Netta E-Book

Fred M. White

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Netta Sherlock was a great singer. It was always important for the singer to have a healthy and sonorous voice. And their fear was to lose it. So it happened to Netta. She lost her ringing voice. A difficult path she has to go.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE WHITE LADY

II. THE STORM

III. THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT

IV. BEFORE THE DAWN

V. SHOULD SHE SPEAK?

VI. THE CHAMBER OF THE DEAD

VII. THE TWO DICE

VIII. AFTER LUNCHEON

IX. AFTER DINNER

X. HALF-CONFIDENCES

XI. UNDER THE GAS LAMPS

XII. WHAT DID HE KNOW?

XIII. A MIDNIGHT GUEST

XIV. A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION

XV. ADVENTURE

XVI. A MAN OF SCIENCE

XVII. ANOTHER SURPRISE

XVIII. FACE TO FACE

XIX. COMPLICATIONS

XX. IN SOCIETY

XXI. IN THE NAME OF CHARITY

XXII. IN THE DARK

XXIII. PUT TO THE QUESTION

XXIV. A NEAR THING

XXV. RAYMOND BOND

XXVI. THE CAUSE OF THE MISCHIEF

XXVII. A HOUSE OF REFUGE

XXVIII. A SUDDEN RESOLUTION

XXIX. IN THE HEART OF THE CAMP

XXX. ANOTHER FOE

XXXI. NETTA’S ADVENTURE

XXXII. NOT THIS TIME

XXXIII. THREADS IN THE STORY

XXXIV. THE MISSING COAT

XXXV. DANGER

XXXVI. ON THE TRACK

XXXVII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

XXXVIII. “THE VERY BUTTON”

XXXIX. CLEARING THE WAY

XL. A PINCH OF SNUFF

XLI. TREMULLION TAKES THE LEAD

XLII. IN THE WINE CELLAR

XLIII. BAFFLED

XLIV. THE COAT AGAIN

XLV. WHEN ROGUES FALL OUT

XLVI. A WARNING TO THE “36”

XLVII. GOOD LUCK

XLVIII. FOUND

XLIX. BEATEN

L. LAST WORDS

I. THE WHITE LADY

NETTA SHERLOCK’S unsteady voice dropped to a hoarse, unsteady whisper. Her long, slender fingers dragged the travelling cloak from about her neck, and she panted like one who has been hard put to it to escape from imminent danger.

“Quick!” she said. “Give me some water, bathe my head with eau-de-Cologne. I hope they noticed nothing in the hall. How stiflingly hot it is, Amy.”

Amy Burke discreetly said nothing. Her mistress lay back on the couch in the luxuriously-appointed bedroom, her dark, stormy eyes half closed. She reclined there for some time till the trembling fit passed away and the white bosom ceased to heave so violently. Then she looked around with scorn on her face.

“So we have got here at last, Amy,” she said. “I am an honoured guest at Loudwater Priory! Just think of it, Amy! Two years ago I was fiddling for my living in the streets, outside public-houses, jeered at and pitied and insulted! And now!”

And now she was in a bedroom a young duchess might have envied.

“I have schemed and lied and plotted to get here,” she went on. “I forced them to ask me. If Sir John and Lady Langworthy only knew the truth!”

“It was a dangerous thing to do,” the maid murmured. “Especially just now, seeing that we are so close to Coalend. If any of the people recognize you–”

“But I had to come, Amy. The inaction was slowly driving me mad. For Reggie’s sake–oh, I could do anything for Reggie’s sake! You don’t know everything. Amy; indeed, it would be impossible to tell you. But the secret is here in this house, the key may be in this room for all I know, and if I can find it, then the disgrace will be lifted from my lover’s name. Amy, I must succeed.”

The little maid with the firm lips and steady eyes smiled. If Netta Sherlock made up her mind to succeed, she would assuredly do so. Had not that indomitable will and genius taken her far already? It was the old story of talent struggling for life amidst the most sordid surroundings. A happy home in childhood, the death of the mother followed by the breakdown and the pathetic end of the father, a soldier and a gentleman–these had been the chief landmarks in her brief career.

Bad as it was, there had been worse to follow. Love had entered into Netta’s life to save her from utter despair. Time was when Reggie Masters had been a friend of the family. Reggie had found Netta out, and told the old, old story. Then the cloud of disgrace burst suddenly, exposure and humiliation and flight had followed with the rapidity of lightning, and Netta was alone again.

Reggie was innocent, Netta was sure of that. He had forwarded to her certain disjointed papers to read in Paris, where he had sent her to study. At first she had found them beyond her grasp, but gradually she mastered them. If she had only had money and influence, if people would only recognize her genius and individuality. But doubtless she would play her fiddle in the streets till she died.

Netta was rehearsing it all again dreamily–that dreadful night when she had eaten nothing all day; the fainting fit and the kindly old German who had asked questions; an engagement or two at a concert and enthusiastic paragraphs in the papers, It was a dream, it must have been. It seemed impossible that such great events could have happened in four and twenty brief months. And yet here was Netta now, the spoilt darling of Society. She had been interviewed in a score of papers, her photographs had sold freely, she had only to name her price for a performance and the money was there. Virtually it had been a romance in real life.

Netta paced up and down the room, quite herself again by this time.

“I’m dreadfully nervous and excited,” she said, “I, who hardly know the meaning of the word except when I first go on the platform. But I shall be all right at dinner. And afterwards I shall play to them, as nobody has ever heard me play before.”

“We don’t stay here to-night?” Amy asked.

“I must be in town by the last train,” Netta replied. “Early to-morrow morning–but you know nothing of that. Sir John has offered his motor car to drive me over to the junction to catch the 11.15 up train. Now, help me to dress for dinner. I’ll have black lace and white roses. No, I’ll have black alone without any relief. There will be no chance of my dress betraying me then.”

Netta surveyed herself presently in the long cheval glass with a sigh of satisfaction. The dead black suited her dark eyes and soulful face to perfection.

“She couldn’t recognize me,” Netta murmured. “Who would recognize in Netta Sherlock the timid little Nellie Landon?”

Amy rushed into the room and closed the door. Her eyes were gleaming with excitement and something like fear.

“I have seen a ghost,” she whispered. “Who do you suppose is here as a servant in a trusted position? But you will never guess, miss. It’s Lucille Ganton!”

“She did not recognize you?” Netta asked, swiftly. “But that would be impossible. You were a mere child in Coalend when Lucille Ganton was tried and acquitted on a charge of poisoning her husband. But if she knows me again–”

A troubled frown gathered on Netta’s face. She had come to Loudwater Priory on a difficult, not to say dangerous, mission. Indeed, but for the strong love she bore Reggie Masters she had never dared to come at all.

“I shall have to risk it,” she said aloud. “Danger I apprehended, but not so soon as this. If that woman knows me, she will discover pretty well what I am doing here.”

“You have greatly changed,” Amy suggested. “I don’t see how that woman–”

“She was in my mother’s service years ago,” Netta said quietly. “Her infamous partner in crime, Neil Jackman, was my father’s valet. Strangely enough, Jackman found his way into the service of my lover before his misfortunes began. The secret of Mr. Masters’s trouble lies in this house. Is it not strange, then, to find Lucille Ganton here? Depend upon it, Neil Jackman is not far off.”

The hall with its lantern roof was a dream of beauty. Netta stood quite lost in it.

“Pardon me, miss, but are you doubtful of the way?” a respectful voice asked. “The door on the left leads to the drawing-room.”

Netta concealed a start successfully. How vividly, those silky tones brought back the past!

“I was admiring the hall,” Netta said, “I know my way. Why do you look at me like that?”

“Your face made me think of Coalend, miss,” came the subtle reply.

“A place close by, is it not?” Netta asked carelessly. “I once had to stay there for a few hours. Why should I remind you of it?”

The woman muttered something; she was evidently baffled by the calm inquiry of Netta’s eyes. A bell rippled in the distance, and the trim maid hurried away. But there was a queer, grim smile on her face as she vanished.

“Am I right or wrong?” she muttered. “The girl is so famous, and the other one... yet I see the likeness. Any way, Jackman will know.”

To a certain extent the skirmish yielded victory to neither side. Neither Netta nor the maid Ganton was sure of her ground. With the doubt still in her mind Netta entered the drawing-room, which seemed to be pretty well filled with guests. Sir John Langworthy was a fine type of English sportsman, tall and well-knit, with an open, bronzed face and a kindly smile. He had a passion for music, and played the violin excellently for an amateur.

“You are rather late,” he said. “You have not seen my wife yet; she was riding when you came. Oh! this is Mr. Falmer–Gordon Palmer–who will take you in to dinner. He is terribly learned from a musical point of view, and a most severe critic.”

A tall man with a shining bald head and wonderfully massive dark eyebrows was bending over Netta’s hand. There was something strong and commanding about Gordon Falmer, she thought. In age he might have been anything between forty and sixty. It was only when he smiled that a sinister expression clouded his face.

“Is it too much to ask you to play?” he suggested.

“Miss Sherlock is good nature itself,” Sir John cried. “She has promised to play after dinner. Now, come along and see my wife.”

A knot of well-dressed women by the fireplace faded away, and Netta found herself face to face with a slender woman clad entirely in white. She was still considerably under thirty, and her features were regular and handsome. In a portrait or miniature Lady Langworthy would have been pronounced perfection.

“So pleased to meet you,” she said, with a smile on her face. “Lady Lessingham told me that you would not mind an informal invitation. But to go away so soon! Is it imperative to catch the last train to-night?”

Weirdly artificial as the woman seemed to be, there were warmth and sincerity in her voice. She looked up at her husband with a glance of real affection. And yet all the time it struck Netta that she was furtively watching every movement of Gordon Falmer. As he went about the room from one group to another with perfect ease of manner, those dark blue eyes followed him. They seemed to be dragged against their will. Here was the first thread of the mystery. Netta came back to her surroundings with a start.

“I must be back in town,” she said. “I have a most important engagement early to-morrow’. Perhaps on some future occasion, if you will be so good.”

Somebody on the other side of the room laughed, and it was as if a string had snapped between the hostess and her inscrutable guest.

“I am sure I beg your pardon,” Lady Langworthy said. “I am a little absent at times. We shall always be delighted to see you; a few guests here more or less make no difference. And they say you are the soul of good nature.”

“Why not?” Netta laughed. “I love my art, and if it gives pleasure to others it seems wrong to keep it to myself. I will play to you after dinner as long as you care to listen.”

The big doors fell back and the butler announced dinner. Suddenly Lady Langworthy grew silent and almost rigid, and Netta felt, rather than saw, Gordon Falmer approaching. As she looked up she seemed to see two lightning sparks flash from his eyes. Then he smiled as he held out his arm.

“I understand that I am to have the pleasure,” he said.

II. THE STORM

UNDER the shaded lights the dinner proceeded pleasantly. It was good to Netta to feel all this luxury and refinement; it softened the recollection of years of suffering.

She was herself again now, resolute and strong of purpose; she said little, but she watched carefully. She wondered who the man by her side was, and what he was doing here. Across the table was the white enigma of Lady Langworthy’s face. Sometimes she would laugh and smile merrily; at intervals her eyes met those of Sir John, and her face lighted up tenderly. Surely a woman could not look like that unless she sincerely loved a man. And yet, beyond doubt, Hilda Langworthy held the secret that shadowed Reggie Masters’s life.

Then her face would change again, growing wax-like and set as she felt the force of the strange man by Netta’s side. He addressed her once or twice in a tone so low that Netta could scarcely catch the words, but Lady Langworthy always heard. It was the same more than once during dinner. The big mahogany doors were open, for the night was insufferably hot and close, and in the hall now and again Netta caught the watching face of Lucille Ganton. The knowledge of her danger braced her like a tonic.

They were in the drawing-room at length. Presently the men began to dribble in from the dining-room. It was getting late and the air was hotter. The electric lights seemed suddenly to pale; there was a rattle and a crash overhead that shook the house to its foundations.

“I’m afraid you will not get away to-night, Miss Sherlock,” Sir John said, as he crossed over to Netta, accompanied by Gordon Falmer. “We are going to have a great storm. We shall pay pretty severely for this hot weather.”

“All the same, I must go,” Netta smiled. “It is most important. As I am to have the motor, you need not worry about your horses, because–”

Again the lights paled, again came the thunderous crash overhead. A few heavy drops splashed over the gravel drive, but the rain held off. The windows were wide open, but somebody pulled down the blinds. A servant entered and laid a violin case on the piano.

“I am going to ask you to play,” Falmer remarked, the dark eyes under those thick brows bent on Netta. Just for the moment it occurred to her that she could not have refrained, even had she wished. “It’s bad taste, but really after what you said before dinner–”

Netta smiled, though a slight shiver ran over her frame.

“I am not in the least like that,” she said. “I love playing, with my whole heart and soul. Place a good fiddle close to me, and I can’t keep my hands off it. I love it, and other people love it, so why should I not play?”

She took the fiddle tenderly from its place and deftly touched the strings.

She brought the bow crashing over the strings, and instantly the room was filled with liquid melody. For half an hour or more Netta held her audience spellbound. This was the kind of tribute to her genius that she liked and expected. There was a long fluttering sigh all round the room as the sobbing notes died away.

“The critics are right, for once,” said Falmer, the first to recover himself. “Technique, expression, phrasing, all are perfect. That movement of Chopin’s showed off your powers wonderfully. If you are not tired, will you give us something a little more–well–melodious?”

Netta smiled as she bent over the instrument again. She played something soft and soothing, with a sad melody running through it. Outside in the hall she could see that the servants had crept to listen. The music had drawn even them, as Netta’s music drew everybody. Though she was rapt in the passion of her playing, she could see everything that was going on in that hall; she could see Lucille Ganton well to the front, a puzzled, half-satisfied expression on her face. Then the puzzled look cleared to one of pleased satisfaction, and the maid vanished. The bow slackened in Netta’s fingers, and she stopped.

“Surely that is not all?”

“No,” Netta said in some confusion. “Something–something has gone wrong with one of my strings. Oh, yes, I see what has happened, I will finish when I have repaired the mischief.”

She bent over her fiddle, and did something industriously for a few seconds. She would almost have sacrificed her precious Cremona to know what Lucille Ganton was doing at that moment. As a matter of fact, the woman hurried past the servant’s quarters, along a corridor, where at one time the offices of the Langworthy estates had been situated. At last she came to a room, the door of which she opened without ceremony.

A man sat writing, a neat-looking man, who might have passed for an exceedingly respectable City clerk. His hair was red, his eyes met nothing squarely, they were grey and shifty and cunning, with queer lights in them at certain times.

“Well,” the man said impatiently, “what’s the matter now?”

“It’s exactly as I told you, Neil,” Lucille said. “I felt pretty sure I recognized Nellie Landon. I want you to come and see.’”

“Come and see! You were in the Landon household as well as me. What do you want two witnesses for?”

“Because I want to be certain. You must have known her up to fifteen or so.”

“Well, what if I did?” Jackman asked impatiently. “I’ve no doubt I should recognize the girl. She was for everlasting playing the fiddle. When I took service with Mr. Masters–”

“And helped in his ruin, and took a place under Gordon Falmer, who finished that ruin. Did you not hear of the fiddling girl that Mr. Masters took up and was going to marry, ay, would have married, had not the crash come?”

“I never happened to see her,” Jackman said slowly.

“Well, she’s in the house to-night. What is she here for? Because she knows that the root of the mystery is under this roof. And if she gets at the truth, good-bye to your scheme and mine. Do you understand that?”

The sinister grin had crept into Jackman’s eyes.

“You’re a sharp one,” he said with some admiration. “But I expect you have made a mistake this time. If you were quite certain–”

“But I can’t be, man. Oh, she is a clever one! I tried her before dinner, and failed. But you must see her for yourself and make sure. She’s got to catch that train at the junction about midnight, and Watson is going to drive her over in the motor. So just before that time it will be your business to be hanging about the porch.”

“I’ll be there,” he said. “But I’m sure you have found a mare’s nest. Is that the girl playing? My word, she is a wonder!”

The wailing cry of the music filled the whole house. The melody was an unusual one that Netta had found for herself, and she only played it when she felt certain of the sympathy of her audience.

She played it now entirely from memory, with her eyes turned on the listeners. She knew that she had touched their hearts from the very first chords. Then she saw Gordon Falmer start as if he were about to say something, and noted the whiteness of his face, and the muscles standing out in knots on the back of his hand as he grasped a chair rigidly. His face grew whiter and still more set, and beads glistened on his forehead.

Netta played on till the air sobbed away and died like a sigh. Falmer’s face was very white still, but not more white or more motionless than that of Lady Langworthy. He crossed over to Netta, and his eyes gleamed like fire into hers.

“Where did you get that?” he asked hoarsely.

There was a challenge in his tone. Netta’s face flushed.

“That I cannot tell you,” she said firmly. “I do not care to speak of it. The whole circumstances are connected with a most unhappy time of my life, you must understand.”

Falmer uttered something that might have been a curse but for a sudden deafening crash of thunder. But the girl could see that her companion was agitated and nervous in no ordinary degree. She placed her violin in its case and closed the lid carefully.

“No more music to-night,” she said as a murmur of protest arose. “The storm unsteadies me, and I am not doing my best. Besides, it is past eleven.”

“But you can’t possibly go out in this storm!” the host exclaimed. “True, it does not rain, but we shall have a deluge before long. Agreeably to your request, I have ordered the motor round, but I am certain that–”

“I must be going,” she said. “Lady Langworthy, you will believe me when I say that nothing but urgent business takes me away. Good-bye.”

Lady Langworthy muttered something. The play of the lightning was continuous. A group of guests crowded into the hall to see the plucky violinist depart. Outside on the lawn two figures lurked–Lucille and Jackman.

“I wish she’d come and get it over,” the latter grumbled. “I loathe this kind of thing. A storm always takes the manhood out of me. I’m as frightened as a child.”

“She’s coming,” Lucille said with some impatience. “Here she comes! Why doesn’t she show her face? If she would only turn this way! Great powers of heaven–”

Suddenly the whole sky opened, and a blinding flood of light filled the horizon. There was a singeing smell, a deafening crash, the shrieks of women and, like magic, that which before had been a motor-car was a mass of crumpled metal.

“Back to the house!” Sir John cried. “I would not permit any guest of mine to start in such a storm as this. Thank God, here is the rain!”

The doors were closed; the rain came down with a snarl and a roar. The whole world seemed to echo to the reverberation of it. Lucille, almost blinded by the glare, had sunk to her knees, her hands pressed to her eyes. The sharp sting of the cold rain brought her to herself. She staggered to her feet and looked about her. Something soft lay huddled on the ground. She touched it and called, but no response came. Then in sheer agony and terror she screamed again and again. A door opened, and somebody came out.

“It’s Mr. Jackman,” Lucille shrieked. “He’s killed, he’s killed!”

The drive seemed to be full of men. The prostrate figure was raised and carried into the hall.

“He’s not dead!” Falmer cried. “See how he has struggled to his feet.”

Truly, Jackman was on his feet, his hands clasped to his face. A dreadful groan burst from him, and he tore madly at his eyes.

“Not dead,” he yelled, “or injured; only, God help me, blind, blind, blind!”

III. THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT

NETTA covered her face with her hands as if to shut out the painful scene. The whole thing had been so vivid, and, above all, so unexpected. And yet the conviction forced itself upon the girl’s mind that here was a good omen for her success.

Greatly daring, she approached the group gathered round the unhappy Jackman. He sat moaning and trembling on a chair whilst one of the house party examined his eyes. Fortunately a doctor was amongst the guests.

“He must be got to bed,” the latter said presently. “Then he shall have a strong sleeping draught. I dare say it is only temporary.”

The guests were returning to the drawing-room. The storm was passing away, and the air had grown cool and fresh. Netta drew the doctor on one side.

“Is it a very bad case?” she asked.

“Really I cannot tell,” was the reply. “You see, it is out of my line. I am a heart specialist, in fact I am here more or less looking after Mr. Falmer. But one thing I am certain of–even under the best treatment that poor fellow will not see for many months, the optic nerve is paralysed.”

Netta breathed more freely, though she could not help feeling ashamed of herself. But she was glad to feel she was safe. Then she turned the conversation.

“Mr. Falmer does not look like a weak man,” she said.

“Nevertheless, his heart is in a very bad state. He pays me a large salary to watch after him; I am what you might call a private doctor.”

“He must be a rich man, then?” Netta suggested. “Who is he?”

Dr. Mason Rayford confessed that he did not know. Falmer was one of the class of men who emerge from nowhere apparently with all the evidences of enormous wealth about them.

“He seems to have no feelings or emotions,” Rayford went on. “I have only seen him moved really once, and that was to-night, when you played that exquisite melody. There is a romance somewhere if we could only fathom it.”

Netta thought so too.

In the hall below most of the guests were chatting and laughing as if the accident of an hour ago had never been. Lady Langworthy, without her white mask, and looking charming and natural, came up to Netta and began to talk.

“Your bedroom is the fifth along the corridor by the big window,” she said. “My maid has seen that you have everything for the night. You don’t want to start too early, I hope?”

“Time makes little difference now,” Netta said, “seeing that I have missed my appointment. Being tied to time is one of the things that always worry me.”

Lady Langworthy laughed, and then her face suddenly grew rigid again. Netta knew that Gordon Falmer must be close by. His long shadow loomed in a sinister way between guest and hostess. He seemed to draw Lady Langworthy’s glance to him.

“Then I am afraid that you do not wind your watch up regularly,” he said.

Netta admitted the correctness of the charge. A joke hovered on her lips, but it seemed difficult to jest in the presence of this man with the strange eyebrows. He tapped his waistcoat pocket in what struck Netta as a significant manner.

“I always wind up my watch at one o’clock,” he said.

It seemed absurd even to Netta, but it struck her that there was a note of warning in the seemingly inane speech. There must be a hidden meaning behind it. Lady Langworthy’s face had grown still paler, and there was a mute appeal in her eyes. She looked like one who was fascinated by some poisonous snake, and was praying for help. Of course, it was pure imagination. Netta thought her nerves were unstrung, but she could not rid herself of that impression. She felt sure this woman was utterly in this man’s power, and that he was using her for unworthy ends. Sir John came up at the same moment, and gently touched his wife’s hair. She turned and smiled on him tenderly. Surely there was no acting here; Lady Langworthy loved her husband.

“A model pair,” Falmer suggested with just the touch of a sneer. “My love is like a melody that’s sweetly played in tune! Like your melody, in fact.”

“Which one do you mean?” Netta asked guardedly.

“Why, that uncommon piece tonight. Won’t you tell me where you got it?”

The question was pleading, and yet there was a hint of command in it. The dark eyes played like summer lightning over Netta’s face, the heavy eyebrows cast a shadow over her, and for a moment Netta felt that she must give the desired information. But she put the impulse aside; come what might this man should not fascinate her.

“I cannot tell you,” she said coldly. “I play that melody because I love it, and because it is a piece of inspiration. No piece so moves my audiences. But it is more or less connected with a sad time in my life, and I discuss that with nobody.”

“Then you refuse to tell me where you got it?”

The dark eyes were flashing. He was a man accustomed to his own way, and not very scrupulous as to the means by which he attained his ends.

“Refuse is a strong word to use,” Netta said. “Shall we say I decline to discuss the matter?”

Her eyes met those of her antagonist boldly. Falmer smiled and adroitly changed the subject. The house party was thinning by this time, and several of the guests had retired to rest. Netta rose with a wearied gesture.

“Night’s candles are burning out,” she said. “It is getting time to wind your watch, Mr. Falmer.”

The speech was innocent, but Gordon Falmer started as if something had stung him. He glanced suspiciously at Netta, but she appeared to see nothing. But she knew for a certainty now that that little speech about the watch had a secret meaning. As she passed into her room she was still puzzling over the mystery. The chatter in the hall had ceased, and she could hear the sharp click of the electrics as the servants switched off the lights.

Very slowly and thoughtfully Netta undressed. One faint light had been left in the corridor. Netta lay in bed with her door not quite closed. She had come to explore a mystery, and she had not the slightest intention of throwing any chance away. She had come, greatly daring, on behalf of the man she loved; she was bold and resolute, and would do anything for Reggie.

That the key of the mystery was here she was morally certain. The partial recognition of Lucille Ganton and the presence of Neil Jackman proved it. But who was Gordon Falmer, and what had he to do with the matter? And why did he exercise a strange magnetic influence over Lady Langworthy?

The affair was not over yet, or Falmer would not have made that singular allusion to one o’clock.

Netta, not in the least inclined for sleep, watched the lobby, the darkness of which was broken by the narrow streak of light. The big clock over the stables struck the hour of one.

“I wish I had the gift of second sight,” Netta murmured. “I wish I possessed the gift of fernseed that I could walk invisible. Then I–”

The girl paused suddenly. There came the sound of a suppressed cry, followed by the flash of some white body past the small slit of light which filtered in from the corridor. Some person was moving along swiftly, and in a manner that betokened familiarity with the mansion. Netta jumped out of bed and looked cautiously out of the door.

The doors were closely shut along the corridor, and nobody was to be seen. All the same, Netta did not feel like letting the chance pass. No guest would have given that strange, strangled cry, and remain absolutely silent afterwards. Netta hesitated with her hand upon the door. As she stood she heard a faint click, and the feeble light in the corridor went out.

Then there must be somebody there. The light could not go out without human agency. But where did the hand come from, and why–?

“How stupid of me!” Netta said half aloud. “Why, I had forgotten the double corridor, and the way into it. Something is going on in the old wing. It may have connexion with my dear boy, or it may not. I must see for myself.”

Netta hurriedly dressed, and started with a box of matches. She would fumble her way along the corridor by the light of the waning moon. If she were discovered it would be easy to invent some apocryphal cat that was disturbing her slumbers. But nobody was about, and from some of the bedrooms proceeded an occasional snore. It was such a prosaic contrast to Netta’s adventure that she smiled. At length she reached the door at the end of the corridor, and opening it carefully passed beyond. As she did so another door that seemed a long way off closed with a sullen bang that echoed like thunder down the corridor.

Netta’s heart literally stood still for a moment. Surely a window or a door leading to the outer world must be open, or there would never have been so much draught. Netta lit one of her vestas, but it was blown out directly. She could hear now the sound of smothered voices and a laugh that was instantly suppressed. As Netta half turned to gather a little light from the great stained window she saw that a shadow was pressed against it, the figure of a man who seemed to be fumbling for something. The girl started back, as if fearful of being seen, till it dawned upon her that the glass was opaque and that nothing could be discovered from the outside.

Presently the violent draught ceased and the distant door banged again. Once more, with her hand for a shield, Netta lighted a match and trailed the faint illumination on the floor. The oak boards were thick with dust, and here down the centre of the corridor, going away from the window, was the clear imprint of a small foot that could only have belonged to a woman–and a lady at that. The impression was so fresh that it must have been made in the last few minutes.

Whose footprint was it, and where did it go? Netta asked the question in vain. But if she could not tell whose it was she would make sure on one point. She blew out the match, and hurriedly returned the way she had come. Then she tapped at Lady Langworthy’s bedroom door.

No reply came, and Netta walked in. The lights were still up, the silken curtains of the bed were drawn, but no sound proceeded from behind them. Netta pulled the curtains aside, her little speech was ready framed to her lips, but there was no occasion to use it. The sheets were turned down and the silk and lace coverlet was thrown aside.

But the room was empty!

IV. BEFORE THE DAWN

NETTA drew a long, deep breath. The mystery was here then, though, perhaps, this had nothing to do with the object of her search. The girl felt hot and uncomfortable as it flashed across her that she might be on the track of a vulgar intrigue. But being loyal and honourable, reflection satisfied her that that was extremely unlikely.

The more Netta thought over it the more certain was she that Falmer was in some way at the bottom of the mystery. The remark as to the winding up of his watch at one o’clock was little less than a command which Lady Langworthy had obeyed shrinkingly, as a reluctant dog comes to the lash. Netta must find out more about it.

She had not long to wait, for almost before she could leave the room Lady Langworthy entered.

“How much longer, dear heaven!” she murmured. “How far can I bear it, and–”

She paused, a sudden wave of crimson flushing her face. Yet–and Netta was only too glad to observe it–she did not look guilty. When she spoke her voice trembled, but her tones were cold and clear.

“I did not expect to find anybody here,” she said. “I had merely been–”

She paused, for no ready falsehood rose to her lips. Netta forced a smile.

“I certainly did expect to find somebody here,” she said. “I am sorry to intrude, but could you let me have a little eau-de-Cologne? These nervous headaches–”

It was Netta’s turn to pause. Lady Langworthy regarded her steadily. The latter had recovered her composure, but she pressed her hand to her heart from time to time, as if its violent beating were a pain to her.

“Oh, you shall have the eau-de-Cologne,” she said disdainfully. “Tell me, did you hear what I said when I came in just now?”

Netta nodded. She would have prevaricated if she could, but to do so was unfamiliar to her.

“I am very sorry I came,” she said. “You are ill and in trouble. If I could help you in any way–”

“Nobody can help me. My trouble is my own. You will keep this to yourself?”

“Not a word of it shall be said to any of your friends,” Netta murmured.

“That is all I ask. Here is the scent that you require. Goodnight.”

Netta took the cut-glass bottle and withdrew–but not to sleep. Her brain was clear and excited, and she had no desire to close her eyes. She had touched the fringe of the mystery, and her own wish was to probe deeper. She walked boldly along the corridor until she came to the great window again. The stable clock struck three.

The moon was fading, but the first faint streaks of dawn filled the east with a pale pink flush. As Netta stood there the figure of the man she had seen some time ago was pressed once again against the lightening panes. A moment later and the large ventilator, working on a pivot, opened slowly, and then the stranger crept deftly in.

Netta restrained her first impulse to cry out. But as she saw the man’s foot touch the floor she restrained herself. She stood behind the shadow of an old Flemish cabinet, and waited. Evidently the man knew his ground.

He advanced into the corridor coolly, and made his way through the little door leading to the corridor beyond. Taking her courage in both hands, Netta followed. Who could the man be, and what was he doing here?

Her wonder increased a moment later. The man paused and coolly lighted a cigarette. His back was still to Netta, so that even now she could not see his face. Then he began to whistle softly between his teeth the very tender and winsome air that Netta had played, the air which had had so strange an effect on Gordon Falmer.

Netta gasped. Where had this man picked up that tune? There were portions of it, liquid variations, that she had never played to any one outside her own house. And yet this man was whistling it with practised ease. It seemed to Netta that she must wake presently and find that the thing had been a long, strange dream.

But here was the stranger very much in the flesh, and the notes of the melody were low but perfectly clear. As Netta stood trembling with excitement from head to foot, another figure came in sight, and Gordon Falmer’s dark eyes and shaggy brows emerged from the gloom.

“So you have come at last,” he said. “Why have you kept me waiting?” He spoke in a hoarse whisper and seemed to be very much moved about something. If the police had been waiting for him outside he might have been less agitated.

“I came and I went,” the stranger explained. “I have a friend outside who has little time to spare, and–”

“You don’t mean to say that you have found Reginald Masters?”

Netta fairly caught her breath. But, eagerly as she followed the conversation, she was not so eager as Gordon Falmer was in asking the question. She was getting into the heart of the mystery; she was enjoying more good fortune than she had any right to expect.

“No such luck as that,” the stranger said. “All the same, I came in before. I got as far as the door of your private sitting-room and then I heard voices. Place aux dames, you know; I recognized the voice of a lady, and I did not care to intrude.”

“Lady Langworthy,” Falmer said, indifferently. “She essayed to pit her will against mine; she has been showing fight, and I had to give her a lesson. I don’t fancy she will threaten me again. Now, as to Masters?”

“I can tell you nothing about Masters. He has disappeared. I don’t like it, because you don’t know where he is going to strike. But I have settled the other matter. Let us go to your room, where we can have a smoke and a whisky and soda–this place is too confoundedly draughty for me.”

Falmer turned on his heel and the other man followed. Netta crept after them at a respectful distance. She could not risk the chance of being discovered now. The pair passed out of the corridor into a side wing until they came to a room, the door of which they closed. Netta stood with her ear close to the door. But the room was very large, and the door very thick, and excepting a confused murmur of voices the girl heard nothing.

She crept back again to the door leading into the second corridor, and there sat down doggedly to wait. There was no chance of being disturbed by a servant, because the second corridor was rarely visited. Still, it would be as well to be on the safe side, Netta thought. She would have time to change into her morning dress before the intruder departed.

She hurried into her room and tore off her evening gown. Then she slipped into a plain grey serge and brushed her hair back. She bathed her face and hands with cold water, and the touch of it brightened her up, though she was not in the least degree sleepy.

Now nothing mattered. If anybody saw her she had merely got up early to examine the old house. It was practically daylight, and the person who was closeted with Falmer could not remain much longer. Moreover, it was pretty certain that he must leave by the way he had come. And Netta must see him. So far as she knew, he was a stranger to her, but he was an enemy of Reggie’s, and to know whom she had to deal with was necessary.

Netta sat waiting till the clock struck five. The glorious sunshine was filling the corridor with streams of pallid blue and orange from the famous window. The household would be stirring soon; the watcher was beginning to despair. Perhaps the man had been let out by another door; but in that case, why had he come to the window? Then a board creaked, and a figure appeared at the end of the corridor.

Netta slipped behind one of the tapestry hangings. Her patience was to be rewarded at last; she would see the face of the enemy.

But it was no stranger that Netta looked upon after the vigil of the weary hours. The man was Gordon Falmer; Falmer with a white and troubled face and eyes full of a strange foreboding.

“Well, I think I’ll go to bed,” Netta said, catching herself in a heavy yawn. “Evidently my man has taken his departure by a more prosaic way. Still, I have found out a great deal, very much more than I expected. Reggie must know of this. If the dear boy had only given me an address where to write to him! But that will come in time.”

Netta walked sleepily to her room, for Nature had gained the upper hand at last. Netta was hardly on the pillow before she was sound asleep. When she awoke Lady Langworthy was standing before her.

“I came to see if your head was all right,” she said. “I sent your maid away. Have you forgotten about your headache?”

“It is a mere dream,” Netta said, “like other things last night.”

Lady Langworthy’s face grew grave for a moment. “It is very good of you to say that,” she answered.

“We all have our troubles, and some how they seem worse at night than at any other time. What is it?”

For Amy, the maid, had burst into the room, her eyes starting and her cheeks white as milk.