beliefs which had stirred their forefathers. In those remote
times when the white brethren from the neighboring Abbey had held
absolute sway in that country-side, the life history of one accused, as
Dr. Damar Greefe was now accused, of possessing the evil eye, would
very probably have terminated upon a pile of faggots, by order of
Mother Church. It was all very strange, and apart from its importance
in the eyes of the ignorant country folk, seemed to contain a nucleus
of something more germane to the object of my mission than the
imaginings of ancient sorcery which still lingered in the minds of the
people of Upper Crossleys.

I thought how I had looked out of my window and had found in the
moon-bathed landscape something which had translated my ideas to that
strange picture of Wiertz. Then I had known nothing of this nebula of
witchcraft which, according to popular tradition, rested upon the
vicinity; yet I had pictured the night as "a curtain 'broidered with
luminous eyes"--and I could only suppose that my mind had become
impressed by a picture conjured up by this focusing of local thought.
In short, the people of the neighborhood had created this atmosphere
of desolation and of something more sinister, which I had observed in
the very hour of my arrival at the little village.

So my thoughts ran as I proceeded back to the Abbey Inn; and as I had
collected much new and valuable information, I determined to embody it
in a long report to Gatton. Furthermore, I was doubtful as to my next
step, the bold move which I made later not having yet presented itself
to my mind.

Twice during the evening, however, I looked into the bar-parlor, but
neither "Gipsy" Hawkins nor the black servant appeared. But when at
last I turned in, I closed my windows and drew the curtains. I desired
no repetition of the dreams which had made hideous my first night at
the Abbey Inn.




CHAPTER XV

I RECEIVE VISITORS


Over my breakfast, on the following morning, I began to formulate that
plan which was to lead to an extraordinary discovery. I breakfasted in
my own room, and just as I had finished and was about to light my
pipe, Mr. Martin, the landlord, knocked at the door.

"Come in," I cried.

He entered, and:

"A lady has called to see you, sir," he announced.

The manner in which he made the statement evidenced a curious mixture
of disapproval and respect. For my own part it is perhaps unnecessary
for me to say that my first thought, as always, was Isobel! In the
very moment, however, that this idea visited me (the wish being father
of the thought) I recognized its folly.

"A lady," I repeated; "but I know no one here. Are you certain that it
was for me she asked?"

"Quite, sir," replied the landlord, who was evidently flurried out of
his usual calm by what I gathered to be an episode unprecedented in
his memories of the Abbey Inn. "Mr. Addison, she asked for. She is
waiting in the coffee-room, sir."

Wholly at a loss to understand who my visitor could be, I made my way
to the little apartment at the side of the bar-parlor which Mr. Martin
had dignified with the title of coffee-room. I observed upon the bench
before the door a shabby-looking fellow whom I might have taken to be
some local tradesman except that he appeared to be a chance visitor
and was evidently unacquainted with Martin. He was reading a newspaper
and I saw a cup of coffee set upon the bench beside him.

This was a hazy morning, which I thought betokened another hot day,
and as I entered the "coffee-room" I found it to be pervaded by a
curious half-light, not unlike that of summer twilight. The glow of
the sun peering redly through the mist added warmth to this soft
illumination, but since the room boasted only one small window it was
badly lighted even at noon.

From a little horse-hair-covered sofa set before this window my
visitor rose to greet me, and with my han

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