The room that fell to the lot of George Prentiss was a huge one, square, high ceilinged and hung with rich but faded tapestries. The furniture was dark and massive; a great four poster bed of mahogany, with a spreading canopy over it, stood near the door.
There was a wide fireplace, the clean-swept hearth of which showed no indication of a fire having been lighted in it for some time.
When George had bidden the others good-night he closed the door and placed his candle upon the table. The light danced grotesquely upon the walls, dimly illuminating the quaint figures upon the tapestry and the old paintings that hung here and there. The young man drew the curtains at the windows so that the flare of the lightning would not disturb him; there were other candles upon the mantel and having a curiosity to better view his apartment, he kindled a pair of these and placed them where they would do the most good.
The tapestry proved to be an ancient French one, and depicted the deeds of Charles Martel; the portraits were partly of New Amsterdam Dutchmen and with a good sprinkling of English.
“Ancestors,” mused George as he gazed at these. “I can see the features of my host in most of them.” His eyes paused upon a large painting at the far end of the apartment; it was so somber, the shadows played so upon it, that he took up a candle and went nearer. Holding the light so that he could view the picture to better advantage, he saw the name “Dirk Van Camp” upon the heavy frame.
“A burgomaster of the old Dutch days,” said George to himself. “And a stern, dogged sort of a fellow he must have been, judging by his face.”
The furnishings of the tapestried room were mostly of European make; Dutch tables and chairs; English sofas and stands; and near to the fireplace stood a tall French mirror that swung in its frame. George sat down in a heavy chair before this and began removing his cravat; his back was turned to that end of the apartment where hung the portrait of Burgomaster Van Camp, and the light of the candle which George had left upon a stand near the picture threw the determined, joyless face into good relief.
“Good shelter and a four poster bed are not to be treated lightly on a night like this,” the young New Englander told himself, as he threw the cravat upon a table. Then he removed his short sword and the pistol which he had kept buttoned under his coat while in the drawing-room; after this he began tugging at one of his riding boots.
It was while he was so engaged, for the boot was stubborn, that he caught the reflection of the burgomaster’s portrait in the mirror. The chair in which George sat hid the greater part of the picture; but the face was plain, and it was as though it was peering over his shoulder.
“Now, there is a grim old curmudgeon for you,” smiled the youth. “I’ll venture to say he never laughed in his life save when he had driven a hard bargain, or gotten the better of some one in another fashion.”
He threw the boot down on the hearth and before he drew off the other, sat gazing into the mirror at the portrait. Suddenly the smile left his face and he started a little. The eyes of old Dirk Van Camp were small and black and deeply-set under heavy brows; George had noticed them especially a few minutes before, while examining the picture; and now as he looked into the glass, he saw them glint in a marvelously lifelike manner.
For an instant it was in his mind to turn and stare at the portrait; but like a flash he regained control of himself, and sat motionless, gazing into the mirror. Some few minutes passed in this way; but he could now detect nothing out of the ordinary. True, the eyes had an unusually lifelike appearance; but that may have been due to the skill of the artist, or, perhaps, it was the unsteady light of the candles. He lay back in the chair in the lounging posture of one entirely at ease; but never for an instant did his apparently careless glance leave the pictured eyes. At length he muttered:
“It’s the lights; their flickering gave the appearance of movement; and the varnish upon the canvas is the cause of the really lifelike sparkle.”
THE HAND PAUSED
He was about to give the matter up and proceed with his preparations for retiring when a thought struck him. With the utmost naturalness he stretched out his hand toward the table, and while so doing, his eyes remained fixed upon the pictured ones in the mirror. With a thrill he saw these latter follow the hand; beyond the shadow of a doubt they turned slowly and keenly; and when the hand paused and clutched the pistol butt, there was a change in their expression—and their steadiness wavered.
Calmly George drew the pistol toward him and made a pretense of examining the lock; all the time his heart was bumping in a tumult; strange thoughts filled his brain.
“The eyes of the portrait are removable,” he told himself. “There is a door or a panel behind it, and some one is stationed there watching me.”
He sat for a short space nonplussed; and all the time he saw the eyes fixed upon him. The situation was an odd one; he did not know how to meet it.
“It’s a Tory house,” were George’s thoughts, “and there may be those hidden within its walls of whom I know nothing.” An idea flashed upon him that made him start. “And yet I might know considerable of them,” he added; “and I might be suspected of knowing even more than I do.”
This latter idea rapidly took definite form in his mind. As likely as not Herbert Camp was hidden in the house—perhaps without his uncle’s knowledge.
“But his sister is aware of it,” was the young man’s further thought, “and who knows,” bitterly, “but that she still fancies me in pursuit of him.”
With this his mind was made up; he put the pistol down upon the table, and then pulled off the other boot. After this he stood up, and divested himself of coat and waistcoat; he put out two of the candles, permitting that near the picture of the burgomaster to remain burning. Drawing a tall leather screen up to the four poster he spread it out and then with a wide yawn went behind it as though to complete his disrobing.
Now, as before said, the bed stood near the door, and when George spread the screen, he hid the door from the view of the peering eyes behind the portrait. So instead of going on with his preparations for bed, the young man softly opened the door, and all unarmed as he was, stepped out into the hall.
This latter was dark and still, and step by step he made his way along, being careful not to knock against anything that might be in his way. He had not gone many feet when he saw that the door of the apartment next his own stood partly open; it was only a trifle and but a trickle of light showed itself. He approached the door softly. It was in this apartment that the spy would be hidden, for the portrait was backed against the wall that divided it from his own. He had all but gained the door when there came a sharp exclamation and the stir of feet upon the other side of it; for a moment he feared that he had been discovered and halting, braced himself for whatever was to come. But there was nothing save a continued and low-pitched sound of voices.
“There’s more than one,” he murmured softly. This knowledge, however, did not stay him; once more he made for the door along the edges of which the light was seeping. The opening was too small to admit of his gaining a view of even a part of the room; but he could hear the almost whispered words distinctly.
“It is very annoying to be spied upon,” said a voice which George at once knew as Major Hyde’s. “And I am surprised that you should stoop to it. Or, perhaps,” and there was something like a sneer in the tone, “you will deny that you were spying.”
“No,” came the voice of Peggy Camp, “I do not deny it. I saw you steal along the hall and followed you.”
“You are quite sure,” and there was a keen note of inquiry in the man’s voice, “that you were not already in the room when I entered?”
“I am not in the habit of misrepresenting my actions,” returned Peggy, and the listener fancied her head rearing proudly as she said it.
“Of course not. But at a moment like this! Who knows?”
“I think you do,” returned the girl.
There was a moment’s silence; then Major Hyde spoke.
“What made you think that my actions had anything to do with him?” he asked.
“I knew from the first that you were laying a trap for him.”
“Ah!” There was a note of surprise in his voice. “You are even keener than I thought you.”
“You knew that he would be here,” she said. “And you proposed carrying it through here, of all places.”
“It is not given to us to choose our opportunities,” said the major. “So I’ll strike when I can.”
“You will not.”
“Of course your feelings in the matter are perfectly natural,” spoke the man coolly. “I understand them very well. They are to be expected of you. But is he worthy of all you’d do for him?”
There was no answer.
“He is not. He is a worming, designing villain; there is no truth nor honor in him. To serve his own ends, he’d sell his friends to their enemies—he’d sell his cause to——”
“Oh, I know, I know,” cried Peggy, and there was pain in her voice. “I know it all better than you can tell it. I know it and hate him for it; and yet I cannot see him harmed.”
“Herbert is concealed in the house, as I suspected,” thought the young man at the door. “Major Hyde has in some way learned of it, and being aware of his treachery, is trying to locate his hiding-place.”
The voices within the room now sank even lower than before; George listened intently, but could not make out what was being said. Some minutes passed in this way and the voice of Peggy was raised in gladness.
“You promise me that?”
“I do.”
“Then Herbert is safe,” she whispered thankfully. “I know, I know,” as though preventing his interrupting her; “he does not deserve it, but I am happier than I can tell.”
“He is safe from me,” spoke Major Hyde, slowly, “but I am not the only one. Don’t forget that——”
He said no more, but George Prentiss was as sure that his hand lifted and his finger pointed to the tapestried chamber as he would have been had he seen him do it.
There was a gasping cry, smothered and full of fear. Then the girl replied:
“I know that, too. It is horrible. But,” and her voice suddenly became clear and sure, “he shall not harm my brother. That he is here seeking information, I know. But he shall learn nothing—he shall do nothing.”
“Who will prevent him?”
“I will!” she answered and her voice was filled with resolve.
Again their voices sank; then George heard footsteps advancing toward the door. A tall Dutch clock stood near by, as the inquiring hands of the young New Englander had learned, and quickly he shrank close to its side as the room door swung open.
“I’ll bid you good-night, cousin,” said the voice of Major Hyde, “and advise you to go to your chamber.”
What Peggy’s answer was George did not hear. Then the major shut the door and passed down the corridor; the soft closing of another door told the watcher that he entered his own room at the far end.
George waited for some little time, fearing that Peggy would emerge and discover him. But as she did not do so, he quietly tiptoed to his own room. Drawing aside the screen he stepped out into the center of the apartment, yawning and putting back the hair from his eyes, as though he’d been asleep.
At once his gaze went with studied carelessness to the portrait; there were the eyes, eager, alert, inquiring, fixed upon him.
“Hello,” said he, with ready art, as he yawned again. “I must have fallen into a doze.”
Negligently he threw himself once more into the chair before the mirror and sat looking at the reflected eyes.
“It is she,” he told himself. “There is no one else there. And it’s been she all along. Hyde was right. She was already in the room when he entered, as he suspected.”
Then suddenly he became aware that the eye sockets of Burgomaster Van Camp were empty. Vacantly the portrait stared down from the wall. But only for a moment. Suddenly a long, black cylinder was thrust through one of the apertures—there was a puff of smoke, a loud report, and a pistol bullet whizzed past his head.