“What reason?”
“I’ll tell you afterwards,” replied the man, sinking lazily into his chair again, a mask-like smile gathering around his thin lips.
“It isn’t very safe for me to come here,” her ladyship said apprehensively.
“Bah! There’s nobody to follow you. You’re getting chicken-hearted nowadays. What are you afraid of?”
“Lots of things,” answered his late mistress.
“Bosh! We’ll only have to go slow for a while, till we pull the wool over Rupert’s eyes again. Very soon his own affairs will keep him from coming over to England and butting in.”
“What do you mean?” his visitor asked.
A deep red mounted slowly to the man’s face.
“You know what I mean well enough. Are you blind? Luck is playing into our hands, my dear Etta. Don’t get funky.”
He summoned the handsome woman’s downcast eyes to his, and the soul that looked at him from under a wealth of black lashes seemed writhing in purgatory.
“Danger threatens us both, so we must face the music,” the man went on sternly. “Mind that Otway doesn’t grow too fond of Sibell. That must not happen. You understand!”
“Yes, but love is the strongest chain in the world, and Sibell is in love with him. Besides, she’s independent now, remember!”
“Then I’m half inclined to think that Otway had better stay in London. Only he may very possibly be of use to us. It’s quite true what you say of love. But love has wings, and if you bore it or allow it to feel lonely, then it can fly away,” he added, with a supercilious laugh.
Suddenly the determination upon his face deepened, and he said:
“If a certain person gets to London, then we’d be able to climb out of the soup again. If he doesn’t come to London, then think what it would mean to us both!” And he paused and looked at her. “Leave me to use my wits, Etta,” he added, an evil gleam struggling into his eyes.
“And—and you want me to—what?” began the terrified woman.
“I want you to do nothing, my dear Etta, except to keep a still tongue. Go to the Riviera and enjoy yourself. Don’t write to me, or try and communicate. If I want to let you know anything I’ll write to ‘Mrs. Harrison’ at the Poste Restante, Cannes. Go there on the first of each month and see if there is a letter.”
And he rose, a surly look upon his sinister face.
“I know of something that will let the dogs loose on him all right.”
“You—you vindictive devil!” cried the woman. “I know what you are hinting at!”
“Well, surely we must protect ourselves. He’d do the same to me—if he could!” And the cold grey eyes shone with a horrible insinuation. “He’d close my lips if he dared. But two can play the same game.”
“And—and poor Sibell!” gasped the girl’s aunt, pale-faced and trembling. “What of her?”
He paused, and looked again straight into her face.
Under his gaze a look of abject horror came into her eyes.
She rose abruptly, and put on her coat with nervous fingers, her chest heaving beneath the filmy black corsage.
She came towards him with knit brows and searched his face nervously.
“Damn you! I know what you mean!” she cried at last. “But you sha’n’t! My God—you sha’n’t!”
The man who had posed as her exemplary butler only gave vent to a harsh, forced laugh as she flung herself out of the room and closed the door after her.
“Sha’n’t I?” he muttered aloud, between his set teeth. “You will see very soon, my lady! And you won’t dare to squeal because of your own neck!”
CHAPTER IX.
THE LURE OF THE SNOW
Etta Wyndcliffe had changed her mind. It was a frequent habit of hers. At the last moment she had decided that it was a little too early for the Riviera, therefore she chose winter sports in Switzerland as a prelude to the Côte d’Azur. Hence, a week after her angry parting with the estimable Ashe, she, with Sibell, Brinsley, and her maid, left London for Nature’s white wonderland at Gurnigel, the new palatial winter resort, high in the mountains above Berne.
After stepping from the comfortable wagon-lit of the Oberland Express, which had brought them in the night from Calais to Berne, they found awaiting them a powerful car, with chains upon its wheels on account of the mountain snows, and soon they were on their way, in the bright morning sunshine, upon a fine, open road which ran along the lower slope of a steep hill, affording a wide view of the snow-clad but fertile valley of the Gürbe towards Thun; then, rising higher, they passed through cherry orchards now white with snow, but in April white with blossom. Everywhere the spotless mantle of Nature lay thickly piled upon the wide, overhanging roofs of wooden chalets and outbuildings. Through quiet little hamlets they passed, one after another, until, after leaving the pretty, homely village of Riggisberg, the real steep ascent of the mountain lay before them.
“How perfectly wonderful!” cried Sibell, gazing delightedly through the window to where, far across the lake of Thun, rose the giants, the Eiger, Mönch, Jungfrau, and others of that chain, with their eternal glaciers and everlasting snows.
“Yes,” exclaimed her lover, who sat opposite her. “What a complete change from dark, dreary London, with its fogs and rain! How glorious!”
“They call it Glorious Gurnigel,” remarked Lady Wyndcliffe, gazing around. “And it really seems as though the adjective is appropriate.”
They were now in the heart of rural Switzerland, and, as the steep road rose higher and yet higher by many curves, they entered the great snow-laden pine-forests, those forests which abound everywhere in that region and breathe their health-giving odor into the crisp, frosty air.
Another sudden turn of the road, and there suddenly came into view the great, long white building where high piled wood fires and a warm welcome from the genial director, Mr. Schelb, awaited them.
Inside the huge hotel they quickly found themselves in the midst of a merry winter sports crowd of young English people, the girls mostly in bright-colored jerseys and breeches, including a few in black, and gay scarves, with well-cut trousers which some girls prefer to stockings. The men were mostly in ski-ing kit, and the chatter at lunch was, of course, of ski-ing, skating, or bobbing. There was an irresponsible atmosphere of gaiety everywhere, either in the hotel or out of it, for everybody was bent on enjoyment, the high spirits being contagious; for even the elderly quickly find themselves feeling rejuvenated by the wonderful pine-laden air at four to five thousand feet above sea level.
On every side the country belonged to the hotel. To give one an idea of the size of the estate, there are over thirty miles of walks and paths on it!
They rested after their journey, then they donned their sports-clothes and snow-resisting boots, and went forth into the picturesque white world to take the Belle Vue Walk, and so make their first acquaintance with Glorious Gurnigel, the aristocrat among resorts.
Outside, Sibell and Otway, walking alone together, were at once in a great forest of snow-laden pines and firs in which the whispering wind was the only sound, for they were now high up above the abode of man. The trees bring an income to the great estate—not very much in these days, but sufficient to employ many peasants. In the colony which has arisen about the hotel there is a sawmill, and in it about a thousand trees are annually cut into boards, to be sent down to Berne and sold for the construction of chalets, while the useless branches are cut up for firewood which, in addition to the radiators, heat the hotel in winter. Of the thousand or so trees cut down, many straight stems, after seventy or eighty years of growth, go down to the lowlands to rise again as telegraph-poles. And, for those thousand cut down in the thinning process of those delightful woods, four thousand saplings are planted each year. The number is such that only one tree in four comes to maturity, for many die or grow with crooked trunks, and hence are sacrificed for firewood early in their growth.
Thus the forestry on the huge estate is no mean matter, and it was an interesting reflection, as they sauntered along a descending path beside a brook—now frozen in winter’s grip—that on those woodland paths, or open ski slopes, stretching everywhere, nobody could say them nay.
After luncheon Lady Wyndcliffe was busy with her maid, unpacking, therefore the lovers wandered along that romantic forest path, picturesque and sparkling like a Christmas card at every turn, which eventually led to the wonderful viewpoint called the Belle Vue.
At last, in the twilight, they came to a steep descent, and, rather than reclimb it, they sat upon a convenient seat to rest.
A bevy of laughing girls in bright sports costumes, accompanied by several young English undergraduates, passed by on their way back for tea, making the forest echo with their merriment, while after them came a tall, athletic man in dark blue, and wearing a guide’s cap, gliding along on skis.
In the latter both were interested, for neither had before seen a person on those long wooden laths.
“I’m quite sure I’ll never be able to ski!” Sibell declared—as she watched the man disappearing along the path.
“Oh, yes, you will. Harman, who was at Bart’s with me, went out to Wengen one season and learnt in a week,” he replied. “You’ll soon do all right under a good instructor. I’ll see about it to-morrow.”
“But look how long and unwieldy the things are!” protested the girl.
“When you’ve once learned, you can do anything on them. It’s only a question of knack and balance, like learning to cycle.”
“I can cycle all right.”
“Then you’ll very soon be able to ski,” he assured her. “I asked the concierge, and he tells me there’s an excellent instructor here, one of the best in the Oberland. He’s a Swiss from Mürren named von Allmen—all the English here call him ‘John.’ ”
“Very well,” she laughed. “I’ll have John to teach me.”
“Good! I’ll fix the lesson for to-morrow,” said her lover; and then, taking her thickly gloved hand in his, he looked into her fine eyes, and added: “Is not this place a perfect paradise, darling—a paradise for you and me? Compare the hectic, artificial life of overdressing, vice, and gambling on the Riviera with this clean, wholesome, germ-free air—this gorgeous scenery, these great forests, and towering mountains, this spot where all is natural and of God’s creation. Is it not all wonderful—glorious!”
The girl held her breath for a moment; then, as she looked into her lover’s eyes, she replied:
“Yes, it is, Brin! I am so very happy to-day—too happy, because I—well, I somehow feel that this perfect bliss is too complete to last! I——”
But Otway did not allow her to express any further apprehensions, for he suddenly took her in his arms and, holding her firmly, kissed her many times upon her lips.
Then, as it was growing dark in the forest, they rose and, arm in arm, found their way back to the huge, brilliantly-lit hotel, where, in the great lounge at the end of the magnificent ballroom, Sibell’s aunt had secured a table for tea.
“We’ve been exploring the place, auntie,” Sibell said as she sat down. “The walks are simply wonderful. I’m so delighted we came here!”
“So am I,” declared Otway.
“Ena Oxenford told me about it,” said her ladyship. “She was here last summer. No doubt it will become a second St. Moritz very soon—when people know of it. I agree that at present it is charming.”
Sibell looked very chic in her tailor-made, black ski-ing suit and well-cut trousers, the only touch of color being her bright blue and red scarf which matched her Norwegian anklets. She wore a peaked guide’s cap, and into it she had already pinned the little pale-blue and white badge of the Gurnigel Ski Club, which she had joined at once on arrival.
As they sat amid the gay, chatting English crowd, they had full view of the ballroom—perhaps one of the finest in all Switzerland—where people were dancing to an excellent orchestra. There was merriment and bonhomie on every hand, even though a party of about sixty Germans of the better class were also visitors there. Such an incident was not usual, for in winter Gurnigel is kept essentially English. Nevertheless, that season such was the fact, and it was especially noticeable that no racial hatred existed between the two nationalities. In neutral-Switzerland they were upon common ground.
Unseen by either Sibell or her lover, there was, however, sitting on the opposite side of the hall a dark, sleek-haired young man, thick-lipped and sensuous, who, from behind one of the marble columns, was eyeing the girl furtively as he lazily sipped his tea and smoked his Egyptian cigarette.
He had attempted a familiar conversation with the fair-haired, muslin-aproned Swiss maid who had served him, but had been ignored, and now his large black eyes were fixed upon Sibell, whose beauty and smartness were outstanding, even amid that very smart crowd.
“I really think that winter sports are a fitting prelude to the Riviera,” Sibell’s aunt was saying, as she lazily selected a cigarette from her gold case and tapped it. “Agatha, that little American cat whom I took around last season, wanted to go to St. Moritz, but I refused. I’m sorry now that I didn’t go. Of course, you two will go ski-ing to-morrow.”
“Yes,” replied the girl. “We’re both having our first lesson with John. I saw him in the hall just as we came in. Isn’t he a good-looking boy, Brin?”
Her lover agreed, and then suggested to her that they should dance.
Next moment they were upon the well-kept floor of the great white-and-gold ballroom, where at the many tables around sat a gay crowd of winter sports devotees, yet still unaware of the pair of dark eyes of the man, seated half-concealed, who somehow appeared fascinated by Sibell’s outstanding beauty.
Gurnigel in summer is a marvellous woodland retreat—a gorgeous spot where no sound disturbs the mountain silence save the singing of the birds, the ripple of the many streams, the musical tinkle of the cow-bells, and perhaps the blows of the woodman’s axe. But as soon as the slow, sleek cows with their bells are driven in and the first snow of winter falls, there comes a transformation to a great snow-clad countryside, wherein a gay crowd disport themselves in genuine good humor and with united efforts to make fun out of everything. There is no standoffishness, nor are there unsociable cliques. The newcomer of either sex is instantly welcomed, taken into the circle, so that there is never any lack of companions for ski-ing, or partners for dancing.
The joyous convivialities of January are events one will long remember, for neither trouble nor expense are spared to effect the success of the various festivals, the guests entering into the true spirit of things, so that there is not a single dull moment; all goes with a swing, and it becomes a time of strenuous gaiety. If the weather happens to be bad, or the snow may leave a little to be desired, then there are all kinds of indoor games—bowls, indoor curling, ping-pong, and hosts of other diversions, the tea-time dancing being not the least, and the merry crowd pities the poor drenched and fog-bound folk at home.
It was so with the new arrivals—indeed, with everyone who came fresh from London.
Glorious Gurnigel was, they found, indeed glorious in every sense of the term.
When, later, Sibell, in a dainty white dance frock embroidered with beads, which suited her fair complexion so admirably, came down to meet the young doctor for dinner, she encountered in the long, red-carpeted corridor, that ran parallel with the ballroom, the tall, erect young man whose eyes had been on her while she had sat at tea and while she had danced.
He idled past her, smiled broadly, whispered something, and, bowing, wished her “Good evening” in a low tone in German.
With her English hauteur she drew herself up, stared him full in the face, and passed on, nevertheless remembering that at such resorts introductions are easily made, and friendships as easily dropped.
When, a few moments later, Otway and her aunt joined her, she made no mention of the incident. She knew it would most certainly provoke her lover’s indignation that she could not be left for a moment alone in the hotel without a stranger attempting to get in conversation with her; and, besides, she did not desire a scene.
That evening, after dining in the fine restaurant, they occupied a table at the end of the ballroom near the orchestra, and many times the happy pair danced together, refraining only when a “Paul Jones” was announced.
Next morning they had their first lesson in ski-ing. The tall, athletic young Swiss ski-instructor, in his neat blue suit, with his guide’s badge upon his breast, fitted their skis to their boots and took them out upon what is known as the “nursery slopes,” where all beginners make a start by learning to stand on their skis and how to fall into the soft, powdery snow in such a manner that they do not injure themselves.
In spite of many tumbles and much humorous banter, they thoroughly enjoyed themselves for two hours, unconscious still that that pair of evil, black eyes was closely watching them from a window on the first floor with that same fixed, sinister expression.
That afternoon, after luncheon, the pair, oblivious of the attention they had attracted, joined a small party of skiers, and climbed above the tree-line to the summit of Mount Gurnigel, a matter of another thousand feet or so, where, standing in the afternoon sunshine upon the verandah of the weather-beaten shelter hut of the Swiss Alpine Club, they gazed at one of the most marvellous panoramas of valley, lake, and mountain in all Switzerland. Before them, far below, lay the whole of the district of Thun and its delightful lake, flanked on one side by the mountains of the Emmental, and on the other by the jagged, frowning Stockhorn, and the conical Niesen, with the steepest mountain railway in Europe, while beyond rose, white, majestic, and just tipped by the delicate rose light of the Alpine glow, the Jungfrau and her neighbors. The scene was like one obtained from an aeroplane, and, as the others of the party had climbed on skis, they ran swiftly down home, first over some wide, steep slopes, then, joining the road, passed along its edge through Black Lake wood and straight down to the hotel.
But Sibell and her lover, not being able to ski, stood alone and silent in the sunset, children of the heights. Their hearts were too full for mere words.
At last, as they stood facing the giant Jungfrau, upon whose lofty crest the gorgeous pink glow was deepening, he bent and kissed her, and then, hand in hand, they commenced to descend the steep, winding road, arriving back in the hotel just as the twilight had deepened into darkness.
And as they rejoined Lady Wyndcliffe at her tea-table in the corner, that pair of dark, haunting eyes fell again upon them.
CHAPTER X.
SKIERS AND “FROTH-BLOWERS”
Sibell had her second lesson in ski-ing on the third day after their arrival.
On the second day it snowed so heavily that in the afternoon it developed into quite a blizzard. But in a winter sports centre fresh snow is always hailed with delight by old and young, and the morrow, with its delights, is eagerly looked forward to.
The morning turned out to be perfect, the thermometer down to zero and the sky cloudless, with a warm, health-giving sun, while deep in the valley lay the dark rain-clouds, rendering the lower altitudes damp and gloomy.
The ever-faithful John took his charges up the steep hill behind the hotel to the gentle slopes at the rear of that range of farm buildings known as the Stock-Hut, and, halting suddenly, addressed the girl in his quaint Swiss-English:
“Now, Mees Dare, I will put your skis [pronounced shees] on, here. The snow is too deep for you to walk farther.”
While Otway was busy clipping on his own skis, John knelt down and fixed Sibell’s, she balancing herself on one foot and holding on to his shoulder. When the pair were ready to climb the slope, Sibell cried:
“Good heavens, John! I can’t get up there on these things.”
“Oh, yes, you will, mees,” replied the good-looking Swiss expert. “It is quite easy. I will go and make a track for you.”
Then, after a lot of exertion, she slipped and fell in the snow several times, always being picked up quickly by the alert John.
“Really, Sibell!” exclaimed her lover in a low tone. “I believe you are sitting down purposely, so that your good-looking guide may come to the rescue. I’m right out of it!”
He was unaware that John overheard his words, and was secretly amused. But John was quite used to hearing such talk between young loving couples who were his pupils on the snow.
As the lesson commenced, John, by giving demonstrations, explained clearly to both of them the art of ski-ing. Sibell being rather timid, as are all girls at first, he took her by the arm and steadied her as they glided together down the slope. Then Sibell lost her balance and fell head foremost into the soft snow, her skis in the air.
“Well!” asked John, in feigned surprise. “For what purpose do you fall, mees?”
“Why, to sit down and stop myself!” replied the girl, laughing heartily as he assisted her to her feet again.
A moment later she fell again, whereupon John said:
“Now, there was surely no necessity for that! Try and get up yourself, but remember, when on a slope like this, never let your skis look downhill. You must turn him so that he looks sideways uphill,” he added. A peculiarity of his English was that to him all skis were masculine. “Otherwise he will slip, and you will not be able to stop him,” he added.
After Sibell had lain in the snow a minute or two, twisting and turning her skis in all sorts of contortions, to the great amusement of Otway, she at last managed to right herself with the aid of John’s ready hand.
“Now, mees!” he said, after she had stood to recover her breath. “We will try the stem turn. This is a very important turn to learn, as it helps one in all the more complicated ones. Look! Watch me!”
He then glided down the slope a short distance and demonstrated what he meant, as the lovers watched and admired the ease and gracefulness of his ski-ing.
“Now, mees, will you try?” he said, on returning to her side, placing his gloves together in his belt.
Taking courage, the girl started slowly to descend, John following her closely, with her lover watching.
“Now, right foot forward!” ordered the lithe Swiss. “Bring it round, and press outwards on your heel. On your heel! Now, hard!”
Alas! by the time the last word of command reached her, she found herself in a hopeless muddle, and fell half covered in the deep snow with both skis practically hidden.
The first time one does a stem turn it always puts one in difficulty. But it is only a matter of knack and balance, and is soon easily learnt.
John was up with her in a moment, flying down and doing a perfect “telemark,” by which he stopped dead at the exact spot, where he stood for a second laughing heartily at her plight.
“Never mind, Mees Dare!” he said encouragingly. “You will find it quite easy after one or two failures.”
“John!” she cried, with feigned resentment. “If you laugh at me when I’m in this awful muddle I’ll loathe you!”
“Oh, please don’t say that!” John pleaded. “You started very fine, but when you commenced the turn you leaned inwards, instead of outwards.”
“Brin! You’re laughing at me!” shouted the girl to her lover. “You wait till you try it!”
“Now, mees,” said John, “I will show you again”; and he made a graceful stem turn just near her, pointing out the fault which all beginners make.
Six times she tried it and failed, but on the seventh she succeeded in turning quite well, and repeated it twice without falling.
Then, her hour’s lesson being up, they returned to the hotel. Otway was to learn on the following morning.
That day proved a somewhat eventful one for Gurnigel.
When one speaks of the winter sunshine, those uninitiated into winter sports in Switzerland naturally think of the Riviera. But in the Alps they have, in winter, sun hotter than at Nice, with clear blue sky, even though the thermometer will show ten or more degrees of frost. It is one of the phenomena of the Alps that one gets sun-tanned amidst the snow.
As they entered the hotel half-an-hour before luncheon, Otway noticed, pinned to one of the high pillars of the entrance hall, a notice headed:
“Froth-Blowers! Emergency Notice! A meeting of the Ancient Order of Froth-Blowers will be held in the recreation-room at 2.30 p.m. to-day. All Blowers are to attend.—Blaster No. 24.”
It struck Otway and Sibell as amusing, and, laughing, they passed into the restaurant to lunch, in ignorance of what was in active progress.
“What are the Froth-Blowers?” asked the girl as they sat together.
“Oh, I’ve heard of them,” replied her lover. “It’s a widespread society of Englishmen all over the world, They wear silver cuff-links with dark-blue initials—A.O.F.B.—as badge, while their subscriptions of five shillings for life membership go to alleviate the sufferings of poor children. It is a band of patriotic and philanthropic English to help the helpless.”
“I wonder why an emergency meeting has been called?” remarked Lady Wyndcliffe. “I know quite a dozen ‘Blowers’ who wear their links both by day and at evening. Woe betide a blower who forgets his cuff-links, for he has to pay for the refreshment of everyone present. That is one rule of the Order.”
“Brin, you’ll have to be a ‘Blower’!” laughed Sibell merrily. “I’ll pay the five shillings subscription for you!”
And then the subject dropped.
At half-past two, sixteen young, athletic Englishmen assembled in a side-room where games were played on wet or foggy days—which were, indeed, very few at Gurnigel—under the presiding of the “Blaster,” an elderly, round-faced man named Gordon Mitchell. A “Blaster,” be it said, is the title accorded to a Froth-Blower who obtains twenty-five recruits to the Order, and in reward he wears silver insignia behind the lapel of his coat.
Five minutes’ grace was accorded to late comers. Then Mr. Mitchell exhibited his badge, closed the door, locked it, and turning to the young men assembled, he said:
“Fellow Blowers, we have a decision to make, but it must not be hasty or ill-considered. We are all of us Englishmen, and there must be no hatred of race. This is a matter of broad principles. In this hotel there is a certain man who must be taught a lesson—and a severe one. The man in question has insulted no fewer than eight young English ladies. To one he has written an abominable letter, which I will not read, but I will hand it to you. The brother of that young girl is present. In another case he followed a young English lady, who is here with her mother, into the wood, seized her, kissed her, and, in consequence of her shrieks, another English lady had to go to her rescue. Now, Blowers, shall we tolerate this?”
“No!” they all shouted with one accord. “Let’s out him!”
“I agree,” said the grey-haired man very calmly. “The man’s name is Ira Frank, and he comes from Frankfort. We have discovered, after some inquiries, that he is a sensuous libertine and hunter of women. I have shown this letter to the director of the hotel, who, in consequence, has requested him to leave by the next automobile, which leaves for Berne at 3.30.”
“He won’t leave till I’ve had something to say!” cried the offended girl’s brother, a young London medical student, whereupon all his friends agreed, and discussed what should be done.
“Blowers!” cried Mr. Mitchell. “Silence, please! First, not a hand must be laid upon him, for he is a German. And, before anything is done, I shall go to Dr. Rothe, the head of the German party of visitors, and tell him what we have discovered, show him the letter, and inform him of our intentions.”
“Yes!” cried a voice. “Let’s pelt him out of it! He sha’n’t interfere with our girls again! He’s tried Glorious Gurnigel—and he won’t come back here a second time!” Whereat there was a peal of laughter.
“He’ll try and slip away, boys,” said another. “There must be scouts round the hotel. I’ll lead you!”
“Not until I have heard Dr. Rothe’s views,” cried Mr. Mitchell, holding up a warning hand. “We might easily create a riot here, and surely we must not do that! Reassemble here in half an hour, and I will tell you the result of my negotiations.”
And the square-built, grey-haired man went off to find the leader of the German winter sports party.
Five minutes later he was alone in his private sitting-room with a pleasant-faced, polite, middle-aged German, who, when he heard the facts and was shown the offending letter, sat amazed.
The letter was written on the culprit’s business paper, bearing his Frankfort address and signed by him.
“Well,” said the doctor in good English, “it is a consolation that he is an outsider. He is not of our party. He asked to join it, and we consented.”
“I know we are treading upon rather thin ice,” Mr. Mitchell said, “but the young Englishmen here are determined that he leave in ignominy. Before any action is taken, I would request you to consult with some of the more influential members of your party and ascertain their views. I would venture to point out this is no racial hatred, for, had an Englishman acted as he has done, we should have taken the law into our own hands in exactly the same manner.”
“I quite understand, and, on behalf of my party, I thank you very sincerely, Mr. Mitchell,” answered the German, shaking the Englishman’s hand. “If you will wait for ten minutes, I will return and tell you our views. Of course there will be no violence?”
“None whatever, I assure you. He will be only taught a lesson,” was the Englishman’s answer.
Ten minutes later the burly German doctor re-entered the room.
“We entirely agree that the fellow should be taught a lesson,” he said. “With one eye we shall laugh at his shame, but with the other we shall, alas! cry because he is a German.”
“Then it is agreed,” said Mr. Mitchell, again taking the German’s hand.
“The relations between my friends and the English visitors are, thanks to yourself, most cordial, Mr. Mitchell,” the doctor said. “You have done everything to remove any little prejudices your friends may have had against us. And I assure you we all heartily appreciate it.”
The Englishman thanked him, expressed regret that the unpleasant incident had occurred, and then went at once to where the Froth-Blowers were awaiting the decision.
In a few brief words he told them of his negotiation and the decision of the Germans, whereup a dozen of them rushed away to obtain ammunition in the shape of eggs—which they bought from the stores, there being no stale ones—decayed tomatoes, oranges, and lemons, while others went out and gathered filth in newspapers. Then, in five minutes, all the “Blowers” were posted round the hotel awaiting the fellow’s appearance.
Sibell was standing with Brinsley upon the balcony above the main entrance to the hotel, and, noticing the sudden rush of twenty or so young fellows, said:
“I wonder what all this excitement is!”
Scarcely had the words left her mouth than there was a shout, “Blowers!” and next moment she saw the dark-eyed stranger, who had whispered to her in the corridor the other night, dashing down the snow-clad hill on a small toboggan.
In a moment twenty athletic young fellows were after him. The brother of the girl to whom he had written the letter, a good sprinter, took a short cut and seized him, whereupon the others pelted the culprit mercilessly with all sorts of missiles and filth, to the glee and hilarity of a hundred or so lookers-on.
“Take that, you German hog!” cried the angry brother, clapping some filth in a newspaper full over the fellow’s face. “That will teach you to write your accursed love-letters in future.”
The scoundrel had lost his hat, and his hair was covered with broken eggs and rotten tomatoes. His clothes were such a mass of disgusting filth that they could never be worn again, and the last seen of him was his staggering down the hill to the jeers of the crowd, both Germans and English.
Truly it was an exciting afternoon in Gurnigel.
CHAPTER XI.
A VISITOR AT THE GUEST HOUSE
Before leaving for Switzerland, Otway and Sibell had paid several visits to the long-closed Guest House at Hampton Court, and, accompanied by a Mr. Sheldon, a well-known author and antiquary, the girl had picked out a number of the most valuable pieces of furniture, a quantity of old silver—including two Charles the Second cups—and a number of family portraits, all of which had been sent into store until such time as the old house should be decorated and refurnished.
The furniture included a number of very rare Caroline, Queen Anne, and William and Mary pieces, all entirely genuine, with no trace of the restorer’s hand.
Indeed, the old antiquary pointed out that a set of genuine Chippendale chairs and a Queen Anne tallboy were such as might well be acquired by the South Kensington Museum. Neither the young doctor nor his rather modern fiancée were lovers of the antique, so they merely picked out, at Mr. Sheldon’s suggestion, a few objects, as a matter of sentiment.
On the other hand, the news of the valuable contents of the Guest House had spread far and wide among dealers all over the country, and, in consequence of their inquiries, Mr. Gray predicted a highly profitable sale.
The latter was somewhat delayed owing to certain legal formalities abroad not having been complied with, but in the meantime Farmer, the heavily-built caretaker, had many applicants to view the contents privately, and many a half-crown fell into his ready palm, in consequence.
Sometimes Police Constable Askew, when on duty on that beat, would look in and spend half an hour in the little room on the left of the hall in which Farmer had taken up his quarters, the caretaker smoking his strong briar, while the man in uniform loosened his belt and enjoyed his “gasper.”
“I wonder when the sale’s to be?” Askew remarked one rough night when, just before midnight, he had taken shelter from the storm and hung up his dripping cape in the hall.
“Not till some legal formalities have been settled,” was the other’s reply. “Mr. Gray was here yesterday, and told me so. I saw a photograph of the young couple in the Sketch the other day. They had those long bits of wood fastened on to their boots—things they call skis. How they get along on such things beats me.”
“I suppose the young doctor is quite better now,” Askew said. “He had a narrow squeak, I’ve heard.”
“Yes. He was one of those affected by this house. Very uncanny, ain’t it? I’ve never been troubled yet.”
“Don’t you boast, old man,” said the constable warningly. “There’s something mysterious and unaccountable in this old place. I’m sure of that”; and he glanced apprehensively around the small, dark-papered room, where a bright fire burned in the grate and a paraffin lamp stood upon the table.
“Bosh! I don’t believe in it!” laughed the man Farmer, who had spent all the years since his retirement from the police force in taking care of other people’s property.
“You don’t believe in what I’ve seen?” asked Askew with quick resentment.
“I never believe anything I don’t see with my own eyes,” was the other’s quiet reply.
“Well, I’m not a liar, I assure you. I’ve seen something here—that’s all I can tell you.”
“And I’ve seen nothing, so let’s leave it at that,” said the man in charge of the place.
“What about those strange seizures?”
“Mere coincidences,” laughed the matter-of-fact Farmer. “I hope the facts won’t leak out or we’ll have all sorts of people here—spiritualists, ghost hunters, and those people whose dead aunts tell them what they’ve had for supper.”
“Yes. It is to be hoped it won’t come out. I’ve told nobody,” said Askew.
“But that chap who writes to the Richmond and Twickenham Times may be keeping his eyes and ears open. He seems to me to be a bit of a Nosey Parker.”
“Well, if there are any inquiries, we must deny everything,” the constable said.
“I’ve never admitted anything. You’ve got to deny what you say that you’ve seen.”
“But surely you saw it too?”
“I told you I didn’t! I’ve seen nothing, I’ve heard nothing, and I think nothing—see?” declared Farmer. “I’m only the caretaker, paid by the week to keep my mouth shut and frighten away thieves and burglars”; and he laughed heartily.
“But what’s going to happen here?” asked the constable, lighting a fresh cigarette and glancing at Farmer’s cheap alarm clock on the mantelshelf. Outside, the big trees swayed, the wind howled around the place, and the rain pattered upon the window-panes in sudden gusts.
“Happen? Why, it will be wedding-bells after the sale,” Farmer said. “Before Miss Dare left she ordered the grounds to be put in order, and there have been six men at work grubbing out all the undergrowth, taking out unwanted trees, and lopping the rest. By Jove! you should see the impenetrable jungle it was before they started. Thirty years of undergrowth takes some grubbing out. They’re letting in light and air, and making a new tennis-lawn. When it’s finished it will be a very beautiful garden, no doubt. There’s going to be central heating, baths, a servants’ hall, electric light, and all the most up-to-date contrivances. It will cost a big sum, but when a young girl comes into a big fortune, as she’s done, a few thousand don’t matter much, I suppose.”
“I expect the sale will bring in a tidy sum,” remarked the police constable, holding his hands out to the fire to warm them.
“I heard Mr. Gray tell his partner last Tuesday, when they were here together, that the pictures alone will probably bring in twenty thousand. Six of them have been sent up to Bond Street on show already.”
“Lucky girl, eh?” remarked the constable of the T Division of Metropolitan Police, rising slowly and stretching himself. “Well, I’ll have to go, Mr. Farmer. Thanks so much”; and he finished the bottle of ale his host had placed before him, on entering.
“So long. Look in again when you can. Three taps on the door if you see my light a-burning. Good-night, and good luck to you.”
Askew threw his wet cape around his shoulders, straightened himself, put on his helmet, arranged his lamp, and strode heavily along the stone hall, and out to continue his vigilance in the stormy night, while the lonely caretaker, heedless of the dismal howling of the wind and the many weird noises through the house, finished his glass of beer, smoked a final pipe as he read the evening paper by the fire, and then turned into his narrow bed.
About ten o’clock next morning there came a tug at the clanging old bell, and Farmer opened the door to confront a rather wizened-up little old man in a drab mackintosh and holding an umbrella against the pelting rain.
“Excuse me,” he said very politely in a thin, refined voice. “Are you caretaker here?”
“I am, sir,” replied the broad-shouldered, plethoric Farmer.
“Well, I’ve heard very much about this old house and the treasures it contains, so I’ve come up from Newcastle-on-Tyne wondering if you would allow me to go through the rooms,” he said. “My name is Bettinson. I’m a great lover of the antique—indeed, a collector.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but the firm of auctioneers which employ me have given me strict orders to allow nobody to view. The things were on view some little time ago, but the sale has now been postponed.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the little old man in deep disappointment. “Then the contents of the house will not be sold?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“And what’s the name of the fortunate young lady who owns the house?”
“Dare, sir—Miss Sibell Dare.”
The old man nodded as slowly understanding the situation. “But I wonder,” he said, after a pause, during which he drew a ten-shilling note from his vest pocket, “I wonder if this would be any inducement for you to allow me just a brief glance through the rooms?”
Farmer smiled. Caretakers are all human, and, after all, there could be little danger of theft in allowing the inoffensive, odd-looking old fellow a peep at the shabby, neglected rooms.
Two minutes later old Mr. Bettinson was inside, and, leaving his umbrella in the hall, followed his guide first into the library, where the books had already been tied in parcels ready for offering at auction, though nothing had yet been catalogued or numbered. The heavy furniture in the dining-room, especially the long oak refectory-table, with its bulbous legs and worn struts, attracted him.
“A perfect specimen!” he exclaimed, as though to himself. “Genuine Tudor, without a doubt!” And he placed his fingers caressingly upon the polished wood.
The huge buffet also attracted his admiration, as well as a pair of Queen Anne candelabra and a large silver salver of the same period.
Then, upstairs, he stood for some moments in the big drawing-room, gazing around in a strange, half-bewildered manner. He sat upon the big old velvet-covered chair—the same into which Mr. Gray, the estate agent, had sunk when he had had that mysterious attack—and admired many of the unique pieces of furniture, including the big carved chair, with its tattered crimson covering, in which he was seated.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “A perfect museum! Why, this collection ought never to be dispersed. It is a sin. The house and its contents should be acquired by the nation.”
“The young lady can’t sell it, I believe, sir,” remarked his guide. “By the terms of the will she is compelled to live here.”
“Ah! The testator was some fool of a crank, I suppose,” snapped the old man. “Fancy condemning any young girl to live in a dismal place like this!”
“She’s going to be married, so I suppose they’ll renovate the place and make it their headquarters,” Farmer said. “But I’ve heard that she’s hitherto been abroad a lot.”
“Well, this is no house for a young couple,” grunted old Mr. Bettinson as, after sitting in contemplation for a quarter of an hour, he arose from the huge chair of carved walnut—a handsome Italian Renaissance piece—following the stout man in charge into other rooms on the same floor, where, through the dingy panes of old green glass, the garden, with its high holly hedges now trimmed and clipped, could be seen.
“I’ve noted one or two pieces which I intend to buy,” the old man said as he at last descended the stairs, thanking his conductor for allowing him sight of them. “I shall commission a dealer to secure them for me. I mean to have them, regardless of what others will offer. I’m a collector, as I’ve told you, and when I set my mind on buying a piece I never rest until it is mine. It may be bought over my head and be sent away, but I follow it and always get it in the long run, for I never mind what price I pay.”
“Well, sir, I’m glad you are satisfied,” Farmer said pleasantly, whereupon the old chap drew out his leather cigar-case and emptied it into the caretaker’s hands. “Here,” he said, “take them. You’ll find they’re pretty good ones”; and Farmer’s trained eye saw that they were of a very expensive and choice variety.
“Funny old bloke!” he remarked aloud to himself as he saw the queer old fellow hobble away beneath his umbrella and disappear from the gate. “But all these people with hobbies are a bit cranky. I’ve seen such lots of ’em in my time.”
That same afternoon, just before dark, the bell rang, and Farmer went to the door, believing it to be the milkman, when, to his surprise, he found the same old gentleman standing beneath the porch.
“Hulloa!” he exclaimed. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” responded old Mr. Bettinson. “I’m so sorry to trouble you,” he went on apologetically, “but I hope this will act as solace for again disturbing you”; and he handed him a second ten-shilling note. “The fact is that I want to have a second look at that exquisite little inlaid tallboy in the drawing-room. I want to make up my mind as to how much I shall bid for it.”
“Oh, certainly, sir,” said Farmer politely. “Come in. There’s just enough light, I think, to enable you to see it. But I’ll bring up a lamp”; and he allowed the old man to reclimb the wide, old-fashioned stairs to the first floor.
He ascended slowly, mumbling something to himself, while Farmer went down to the basement to obtain his hurricane lamp. Having lit it, he followed the old visitor, whom he discovered standing in the centre of the big, dark room with his arms outstretched, waving them wildly towards the windows, with his head thrown back, uttering some kind of weird incantation which was all gibberish to him.
“What the deuce are you doing?” demanded the caretaker. “Have you suddenly gone crazy?”
But, without response, the old man, his thin hands outstretched, a weird and mysterious figure in the faint light shed by the lantern, turned slowly towards him, still continuing his monotonous gibberish drone in which “The Voice of the Four Winds,” “Unconquerable Spirit of Satin,” “Ruler of Thy Life,” “The Evil World,” “The Plane of Human Perfection,” “The Sacred Cubit,” “The Rejoin of the Well-Shaft’s Upper Mouth,” “The Glory of Death,” and “When Restitution is Complete,” were the only words distinguishable. For the rest, the man’s utterances might have been in Arabic, Hebrew, or Chinese so far as Farmer could understand them.
“Look here!” he said with humor. “You’d better get out of this, old sonny! You’ve evidently got bats in the belfry! For Heaven’s sake get away, and don’t look at me like that!”
The old stranger’s face had become long, drawn, and evilly distorted, as though he had taken leave of his senses or had become entranced. His bony hands clutched the air as he continued to wave his arms and call down some blessing or some curse upon the mysterious house and its contents, until Farmer, not usually perturbed, began to grow apprehensive lest his visitor should prove a raving lunatic.
“Now just come out of this at once and go away,” he said roughly. “Here’s your ten-bob note.”
“Touch me!” shrieked the old man, defiantly clawing the air. “Touch me, and it will be death to you! I am invulnerable!”
“I don’t care what you are, or who the devil you are, but you’ll get out of this at once!” cried Farmer, and, with an ex-policeman’s grip, he took him by the collar, shook him like a rat, and dragged him to the stairs.
“Now, go down and out quietly,” he advised him when they were upon the landing. “We can do with cranks here, but we don’t want any lunatics.”
In an instant the old fellow’s manner altered.
“My dear man, I am very, very sorry for you,” he said as he commenced to descend the stairs.
“You needn’t be. I want no sympathy,” laughed the caretaker.
“Not to-night,” replied the old man mysteriously. “But you will to-morrow”; and he gave vent to a harsh laugh of triumph. “I warned you, but you took no heed, so you will take the consequences. You will see.”
And with those parting words he passed out.
Farmer shut the door, walked back to his little den, and exclaimed aloud:
“Yes. This morning I thought he was a funny bloke. He’s mad, no doubt, poor fellow!”
And then he busied himself at the fire, toasting a round of bread for his tea.
CHAPTER XII.
WITHOUT FEAR
At seven o’clock on the following morning, just as it was getting light, the milkman, in the habit of leaving the usual half-pint for Mr. Farmer at the Guest House, found a scrap of paper beneath the jug, while the front door stood ajar, which was unusual.
The scribbled words in pencil which the man deciphered were, “Come in at once. Am very ill!”
Without ado, the man put down his can, and, entering the hall, cried:
“Mr. Farmer! Where are you?”
Hearing a groan along the passage, he quickly found the small, stuffy room where, on the bed, lay the stout caretaker, half dressed, writhing in apparent pain.
“Fetch a doctor, quick!” he gasped. “I’ve been taken ill.”
“How long ago?” asked the man in alarm.
“I—I don’t know. Get Dr. Truman. He lives just across the bridge. Quick as you can—quick—quick—as—you—can!” And he drew a long breath and stretched his arms over his head.
The milkman lost not a moment, and within a quarter of an hour the local, middle-aged practitioner stood at the prostrate man’s side, asking him to describe his symptoms.
“My heart seems so funny,” the stricken man managed to gasp.
“Have you ever suffered from heart before?” inquired the medical man.
“Never.”
“Then I must take your blood pressure,” he said, producing from his bag the band of webbing which he strapped upon the man’s bare arm, and then proceeded to pump air into it, watching the telltale dial intently. Three times he repeated it, so that there should be no error. Afterwards he sounded his patient with his stethoscope, his countenance assuming a grave look after listening for a few moments in various spots on his broad chest.
“Never had such an attack before, eh?” he asked. “Been exerting yourself unduly?”
“Not in the least,” Farmer replied in a thin, weak voice quite unusual to him. “It’s morning—isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied the doctor. “About seven.”
“Then I haven’t been to bed. I recollect coming over funny-like just as I was undressing, about eleven o’clock. But I didn’t know anything else till I awoke and saw it was half-past six. Then I managed to write a note and put it under the milk-jug.”
“I found it when I got here,” explained the milkman, standing beside the doctor. “It ain’t like Mr. Farmer to be ill,” he added.
But Dr. Truman continued his investigations, asking many questions of the prostrate man, each reply seeming to puzzle him the more.
“You remain here,” he said to the milkman. “I’ll go back and get some mixture that will ease him.”
And, so saying, he went out to his little two-seater and drove quickly to his surgery, returning a quarter of an hour later.
After giving Farmer a draught, he said:
“You’ll have to remain very quiet. And you’d better have some friend to come and look after you.”
“Is it serious, doctor?” asked the caretaker. “I ask you this because—well, because I have a reason—a strong reason.”
“It might be serious if you’re not very careful,” was Truman’s reply.
The patient drew a long breath, and then allowed the doctor, assisted by the milkman, to undress him and put him into bed.
When at last he was more comfortable, he turned to Dr. Truman, and said in a low, weak voice, hardly above a whisper:
“Doctor, I want to tell you what happened here yesterday”; and he motioned Truman to a chair, while the milkman still stood by to listen.
“I—I had a visitor yesterday—a very extraordinary old man he was. He said his name was Bettinson, and that he was a collector of antiques. He—he asked to see the stuff privately, as he wanted to bid for some at auction, and—and I—like a fool—took him through the rooms.” Then he paused in exhaustion.
“And what has that to do with it?” asked the doctor, interested.
“A lot—a big lot! That old devil came back late in the afternoon and wanted to have another look at something in the drawing-room upstairs. I went and got a light for him, but when I got up there I found he’d gone mad.”
“Mad! What do you mean?”
“Why, he was waving his arms about like a lunatic and shouting all sorts of things in a language I’d never heard of before. He seemed to be bringing down the curses of Satan and all the evil spirits on to this place, and was shouting about the glories of death—and—and, well, I stood dumbfounded. I think the old idiot was talking Chinese. I—I fancy he was possessed of the devil, so I chucked him out!”
“And a good job too,” remarked the milkman.
“No, it wasn’t—at least, not for me. When I took him by the scruff of the neck he told me that he was very sorry for me, because anyone who dared to lay hands upon him would die. And—well, doctor,” he added very faintly, “would you believe it that about six hours after I’d put the odd old man outside I began to feel queer—and here I am!”
“That’s very curious,” said the doctor, now greatly interested. “Have you ever seen the man before?”
“Never in my life. He seemed to be one of those spooky blokes who talk to the dead. Perhaps he was holding forth to them when I found him gassing in the drawing-room. That’s why I put him out. But—well, doctor, I’m sorry I defied him. He said he was invulnerable—whatever that means.”
“Well, keep quiet. You seem to have had a bit of a shock. But you’ll get over it all right,” Truman declared with confidence. “Who shall I get to look after you?”
Farmer thought a few moments, and then said:
“I’ve got a friend, Police Constable Askew, round at the station. He’s got a young brother, George; lives over in Molesey. I wish you’d let Askew know I’m queer—will you, sir?”
“Certainly,” replied the doctor, and, having received the assurance of the patient that he felt a trifle better, he left him in the care of the milkman.
Askew chanced to be off duty that morning, and was soon round to see his friend.
When they were alone together, the caretaker described his sudden attack and then seemed to become very exhausted. He motioned to the constable in plain clothes to give him another dose of the mixture which the doctor had left, with instructions.
“He’s coming back in a couple of hours,” said the man lying in bed, his face pale and his breathing stertorous. “He told me to take another dose if my heart pained me. And it’s simply awful now,” he added, placing his hand upon it.
His friend measured out a dose carefully and assisted Farmer to sit up to swallow it.
“This isn’t like you, Dick,” Askew said, with a good-humored laugh. “You told me once you only went sick twice in all your years in the force.”
“And that’s right. The first was when I was in the ‘Y’. I had a touch of pleurisy. And the other time was when I was stationed at Leman Street during the Ripper scare. That’s years ago now.”
“But how did this really happen?”
“I got cursed yesterday,” was Farmer’s reply in a low, hoarse voice.
“Cursed? What do you mean?”
“A darned old lunatic who spoke Chinese or something, and seemed to talk to the devil in his own language, warned me not to lay a finger on him,” Farmer answered. Then, after a pause, he went on, “I didn’t want lunatics or spook-hunters in here, so I ousted him. And this is what I’ve got for looking after Shalford, Stevens & Gray’s interests”; and he grinned.
“That’s devilish funny. How could the fellow curse you? Surely you don’t believe in evil spells, and all that historical rot?”
“I don’t,” answered the man in bed, as he shifted uneasily in apparent pain. “But the fact remains that I was quite well before that old scoundrel came and had a liker round. Why he returned a second time I can’t imagine. There must have been some distinct motive. If he’d attempted to sneak anything in the dark I could have understood it.”
“But tell me exactly what happened,” the constable urged. “Don’t distress yourself—just take your time. I’ll be making a cup of tea in the meanwhile.”
“Ask your brother George to come round and look after things for me. He’s out of work, isn’t he?”
“Yes. They’re not doing much at the garage this time of the year, so he’s been put off for six weeks. He’ll be pleased to come round.”
Then, while Askew proceeded to light the fire and put on the little black kettle, the caretaker related in short sentences, rendered abrupt by the pain in his heart, the advent of the mysterious Mr. Bettinson, and his curious attitude on the occasion of his second call, to which his friend listened with all attention.
“Well, Dick,” said the younger man, when he had finished, “if I didn’t know you as an ex-policeman, and a man of iron nerve and without fear, I’d think that it was all your imagination.”
“It isn’t any imagination to fall ill after you’ve been cursed, is it? And it isn’t imagination that I’m lying here sick!”
“Of course not. But it only adds one more mystery to this infernal house! You wouldn’t believe that uncanny things had happened in this accursed place. You put it down to coincidence and all that. But I’m more than ever convinced that this old place exerts some evil or fatal influence over certain persons—always men, never women. That’s a funny point. Why?”
“I confess I’m now beginning to alter my mind,” Farmer said. “I used to laugh at what people alleged and suspected. But my present condition is no laughing matter, I assure you.”
“It isn’t. And if I were you, when I got better I’d leave this damnable place for good and all.”
“I only hope that Nosey Parker who writes in the Richmond paper, won’t get hold of what’s happened to me,” said Farmer. “I hope Dr. Truman won’t say anything.”
“Doctors never do. He’s our divisional surgeon, and a very nice fellow,” Askew said. “I had him when I had flu last year.”
Presently, when the tea was ready, both had a cup, and they continued to discuss the strange happenings in that long-closed house.
“You know that Mr. Gray himself had a very sudden attack here as soon as the place was opened,” Farmer said confidentially. “I heard about it by a side wind from one of the clerks in the office. Mr. Gray has hushed it up, and so has his doctor.”
“But why?”
“Because they don’t want the place to get a bad name. It’s been made mysterious enough by that antiquary fellow who wrote in the paper. Estate-agents never like to deal with property which has a bad reputation.”
“Well, even now, Dick, you don’t believe in what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”
“What you said, sonny, was due to your imagination. I’ve seen funny lights flashing from windows many a time when I’ve been on night duty. But when I’ve investigated I found them only to be reflections,” said the retired policeman.
“But your illness is no imagination,” growled young Askew.
“That’s true. And I tell you I feel a lot worse than when the doctor was here,” said the prostrate man. Then, glancing at the timepiece, he sighed, and added: “He’ll be here again within an hour. He’s having his breakfast, I suppose.”
“Shall I go across now and send George to you?” asked his friend.
“I wish you would. And ask him to get me a quarter of brandy from old Chippy at the Sun. He’ll let him have it if he says I’m ill.” And, after a pause, he slowly raised himself on his elbow, and, placing his left hand upon his heart, he gasped: “My God! I do feel awful now. There’s a pain like red-hot needles in my heart!”
“Have another dose of medicine,” Askew suggested, at which the prostrate man nodded assent.
Five minutes after swallowing it, he seemed to be slightly better. In answer to his friend’s question if he felt easier, he nodded.
Finding such a change in him, Askew hesitated to go in search of his brother, so remained seated at his side, watching him.
Presently he grew better, and said:
“That was a pretty sharp turn! But I’m far easier now. Give me another cup of tea.”
This he drank with avidity, and then went on:
“I’ve just remembered. Mr. Gray is coming here about noon. Go and get George, as he must take care of the place while I’m ill. See that he’s here before Mr. Gray comes.”
“Quite sure you are all right, Dick?”
“Quite, sonny. Why, I’m much better than I was an hour ago.”
And he certainly looked better.
“I’ll leave the door ajar, so that George and I can get in,” Askew said. “You’ll listen to hear if anybody comes. We’ll be here before the doctor arrives.”
“Righto,” replied the prostrate man cheerily. “Don’t forget the drop of brandy. There’s a quarter bottle in there.” And he pointed to a long, narrow cupboard let into the wall beside the old-fashioned grate.
His friend placed the little flat bottle in his pocket, and, buttoning his blue overcoat, said:
“Good-bye, old man. I won’t be long,” and went out.
His brother George was not at home, therefore he went at once in search of him, obtaining the brandy at The Sun on his way.
Meanwhile, half an hour after Askew had left his friend, Dr. Truman drove up to the Guest House in his car, and, finding the door ajar, made his way in.
On entering the narrow, stuffy little room, he saw the caretaker lying pale and motionless. One arm had been thrown out, and lay limp over the side of the bed, while the other hand was upon his heart.
The doctor spoke, touched him, shook him, and then listened to his heart.
In a moment the truth was, alas! too plain.
The caretaker Farmer was dead!