The Joss: A Reversion

“A high hand! Mr. Slaughter thinks that he has only to lift his little finger to have us all turned into the street.”

“If that is so, he is in error. Miss Blyth is my client. As her solicitor I would advise you to be sure that you are treating her with justice.”

“Her solicitor!” Mr. Slaughter laughed. “I wish you joy of the job, you won’t make a fortune out of her!” He waved his hands. “Any communication you have to make, you make through the post. For the last time I ask you to leave my office.”

“Come, Mr. Paine, we will go. He need not ask us again. As he says, we can communicate with him through the post; and that will not necessitate our being brought into his too close neighbourhood.”

I shook the dust of the office off my feet. Mr. Paine seemed puzzled. Outside was Emily, still crying. I introduced her.

“This is Emily Purvis, another victim of Mr. Slaughter’s injustice. Emily, this is my solicitor, Mr. Paine.”

She stared, as well she might. For all I knew, it might have been a jest of his, he might not have been a solicitor at all. The truth is I was quite as anxious to carry things off with a high hand as Mr. Slaughter could be; so I held my head as high as ever I could.

“Mr. Paine, we are going to draw our salaries. They are sure to get as much out of us in fines as they can. Will you come and see that they don’t cheat us more than can be helped?”

“Fines!” Mr. Paine looked grave. “I doubt if they have any right to deduct fines without your express permission.”

So he told them. That book-keeper had a pleasant time—the wretch! He made out that the princely sum of fifteen shillings was due to each of us; and off this, he wanted to dock me nine and six, and Emily five. Mr. Paine would not have it. He put things in such a way that the book-keeper referred to Mr. Slaughter. Mr. Slaughter actually sent back word to say that he was to give us our fifteen shillings and let us go. Then Mr. Paine handed in his card, and said that if we did not receive, within four and twenty hours, a quarter’s salary in lieu of notice, proceedings would be immediately commenced for the recovery of the same.

So, in a manner of speaking, Emily and I marched off with flying colours.

CHAPTER V.
THE MISSIONARY’S LETTER.

The question was, what was to become of us? With no friends one cannot live long on fifteen shillings. Even if we got fresh situations in a fortnight it would only be with management that the money could be made to last that time; and, if we did, then we should be more fortunate than I expected to be.

Mr. Paine, however, postponed the solution of the difficulty by suggesting that I should arrange nothing until I had had a talk with him. I was willing; though what he had to do with it was more than I could guess; unless, like they used to do in the fairy tales, he was all of a sudden going to turn out to be my fairy godpapa. One thing I insisted on, that Emily should come with me. So, after I had scribbled a note to Tom—“Dear Tom, Emily and I have got the sack. Meet me after closing time at the usual place. Yours, as ever, Pollie. P.S.—Hope you’re all right”—which Sanders, who was a good sort, promised to see he got—we all three got into a four-wheeled cab, with our boxes on top, and away we rattled.

“Good bye, Slaughter!” I said. “And may we never want to see your face again. And now, Mr. Paine, where are you taking us to?”

“To my offices in Mitre Court. What I have to say to you may take some time, and require a little explanation, and there we shall have the necessary privacy.”

It sounded mysterious, and I began to wonder more and more what he had to say. I daresay I should have put my wonder into words, only just at that moment, who should I see, peeping at us round the corner of the street which we were passing, but the man who paid our bill at Firandolo’s, and who said his name was Isaac Rudd. The sight of him gave me quite a shock.

“There’s Isaac Rudd!” I cried.

“Isaac—who?” asked Emily. She can be dull.

“Why, the man who paid the bill last night.”

Then she understood. Out went her head through the window.

“Where? I don’t see him.”

“No, and he’ll take care you won’t. Unless I’m mistaken, directly he knew I saw him he took himself away; but he’s got his eye upon us all the same.”

I looked at Emily, and she at me. Mr. Paine saw that something was up.

“Who was that you’re speaking of? Someone who has been annoying you?”

“No—nothing. Only there was something a little queer took place last night.”

I sat silent, thinking of Isaac Rudd; as, I daresay, was Emily too. Putting two and two together, it was odd that he should be just there at that particular moment. Especially as, a little farther on, I saw, standing in the shadow of a doorway, a man in a long black overcoat, with his hat crushed over his eyes, who bore the most amazing resemblance to the foreigner who had given me the something in a scrap of paper.

Suddenly I jumped up from my seat. I was so startled that I could not help but give a little scream. They both stared at me.

“What is wrong?” asked Mr. Paine.

“Why, look at that!”

There, sitting, as it were, bolt upright on my knee was the something which had been in the scrap of paper. Mr. Paine eyed it.

“What is it?”

“That’s what I should like to know; also where it’s come from; it wasn’t there a moment back, and that I’ll swear.”

“May I look at it?”

“Certainly; and throw it out of the window too, for all I care.”

Mr. Paine took it up. He turned it over and over.

“It looks like one of the images, representatives of well known deities, which are used as household gods on some of the Pacific coasts. People hang them over their beds, or over the thresholds of their doors, or anywhere. Imitations are sold in some of the London shops. Perhaps Messrs. Cardew & Slaughter keep them in stock.”

“That I am sure they don’t. And, if they do, that’s not out of their stock. That was given to me last night by a foreigner in yellow canvas cloth. It jumped out of the scrap of paper in which it was wrapped——”

“Jumped?”

“If it didn’t jump I don’t know what it did do; I can tell you it took me aback. Miss Ashton threw it on to the floor; yet, when I woke up this morning, it was on my forehead, though how it got there I know no more than the dead.”

“Are you in earnest, Pollie?”

“Dead earnest. It’s my belief I left it in the bedroom, though I might have put it in my pocket, but how it came on to my knee is just what I can’t say.”

Mr. Paine was dividing his attention between me and the thing.

“This is very interesting, Miss Blyth. Especially as I also have had a curious experience or two lately. Can you describe the person who gave it you?”

I described him, to the best of my ability.

“That is—odd.”

His tone seemed to suggest that something in my description had struck him; though what it was he did not explain.

“You’d better throw that thing out of the window,” I said. “I’ve had enough of it.”

“Thank you; but, if you have no use for it, if you do not mind, I should like to retain it in my own possession. It’s a curiosity, and—I’m interested in curiosities.”

He slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. I noticed that once or twice he felt with his fingers, as if to make sure that it still was there.

Mr. Paine was very civil to us when we reached his office—a funny, dark little place it was. He got out some cake, and biscuits, and a decanter of wine, and Emily and I helped ourselves, for I was starving. Sitting at a table in front of us, he took some papers out of a drawer, and began to look at them. Now that I could notice him more I could see that he was tall and well set up; quite the gentleman; with one of those clear-cut faces, and keen grey eyes, with not a hair upon it—I mean upon his face, of course, because I particularly observed that his teeth and eyelashes were perfect.

“Before I go into the subject on which I have ventured to bring you here, I am afraid I shall have to ask you one or two questions, Miss Blyth.”

His manner was just what it ought to have been, respectful, and yet not too distant.

“Any answers I can give you, Mr. Paine, you are welcome to.”

“What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Mary Ann Batters. She died six years ago next month, when I was fourteen. My father’s name was Augustus. He was a most superior person, although unfortunate in business; and though he died five years before my mother, I’ve heard her say, almost to her last hour, that she had married above her—which I believe she did.”

“Had your mother any relations?”

“None.”

“Think again.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, there was one; but about him least said soonest mended; although he was her brother—that is, until she cast him off.”

“What was his name?”

“Benjamin. Although I do not remember ever hearing her mention it, and, indeed, she was opposed to speaking of him at all; I learned it was so through finding some letters of his in one of her boxes after she was dead, and those letters I have unto this day.”

“That is fortunate; because it is as the representative of Mr. Benjamin Batters that I am here.”

“Indeed? You don’t mean to say so. This is a surprise.”

And not a pleasant one either. I had heard of Mr. Benjamin Batters, though not for years and years, but never had I heard anything to his credit. A regular all-round bad lot he must have been, up to all sorts of tricks, and worse than tricks. I had reason to believe he had been in prison more than once, perhaps more than twice. When you have a relation like that, and have forgotten all about him, and are thankful to have been able to do it, you do not like to have him come flying, all of a sudden, in your face. I was not obliged to Mr. Paine for mentioning his name. If that was all he had to talk about I was sorry I had come.

“I may take it, then, that Mr. Benjamin Batters is an uncle of yours.”

“In a manner of speaking. Although, considering my mother, his sister, cast him off, and that I myself never set eyes upon the man, it is only by a figure of speech that you can call him so.”

“Mr. Benjamin Batters, Miss Blyth, is dead.”

“Then that alters the case. And I can only hope that he died better than, I have been told, he lived.”

“I should mention that I myself never met Mr. Batters, nor do I, really, know anything at all about him. My connection with him is rather an odd one. A little more than a week ago I received this package.” He held out a bundle of papers. “Its contents rather surprised me. Among other things was this letter, which, with your permission, I will read to you. ‘Great Ka Island, lat. 5° South; long. 134° East’—that is the heading of the letter; the address at which it purports to have been written. A curious one, you will perceive it is. There actually is such an island. It lies some three hundred miles off the western coast of New Guinea, in the Arafura Sea; and that, practically, is all I have hitherto been able to learn about it. I have made inquiries, in the likeliest places, for someone who has ever been there, but I have not, as yet, been able to light on such a person. Ships, it appears, trade among the islands thereabouts. To the captain of one of those the letter may have been handed. He may have transferred it to the captain of an English vessel engaged in the Australian trade, who bore it with him to England, and then posted it to me; for that it was posted in London there is the postmark on the original package to witness. I am informed, however, that letters from those out-of-the-way corners of the world do reach England by circuitous routes, so that, in itself, there is nothing remarkable in that.

“There is a discrepancy, I am bound to add, which, considering what the letter purports to be, is a distinct misfortune—it is undated. But I will read it, and then you yourself will see my point.

“That was where mother lived when she was a girl,” I interposed.

Mr. Paine read on:

Mr. Paine ceased; he looked at us, and we at him.

“That’s a funny letter,” I remarked.

“Funny!” cried Emily. “Pollie, how can you say so? Why, it’s a romance.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Paine. His voice was a little dry. “It is, perhaps, because it is so like a romance that it seems—odd.”

I had a fancy that he had meant to use another word instead of “odd;” I wondered what it was.

“According to that letter my Uncle Benjamin must have changed a good deal before he died; I never heard of his being at peace with anyone. Mother used to say that he would fight his left hand against his right rather than not fight at all.”

“From what you have been telling us a marked alteration must have taken place in his character. But then, when people are dying, they are apt to change; to become quite different beings—especially in the eyes of those who are looking on.” Again there was that dryness in the speaker’s tone. I felt sure there was a twinkle in his eye. “You will see, Miss Blyth, that this letter is, to all intents and purposes, a certificate of your uncle’s death; you will understand, therefore, how unfortunate it is that it should be undated. We are, thus, in this position; that, although his death, and even his burial, are certified, we do not know when either event took place; except that, as it would appear from the context, he was buried on the same day on which he died—which, in such a climate, is not unlikely. Our only means of even remotely guessing at the period of his decease is by drawing deductions from the date of his will.”

“His will! You don’t mean to say that my uncle Benjamin left a will?”

“He did; and here it is.”

“I expect that that’s all he did leave.”

“You are mistaken; he left a good deal more.”

“To whom did he leave it?”

“It is to give you that very information, Miss Blyth, that I ventured to bring you here.”

I gasped. This was getting interesting. A cold shiver went down my back. I had never heard of a will in our family before, there having been no occasion for such a thing. And to think of Uncle Benjamin having been the first to start one! As the proverb says, you never can tell from a man’s beginning what his end will be—and you cannot.

Emily came a little closer, and she took my hand in hers, and she gave it a squeeze, and she said:

“Never mind, Pollie! bear up!”

I did not know what she meant, but it was very nice of her, though I had not the slightest intention of doing anything else. But, as my mother used to say, human sympathy is at all times precious. So I gave her squeeze for squeeze. And I wished that Tom was there.

CHAPTER VI.
SOLE RESIDUARY LEGATEE.

Mr. Paine unfolded a large sheet of blue paper.

“This is, it appears, the last will and testament of your late uncle, Benjamin Batters. It is, as, when you have heard it, I think you will yourself agree, a somewhat singular document. It came with the letter from Mr. Lennard which I have just now read you. It is, so far as I know, authentic; but it is my duty to inform you that the whole affair is more than a little irregular. This document seems to be a holograph—that is, I take it that it is in your uncle’s own writing. Do you recognise his handwriting?”

He gave me the paper. I glanced at it. Emily peeped over my shoulder.

“Well, I shouldn’t exactly like to go so far as that, but I have some letters of his, and, so far as I remember, the writing seems about the same. But you can see them if you like; then you will be able to compare it.”

“I should be very much obliged, Miss Blyth, if you would allow me to do so. A very important point would be gained if we could prove the writing. As matters stand at present I am in a position in which I am able to prove absolutely nothing. Mr. Batters was a stranger to me; he seems, also, to have been a stranger to you; I can find nobody who knew him. All we have to go upon is this letter from the other end of the world, from a person of whom no one knows anything, and which may or may not be genuine. Should another claimant arise we should be placed in a very awkward situation.”

“Is there going to be another claimant? And what is there to claim?”

“So far as I know there is going to be none; but in legal matters it is necessary to be prepared for every emergency. As to what there is to claim, I will tell you.”

I gave him back the blue paper. He began to read. Emily came closer. I could feel that she was all of a flutter.

Mr. Paine stopped.

“I may say that bonds producing that amount were enclosed in the package. Here they are.”

“Four Hundred and Eighty Eight Pounds Nineteen Shillings and Sixpence a year!” said Emily. “I congratulate you, Pollie!”

She kissed me, right in front of Mr. Paine. For my part, I felt a queer something steal all over me. My heart began to beat. To think of Uncle Benjamin, of all people in the world, leaving me such a fortune as that! And at the very moment when all my expectations in this world amounted to exactly fifteen shillings! There need be no more waiting for Tom and me. We would be married before the year was out, or I would know the reason why.

Mr. Paine went on.

“The will is by no means finished, ladies. The greater, and more remarkable part of it is to follow. When you have heard what it is I am not sure that Miss Blyth will consider herself entitled to congratulations only.”

What could he mean? Had the old rascal changed his mind in the middle of his own will?

“‘This money,’ Mr. Batters goes on to say, ‘was earned by hard labour, the sweat of my brow, and sufferings untold, so don’t let her go and frivol it away as if it was a case of lightly come and lightly go.’”

“If that’s true, Uncle Benjamin must have altered, because I’ve heard my mother say, over and over again, that he never could be induced to do an honest day’s work in all his life.”

“People sometimes do alter—as I have observed. ‘On condition, also, that she does as I tell her,’ continues Mr. Batters, ‘I bequeath to her the life tenancy of my house, 84, Camford Street, Westminster, together with the use of the furniture it contains.’”

“What!” interrupted Emily, “a house and furniture too. Why, Pollie, what else can you want?”

I wondered myself. But I was soon to know. Mr. Paine read on:

“That, Miss Blyth, is what purports to be your uncle’s will.”

“But,” I gasped, “what is that at the end about stopping in the house, and letting no one come in, and all the rest of it?”

“Those are the conditions on which you are to inherit. Before, however, touching on them I should like to point out in what respect the will seems to me to be most irregular. First of all, it is undated. There could hardly be a more serious flaw. There is nothing to show if it was made last week or fifty years ago. In the interim all sorts of things may have happened to render it null and void. Then a signature to a will requires two witnesses; this has none. Then the wording is extremely loose. For instance, should you fail to fulfil certain conditions, the property is to pass to the Society for Befriending Sailors. So far as I can learn there is no such society. Societies for befriending sailors there are in abundance, but there is not one of that exact name, and it would become a moot point which one of them the testator had in his mind’s eye.”

“All of which amounts to—what?”

“Well, it amounts to this. You can receive the money referred to, and live in the house in question, at your own risk, until someone comes forward with a better title. It will not need a very good title, I am sorry to say, Miss Blyth, to be better than that which is conferred on you by this document. I am not saying this by way of advice, but simply as a statement of the case as it appears to me.”

“What I want to know is, what’s the meaning of those conditions? I suppose, by the way, there is such a house.”

“There certainly is. Camford Street is an old, and not particularly reputable street, one end of which leads into the Westminster Bridge Road. No. 84 is in a terrace. From the exterior—which is as much as I have seen of it—it looks as if it had not been occupied for a considerable period of time. Indeed, according to the neighbours, no one has lived in it for, some say ten, others fifteen, and others twenty years.”

“That sounds nice,” cut in Emily. “If no one has lived in it for all that time I shouldn’t be surprised if it wanted a little cleaning.”

“Not at all improbable, from what it looks like outside. The shutters are up at the window—on that point, I may mention, a man who has a small chandler’s shop on the opposite side of the road, tells rather a singular story. He informed me that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, the last occupant of the house was a man named Robertson. He was an old man. Mr. Kennard, my informant, says that what became of him he does not know. He did not move; there was no attempt to let the place; he simply ceased to be seen about. Nor has a living soul been seen in the house for years. But, he says, some months ago, he is not sure how many, when he got up one morning to open his shop, on looking across the road he saw that all the windows inside were screened by shutters. He declares that not only were there no shutters there the night before, but dirty old blinds which were dropping to pieces, but that he never had seen shutters there before, and, indeed, he doubted if there were such things at any other house in the terrace. If his tale is true, it seems an odd one.”

“It sounds,” said Emily, “as if the house were haunted.”

“Without going so far as that, it does seem as if the shutters could hardly have got there of their own accord, and that someone must have been inside on that particular night, at any rate. No one, however, was seen, either then or since. There the shutters are, as one can perceive in spite of the accumulated grime which almost hides the windows. No one seems to know who the house belongs to, or ever did belong to; and I would observe that, since no title deeds were in the package, or any hint that such things were in existence, we have only Mr. Batters’ bare word that the property was his. I should hasten to add that there is a small parcel addressed to Miss Blyth, whose contents may throw light, not only on that matter, but on others also.”

He handed me a parcel done up in brown paper. It was addressed, in very bad writing, “To be given to my niece, Mary Blyth, and to be opened by her only.” I cut the string, and removed the wrapper. In it was a common white wood box. Emily leaned over my shoulder.

“Whatever is inside?” she asked.

The first thing I saw when I lifted the lid, gave me a start, and I own it—there, staring me in the face, was the own brother of the little painted thing which was in the packet which the foreigner had slipped between my fingers.

“Why,” I cried, “if there isn’t another!”

“Another!” Mr. Paine gave a jump. “That’s very odd.” He was fishing about in his waistcoat pocket. “I thought you gave me the one you had.”

“So I did. You put it in the pocket in which you’re feeling.”

“I thought I did. But—have you noticed me taking it out?”

“You’ve not taken it out, of that I’m sure.”

“But—I must have done. It’s gone.”

His face was a study. I hardly knew whether to laugh or not.

“It strikes me,” he remarked, “that someone is playing a trick on us; and, as I’m not over fond of tricks which I don’t understand, I’ll put an end to this little joke once and for all.”

There was a fire burning in the grate. Laying the box down on a chair, taking the little painted thing between his finger and thumb, off he marched towards the fireplace. As he was going, all of a sudden he gave a little jump, as I suppose, loosened his hold, and down the thing dropped on to the floor. He stood staring at his hand, and at the place where it had fallen, as if startled.

“Where’s it gone?” he asked.

“It must have rolled under the table.” This was Emily.

But it had not. We searched in every nook and cranny. It had vanished, as completely as if it had never been.

“This is a pretty state of affairs. If it goes on much longer we shall begin to take to seeing things. If the rest of the contents of the box are of the same pattern, you might have kept it, Mr. Paine, for all I care.”

But they were not. The next thing I took out was a key. It was a little one, and the queerest shape I ever saw. It was fastened to a steel chain; at one end of the chain was a padlock. Attached to the handle of the key was a kind of flying label; on it this was written:

“That’s cheerful reading,” I observed, when I had read the label to an end. I passed it to Mr. Paine.

“It is curious,” he admitted. “In which respect it’s of a piece with all the rest.”

When Emily read it her eyes and mouth opened as wide as they very well could do.

“I never!” she cried. “Isn’t it mysterious?”

“What shall I do?” I asked, when the chain and key had been returned to me.

Mr. Paine considered.

“You had better do as instructed—burn the label; that is, after we have taken a copy. There is nothing said against your doing that; and, if you have a copy, it will prevent your memory playing you false. As for the key itself—will it do you any harm to fasten it to your waist in the manner directed?”

“Except that it’s a bit too mysterious for my taste. Some folks like mysteries; I don’t.”

“My dear,” cut in Emily, “they’re the salt of life!”

“Then I don’t like salt. Perhaps it’s because I’m a plain person that I like plain things. Here’s more mystery.”

The only thing left in the box was an envelope. When I took it out I found that on it this was written:

I showed it to Mr. Paine, who was copying the label.

“What shall I do with that?”

“As you are told. Open it when you are in the house, and afterwards, if it is not expressly forbidden, you can, if you choose, communicate the contents to me.”

While he copied the label I went with Emily into an inner room, which turned out to be his bedroom; put the chain about my waist inside my bodice, and closed the padlock; and it was only when I had done so that I discovered that it had no key, so that how I was to open it, and get the chain off again, goodness only knew. Emily kept talking all the while.

“Pollie, isn’t it all just lovely? In spite of what you say, your Uncle Benjamin must have been a really remarkable man. It’s like a romance.”

“I wish my Uncle Benjamin hadn’t been such a remarkable man, then he might have left me the money and the house without the romance. Bother your romance, is what I say.”

“You’re a dear,” she affirmed, and she held up her hands—and very pretty hands they were. “But you have no soul.”

“If that’s what you call soul,” I answered, “I’m glad I haven’t.”

When we got back to Mr. Paine, I began at him again.

“Now let me clearly understand about those conditions. Do you mean to say that I’m to stop in the house all alone?”

“You may have a companion—who must be a woman.”

“I’ll be your companion! Do let me be your companion, Pollie!”

I looked at Emily, who stood in front of me with flushed cheeks and eager eyes; as pretty a picture as you could wish to see.

“Done!” We shook hands upon it. “I only hope you won’t have too much romance before you’ve been my companion long.”

“No fear of that! The more there is the more I’ll like it.”

I was not so certain. She spoke as if she were sure of herself. But, for my part, I felt that it remained to be seen. I went on:

“What was that about being in before nine?”

“You are never to sleep out of the house. You are always to be in it before nine at night, and never to leave it before nine in the morning.”

“That’s a nice condition, upon my word!” I turned to Emily. “What do you think of that? It’s worse than Cardew & Slaughter’s.”

“It does seem rather provoking. But”—there was a twinkle in her eye—“there may be ways of getting out of that?”

“What was that about no man being allowed in the house?”

“No man, under any circumstances, is to be allowed to cross the doorstep; nor, indeed, is anyone, except the lady you have chosen to be your companion.”

“But what about my Tom?”

“Your—Tom? Who is he?”

“Mr. Tom Cooper is the gentleman to whom I am engaged to be married.”

“I am afraid that, by the terms of the will, no exception is made even in his favour.”

I did not answer. But I told myself that we would see about that. If, as Emily hinted, there were ways of getting the better of one condition, it should not be my fault if means were not found to get the better of the other too.

Almost immediately afterwards we started for the house; all three of us again in the four-wheeler which had been waiting for us the whole of the time. I wondered who was going to pay the fare. It would make a hole in my fifteen shillings.

CHAPTER VII.
ENTERING INTO POSSESSION.

It was Mr. Paine who settled with the cabman. It had not struck me that we had been passing through an over-savoury neighbourhood; we drew up in front of a perfectly disreputable-looking house. Not that it was particularly small; there were three storeys; but it looked so dirty. And if there is one thing I cannot stand it is dirt. I could easily believe that no one had lived in it for twenty years; it was pretty plain that the windows had not been cleaned for quite as long as that.

“Well,” I declared as I got out of the cab, “of all the dirty-looking places I ever saw! If no one is to be allowed to set foot inside except Emily and me, who do you suppose is going to clean those windows?”

“That, I am afraid, is a matter which you must arrange with Miss Purvis; the will makes no exception in favour of window cleaners.”

“Then all I can say is that that’s a nice thing.” I turned to Emily. “This is going to turn out a pretty sort of romance—charwomen is what we shall have to commence by being.”

“I’m not afraid of a little work,” she laughed.

I looked at the door.

“That writing on the label said that we were not to go into the house when anyone was looking. How are we going to manage that? Are you and the cabman to turn your backs?”

“I don’t think that that is necessary; this shall be an exception. After you’ve opened the door we’ll hand the luggage to you when you’re inside.”

Mr. Paine and the cabman were not by any means the only two persons who were looking. Our stoppage in front of No. 84 had created quite a wave of interest. People were watching us at doors and through windows, and a small crowd of children had gathered round us in a circle on the pavement. As it was out of the question for us to wait till all eyes were off us, I straightaway disobeyed at least one of the directions which were on the label.

What looked like an ordinary opening for a latchkey was in its usual place on the right hand side of the door, but when I slipped my key into that it turned round and round without producing any visible effect whatever. So I examined the other side. There, sure enough, so high up as to be almost beyond my reach, was what looked like a small dab of green paint. When I pushed the key against it it gave way. The key went into the apparently solid wood-work right up to the handle. I gave it an upward jerk; the door was open. However neglected the windows were, that lock seemed to be in good condition.

The door had opened about an inch. We all stared at it as if something wonderful had happened. I confess that I was a little startled, because I had used so little force that it was a wonder to me how it had come open. The children, giving a sort of cheer, came crowding close round. Mr. Paine had to order them back. I pressed my hand against the door. As it swung upon its hinges a bell sounded somewhere in the house. It seemed to come from upstairs, with a shrill, metallic clanging.

“There might be someone in already, who wanted to have warning of anyone’s approach.”

This was Emily. She was staring into the passage as if she expected to see something strange.

“Come,” said Mr. Paine. “Let me help you in with the luggage; then I must leave you. People are taking a greater interest in the proceedings than is altogether desirable. You may find them a nuisance if you don’t look out.”

The crowd was being reinforced by children of an older growth. Loiterers were stopping to stare. People were coming out of their houses. As Mr. Paine said, their interest was becoming too demonstrative. He helped the cabman to get our boxes into the passage. Then he went. We shut the door after him in the faces of the crowd. Emily and I were left alone.

It was an odd sensation which I felt during those first few moments in which I realised that she and I were alone in my Uncle Benjamin’s old house. I was conscious of a foolish desire to call the crowd to keep us company. Emily Purvis was hardly the kind of girl I should myself have chosen to be my sole companion in a tight place; and I had a kind of feeling that before very long it might turn out that I was in a tight place now.

It had all come on me so suddenly. More things had happened in a few hours than in all my life before. Yesterday I had thought myself a fixture at Cardew & Slaughter’s; with marriage with Tom in the far-off distance; when the skies had fallen; or he had become a shopwalker and I a buyer; or we had saved up enough to start a small shop of our own. Now, Cardew & Slaughter’s had gone from me for ever. So far as money went I was free to marry Tom next week. But there was this horrid house—already I was calling it horrid—and my uncle’s absurd conditions. If I was to observe them during the rest of my life I might as well write myself a nun at once, and worse. Better Cardew & Slaughter’s—or anything.

We could hear the sound of traffic and voices in the street. Within the house all was still. There was no window over the door. In the passage it was so dark that it was as much as we could do to make out where we were. Emily put her hand upon my arm, as if she wished to make sure that I was close.

“It’s no good our stopping here,” I said. “We’d better light a candle and look about us. If the whole house is as light as this it must be a cheerful place to live in.”

Acting on Mr. Paine’s suggestion, as we had come along in the cab we had bought some candles and matches, and enough provisions to carry us on to to-morrow. Routing out a box, I struck a match. I gave Emily a candle and took one myself.

“Now to explore!”

We were brought to a standstill at the very start. In front of us was a door which led into a room opening out of the passage, or ought to have done. When I tried the handle I found that it was locked. I shook it, I even thumped at the panels, I searched for a key; it was no good. Against us the door was sealed.

“This is a comfortable beginning! If all the doors are locked it will be really nice. Perhaps Uncle Benjamin intended that I should merely have the run of the passage and the stairs.”

Such, however, fortunately or otherwise, was not the case. The room behind the one which was closed was the kitchen; that was open, and a delightful state it was in. Not only was it inches thick in dust, but it was in a state of astonishing confusion. Pots and pans were everywhere. The last person who had used that kitchen to cook a meal in had apparently simply let the utensils drop from her hand when she had done with them, and left them lying where they fell. There was a saucepan here, a frying-pan there, a baking tin in the corner. Another thing we soon became conscious of—that the place was alive with cockroaches.

“What is it we are stepping on?” asked Emily.

“Why, it’s beetles.”

She picked up her skirts, she gave a scream, and back she scurried into the passage. I am not fond of the creatures; I never met anyone who was; but I am not afraid of them, and I was not going to let them drive me out of my own kitchen.

“There’s one thing wanted, and that’s light and fresh air. Only let me get those shutters down, and the window open, and then we’ll see. I should say from the smell of the place that there has never been any proper ventilation since the house was built.”

But it was easier said than done. Those shutters would not come down. How to begin to get them down was more than I could understand. To my astonishment, when I rapped them with my knuckles, they rang.

“I do believe,” I said, “they’re made of iron—they’re a metal of some kind. They seem to have been built into the solid wall, as if they had never intended them to be moved. No wonder the place smells like a vault, and beetles, and other nice things, flourish, if they’re fixtures.”

A scullery led out of the kitchen. It was in the same state. One crunched blackbeetles at every step. There was a shutter before the window, which had evidently never been meant to be taken down. Where, apparently, there had been a door leading into a backyard or something, was a sheet of solid metal. No one was going to get out that way in a hurry; or in either.

“But what can be the meaning of it all?” I cried. “There must be an object in all this display of plate armour, or whatever it is. The place is fortified as if it were meant to stand a siege. I shall begin to wonder if there isn’t a treasure hidden somewhere in the house; a great store of gold and precious stones, and that Uncle Benjamin made up his mind that at any rate thieves should not break through and steal.”

“Oh, Pollie, do you think there is? Perhaps it’s in the next room—perhaps that’s why the door is locked.”

“Perhaps so; and perhaps the key’s upstairs, waiting for us to come and find it. Anyhow we’ll go and see.”

When I rejoined Emily it struck me that she was not looking quite so happy as she might have done; as if the romance was not taking altogether the shape she either expected or desired. I led the way upstairs. There was a carpet on them; but by the illumination afforded by a guttering candle, it only needed a glance to see that, if you once took it up, you would probably never be able to put it down again—it would fall to pieces. We had hardly gone up half-a-dozen steps when there came a clitter-clatter from above. Emily, who was behind, caught me by the skirt.

“Pollie! Stop! Whatever’s that? There’s someone there!”

“Rats, most likely. In a house like this there are sure to be all sorts of agreeable things. Where there aren’t blackbeetles there are rats; and where there’s either there’s probably both.”

Rats it was. Before we had mounted another tread two or three came flying down, brushing against our skirts as they passed. You should have heard Emily scream.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You talk about liking romance, and you make all that fuss because of a rat or two.”

“It isn’t exactly that I’m afraid of them, but—they startled me so. I daresay I shan’t mind them when I’ve got used to them, only—I’ve got to get used to them first.”

She was likely to have every opportunity. Presently two or three more came down. They seemed to be in a hurry. One, which was not looking where it was going, struck itself against my foot, and squeaked. Emily squealed too. When we reached the landing we could hear them scampering in all directions.

On that floor there were three rooms and a cupboard. The cupboard was empty. So was one of the rooms; that is, so far as furniture was concerned. But it was plain where, at any rate, some of the rats were. When I went into the room I stepped on a loose board. As it gave way beneath my tread I never heard such an extraordinary noise as came from under it. Apparently a legion of rats had their habitations underneath that flooring. I half expected them to rush out and make for us. I was out of the room quicker than I went in, and took care to close the door behind me. Emily had turned as white as a sheet.

“I can’t stop in this place—I can’t.”

I was scornful.

“I thought you couldn’t. You’ll remember I told you that you wouldn’t be my companion long. I knew that was the sort you were.”

“It isn’t fair of you to talk like that—it isn’t. I don’t mind ordinary things—and I’ll not leave you, you know I won’t. But all those rats! Did you hear them?”

“I heard them, and they’ll hear me before long. There’s going to be a wholesale slaughter of rats, and blackbeetles. There’ll soon be a clearance when they’ve sampled some of the stuff I know of. I’m not going to be driven out of my own house by trifles.”

One of the other rooms was a bedroom, a sort of skeleton of one. There was some carpet on the floor, or what had been carpet. There was an iron bedstead, on which were the remains of what might have been a mattress. But there were no signs of sheets or blankets; I wondered if the rats had eaten them.

After what we had seen of the rest of the house, the third room, which was in front, was a surprise. It was a parlour; not the remnants of one, but an actual parlour. There was what seemed to be a pretty good carpet on the floor. There was a round table, with a tapestry cover. There were two easy chairs, four small ones, a couch. On the sideboard were plates and dishes, cups and saucers. On the stove, which was a small kitchener, was a kettle, two saucepans, and a frying pan, all of them in decent order. Although the usual shutters screened the window, the place was clean, comparatively speaking. And when I went to a cupboard which was in one corner, I found that in it there were coals and wood.

“It is not twenty years since this room was occupied, there’s that much certain; nor, from the look of it, should I say it was twenty hours. I should say there had been a fire in that stove this very day, and there’s water in the kettle now.”

“What’s this?”

Emily was holding out something which she had picked up from the floor. It was a woman’s bracelet, a gold bangle; though I had never seen one like it before. It was made of plain, flat gold, very narrow, twisted round and round; there was so much of it that, when it was in its place, it must have wound round the wearer’s arm, like a sort of serpent, from the wrist to the elbow. At one end of it was something, the very sight of which gave me quite a qualm.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BACK-DOOR KEY.

“Look!” I said. “Look!”

“Look at what? What’s the matter with you, Pollie? Why are you glaring at me like that?”

“Don’t you see what’s at the end of it?”

She turned the bangle over.

“It isn’t pretty, but—it’s some sort of ornament, I suppose.”

“It’s that thing which was in the scrap of paper, or its double.”

“Pollie! Are you sure?”

“Certain. I’ll back myself to know that wherever it turns up.”

Taking the bracelet from her I eyed it closely. There was no mistaking the likeness; to one end was attached the very double of that painted little horror. Emily criticised it as she leant over my shoulder.

“It looks as if it were meant for a man who mostly runs to head. And what a head it is! Look at his beard, it reaches to what may be meant for feet. And his hair, it stands out from his scalp like bristles.”

“Don’t forget his eyes, how they shine. They must be painted with luminous paint, or whatever they call the stuff, which lights up in the dark. The other night they gleamed so I thought the creature was alive. And his teeth—talk about dentist’s advertisements! I believe it’s meant for one of those heathen gods who are supposed to live on babies, and that kind of thing. He looks the character to the life. But fancy your picking it up from the floor! That’s not lain there twenty years. There’s not a speck of rust upon it. It’s as bright as if it had just come off somebody’s arm.”

“Pollie, do you think there’s anybody in the house besides we two?”

“My dear, I haven’t the faintest notion; you can use your senses as well as I can, and are quite as capable of putting two and two together. One fact’s obvious, it’s not long since somebody was in this room. But we’ve the rest of the house to see; I can tell you more when we’ve seen it. Come, let’s go upstairs.”

Putting the bracelet on the table, I left the room. Emily seemed reluctant to follow. I fancy that if she had had her way she would have postponed the remainder of our voyage to later on—a good deal later on. And, on the whole, I hardly wondered, because, directly we began to go upstairs, such a noise came from above, and, indeed, from everywhere, that you would have thought the whole place was alive; and so it was—with rats. I had heard of the extraordinary noises the creatures could make, but I had never realised their capacity till then. Emily stood trembling on the bottom step.

“I daren’t go up, I daren’t.”

“Very well, then; stop where you are. I dare, and will.”

Off I started; and, as I expected, directly I moved, she rushed after me.

“Oh, Pollie, don’t leave me, don’t. I’d sooner do anything than have you leave me.”

On that top floor there were again three rooms. And again, one of them was empty. It was a sort of attic, at the back. So far as I could make out it had no window at all; it was papered over if it had one. But talk of rats! It was a larger room than the one below, and seemed to be still more crowded. We could not only hear them, we could see them. There they were, blinking at the candlelight out of the floor and walls, and even ceiling. It was a cheerful prospect. I had heard of rats, when they had got rid of everything else, eating human beings. We two could do nothing against these multitudes; I felt sure that the mere fright of being attacked would be enough to kill Emily. I said nothing to her, but I thought of it all the same.

The door next to the attic was fastened. Whether it was locked or not I could not make out. It felt as solid as if it never had been opened, and had been never meant to open. When I struck it with my knuckles, it returned no sound. That it was something else besides a mere wooden door was obvious.

“Another treasure room!” I laughed.

But Emily did not seem pleased.

“I don’t like these locked-up rooms. What is there on the other side?”

“I thought you were so fond of mystery.”

“Not mystery like this.” She lowered her voice. “For all we know there may be people inside, who, while we can’t get at them, can get at us whenever they choose.”

I laughed again; though conscious there was sense in what she said.

“Let’s go and look at the other room and see if that’s locked up too.”

But the door of that yielded at a touch. It, also, had had occupants less than twenty years ago—a good deal less. It was furnished as a bedroom. There was a chest of drawers, a washstand, toilet-table, chairs, and a bed. On the latter the bedding was in disorder; sheets, blankets, pillows tumbled anyhow, as if somebody, getting out of it in a hurry, had had no time to put it straight. There was a lamp upon the toilet table, the blackened chimney of which showed it had been smoking; even yet the smell of a smoky lamp was in the air. The drawers were all wide open. One, which had been pulled right out, was turned upside down upon the floor, as if the quickest way had been chosen to clear it of its contents.

“It looks,” said Emily, standing in the doorway, looking round her with doubtful eyes, and speaking as if she were saying something which ought to have been left unspoken, “as if someone had just got out of bed.”

Throwing the bedclothes back, I laid my hand against the sheets. It might have been my imagination, but they seemed warm, as if, since someone had been between them, they had not had time to cool. Not wishing to make her more nervous than she was already, I hardly knew how to answer her; more especially as I myself did not feel particularly comfortable. If, as appearances suggested, somebody had been inside that bed, say, within the last half-hour, who could it have been? and what had become of him or her, or them? Crossing to the dressing-table, I touched the lamp-glass. It was hot, positively hot. I could have sworn that it had been burning within the last ten minutes or quarter of an hour. That was proof positive that someone had been there—lamps do not burn unless somebody lights them, and they do not go out unless somebody puts them out. Who could it have been? The discovery—and the mystery!—so took me aback that it was all I could do to keep myself from screaming. But, as Emily was nearly off her head already, and I did not want to send her off it quite, I just managed to keep my feelings under. All the same, I did not like the aspect of things at all.

To stop her from noticing too much, I tried my best to keep on talking.

“This is our bedroom, I suppose. How do you like the look of it? Not over cheerful, is it?”

“Cheerful?” I could see she shuddered. “Does any light ever get into the room?”

Where the window ought to have been were the usual massive and immovable shutters.

“The person who put up those shutters wasn’t fond of either light or air. But you wait, I’ll have them down, I like plenty of both. You heard Mr. Paine’s story about the shutters having made their appearance in a night? If they did, then there was witchcraft used, or I’m a Dutchman. It took weeks, if not months, to get them there. If the walls have to be pulled to pieces I’ll have them moved. Give me a week or two and you won’t know the place. I’ll turn it inside out and upside down. Because Uncle Benjamin had his ideas of what a house ought to be like, dark as pitch, and alive with rats, not to name blackbeetles, it doesn’t follow that his ideas are mine, so I’ll show him.”

“We can’t do all that, you and I alone together.”

“Catch me trying! Before we’re many hours older I’ll have an army of workmen turned into the house.”

“What about the conditions? No one is to be allowed to enter except us two, especially no man.”

“Bother the conditions! Do you think I mind them? Uncle Benjamin must have been stark staring mad to think that I would. If I’m only to live in such a place as this on such terms as those, then I’ll live out of it—that’s all. By the way, where’s the envelope which was in that box? I took it out of my dress pocket. ‘This envelope is for Mary Blyth, and is not to be opened by her till she is inside 84, Camford Street.’ Well, now Mary Blyth is inside 84, Camford Street—a nice, sweet, clean, airy place she’s found it! So I suppose that now she may open the envelope. Let’s hope that the contents are calculated to liven you up, because I feel as if I wanted something a little chirrupy.”

Inside was a sheet of blue writing paper. It was not over clean, being creased, and thumb-marked, and blotted too. On it was a letter, written by somebody who was not much used to a pen. I recognised Uncle Benjamin’s hand in a moment, especially because I remembered how, in his letters to mother, which I had in my box, the lines kept getting more and more slanting, until the last was screwed away in a corner, because there was no room for it anywhere else. And here was just the same thing. He began straight enough, right across the page, but, long before he had reached the bottom, he was in the same old mess.

“I need no ghost to tell me that this is from my venerated uncle. I remember his beautiful neatness. Look at that, my dear, did you ever see anything like those lines for straightness?”

I held up the page for Emily to see. She actually smiled, for the first time since she had been inside that house.

“Now let’s see what the dear old creature says. Do hope it’s something comforting. What’s this?” I began to read out aloud.

“‘Dear Niece,—Now that you are once inside the house, you will never sleep out of it again.’ Shan’t I? We shall see. Nice prospect, upon my word. ‘You may think you will, but you won’t. The spell is on you. It will grow in power. Each night it will draw you back. At your peril do not struggle against it. Or may God have mercy on your soul.’ This is—this is better and better. My dear, Uncle Benjamin must have been very mad. ‘You are surrounded by enemies.’ Am I? I wasn’t till I had your fortune. I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t have been better off without it. ‘Out of the house you are at their mercy. They watch you night and day. When you are out, they are ever at your heels. Sooner or later they will have you. Then again may God have mercy on your soul. But in the house you are safe. I have seen to that. Do not be afraid of anything you may see or hear. There is That within these walls which holds you in the hollow of Its hand.’ That last line, my dear, is in italics. It strikes me that not only was Uncle Bennie mad, but that writing novels ought to have been his trade. As you are so fond of saying, this is something like a romance; and I wish it wasn’t. Emily, what’s the matter with you now?”

She had come to me with a sudden rush, gripping my arm with both her hands—I doubt if she knew how hard. I could see that she was all of a tremble.

“I—I thought I heard someone downstairs.”

“Not a doubt of it—rats.”

“It—it wasn’t rats. It sounded like footsteps in the room beneath.”

“When I’ve finished uncle’s letter we’ll investigate; but I think you’ll find it was rats—they’ve got footsteps. Let me see, where was I? Oh, yes—‘Its hand. Go out as little as you can.’ To be sure. I’m not fond of going out—especially with such a house as this to stop in. ‘Be always back before nine. It is then the hour of your greatest peril begins. Should you ever be out after nine—which the gods forbid—let no one see you enter. They will be watching for you in the front. Go to Rosemary Street at the back. Between thirteen and fourteen there is a passage. At the end there is a wall. Climb it. There are two stanchions one above the other on the right. They will help you. Drop into the yard. Go to the backdoor. You will see a spot of light shining at you. Put the key in there. Turn three times to the left. The door will open. Enter and close quickly lest your enemies be upon you. If they enter with you may God have mercy on your soul. From your affectionate uncle, Benjamin Batters. P.S.—You will find the back door key on the parlour table.’ Shall I? That’s story number one at any rate. I haven’t found any back door key on the parlour table, and I never saw one there. Did you?”

“There—wasn’t one—I noticed—there was nothing on the table—when you put that bangle down.”

I wished Emily would not speak in that stammering way, as if there was a full stop between each word or two. But I knew it was not the slightest use my saying so just then; that was how she felt.

“Of course. I did leave that bangle on the table, didn’t I? That’s one thing which we’ve found in uncle’s dear old house which seems worth having; and one thing’s something. Let’s go and have another look at it.”

Down the stairs again we went; Emily sticking close to my side as if she would rather have suffered anything than have let me get a yard away from her. One of the pleasantest features of my new possession seemed to be that every time we moved from one room to another about a hundred thousand rats got flurried; it sounded like a hundred thousand by the din they made. And Emily did not like them scurrying up and down the stairs when she was on them; nor, so far as that went, did I either.

When we reached the parlour, I made a dart at the table.

“Why, where’s that bangle? I put it down just there, I remember most distinctly. Emily, it’s gone! Whatever’s this? I do believe—it’s that back-door key!”

It was, at any rate, a key; and bore a family likeness to the one which was attached to the chain which was about my waist. I stared, scarcely able to credit the evidence of my own senses. Between our going from that room and our returning to it a miracle had happened; a transformation had taken place; a bangle—and such a bangle! had become a key. Apparently the back-door key of Uncle Benjamin’s “P.S.!”