CHAPTER VI ABELL CARRIES OUT HIS ERRAND
When Ralph Ravenspur reached the basement, his whole aspect had changed. For the next day or two he brooded about the house, mainly with his own thoughts for company. He was ubiquitous. His silent, cat-like tread carried him noiselessly everywhere. He seemed to be looking for something with those sightless eyes of his; those long fingers were crooked as if about the throat of the great mystery.
He came into the library where Rupert Ravenspur and Marion were talking earnestly. He dropped in upon them as if he had fallen from the clouds. Marion started and laughed.
"I declare you frighten me," she said. "You are like a shadow—the shadow of one's conscience."
"There can be no shadow on yours," Ralph replied. "You are too pure and good for that. Never, never will you have cause to fear me."
"All the same, I wish you were less like a cat," Ravenspur exclaimed petulantly, as Marion walked smilingly away. "Anybody would imagine that you were part of the family mystery. Ralph, do you know anything?"
"I am blind," Ralph replied doggedly. "Of what use is a blind man?"
"I don't know; they say that when one sense is lost the others are sharpened. And you came home so mysteriously, you arrived at a critical moment for me, you were at my door at the time when help was sorely needed. Again, when you burst my door open you did the only thing that could have saved me."
"Common sense, sir. You were stifling and I gave you air."
Ravenspur shook his head. He was by no means satisfied.
"It was the common sense that is based upon practical experience. And you prowl about in dark corners; you wander about the house in the dead of the night. You hint at a strange past, but as to that past you are dumb. For Heaven's sake, if you know anything tell me. The suspense is maddening."
"I know nothing and I am blind," Ralph repeated. "As to my past, that is between me and my Maker. I dare not speak of it. Let me go my own way and do not interfere with me. And whatever you do or say, tell nobody—nobody, mind—that you suspect me of knowledge of the family trouble."
Ralph turned away abruptly and refused to say more. He passed from the castle across the park slowly, but with the confidence of a man who is assured of every step. The recollection of his boyhood's days stood him in good stead. He could not see, but he knew where he was and even the grim cliffs held no terrors for him.
He came at length to a certain spot where he paused. It was here years ago that he had scaled the cliffs at the peril of his neck and found the raven's nest. He caught the perfume of the heather and the crushed fragrance of the wild thyme, but their scents were as nothing to his nostrils.
For he had caught another scent that had brought him up all standing with his head in the air. The odor was almost exhausted; there was merely a faint suspicion of it, but at the same time it spoke to Ralph as plainly as words.
He was standing near the hollow where Geoffrey had been two days ago. In his mind's eye Ralph could see into this hollow. Years before he had been used to lie there winter evenings when the brent and ducks were coming in from the sea. He scrambled down, sure-footed as a goat.
Then he proceeded to grope upon the grass with those long restless fingers. He picked up a charred stick or two, smelt it, and shook his head. Presently his hand closed upon the burnt fragments of a gourd. As Ralph raised this to his nostrils his eyes gleamed.
"I was certain of it," he muttered. "Two of the Bonzes have been here, and they have been making the pi. If I could only see!"
As yet he had not heard of Geoffrey's singular discovery. There had been no favorable opportunity of disclosing the secret.
Ralph retraced his steps moodily. For the present he was helpless. He had come across the clue to the enigma, but only he knew of the tremendous difficulties and dangers to be encountered before the heart of the mystery could be revealed. He felt cast down and discouraged. There was bitterness in his heart for those who had deprived him of his precious sight.
"Oh, if I could only see!" he cried. "A week or month to look from one eye into another, to strip off the mask and lay the black soul bare. And yet if the one only guessed what I know, my life would not be worth an hour's purchase! And if those people at the castle only knew that the powers of hell—living, raging hell—were arrayed against them! But they would not believe."
An impotent sigh escaped the speaker. Just for the moment his resolution had failed him. It was some time before he became conscious of the fact that some one was dogging his footsteps.
"Do you want to see me?" he demanded.
There was no reply for a moment. Abell came up cautiously. He looked around him, but so far as he could see he and Ravenspur were alone. As he caught sight of the latter's face he had no ground for further doubt.
"I did want to see you and see you alone, sir," Abell replied. "I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Ralph Ravenspur?"
"The same, sir," Ralph said coldly. "You are a stranger to me."
"A stranger who brings a message from a friend. I was to see you alone and for two days I have been waiting for this opportunity. My employer asks me to deliver this box into your hands."
At the same time Abell passed the little brass case into Ralph's hand. As his fingers closed upon it a great light swept over his face; a hoarse shout came from lips that turned from red to blue, and then to white and red again. So Tchigorsky had behaved when he discovered that this man still lived.
"Who gave you this, and what is your message?" Ravenspur panted.
"The message," said Abell, "was merely this. I was to give you the box and say: 'Tchigorsky—Danger,' and walk away, unless you detained me."
"Then my friend Tchigorsky is alive?"
"Yes, sir; it is my privilege to be his private secretary."
"A wonderful man," Ralph cried; "perhaps the most wonderful man in Europe. And to think that he is alive! If an angel had come down from heaven and asked me to crave a boon, I should have asked to have Tchigorsky in the flesh before me. You have given me new heart of grace; you are like water in a dry land. This is the happiest day I have known since——"
The speaker paused and mumbled something incoherent. But the stolid expression had gone from his scarred face, and a strange, triumphant happiness reigned in its stead. He seemed years younger, his step had grown more elastic; there was a fresh, broad ring in his voice.
"Tchigorsky will desire to see me," he said. "Indeed, it is absolutely essential that we should meet and that without delay. A time of danger lies before us—danger that the mere mortal does not dream of. Take this to Tchigorsky and be careful of it."
He drew from a chain inside his vest a small case, almost identical to the one that Abell had just handed to him, save that it was silver, while the other was brass. On it were the same queer signs and symbols.
"That will convince my friend that the puzzle is intact," he continued. "We hold the key to the enigma—nay, the key to the past and future. But all this is so much Greek to you. I will come and see my friend on Friday; but not in the guise of Ralph Ravenspur."
"What am I to understand by that, sir?" Abell asked.
"It matters nothing what you understand," Ralph cried. "Tchigorsky will know. Tell him 7:15 at Euston on Friday, not in the guise of Ravenspur or Tchigorsky. He will read between the lines. Go and be seen with me no more."
Ralph strode off with his head in the air. His blood was singing in his ears; his pulse was leaping with a new life.
"At last," he murmured; "after all these years for myself and my kin! At last!"
CHAPTER VII MORE LIGHT
There was a curious, eager flush on Ralph Ravenspur's face. He rose from his seat and paced the room restlessly. Those long fingers were incessantly clutching at something vague and unseen. And, at the same time, he was following the story that Geoffrey had to tell with the deepest attention.
"What does it mean, uncle?" the young man asked at length.
"I cannot tell you," Ralph replied. His tones were hard and cold. "There are certain things no mortal can understand unless——; but I must not go into that. It may be that you have touched the fringe of the mystery——"
"I am certain that we are on the verge of a discovery!" Geoffrey cried eagerly. "I am sure that stuff those strangers were making was the same as the drug or whatever it was that came so near to making an end of my grandfather. If I knew what to do!"
"Nothing—do nothing, as you hope for the future!"
The words came hissing from Ralph's lips. He felt his way across to Geoffrey and laid a grip on his arm that seemed to cut like a knife.
"Forget it!" he whispered. "Fight down the recollection of the whole thing; do nothing based upon your discovery. I cannot say more, but I am going to give you advice worth much gold. Promise me that you will forget this matter; that you will not mention it to a soul. Promise!"
Geoffrey promised, somewhat puzzled and dazed. Did Ralph know everything, or was he as ignorant as the rest?
"I will do what you like," said Geoffrey. "But it is very hard. Can't you tell me a little more? I am brave and strong."
"Courage and strength have nothing to do with it. A nation could do nothing in this case. I am going to London to-day."
"You are going to London alone?"
"Why not? I came here from the other side of the world alone. I have to see a doctor about my eyes. No, there is no hope that I can ever recover my sight again; but it is possible to allay the pain they give me."
Ralph departed. A dogcart deposited him at Biston Junction, and then the servant saw him safely into the London train. But presently Ralph alighted and a porter guided him to a cab. A little later and the blind man was knocking at the door of a cottage in the poorer portion of the town.
A short, stocky man, with a seafaring air, opened the door.
"Is it you, Elphick?" Ralph asked.
The short man with the resolute face and keen, gray eyes exclaimed with pleasure:
"So you've got back at last, sir. Come in, sir. I am alone here as you know. I knew you'd want me before long."
Ralph Ravenspur felt his way to a chair. James Elphick stood watching him with something more than pleasure in his eyes.
"We have no time to spare," Ralph exclaimed. "We must be in London to-night, James. I am going up to see Dr. Tchigorsky."
"Dr. Tchigorsky!" Elphick exclaimed. "Didn't I always say as how he'd get through? The man who'd get the best of him ain't born yet. But it means danger, sir. Nothing we ever carried out with the doctor was anything else."
"Danger you do not dream of," Ralph said impressively. "But I cannot discuss this with you, James. You are coming with me to London. Get the disguise out and let me see if your hand still retains its cunning."
Apparently it had, for an hour later there walked from the cottage toward the station an elderly, stout man, with white hair and beard and whiskers. His eyes were guarded by tinted glasses; the complexion of the face was singularly clear and ruddy. All trace of those cruel criss-cross lines had gone. Wherever Elphick had learned his art, he had not failed to learn it thoroughly.
"It's perfect; though I say it as shouldn't," he remarked. "It's no use, sir; you can't get on without me. If I'd gone with you to Lassa, all that horrible torture business would never have happened."
Ralph Ravenspur smiled cautiously. The stiff dressing on his face made a smile difficult in any case.
"At all events, I shall want you now," he said.
It was nearly seven when the express tram reached Euston. Ralph stood on the great bustling, echoing, platform as if waiting for something. An exclamation from Elphick attracted his attention.
"There's the doctor as large as life!" he said.
"Tchigorsky!" Ralph cried. "Surely not in his natural guise. Oh, this is reckless folly! Does he court defeat at the outset of our enterprise?"
Tchigorsky bustled up. For some reason or other he chose to appear in his natural guise. Not till they were in the cab did Ravenspur venture to expostulate.
"Much learning has made you mad," he said bitterly.
"Not a bit of it," the Russian responded. "Unfortunately for me the priests of Lassa have discovered that I am deeply versed in their secrets. Not that they believe for a moment that Tchigorsky and the Russian who walked the valley of the Red Death are one and the same. They deem me to be the recipient of that unhappy man's early discoveries. But your identity remains a secret. The cleverest eyes in the world could never penetrate your disguise."
"It comforts me to hear that," Ralph replied. "Everything depends upon my identity being concealed. Once it is discovered, every Ravenspur is doomed. But I cannot understand why you escape recognition at the hands of the foe."
A bitter smile came over Tchigorsky's face.
"Can you not?" he said. "If you had your eyes you would understand. Man, I have been actually in the company of those who flung me into the valley of the Red Death and they have not known me. After that I stood in the presence of my own mother, and she asked who I was.
"The marks on my face? Well, there are plenty of explorers who have been victims to the wire helmet and have never dreamt of entering Lassa. I am a broken, decrepit wreck, I who was once so proud of my inches. The horrors of that one day have changed me beyond recognition. But you know."
Ralph shuddered from head to foot. A cold moisture stood on his forehead.
"Don't," he whispered. "Don't speak of it. When the recollection comes over me I have to hold on to my senses as a shipwrecked sailor clings to a plank. Never mind the past—the future has peril and danger enough. You know why I am here?"
"To save your house from the curse upon it. To bring the East and West together, and tell of the vilest conspiracy the world has ever seen. Do you know who the guilty creature is, whose hand is actually striking the blow?"
"I think so; in fact I am sure of it. But who would believe my accusation?"
"Who, indeed! But we shall be in a position to prove our case, now that the secrets of the prison-house lie before us. We have three to fear."
"Yes, yes," said Ralph. "The two Bonzes—who have actually been seen near Ravenspur—and the Princess Zara. Could she recognize me?"
Ralph asked the question in almost passionate entreaty.
"I am certain she could not," Tchigorsky replied. "Come, victory shall be ours yet. Here we are at my house at last. By the way, you must have a name. You shall be my cousin Nicholas Tchigorsky, a clever savant, who, by reason of a deplorable accident, has become both blind and dumb. Allons."
CHAPTER VIII A MASTER OF FENCE
Lady Mallowbloom's reception rooms were more than usually crowded. And every other man or woman in the glittering salon was a celebrity. There was a strong sprinkling of the aristocracy to leaven the lump; here and there the flash of red cloth and gold could be seen.
In his quiet, masterly style Tchigorsky pushed his way up the stairs. Ralph Ravenspur followed, his hand upon the Russian's arm. He could feel the swish of satin draperies go by him; he caught the perfume on the warm air.
"Why do you drag me here?" he grumbled. "I can see nothing; it only bewilders me. I should have been far happier in your study."
"You mope too much," Tchigorsky said gaily. "To mingle with one's fellows is good at times. I know so many people who are here to-night."
"And I know nobody; add to which circumstances compel me to be dumb. Place me in some secluded spot with my back to the wall, and then enjoy yourself for an hour. I dare say I shall manage to kill the time."
There were many celebrities in the brilliantly-lighted room, and Tchigorsky indicated a few. A popular lady novelist passed on the arm of a poet on her way to the buffet.
"A wonderful woman," the fair authoress was saying. "Eastern and full of mystery, you know. Did you notice the eyes of the Princess?"
"Who could fail to?" was the reply. "They say that she is quite five and forty, and yet she would easily pass for eighteen, but for her knowledge of the world. Your Eastern Princess is one of the most fascinating women I have even seen."
Others passed, and had the same theme. Ralph stirred to a faint curiosity.
"Who is the new marvel?" he asked.
"I don't know," Tchigorsky admitted. "The last new lion, I suppose. Some pretty Begum or the wife of some Oriental whose dark eyes appear to have fired society. By the crowd of people coming this way I presume the dusky beauty is among them. If so, she has an excellent knowledge of English."
A clear, sweet voice arose. At the first sound of it, Ralph jumped to his feet and clutched at his throat as if something choked him. He shook with a great agitation; a nameless fear had him in a close grip.
"Do you recognize the voice?" Ralph gasped.
The Russian was not unmoved. But his agitation was quickly suppressed. He forced Ralph down in his seat again.
"You will have to behave better than that if you are to be a trusty ally of mine," he said. "Come, that is better! Sit still; she is coming this way."
"I'm all right now," Ralph replied. "The shock of finding myself in the presence of Princess Zara was overpowering. Have no fear for me."
A tall woman, magnificently dressed, was making her way towards Tchigorsky. Her face was the hue of old ivory, and as fine; her great lustrous eyes gleamed brightly; a mass of hair was piled high on a daintily poised head. The woman might have been extremely young so far as the touch of time was concerned, but the easy self-possession told another tale.
The red lips tightened for an instant, a strange gleam came into the dark magnetic eyes as they fell upon Tchigorsky. Then the Indian Princess advanced with a smile, and held out her hand to the Russian.
"So you are still here!" she said.
There was the suggestion of a challenge in her tones. Her eyes met those of Tchigorsky as the eyes of two swordsmen might meet. There was a tigerish playfulness underlying the words, a call-note of significant warning.
"I still take the liberty of existing," said Tchigorsky.
"You are a brave man, doctor. Your friend here?"
"Is my cousin Nicholas Tchigorsky? The poor fellow is blind and dumb, as the result of a terrible accident. Best not to notice him."
The Princess shrugged her beautiful shoulders as she dropped gracefully into a seat.
"I heard you were in London," she said, "and something told me that we should meet sooner or later. You are still interested in occult matters?"
Again Ralph detected the note of warning in the speech. He could see nothing of the expression on that perfect face; but he could judge it fairly well.
"I am more interested in occult matters than ever," Tchigorsky said gravely, "especially in certain discoveries placed in my hands by a traveler in Tibet."
"I am more interested in occult matters than ever," Tchigorsky said gravely, "especially in certain discoveries placed in my hands by a traveler in Thibet.—Page 43."
"Ah, that was your fellow-countryman. He died, you know!"
"He was murdered in the vilest manner. But before the end, he managed to convey important information to me."
"Useless information unless you had the key."
"There was one traveler who found the key, you remember?"
"True, doctor. He also, I fancy, met with an accident that, unfortunately, resulted in his death."
Ralph shuddered slightly. Princess Zara's tones were hard as steel. If she had spoken openly and callously of this man being murdered, she could not have expressed the same thing more plainly. A beautiful woman, a fascinating one; but a woman with no heart and no feeling where her hatreds were concerned.
"It is just possible I have the key," said Tchigorsky.
The eyes of the Princess blazed for a moment. Then she smiled.
"Dare you use it?" she asked. "If you dare, then all the secrets of heaven and hell are yours. For four thousand years the priests of the temple at Lassa and the heads of my family have solved the future. You know what we can do. We are all powerful for evil. We can strike down our foes by means unknown to your boasted Western science. They are all the same to us, proud potentate, ex-meddling doctor."
There was a menace in the last words. Tchigorsky smiled:
"The meddling doctor has already had personal experience," he said. "I carry the marks of my suffering to the grave. I remember how your peasants treated me and this does not tend to relax my efforts."
"And yet you might die at any moment. If you persist in your studies you will have to die. The eyes of Western men must not look upon the secrets of the priests of Lassa and live. Be warned, Dr. Tchigorsky, be warned in time. You are brave and clever, and as such command respect. If you know everything and proclaim it to the world——"
"Civilization will come as one man, and no stone in Lassa shall stand on another. Your priests will be butchered like wild beasts; an infernal plague spot will be wiped off the face of the outraged earth!"
The Princess caught her breath swiftly. Just for one moment there was murder in her eyes. She held her fan as if it were a dagger ready for the Russian's heart.
"Why should you do this thing?" she asked.
"Because your knowledge is diabolical," Tchigorsky replied. "In the first place, all who are in the secret can commit murder with impunity. As the Anglo-Saxon pushes on to the four corners of the earth that knowledge must become public property. I am going to stop that if I can."
"And if you die in the meantime? You are bold to rashness. And yet there are many things that you do not know."
"The longer I live, the more glaring my ignorance becomes. I do not know whence you derive your perfect mastery of the English tongue. But I do know that I am going to see this business through."
"Man proposes, but the arm of the priests is long."
"Ah, I understand. I may die to-night. I should not mind. Still, let us argue the matter out. Say that I have already solved the problem. I write a detailed account of the whole weird business. I write twenty detailed statements; I enclose the key in each. These statements I address to a score of the leading savants in Europe.
"Then I place them in, say, a safe deposit until my death. I write to each of those wise men a letter with an enclosure not to be opened till I die. That enclosure contains a key to my safe, and presently in that safe all those savants find a packet addressed to themselves. In a week all Europe would ring with my wonderful discoveries. Think of the outcry, the wrath, the indignation!"
The Princess smiled. She could appreciate a stratagem like this. With dull, stolid and averted face, Ralph Ravenspur listened and wondered. He heard the laugh that came from the lips of the Princess; he detected the vexation underlying it. Tchigorsky was a foeman worthy of her steel.
"That you propose to do?" she asked.
"A question you will pardon me for not answering," said Tchigorsky. "You have made your move and I have made mine. Whether I am going to do the thing, or whether I have done so, remains to be seen. Whether you dare risk my death now is a matter for you to decide. Check to your king."
Again the Princess smiled. She looked searchingly into Tchigorsky's face, as if she would fain read his very soul. But she saw nothing there but the dull eyes of a man who keeps his feelings behind a mask. Then, with a flirt of her fan and a more or less mocking curtsey, she turned to go.
"You are a fine antagonist," she said; "but I do not admit yet that you are a check to my king. I shall find a way. Good-night!"
She turned and plunged into the glittering crowd, and was seen no more. A strange fit of trembling came over Ravenspur as Tchigorsky led him out.
"That woman stifles me," he said. "If she had only guessed who had been seated so near to her! Tchigorsky, you played your cards well."
Tchigorsky smiled.
"I was glad of that opportunity," he said. "She meant to have me murdered; but she will hesitate for a time. We have one great advantage—we know what we have to face and she does not. The men are on the board, the cards are on the table. It is you and I against Princess Zara and the two priests of the temple of Lassa. And we play for the lives of a good and innocent family."
"We do," Ralph said grimly. "But why—why does this fascinating Asiatic come all those miles to destroy one by one a race that she can scarcely have heard of? Why does she do it, Tchigorsky?"
"You have not guessed who the Princess is, then?"
Tchigorsky bent down and whispered three words in Ralph's ear. And not until Brant Street was reached had Ralph come back from his amazement to the land of speech.
CHAPTER IX APRIL DAYS
The terror never lifted now from the old house. There were days and weeks when nothing happened, but the garrison did not permit itself to believe that the unseen enemy had abandoned the unequal contest.
The old people were prepared for the end which they believed to be inevitable. A settled melancholy was upon them, and it was only when they were together that anything like a sense of security prevailed. For the moment they were safe—there was always safety in numbers.
But when they parted for the night they parted as comrades on the eve of a bloody battle. They might meet again, but the chances were strong against it. For themselves they cared nothing; for the younger people, everything.
It was fortunate that the fine constitutions and strong nerves of Geoffrey and Vera and Marion kept them going. A really imaginative man or woman would have been driven mad by the awful suspense. But Geoffrey was bright and sunny; he always felt that the truth would come to light some day. And his buoyant, sanguine nature reacted on the others.
Nearly a month had elapsed since the weird attempt on the life of Rupert Ravenspur; four weeks since Geoffrey's strange experience on the cliffs; and nothing had happened. The family had lapsed once more into their ordinary mode of living; blind Ralph was back again, feeling his way about the castle as usual, silent, moody, in the habit of gliding in upon people as a snake comes through the grass.
Ralph came into breakfast, creeping to his chair without touching anything, dropping into it as if he had fallen from the clouds. Marion, next to him, shuddered. They were quite good friends, these two, but Marion was slightly afraid of her uncle. His secret ways repelled her; he had a way of talking with his sightless eyes upturned; he seemed to understand the unspoken thoughts of others.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
Marion laughed. None of the others had come down yet.
"What should be the matter?" she replied.
"Well, you shuddered. You should be sorry for me, my dear. Some of these days I mean to tell you the story of my life. Oh, yes, it will be a story—what a story! And you will never forget it as long as you live."
There was something uncanny in the words—a veiled threat, the suggestion of one who had waited for a full revenge, with the knowledge that the time would come. Yet the scarred face was without expression; the eyes were vacant.
"Won't you tell me now?" Marion asked softly. "I am so sorry for you?"
The sweet, thrilling sympathy would have moved a stone, but it had no effect upon Ralph. He merely caressed Marion's slim fingers and smiled. It was significant of his extraordinary power that he found Marion's hand without feeling for it. He was given to touch those slim fingers. And yet he never allowed Marion to kiss him.
"All in good time," he said; "but not yet, not yet."
Before Marion could reply, Mrs. Gordon Ravenspur came into the room. Marion seemed to divine more than see that something had happened. She jumped to her feet and crossed the room.
"Dear aunt," she said quickly. "What is it?"
"Vera," Mrs. Gordon replied. "She called me into her room just now saying she was feeling far from well. I had hardly got into her room before she fainted. I have never known Vera do such a thing before."
Ralph was sitting and drumming his fingers on the table as if the subject had not the slightest interest for him. But, with the swiftness of lightning, a strange, hard, cunning expression flashed across his face and was gone. When Marion turned to him he had vanished also. It almost seemed as if he had the gift of fernseed.
"A mere passing weakness," Marion said soothingly.
"I should like to think so," Mrs. Gordon replied. "In normal circumstances I should think so. But not now; not now, Marion."
Marion sighed deeply. There were times when even she was oppressed.
"I'll go and see Vera," she said. "I am sure there is no cause for alarm."
Marion slipped rapidly away up the stone stairs and along the echoing corridor toward Vera's room. She was smiling now, and she kissed her hand to the dead and gone Ravenspurs frowning upon her from the walls. Then she burst gaily into Vera's room.
"My dear child," she cried, "you really must not alarm us by——"
She paused suddenly. Vera, fully dressed, was seated in a chair, whilst Ralph was by her side. He seemed more alive than usual; he had been saying something to Vera that had brought the color to her face. As Marion entered he grew grave and self-contained; like a snail retreating into its shell, Marion thought. He sat down and tattooed with his fingers on the dressing-table.
"I had no idea you had company," Marion smiled.
"I intruded," Ralph said gravely. There was a sardonic inflection in his voice. "Yet I flatter myself that Vera is the better for my attention."
Marion looked swiftly from one to the other. She was puzzled. Almost flawless as she was, she had her minor weaknesses, or she had been less charming than he was, and she hated to be puzzled. Vera was no longer pale and all signs of languor had departed, yet she looked confused and there was the trace of a blush on her cheeks.
"Sometimes I fancy that Uncle Ralph is laughing at us all," she said, with a laugh that was not altogether natural. "But I am all right now, dear Marion. Save for a racking headache, I am myself again."
Marion, solicitous for others always, flew for her smelling salts. In three strides Ralph was across the floor, and had closed the door behind her. His manner had instantly changed; he was full of energy and action.
"Take this," he whispered. "Take it and the cure will be complete. Crush it up between your teeth and drink a glass of water afterwards."
He forced a small white pellet between Vera's teeth; he heard her teeth crushing it. With his peculiar gift for finding things, he crossed over to the washstand and returned with a glass of water.
"You are better?" he asked, as Vera gulped the water down.
"Oh, yes, uncle; are you a wizard or what? My headache seems to have lifted from me as one takes off a hat. The stuff you gave me——"
"Say no more about it; think no more about it. But whenever the same feeling comes over you again let me know at once. And you are not to mention this to anybody."
"But my mother and Geoffrey and——"
"Ah, you love Geoffrey? But there is no need to ask you the question. You want to rid the house of its nameless terror; you want to be free, to marry Geoffrey and be happy. Dear child, all these things will come if you listen to me. I swear it. And now will you promise me that you will say nothing of this to a soul?"
"Dear uncle, I promise."
Ralph had grown cold and moody again. When Marion returned with her salts he slipped out of the room as callously as if he were not in the least interested And while many anxious eyes followed Vera at breakfast time, Ralph alone was indifferent, brutally indifferent, Marion thought.
"Are you thinking of the same thing that we are?" she asked.
"No," Ralph said shortly. "I was thinking what poor bacon this is."
CHAPTER X A LITTLE SUNSHINE
After luncheon, Geoffrey was leaning over the stone balustrade of the terrace waiting for Vera. Beyond a slight restlessness and extra brilliancy of the eye she was better. She had proposed a ramble along the cliffs and Geoffrey had assented eagerly.
His anxiety was fading away like the ashes of his cigarette. At first he had been inclined to imagine that Vera's indisposition had been a move on the part of the unseen foe. But he put this idea from him as illogical. The enemy was not in the habit of using the gloved hand like this. He struck down fiercely and remorselessly.
"No," Geoffrey murmured aloud; "Vera could not have been spared!"
A gentle hand was laid upon his arm. Marion stood beside him. They were alone at that angle of the terrace and unseen from the house.
"You are right," said Marion. "Don't worry about that any more."
Geoffrey nodded approvingly. He slipped his arm round Marion's waist and kissed her in a brotherly fashion. Marion inclined toward him with half-closed eyes and a brightened color. Her limbs trembled; the pressure of her lips was warm and sweet.
"Dear little sister," Geoffrey murmured. "What should we do without you?"
Marion drew herself away abruptly. She rested her clasped hands over the stone balcony so that Geoffrey should not see their unsteadiness; her flushed face was half averted. It was a taking, a perfect picture.
"What would Vera say?" she asked.
"As if Vera would mind! Don't we all love you the same? And how many times has Vera seen me kiss you? If there were no Vera, little sister, then you may be sure that I should have kissed you in a different way!"
Marion laughed at the easy impertinence. That Geoffrey had no real love or passion for anybody but Vera she knew perfectly well. She laughed again, but there was nothing spontaneous in it; indeed, anybody but a youthful egotist in love could have detected a certain jarring note of pain.
"Here is Vera," said Geoffrey. "Let us ask her."
They put it to her merrily. They might have been in a world beyond all sorrow or suffering. The music of their fresh young voices floated in the air. Then Marion bent over the balustrade and watched the lovers out of sight. Her face grew hard; a veil of heavy years seemed to have fallen over it.
"If he only knew!" she said; "if he only knew! Why are clever people often so foolish? And why do they commit follies with their eyes wide open? Well, it doesn't matter, for you will never know, dear Geoffrey, how passionately and devotedly I love you. And you never, never know when temptation and inclination and opportunity go together. And I don't believe that anybody could resist temptation if he or she were certain not to be found out!"
"I am perfectly sure they wouldn't."
Marion turned with a stifled cry on her lips. Ralph Ravenspur was behind her. The expression on his face was wooden and emotionless.
"I hope you have not been listening to me," she said reproachfully.
"I have been watching you, or rather feeling your presence for some time." Ralph admitted. "I have been here since those young people went away. But you said nothing; at least nothing I heard until that bit of worldly wisdom dropped from your lips."
"It was an unworthy thought, Uncle Ralph."
"It might be unworthy of you, my dear, but I fancy it is true. Even the very best of people give way to temptation. Put it away from you; don't dwell upon your temptation, or it may get you into trouble."
"My temptation! Do you mean to say you know what it is?"
"I do," said Ralph. "You are deeply in love with your cousin Geoffrey. There is wild blood in your veins, and that blood will out unless you keep your feelings well under control. Ah, you may stare and look dismayed, which I am sure you are doing although I cannot see you. Yes, there is always the temptation to pray that the family foe might remove Vera from your path."
A piteous cry came from Marion's lips. Who was this man who knew so much and could probe her secret soul? Yet he was blind; he could not see. Was it possible that some such horrible thoughts had crossed Marion's mind? Atrocious thoughts will come to the best of us unasked for, unsought.
"Oh, you are cruel!" she said.
"Perhaps I am," Ralph admitted. "You see, I live in a dark world of my own and I have small belief in the virtues of my fellow-creatures. But you are an angel and I have amused myself by searing your wings."
"Is that because you think my secret is a shameful one?"
"Not in the least. Who can help the wayward driftings of a woman's heart? And, anyway, your secret is safe with me."
He felt for Marion's fingers and put them to his lips. Before the girl could reply he had drifted away, apparently feeling his way into space. And for a long time Marion stood there gazing out to sea.
Meanwhile the lovers had forgotten everything but the beauty of the day, and that the world was for themselves alone. The sun shone for them, for them the blue sea thundered in white battalions against the cliffs; for them the lark poured out its song at the gate of heaven, and the heather bloomed on moor and headland.
They strolled along until they came to a favored spot where the gorse flowered in yellow fires, and the crushed wild thyme was pungent under their feet. Here Geoffrey threw himself on the turf and Vera reclined by his side.
He could touch her hands and toy with the little ripples of her hair. To watch the play of those pretty features and look back the love he saw in those great starry eyes was a thing without alloy.
"Ah, me, if we could always be like this!" Vera said.
"You and I would be happy in any circumstances," said Geoffrey thoughtfully. "Only I should like to see something of the world."
"What, go away and leave me all alone, dearest?"
Geoffrey smiled at this innocent coquetry. He touched the smooth satin cheek caressingly. Vera only wanted him to disclaim any such intention and he knew it, too. There was no deception about the matter, but they were none the less happy for that.
"Of course not," Geoffrey declared. "I should take you with me wherever I went. If we could only get the bar removed I should like to travel. I should like to see men and cities, and measure my strength with my fellows. I should like to go into Parliament. Ah, if we could only get the bar removed!"
"If we only could," Vera sighed. "But I can't imagine that they will touch us. We are so young and so innocent of wrong-doing. And yet this morning——"
Vera paused, half afraid of betraying Ralph Ravenspur's confidence.
"Only this morning you were a bit afraid. Confess it."
"I was, Geoff. I felt strange when I awoke in the night. I felt cold and like death when I awoke to-day, and then I fainted."
"But you are all right now, darling," Geoff said anxiously.
"Yes, dear, I never felt better. Still, it was a strange thing altogether. I was well when I went to bed, but in the night I had a curious dream. It seemed to me that I was lying half asleep with a singular pricking sensation of my lips and face. And then an angel came down and laid some white powder on my pillow, a white powder that looked like a mixture of salt and powdered glass. Almost immediately the pain ceased and I slept again. Then I awoke finally and had that fainting fit. Don't you think it was a queer thing?"
"Yes, but what had the dream and the powder to do with it, little girl?"
"I was coming to that, Geoff. After I got better I remembered my dream and looked at the pillow. You smile, thinking that only a woman would do that. Sure enough there was some trace of gritty powder there, and I collected it in a tissue paper. Directly I got it to the light half of it melted; it seemed to dissolve in light like water. And here it is."
Vera produced a tiny packet from her pocket and opened it. There were several grains of some sharp powder there which, as Geoffrey held them in his hand, dissolved to nothingness. His face was very pale.
"Darling, this is a dreadful thing," he murmured. "I fancy——"
He paused, fearful of alarming Vera. He saw the hand of fate in this; he saw the sword that was hanging over that beloved young life.
A passion of anger and despair filled him, but for Vera's sake he checked the feeling. And it seemed to him as if he had passed in a minute down a decade of years; as if in that brief space he had left his boyhood behind and become a man.
"This must be looked into," he said sternly. "Every precaution——"
"Has been taken," Vera said quietly. "We have a protector among us, dearest. One who is worth all the precautions put together. Do not fear for me and do not ask me any questions, because I must not answer them. But I am safe."
Geoffrey nodded. The cloud slowly lifted from his forehead. Vera was speaking of her uncle Ralph and there was no reason to ask any questions. Was it possible, Geoffrey wondered, that Ralph Ravenspur had gone to the heart of the mystery, that it was wrapped up in his life, and that he had come home to solve it?
But of this he said nothing. He resolved to render every assistance. This vile thing was the work of earthly hands and earthly ingenuity could solve it. Never was there cipher invented that was incapable of solution.
Geoffrey drew Vera to his side and kissed her passionately. For a little time she lay in his arms in absolute content. Her smiling eyes were clear, her features placid. In any case she feared no unseen danger. There must be some great sheltering power behind her, or she had never looked so sweet and placid as that.
"I could not do without you, darling," Geoffrey said.
"And you are not going to do without me," Vera smiled. "There is much yet to be done, but it is going to be accomplished, dearest. Something tells me that the hour of our freedom is at hand. And something also tells me, Geoff, that you are going to have a great deal to do with it."
They came back at length up the slope leading to the castle. And there Ralph came upon them in his own noiseless, mysterious fashion. He clung to them until Vera had entered the house and then led Geoffrey to the terrace.
"There is nobody within earshot of us?" he demanded.
Geoffrey assured him that there was not. He was impressed with the earnestness of his uncle's manner. He had never seen him so moved before.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"Much," was the whispered reply. "If you are bold and resolute."
"I am, I am. I would lay down my life as the martyrs of old did to solve the mystery."
"Ah," Ralph said, in a dry, croaking whisper. "I felt sure I could trust you. There is a great danger and it is near. In that danger I want a pair of eyes. Lend me yours."
"Dear uncle, I will do anything you please."
"Good. I like the ring in your voice. At half-past eleven to-night I will come to your room. There I will confide in you. Till then, absolute silence."
CHAPTER XI ANOTHER STROKE IN THE DARKNESS
Contrary to the usual custom, there was almost a marked cheerfulness at Ravenspur the same evening. The dread seemed to have lifted slightly, though nobody could say why, even if they cared to analyze, which they certainly did not. And all this because it had seemed to the doomed race that Vera was marked down for destruction, and that the tragedy, the pitiful tragedy, had been averted.
It is hardly possible to imagine a state of mind like this. And Vera half divined the reason for this gentle gaiety. She might have told them differently had she chosen to do so, but for many reasons she refrained.
She did not even tell her mother. Why draw the veil aside when even a few hours' peace stood between them and the terror which sooner or later must sap the reason of every one there? Besides, Uncle Ralph had pledged her to the utmost secrecy.
For once Rupert Ravenspur had abandoned his stony air. He sat at the head of the long table in the dining-room, where the lamplight streamed upon fruit and flowers and crystal, upon priceless china, and silver from the finest workshops in the world.
Grinling Gibbons and Inigo Jones had toiled in that dining-hall as a labor of love; a famous master had painted the loves of the angels on the roof. Between the oak panels were paintings by Van Dyck, Cuyp and the rest of them. And over the floor servants in livery moved swiftly. Rupert Ravenspur might have been a monarch entertaining some of his favored subjects.
It was almost impossible to believe that a great sorrow could be brooding here. There was everything that the heart of the most luxurious could demand. Strangers might have looked on and envied. But the stately old man who called all this his own would gladly have changed lots with the humblest hind on the estate.
Now and then Rupert came out of his reverie and smiled. But his tenderest smile and his warmest word were for Vera, who he had placed on his right hand. Now and again he stroked her hair or touched her fingers gently. Marion watched the scene with a tender smile on her lips.
Only Ralph Ravenspur was silent. He sat with his sightless eyes fixed on space; he seemed to be listening intently, listening to something far away that could be heard by his ears alone. Geoffrey touched him.
"A penny for your thoughts, uncle," he said.
"They are worth nothing," Ralph replied. "And if I sold them to you for a penny you would give all Ravenspur Castle and your coming fortune to be rid of them."
He croaked this out in a fierce whisper. There was a ring of pain in his voice, that pain which is the suffering of the soul rather than the body. Yet he did not relax his rigid listening attitude. He might have been waiting for the unseen foe.
The conversation proceeded fitfully, sometimes almost lively, anon lapsing into silence. It was hard for these people to speak. They had no interests outside the castle; they found it impossible to follow social or political life. Daily papers arrived, but it was seldom that they were looked into.
The dinner came to an end at length, and then the family circle drew round the fire. Ravenspur was one of those big cold places where fires are always needed. Mrs. Gordon rose and walked to the door. Her husband's eyes followed her. These two were gray and old before their time, but the flame of love still burned bright and clear.
"You will not be long, dear," Gordon Ravenspur said. A somewhat sentimental remark in the ordinary way, but not in this place where the parting of a minute might mean parting for all time. Mrs. Gordon smiled back upon her husband.
"I am going to bed," she said. "Never mind me. I feel sleepy."
Gordon Ravenspur nodded sympathetically. He knew what his wife meant as if she had put her thoughts into words. She had been terribly upset over Vera and now that the danger was past a heavy reaction set in.
"Why should we sit here like this?" Geoffrey exclaimed. "Vera and Marion, I'll play you two a game at billiards. Come along."
Marion smilingly declined. She touched the back of Ravenspur's wasted hand.
"I am going to stay here just for a few minutes and take care of grandfather," she said; "then I will go to bed. Give Vera twenty in a hundred, and I will bet you a pair of gloves that she beats you easily."
The young people went off together and in the excitement of the game other things were forgotten. Vera played well and Geoffrey had all his work cut out to beat her. Finally Vera ran out with a succession of brilliant flukes.
"Well, of all the luck!" Geoffrey cried. "Let's play another game, but after that exhibition of yours I must have a cigarette. Wait a moment."
The cigarettes were not in their accustomed place. Geoffrey ran up the stairs to his bedroom. He passed along the dusky corridor on his return. In the gallery all was dark and still, save for something that sounded like two figures in muffling velvet robes dancing together. It seemed to Geoffrey that he could actually hear them breathing after their exertions.
With a quickening of his heart he stopped to listen. Surely somebody buried under many thick folds of cloth was calling for assistance.
"Who is there?" Geoffrey called. "Where are you?"
"Just under the Lely portrait," came a stifled response. "If you don't——"
The voice ceased. In that instant Geoffrey had recognized it as Aunt Gordon's voice.
Heedless of danger to himself he raced down the corridor, his thin evening pumps making little or no noise on the polished floor. Nor had Geoffrey lived here all these years for nothing. He could have found the spot indicated blindfolded.
He could see nothing, but he could hear the struggle going on; then he caught the flash of something that looked like a blue diamond. It must have been attached to a hand, but no hand was to be seen. Geoffrey caught at nothingness and grasped something warm and palpitating. He had the mysterious assailant in his grip; perhaps he held the whole mystery here. He heard footsteps pattering along the corridor as Mrs. Gordon ran for assistance. He called out to her and she answered him.
She was safe. There was no doubt about that. No longer was there any need for caution on Geoffrey's part. His fingers closed on a thin scraggy throat from which the flesh seemed to hang like strips of dried leather. At the same time the throat was cold and clammy and slippery as if with some horrible slime. It was almost impossible to keep a grip on it. Moreover, the mysterious visitor, if slight, was possessed of marvelous agility and vitality.
But Geoffrey fought on with the tenacity of one who plays for a great end. He closed in again and bore the foe backwards. He had him at last. If he could only hold on till assistance came, the dread secret might be unfolded.
Then the figure took something from his pocket; the air was filled with a pungent, sickly sweet odor, and Geoffrey felt his strength going from him. He was powerless to move a limb. One of those greasy hands gripped his throat.
In a vague, intangible way Geoffrey knew that that overpowering blinding odor was the same stuff that had come so near to ending the head of the family. If he breathed it much longer, his own end was come.
He made one other futile struggle and heard approaching footsteps; he caught the gleaming circle of a knife blade swiftly uplifted, and his antagonist gave a whimper of pain as a frightened animal might do. The grip relaxed and Geoffrey staggered to the floor.
"That was a narrow escape," a hoarse voice said.
"Uncle Ralph!" Geoffrey panted. "How did you get here? And where has the fellow gone?"
"I was close at hand," Ralph said coolly. "A minute or two sooner and I might have saved Gordon's wife, instead of your doing it. See, is there blood on this knife?"
He handed a box of matches to Geoffrey. The long, carved Malay blade was dripping with crimson. But there were no signs of it on the floor.
"Let us follow him," Geoffrey cried eagerly. "He can't be far away!"
But Ralph did not move. His face was expressionless once more. He did not appear to be in the least interested or excited.
"It is useless," he said, in his dull mechanical tones. "For in this matter you are as blind as I am. There are things beyond your comprehension. I am going down to see what is happening below."
He began to feel his way to the staircase, Geoffrey following.
"Are we never going to do anything?" the younger man exclaimed passionately.
"Yes, yes. Patience, lad! The day of reckoning is coming as sure as I stand before you. But to follow your late antagonist is futile. You might as well try to beat the wind that carries away your hat on a stormy day."
Mrs. Gordon sat in the dining-hall, pale, ashen, and trembling from head to foot. It seemed as if an ague had fallen upon her. Every now and then a short hysterical laugh escaped her lips, more horrible and more impressive than any outbreak of fear or passion.
And yet there was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; they could only look at her with moist eyes and a yearning sympathy that was beyond all words.
"It will pass," Mrs. Gordon said faintly. "We all have our trials; and mine are no worse than the rest. Gordon, take me to bed."
She passed up the stairs leaning on the arm of her husband. Time was when these things demanded vivid explanations. They were too significant now. Ralph crept fumblingly over the floor till he stood by Marion's side. He touched her hand; he seemed to know where to find it. The hand was wet. Ralph touched her cheek.
"You are crying," he said, gently for him.
"Yes," Marion admitted, softly. "Oh, if I could only do anything to help. If you only knew how my heart goes out to these poor people!"
"And yet it may be your turn next, Marion. But I hope not—I hope not. We could not lose the only sunshine in the house!"
Marion choked down a sob. When she turned to Ralph again he was far off feeling his way along the room—feeling, feeling always for the clue to the secret.