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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
The House of the Schemers by Fred M. White is a captivating tale of intrigue and manipulation set in a grand, enigmatic mansion. When a series of mysterious and alarming events unfold within the opulent estate, it becomes clear that someone within the house is plotting a dangerous scheme. As tensions rise and secrets unravel, the residents must confront their darkest fears and most hidden desires. With clever twists and relentless suspense, this thrilling novel will keep you guessing about the true motives of each character. Dive into the shadowy corners of the House of the Schemers and uncover the secrets that lie within.
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Seitenzahl: 548
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
The House of the Schemers
I.—THE SHADOW OF A FEAR.
II.—THE PORTRAIT.
III.—JOHN STERN.
IV.—THE LADY NEXT DOOR.
V.—BEHIND THE CURTAINS.
VI.—AT THE WINDOW.
VII.—INSPECTOR BURLES.
VIII.—IN THE EARLY MORN.
IX.—THE SNAKE RING AGAIN.
X.—THE MESSAGE FROM HIGH STREET.
XI.—AILSA'S QUEST.
XII.—IN CONFIDENCE.
XIII.—"LA BELLE ATALANTA."
XIV.—A LETTER OF IMPORTANCE.
XV.—A SUDDEN FEAR.
XVI.—WAITING ON EVENTS.
XVII.—BURLES ON THE MOVE.
XVIII.—AN UNEXPECTED VISIT.
XIX.—THE MASKED BALL.
XX.—BEYOND THE BARRIER.
XXI.—SUSPICIONS.
XXII.—THE LADY OF THE FAN AGAIN.
XXIII.—THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS.
XXIV.—A CLOSE CALL.
XXV.—A GLIMMER OF THE TRUTH.
XXVI.—OLD SUSAN COMES OUT.
XXVII.—CONSTERNATION!
XXVIII.—TRYING IT ON.
XXIX.—A WINDFALL.
XXX.—A REVELATION.
XXXI.—A LEAF FROM THE PAST.
XXXII.—NEARLY LOST.
XXXIII.—A COMPLICATION.
XXXIV.—SIR CHARLES COMES OUT.
XXXV.—COLVILLE INTERVENES.
XXXVI.—NO THOROUGHFARE.
XXXVII.—NEWS FROM PARIS.
XXXVIII.—A BAFFLED GUEST.
XXXIX.—THE WRONG WOMAN.
XL.—FLIGHT!
XLI.—A FRIEND IN NEED.
XLII.—AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.
XLIII.—SUICIDE.
XLIV.—FOUND!
XLV.—GATHERED THREADS.
XLVI.—TOWARDS THE GOAL.
XLVII.—"THE SONG THAT REACHED MY HEART."
XLVIII.—PEACE.
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The House of the Schemers
I.—THE SHADOW OF A FEAR.
Only in the great Metropolis could the house have passed, silent, mystic, and unnoticed, without the wagging of tongues and the prying of idle curiosity. It was not as if No. 13 stood apart—Vernon-terrace was a smart row of houses, where for the most part people of mains resided. The other homesteads were bright and clean, there were boxes of flowers in the windows, and silk blinds behind. Lights gleamed in them at night, glittering carriages stood before the open doors.
So the rustiness and neglect of No. 13 were all the more remarked. It was like one horribly black, decayed tooth in an otherwise perfect set. No lights showed there, the ill-painted blinds were always down, the front steps were greasy, the panes were black with the passing of years. The neighbours occasionally alluded to No. 13 in a careless kind of way; they believed that a gentleman called Colville lived there. He was understood to be a scientific man or something of that sort. But nobody really knew, and nobody cared. Nobody had ever been inside the house, which was understood to be only partly furnished. The same sense of loneliness and mystery pervaded the interior of No. 13. The noble reception rooms on the first floor were never opened; indeed, for years they had not seen the light of day. A sense of mystery, the brooding spirit of some immeasurable trouble lay every where. And yet the black dust and hanging cobwebs rested on priceless pictures and works of art, on old tapestry, furniture, and Eastern carpets. Somebody years ago had filled an old Cellini epergne with flowers, and the blackened stalks still remained. So much could be seen by the girl who stood there looking fearsomely around with a solitary candle in her hand.
It was a kind of tradition in Vernon-terrace that an exceedingly pretty girl had been seen occasionally at No. 13. For once tradition was right, for Ailsa Lefroy was a very pretty girl indeed. Her dress was of the simplest, her hair was caught up in a very severe fashion; but all this did not detract from the girl's beauty, or rob her deep violet eyes of the sweetness of their expression. Her face was a little pale, yet the skin was clear and healthy, the little red lips were unsteady now. In age, Ailsa might have been taken for one-and-twenty. Anybody who guessed that would not have been far wrong, for she would be twenty-one on the morrow.
Five years she had spent under the roof of Archibald Colville since her father died. Five years in a dreary prison house with nobody for company but her books and her painting, the strange taciturn old servants, and an occasional glimpse of the man who called himself her guardian. Other girls tasted the delights of life, Ailsa had none of them. And the time was close at hand when she would be own mistress. Many things would be made plain to-morrow. Ailsa was looking forward to the morrow with mingled feelings.
She had naturally a high courage of her own, but the old house frightened and depressed her. Strange things happened from time to time in the dead of night. Afterwards Ailsa wondered if she had been dreaming. Once she had stepped into the corridor from her bedroom and listened. She had heard blows and cries, a prayer for mercy, and silence. And then she had seen old Susan, the cast-iron housekeeper, come along the corridor wringing her hands and crying bitterly. Yes, over all these things hung the shadow of a fear.
Ailsa had her dinner in solitary state, served by the taciturn Susan, and cleared away by the equally taciturn Thomas, the butler. She would go to bed early and sleep till the fateful morrow. Ailsa hardly dared to ask herself what to-morrow would produce. Somebody was knocking loudly at the front door, a heavy hand jangled at the bell. Such a thing had never happened before in the recollection of the girl. She caught her breath quickly with a sudden premonition of fear.
It was only a telegram, after all, directed to Ailsa. It was a curt intimation from Archibald Colville, despatched from Birmingham, to the effect that the sender could not possibly return to London on the morrow, and that Thomas was to take the midnight train to Birmingham and there meet his master with the gladstone bag.
"You had better give this to Thomas, Susan," Ailsa said as she handed over the flimsy sheet of paper. "I dare say he would know what it means."
Susan's hard, corrugated features grew suddenly pale and ghastly. Something like a groan escaped from her lips. She stiffened again as she became aware of Ailsa's widely opened, questioning eyes. She snatched the paper almost angrily.
"Oh, yes, I know," she said hoarsely. "More curses on this cursed house. And him to go away on this of all nights of the year! The hand of the Lord is heavy on some of us.. .. You go to bed, missy, and forget what I've been saying."
But Ailsa did not move. The dread fascination of the old house was upon her as it had never been before. Hitherto she had closed her eyes to the suggestion of wrong-doing: now her senses were alert and awake. She had never seen old Susan in this mood before. Usually, the aged servitor had been taciturn and sullen to the last degree. She had encouraged no advances on the part of Ailsa.
"I do not quite understand you," the girl said. "What do you mean? You seem to be in great trouble about something that I——"
"I'm in no trouble about anything," Susan retorted. "You go off to bed and mind your own business, my pretty little soul. Ask no questions, and you will be told no lies, as they used to tell me when I was a child. If you were not so pure and innocent you would know that things are going on in this house——"
"Not wrong things?" Ailsa interrupted. "Not crime and wickedness! Susan, I am afraid that something has upset you very much to-night. Does Thomas ill-treat you—is he unkind at times?"
"Unkind! He is the greatest—— But, there, I am letting my silly tongue run too fast. Never you get married, miss. Never trust your happiness to any man, however kind he seems to be. But what do you know of that kind of thing?"
Ailsa flushed a vivid crimson. She could have told a tale had she pleased.
"It's the men that make us what we are," the old woman croaked. "Don't let one of them spoil your life. And now be off, for you have no business here."
The last words were almost kindly spoken, but the hard, grim, wrinkled face did not relax again. The old, strange heavy silence settled on the house again, broken presently by the tramp of heavy feet in the hall, and the sullen banging of the front door. Thomas had departed on his mysterious errand, evidently; Ailsa was alone in the house with Susan. Suppose the old woman was taken ill in the night and died? Ailsa put the thought away from her. It seemed to her that she could hear noises everywhere; stealthy footsteps in the great reception-rooms overhead. It was pure fancy, of course; nobody was likely to come there. All the same, Ailsa took one of the candlesticks from the polished surface of the mahogany table and walked upstairs to the great room above.
Nobody there; nothing but silence and dust, and the scratching of mice behind the panels. It was not once a year that Ailsa entered these rooms; their grandeur overpowered her. She did not know that the blackened ornaments here and there represented some of the most priceless old silver in England. Ailsa paused just a moment before a portrait hanging between two of the shuttered windows. It was the presentment of Archibald Colville, done ten years ago by one of the most famous painters of his day.
Ailsa had never carefully noticed the picture before. She felt sure that there had been a speaking likeness at the time it was painted. A dark, rather hard face, as if it had been soured by trouble and misfortune rather than the hand of Nature. Yet the eyes and mouth were sad, the folded hands had a suggestion of resignation about them. They were slim, yet resolute hands; on the one little finger was a curious snake ring of diamonds with ruby eyes. Ailsa had often seen that ring on the hand of her guardian, and in some queer way it always fascinated her. It fascinated her now so that she almost forgot to wonder why Archibald Colville had changed from black to absolute grey in ten years.
"I wonder why," Ailsa mused aloud. "Perhaps it was old Susan who set me thinking, but I never connected my grim old guardian with a romance before. Perhaps all the love went out of his life calmly and left it grey and colourless. Do we all suffer in the same way, I wonder? And what would Archibald Colville say if he knew that I too had loved and lost! And yet it seems almost absurd, seeing that I was but a child the last time I parted with Ronald Braybrooke! I wonder if he guessed how much the child of sixteen cared for him!"
Ailsa stopped, conscious of the fact that she was talking aloud. In that old home the echo of her own voice almost frightened her.
Still, the broken romance was yet very fresh and pure in her heart. Ailsa was not the girl to pine and die over a thing like that, but her heart ached at times when the happy old days rose up before her mental vision. And she was very restless and uneasy to-night.
It seemed to her that she could hear stealthy footsteps overhead, and again that somebody was down in the kitchen talking in whispers to old Susan. Ailsa let her mind run riot until she could hear the blood running through her veins. She had never been so restless and uneasy since she had come to the old house. Perhaps it was the anticipation of the morrow that so strangely affected her.
"I am positively ridiculous," the girl told herself. "Really, I should like something out of the common to happen! Better than rusting out like this, or becoming slowly and gradually melancholy. What a blessed thing is bed!"
Ailsa made her way slowly down the stairs again. She wished that the house was not quite so still. She could hear the roll and rattle of cabs outside, the jingle of harness, and presently soft laughter in girlish voices. Evidently the people next door were giving a party of some kind.
It was no use sitting there; far better to be in bed and asleep. Presently old Susan shuffled about downstairs, putting the lights out. Ailsa could still hear the rattle of carriages next door as she dropped off into unconsciousness. It seemed to her that no time hardly had passed before she was sitting up again listening intently to the cry of somebody near at hand. Presently the cry was stopped.
Ailsa was out of bed in her dressing-gown in a moment. It required courage to open her door and look out, but the girl did not hesitate. The moaning cry was repeated from somewhere downstairs, and Ailsa called out to know who was there. Again came the cry—to Ailsa's unutterable relief, and the croaking voice of old Susan.
Ailsa flew downstairs on the wings of the wind. What was going to happen if this woman was ill or dying? She lay huddled up at the foot of the basement stairs. Ailsa wondered vaguely what she was doing here at this hour, for a clacking old clock somewhere struck the hour of two. There was an ugly bruise on the side of Susan's head.
"I slipped," she moaned. "I—I had toothache, and I came to get some of the stuff that I rub on my gums. I believe that I have broken something."
It was impossible to get the woman upstairs, a task to help her to the kitchen. She flopped on to a chair, and rocked to and fro with her head in her hands.
"He didn't hit me," she muttered, "I swear that it was an accident. I'll take my oath that it was my own fault, so there! Get me some brandy!"
"Where is the brandy to be found?" Ailsa asked.
The old woman looked up suddenly, as if she had just come back to the consciousness that she was not alone. There was a little brandy in a medicine bottle in her room, she muttered. Right at the top of the house. Then she fell to muttering incoherently again, and Ailsa could make nothing of what she said.
There was no help for it; the brandy must be procured without delay. Ailsa crept up the stairs, her bare feet making no sound on the thick, dusty carpets. She had not the slightest idea where Susan's bedroom was, but she did not doubt that she could find it. It was somewhere at the top of the big, silent house.
Doubtless a window was open somewhere, for a door banged suddenly, a fierce draught caused Ailsa's candle to weep and gutter. Then there was a fiercer draught and Ailsa's light went out altogether. It was like being stranded in a strange land to Ailsa, and she stood irresolute. There was no help for it but to feel her way down and get a box of matches.
Before Ailsa could turn the draught stopped, and a door was shut quietly. She could hear the handle turn, so that it was no agency of the wind here. Immediately Ailsa felt for a doorway, and stood within it waiting for developments. She was quite sure now that she could hear somebody moving overhead. Her heart stood still for a moment. There was a stumble, and somebody muttered something in a half-angry voice.
Those footsteps were feeling their way and descending the stairs. Could Susan possibly know that anybody was there? If so, would she have sent Ailsa for the brandy? The girl decided not; evidently this was some midnight marauder. She stood there with trembling limbs and a heart that beat quite loudly.
The stranger was near to her now, so near that she could hear him breathing. He stumbled again, and said something that the girl could not catch. She could hear the striking of a match on a box, and a small ring of flame spurted out. It was only for a moment, and then it was gone again. Ailsa checked a cry.
She could make nothing of the man, whose face was hidden in a slouch hat. But she had just for one instant seen the flash of a ring on the left hand as he shaded the match. And the ring that Ailsa had seen was the gem of gold and rubies and diamonds that she had seen so often on the little finger of her guardian!
II.—THE PORTRAIT.
Ailsa stood there with a certain curious exultation in the knowledge that she was no longer afraid. Here was a real and tangible danger, so different to those suggested by the utter loneliness of the dreary old home. This was no spirit from the other world, but a real, live man, who had no business here. He was a burglar, after some of the valuables with which the house was crammed, and it was Ailsa's obvious duty to hand him over to the police without delay.
But was he no more than the average burglar? It seemed absurd to think so; but Ailsa's instinct told her that there was something more than met the eye. As she stood there she could hear the passing cabs outside and the tramp of a policeman trudging along his beat. It would have been so easy for Ailsa to slip quietly down the stairs and call the officer in.
And yet she stood there, hesitating, curious, and not afraid. If this man had been a real burglar he could have filled his pockets and departed as quietly as he had come. But he seemed to be looking about him for some definite object. As he moved again presently it struck Ailsa that he must be familiar with the house. There was none of that fumbling hesitation about the stranger. Perhaps he had forgotten his bearings for a moment, hence the striking of the match. A discharged servant, perhaps? But discharged servants do not wear diamond rings of price.
Then a sharp and sudden thought came to Ailsa. Had this man anything to do with the injury to the old woman lying in the kitchen? Susan had declared that her hurt had been caused by an accident; she had been unnecessarily emphatic on this point. Even in her semi delusion she had seemed very anxious to shield somebody. Ailsa made up her mind that she would go downstairs to make sure. It was easy to feel her way to the handrail and creep down noiselessly in her stockinged feet.
Old Susan still sat in her chair with her eyes closed. She was breathing more easily now; she seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep, the heavy sleep of intoxication as it appeared. But Ailsa knew that there was nothing of the kind here. It might be a cruel thing to do, but she laid a hand on Susan's shoulder and shook her forcibly. The old woman opened her eyes, and glared round her as if in terror.
"You'll be found out," she whispered. "He is certain to find out, and you'll go to gaol. Mind you, nothing can save you from that. But it was quite an accident."
The woman repeated the last sentence fiercely, as if trying to convince others of what she did not herself believe. Ailsa waited for the fit of anger to pass.
"What is that man doing upstairs?" she asked sternly. "Tell me at once."
Susan sat up suddenly, and her eyes gleamed. There was a look in them so cold and revengeful that Ailsa fairly staggered back. The old woman staggered to her feet, and caught the girl by her two wrists in a grip of steel. Her manly strength and vitality came positively as a revelation to Ailsa. She was terribly frightened, but she would not show it. She had read somewhere that it was the best thing to display coolness and courage in the face of dangerous lunacy, and that old Susan had suddenly gone mad she did not for a moment doubt. It cost the girl a great effort to keep back the cry of pain and fear that struggled for utterance at her lips.
And she felt quite sure, too, that old Susan knew all about the man upstairs. It was necessary to take a bold course, but Ailsa did not hesitate.
"I am not going to be put off like this," she said quietly. "There is something very wrong going on in the house—something that you are concealing from my guardian and your husband. Who is that man?"
Old Susan made no reply. She still gripped Ailsa tightly, but the look of madness was fading from her eyes, the pallid face grew less vivid.
"I don't know what you mean," she said. "You are talking in riddles. Go to bed, dearie, and leave a poor old woman alone. Was I unkind to you?"
The speaker had dropped Ailsa's hands, and stood sorrowfully regarding the hard red bands round the girl's wrists. The fit of sudden passion was passing as quickly as the dispersion of an April storm. Susan fell back in her chair again, and the dazed look was once more on her face. Evidently she had aroused herself with an effort that was utterly beyond her strength. Ailsa did not know whether to pity her or be sorry. But the girl did not mean to lose all the advantage she had gained.
"Has anybody been ill-treating you?" she asked. "Now, tell me?"
"Nobody," Susan muttered. "It was all an accident. I tell you it was an accident. And if you don't believe it, why, then, I say that you lie."
"We will not discuss that," Ailsa went on. "There is a man upstairs. He is there for no good purpose. Who is he, and what is he doing here? I am quite certain that you can give me the desired information, and I mean to have it. Tell me without any further prevarication who that man is and what he is after!"
"Nobody there," she muttered. "Nobody at all. Everything is changed, dearie, changed out of recognition. You'll want a candle, sure."
A glimmer of light flashed across Ailsa's understanding. Surely Susan was under the impression that she was talking to the man upstairs. He had had occasion to strike a match, as if he missed some familiar landmark in the dark, and here was Susan suggesting that somebody or other would certainly need a candle. From the bottom of her heart Ailsa wished that Thomas was back again. Old Susan might be seriously hurt, and yet, on the other hand, there might be nothing serious the matter with her.
"What is he looking for, and where is it?" Ailsa demanded, suddenly.
"The case," Susan said with a sudden flame of reason. "Behind one of the panels in the old Blue Room. Only it's not called the Blue Room now, dearie, it is missie's studio. But you'll never find it—he's too cunning for that."
There was sense in the speech, as Ailsa did fail to recognise. The swiftness of her question had caused Susan to betray herself. But the latter part of her speech was obviously addressed to somebody other than Ailsa. The old woman was wandering in her mind now between two people. Her head sank on her breast again, and she slumbered once more.
She was suffering from both mental and physical shock, as Ailsa could see. But she would have to be left to herself for a moment, as Ailsa's duty was upstairs. She was not in the least afraid now, she was going to see this thing through. That man was looking for something in her studio, at one time called the Blue Room. Painting was Ailsa's one joy, the blessed occupation that preserved her reason. Without it she would have passed into a green and yellow melancholy. The studio was all her own, nobody ever went there.
She had gathered the furniture together from different parts of the house: a Persian carpet from here, a statue from there, a suit of armour from another place. There were trophies of arms on the oak-panelled walls, old china and pictures of price. Ailsa's studio would not have disgraced the house of a distinguished and popular R.A. Even now there was a new interest added to the place in the presence of a man who was seeking for something there. Without the slightest suggestion of fear, Ailsa mounted the stairs again silently as ever in her bare feet;—she was not going to surprise the man, she had no intention of asking his business unless she was compelled to do so. But that he was going to take anything away without her consent, Ailsa denied. Probably he was in the studio by this time.
Ailsa's conclusions were absolutely correct. The man was moving about the studio muttering to himself as he came in contact with one unfamiliar object after another. He appeared to be at home, and yet he was very much abroad. A trinket fell to the floor with a crash, and the intruder swore aloud, than there was a grunt of satisfaction as the man's hand encountered a gas-bracket on the wall.
"Time enough, too," he muttered. "Well, I'll risk it. Better than breaking my neck and getting the house about me. I wonder what Colville would say if he could see me here at this moment. What on earth did I do with my matchbox?"
Ailsa slipped behind a screen by the doorway. The match flared out, there was a hissing of gas, and the soft pop of the flame as the vesta touched it. The light was very dim and low, for the gas was shaded by an opaque pink globe with a shade over it. Ailsa preferred a number of small subdued lights to one or two glaring large ones—the effect on the perfectly finished studio was much more artistic. The light was very faint, but it enabled the marauder to see what he was doing.
"I'll not light any more," he muttered. "This one is quite sufficient. By Jove, what a contrast to the last time I saw this room! Colville's ward is evidently a lady of very pretty taste. And she can paint, too, if that landscape yonder is an example of her work. Pretty things everywhere, the touch of the dainty feminine hand. Reminds me of the day when I was fit to enter decent society. Heavens! How long since was that?"
There was a tone of regret in the speaker's voice, the voice of a gentleman, as Ailsa did not fail to recognise. As she had felt from the first, this man was no vulgar midnight thief. He was on familiar ground; he was here for some definite purpose, no doubt, but Ailsa liked his voice. With his thick black hair and beard, and low hat, he looked a formidable ruffian enough; but somehow Ailsa was not in the least alarmed. She was watching the stranger through the carved scroll-work of the screen, in deep fascination.
"Where shall I begin?" he muttered. "I shall have to take these panels one by one. I hope I shan't make too much noise removing those gentlemen in armour. It may be behind the looking-glass over the fireplace. That will be a tight job. What a lot of photographs, and what pretty frames! I wonder which of those girls is my hostess. The one with the dark eyes and the serious face, perhaps. A very pretty girl, too. And here's a man. Don't like the look of him, anyway. And, good Heavens! who's this?"
The stranger's voice suddenly become hoarse and emotional. Evidently he had experienced a sudden shock of some kind. Ailsa could just see that his face was twitching. His hand trembled, too, as he took a small photograph in a gold frame from the shelf. Ailsa knew quite well whose portrait it was—a young man, with clean-shaven face and dark, fearless eyes. The chin was, perhaps, a little weak; but it was a pleasant, open face, and belonged to a man that most girls would like to call their own.
"To think of it," the stranger said, with the same pained thrill in his voice. "How did it get here? And who in the name of fortune—well, it's painful, very painful, and yet not without a suggestion of diabolical humour. Better to laugh than to cry over it."
The stranger commenced to laugh horribly. The mirth was so palpably forced that it hurt the listener crouched behind the screen. Ailsa, acting on the sudden impulse of the moment, stepped out and confronted the intruder, who had carefully replaced the portrait again. Already he had begun to tap the panels with his knuckles.
"What are you doing here?" Ailsa asked. "Why do you come at this time of night, when my guardian is away from home? And what are you interfering with my portraits for."
The man fell back as if something had stung him. Ailsa could not see his face, a part of which was masked with sticking-plaster as if he had been in some accident.
"I am very sorry," he said, "it would be too long a story to tell you. And I am afraid that you would not quite believe me. As to your portrait, I was only looking at the counterpart portrait of one whom I knew very well years ago."
Despite his rowdy, dissipated appearance, the man was a gentleman. He might have, indeed, no doubt he had, descended very far down the scale of respectability, but the fact remained.
"Ronald Braybrooke," Ailsa said with some hesitation. "Yes, I heard what you said when you looked at the picture. Ronald Braybrooke was an old friend of mine. But it is hard to believe that he could also have been a friend of yours."
A curious smile flitted over the face of the stranger. He appeared as if about to reply when the distant, sudden banging of a door sent him back in alarm. There was a cold draught of air, followed by a footstep on the stairs, and a man with a grey, somewhat forbidding face came into the studio. Before he had entered the room Ailsa was aware of the fact that her guardian was at hand. She also became conscious of her bare feet and the equivocal nature of this midnight adventure. Like a flash she darted behind the screen again, leaving her visitor alone. He hesitated just a moment, and then he stole across the room in the direction of the gas-bracket. But he was too late; Archibald Colville was already upon him.
"You here!" he cried, in a deep, pained voice. "You here, above all men. I would have given ten thousand pounds, poor as I am. And this is what you've come to, Ronald Braybrooke."
The name seemed to sting Ailsa like the lash of a whip. This Ronald Braybrooke?—this the man to whom she had years ago———? Oh, impossible! She stepped from behind the screen.
"There is some mistake," she said. "I am Ailsa Lefroy. And you are not Ronald Braybrooke."
The man hesitated for a moment. Some struggle seemed to be going on in his mind.
"No," he said, slowly. "You are quite right. I am not Ronald Braybrooke, because he is—dead——"
III.—JOHN STERN.
All the mystery of the dreadful old house was forgotten for the moment. The look of grief and unhappiness in the eyes of Ailsa was not lost upon the intruder. He gave one searching glance upwards, and then his own gaze fell. There was a suggestion of shame about him; he had lost his insolent audacity.
Ailsa's heart was beating almost to suffocation. She had had a very trying day, and she had passed a still more trying evening. Her courage had been put to a high test, and it had not failed her. But now that help was at hand, womanlike, she felt as if she were going to break down altogether. But there was the dreadful suggestion of Archibald Colville to sustain her.
What did he mean by calling this shabby and disreputable intruder by the name of Ronald Braybrooke! That was the name of Ailsa's lover—the manly, central figure of her one romance. Ronald had been tall and strong and brave—a cavalier sans peur et sans reproche. It seemed almost ridiculous to connect him with the shuffling figure hanging back there beyond the light of the lamps.
Archibald Colville turned to Ailsa and motioned her away. He intimated pretty plainly that this was no place for a young girl. But Ailsa did not move. There was more than one suspicion uppermost in her mind. Why was Colville here at this moment, when he had actually telegraphed old Thomas to meet him in Birmingham? And why did he come home to his own house like a thief in the night?
"Go away," he said. "Go away and leave me to settle with this gentleman. This is no place for you. Don't be afraid for me. I assure you that the fellow is not likely to do me a mischief."
The man keeping out of the shadow of the lamps laughed. He seemed to be more or less sure of the ground on which he stood.
"There is some mistake here," Ailsa said, in a voice that was indifferently steady. "My dear guardian, why do you speak of this man as Ronald Braybrooke?"
"Because that is his name," Colville said, hoarsely. "Otherwise he would not be here at all. It is true that my personal knowledge of Mr. Braybrooke is not great. I have not seen him for some years, but we have frequently corresponded. It seems to me——"
"That there is some dreadful mistake here," Ailsa interrupted. "I knew Ronald Braybrooke intimately. Up to four years ago, when my parents died, I saw him every day. I was only sixteen then, and he was quite a man, but I liked him; we were great friends. Liked him! Nay, I loved him, though no word of love ever escaped my lips. I regarded him as a model of all that a man should be. And when you call that man Ronald Braybrooke, why, my heart laughs the suggestion to scorn."
The deep contempt in the girl's young voice seemed to disturb the intruder. The sullen red of his face deepened, but he kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
"Ronald Braybrooke is dead," he said, sulkily. "It may be a shock to the young lady's feelings, but as the truth is told there can be no good done by hiding it. I won't go so far as to say that Ronald Braybrooke was a friend of mine; as a matter of fact I have been his greatest curse. But circumstances over which neither of us had any control threw us much together. I tell you he is dead, I was present at his funeral or what passed for it. He was washed off a smack and died at sea. I saw it done. And I can prove the whole thing if you give me time——"
"I am quite sure that this man speaks the truth," Ailsa faltered.
A thin sneer curled Archibald Colville's lips. He shook his head doubtfully.
"I am not convinced," he said. "With so much mystery in the air, I shall want all the proof you can give."
"I am sick and tired of mystery," Ailsa cried passionately. "The house reeks of it, the unlucky No. 13 stifles me. You, my guardian, tell me that you could not possibly return till the morrow, and yet you come into your own house like a thief in the night. You were surprised to see me here—your face had a look of guilty fear on it. And then old Susan meets with an accident. In her delirium she discloses certain things. On the top of it I find this man, this derelict of humanity, who tells me that the only one I ever cared for is dead. Why do you come back like this, guardian? why is this man here? What does he seek? It is not as if he were a stranger—he knows the house as well as I do. What does it mean?"
Colville shook his head slowly like one who relinquishes a difficult position. But his face grew hard again as he turned to the intruder.
"I can't explain," he said. "It is too long and pitiful a story. And as to this man, I do not know what to think. I could have sworn—but then he asserts that he is prepared to prove what he says. Let me tell you something concerning the fortunes of Ronald Braybrooke. Never mind how, but he suddenly became possessed of a large fortune. Braybrooke was poor and ambitious, and would have given much for the money to carry out his designs. And if he were alive now he would be the master of £100,000. On business connected with this money I have been away. But I had to return to-night secretly. Do you hear what I say, fellow? Ronald Braybrooke has become entitled to £100,000. If he likes to come forward and claim it, the money is his to-morrow."
Something in the tone of the speech seemed to madden the intruder. He lifted a pair of eyes that glowed like living coals to Colville. His hands were clenched so tightly that Ailsa could see how the knuckles stood out like white seams on his brown hands. He trembled as if in the grip of some great physical pain. But all the same he kept his face in the shadow, half hidden as it was by the plaster on his cheeks.
Ailsa held her breath. Not for a moment had she credited anything that Colville had said; indeed, it seemed to her that he was acting a part. In her heart of hearts the girl felt that this human derelict could in no way be connected with her own Ronald Braybrooke. She recalled his face and form vividly to her mind now. Oh no, it could not be as Colville had said.
And yet here was Archibald Colville putting him to the test. If that crouching figure really was Ronald Braybrooke, then he had fallen very low indeed. He looked as if latterly he had lacked the bare necessaries of life. And here was Colville offering him—provided he was Braybrooke—a handsome fortune. It was enough to tempt even the noblest and most honourable of men!
"What nonsense all this is," Ailsa cried. "Do you think that I should fail to recognise Ronald Braybrooke, even if he were so utterly changed as—I mean in any circumstances? I should recognise him anywhere. And yet you, who say that you have not seen him for many years, pit your opinion against mine!"
"You don't know what you are talking about," Colville said, roughly. "I have seen men so changed in a few years that their own mothers did not know them. I know a case in which a father refused to recognise his own daughter. I merely repeat what I said before: Ronald Braybrooke is not dead, and this man knows it. For some purpose of his own he is acting a part. Produce Ronald Braybrooke, and let him come forward and claim the fortune of £100,000."
"Braybrooke is very fortunate," the stranger said. "If he had only known that a few days ago he would never have been drowned in the North Sea. And as to his ambitions, you are perfectly correct. This money would have been a god-send to him. But he lies at the bottom of the German Ocean, and there is an end of him."
"Strange," Colville muttered in a sarcastic tone. "Very strange indeed! Still stranger that a nameless vagabond like you should come and give us this information this night of all nights. Stranger still that you should be here at all, strangest of all that you should be familiar with my house. Braybrooke was—as a boy."
"And Braybrooke might have told me things," the intruder said, defiantly. "Yes, you have summed up my character quite correctly. I am a nameless vagabond, who was once a gentleman. It matters little that I have come so low as this—I who used to pride myself upon my honour and integrity. Call me John Stern, for want of a better name, and hand me over to the police if you like. But why I am here and what my business is, I shall not say if I hang for it."
There was a curiously dry smile on Colville's lips as he listened. It was quite plain that he did not believe a word that Stern was saying. "You had better come down to my room and talk the matter over," he said. "There are certain circumstances that make it desirable to keep the police in ignorance of what has taken place here to-night. Otherwise I should have given you into custody without the slightest hesitation. I want to be convinced that Ronald Braybrooke is really dead. There is a way—but stop. I have another idea. Write the facts shortly, and on a sheet of notepaper, and sign them. Have you any paper and pen here. Ailsa?"
Stern gave a short quick laugh that sounded like derision. If there was a trap here he saw it quite plainly. Ailsa shook her head—there was nothing of the kind in the studio.
"I will fetch everything necessary from my room," muttered Colville. "I don't think our friend is likely to run away or do any harm to you, Ailsa."
Stern laughed in his quick, derisive way. Something seemed to amuse him scornfully.
"I am not going to run away," he said between his teeth, "and I am not in the least likely to do any harm to the young lady. Besides she was disposed to be fond of a man whom I liked. A man who might have done better had he had a better chance. Get your writing paper, old fox."
Colville slipped out of the room quietly. There was a painful silence for a moment.
"Are you concealing something from me?" Ailsa asked. "The thing is so amazing that I have not recovered from my surprise yet. It is amazing that I should have told you, told anybody, that I cared for Ronald Braybrooke. But he was so handsome, and so noble; he was the only young man I ever knew in my quiet vicarage home. It was only a girlish dream, but when I knew he was dead, I felt it was more than a dream. And I told you because I have a curious fancy that you were once a good man, and that all good feelings are not yet dead in you. Did you care for Ronald?"
"I was at once his greatest friend and his greatest enemy. And because my good feelings are not yet dead, and because the sound of your voice and your simple faith have brought back many things to me long forgotten, I am making a tremendous sacrifice. If you only knew the sacrifice I am making to-night you would pity me and be sorry for me. I want you to believe this as I never wanted anybody to believe anything in the world before."
There was a ring of passionate sincerity in the speaker's voice that touched Ailsa.
"I believe you," she said, with a sudden impulse. "Do you know you have almost caught poor Ronald's trick of voice. If I may inquire the nature of the sacrifice——"
"No. I do not want to speak curtly, but I cannot give you the slightest indication of it. That would spoil everything. Some day, perhaps, I may tell you more fully. I have been a bad man, but I am not going to be a bad man in future. And you are responsible for the change. But I was almost forgetting. You guess or you overheard something of my errand. I implore you to say nothing whatever about it to your guardian. There are reasons why—pressing reasons why——"
Stern's voice died in a murmur as Colville's shuffling feet were heard again. He had an alert and business air as he returned to the room, and the cynical, dry smile was still on his lips. He cleared a table of a mass of artistic litter, and placed pen and ink and notepaper thereon. Then he drew a chair up to the table.
"What I want you to do is simple," he explained. "Please write the bald facts of Ronald Braybrooke's death on half a sheet of notepaper and sign it. My ward shall witness the document. And after that is done I will not seek to detain you. A little more light——"
"Not on my account," Stern said, hastily. "Since my accident my eyes are not as they were, and any strong light affects them. All you want, I suppose, is the name of the smack and the owner, the date of the catastrophe, and just how it happened?"
Colville nodded in the same dry way. He looked like some criminal lawyer who has just seen his witness with his head in the trap. But the smile faded and the irritation deepened on his face as Stern took up the pen in his left hand.
"Why do you do that?" he asked sharply. "You are not necessarily left-handed. I could see that by the way you arranged the paper on the table."
"Which proves nothing," Stern said, coolly. "My right hand has suffered also, so that for the present I am compelled to use my left. Won't you sit down—it is rather a long process."
Colville sat down, biting his thin lips. It was a tedious process, and Stern crumpled up one sheet of paper after ten minutes and thrust it in his pocket. The next effort was more successful, and the sheet was handed to Colville.
"Yes, it seems all right," he said, speaking with the air of one who disguises his vexation. "I don't think I need detain you any longer. Perhaps you had better append your address, and then my ward may sign it. Thanks."
With a gesture Stern motioned Colville to the door. As the latter passed out of the studio Stern took the crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Ailsa. She covered it with her hand very quickly. She closed the door on the others, then she opened the paper.
"I had to trick the old man," it said. "There was no time to tell you. You have been very good to me to-night, and you will never regret it. Be discreet and silent; never let Mr. Colville know why I came and what I was looking for behind the panels of your studio. That must be the secret between us. I have a feeling that we shall meet again. And until we do so have no curiosity as to what was wrong with old Susan to-night. Never let her know that you suspected or knew anything. And God bless you for a good and true woman, who has come near to saving a lost soul to-night."
Ailsa read the carefully-disguised hand twice thoughtfully, then she tore the note in shreds and dropped them one by one into the fireless grate.
IV.—THE LADY NEXT DOOR.
Ailsa stood there with a feeling that the events of the night were not yet over. She had forgotten pretty well everything besides the fact that Ronald Braybrooke was dead. The news had been a great shock, and it had left a dull aching pain behind. Ailsa's mind had travelled rapidly back over the bridge of years to the time when she had been continually happy in her country home-life before her father died and left her to the care of Mr. Colville. Those had been happy days indeed, for Mr. Lefroy had been a dreamer and scholar, and he had been in the habit of leaving his sixteen-year-old daughter very much to herself. Hence the great intimacy which had grown up between the girl and Ronald Braybrooke. Ailsa had always looked upon him as her beau-ideal of what a man should be; from a child she had unconsciously loved him. Perhaps she had not known it then, but she did now.
And yet no words of love had ever passed between them. It was a kind of beautiful idyll, rudely shattered by the sudden death of Mr. Lefroy. Ronald was away in London at the time, with some vague idea of making his fortune, and Ailsa had written to him. Probably he did not receive the letter, for no reply came. And then Mr. Colville came upon the scene and took Ailsa to town with him at No. 13, Vernon-terrace.
What a vast number of years ago it seemed to her now. And there had come no further signs of Ronald. Still the girl had gone on trusting him; she had never doubted him for a moment. And now the end had come, and the knowledge of it all in such a strange, wild way as this.
Ailsa was inclined to believe the story of John Stern. Outcast and despised as he appeared to be, there was something about the man that did not repel Ailsa. That he was no common thief she felt certain. She also felt that his right name was not John Stern, and that he had some very powerful reason for writing that message with his left hand. Ailsa wondered what part her guardian was playing in the drama. She had read much of rascally guardians and the fortunes of their wards. But, then, she had no fortune, and Mr. Colville did not in the least resemble a guardian of melodrama.
Still, he was acting a part; of that Ailsa felt certain. Also, why had he crept back to his own house like a thief in the night, when he had expressly telegraphed that he could not possibly get back from Birmingham?
Ailsa put the whole thing out of her mind now as she suddenly recollected the plight in which she had left old Susan. But perhaps her husband Thomas had returned. On the other hand, he might have gone by the mid-night train to Birmingham; it was just possible that Mr. Colville desired to get his henchman out of the way.
Anyway, Ailsa felt that she must find out for herself. Mr. Colville's study was closed as he passed along, and sounds of subdued voices came from the room. Ailsa could not hear anybody talking in the basement. She found that old Susan had crossed over to a deep beehive armchair, where she had fallen asleep. Old Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Beyond doubt he had proceeded to Birmingham as arranged. Ailsa shook the sleeping figure and the aged woman muttered in her dreams.
"Are you better?" Ailsa asked. "Is there anything that I can get for you?"
The old woman opened her eyes and looked around. Ailsa was relieved to see that there was nothing really serious the matter. The woman had had a physical shock of some kind, but there was mental terror behind it all. She did not seem to recognise Ailsa.
"Where is your husband?" the girl demanded. "What has become of him?"
A spasm of sudden terror set Susan's wrinkled old features trembling like a harp-string. She looked about her in a cunning, hopeless kind of way.
"Gone," she whispered. "Put out of the way, my dear. Oh, he is a deep one is master. But he's afraid of Thomas same as I am and everybody else. Thomas could tell some strange stories if he liked. Ask John Stern."
The latter sentence was as sudden as it was unexpected. Ailsa promptly asked who John Stern might be. But the woman had a glimmer of reason, and she only smiled. It was quite evident that though she was not hurt very much, the shock had affected her reason for the time. Still, it was possible to learn a good deal.
"Who is John Stern?" Ailsa asked again. In the circumstances her curiosity was quite pardonable. "Susan, you are going to tell me that."
The old woman shook her head. The puzzled vague expression was on her face again. Ailsa would have given much to know whether she was acting or not. Be that as it may, old Susan had the name of the midnight intruder pat enough. Ailsa made one more bold attempt to get at the truth.
"I have asked you a question and I insist upon an answer," she said. "Now listen to me, and don't pretend that you fail to understand. You said just now that the name of the man was John Stern. He told your master so, but your master refused to believe anything of the kind. Mr. Colville mentioned quite another name, do you guess what it is?"
Ailsa could see that old Susan was listening now. Her lips were parted, and her breath came with quick, painful gasps between them. The girl perceived her advantage. She took for granted that Susan understood.
"He addressed the stranger as Ronald Braybrooke," Ailsa went on. "The dead Ronald Braybrooke I knew a year or two ago as one of the handsomest of men. Have you heard of him before?"
The old woman shook her head and averted her eyes.
"No, no," she cried. "There must be a mistake somewhere. Ronald Braybrooke is dead; he was drowned in the North Sea. I swear to you that he is gone, and that he will never be seen again till the sea gives up its dead. And as to John Stern, I have never so much as heard of him."
"Why you have just used his name," Ailsa protested. "Have you lost your memory entirely, or are you merely lying to me."
The dogged, sullen look came into her weary, lined old face again. It was quite evident to Ailsa that she was going to get no more information. And yet she could not but feel that the old woman was actuated by some queer kind of negative friendship for her, or why did she dribble out these pellets of information from time to time? There was nothing for it now but to wait for some more favourable opportunity.
"I am going to take you to bed," Ailsa said firmly. "Come along, you can lean on me. This way."
Quite obediently old Susan struggled to her feet. The vacant look was still in her eyes, and undiluted terror distended in them. Verily there were more mysteries in this strange house than Ailsa dreamed of. And she had suspected nothing wrong before. A sharp, quick laugh breaking from behind the study door sounded strangely out of place there. But the old woman seemed to hear nothing of it.
It was by no means an easy business to get her up the stairs, for she was heavy and drowsy with the sleep that lay upon her. Ailsa had to ask three times before she could ascertain the direction of the bedroom. She paused on the threshold in astonishment.
"Not here, surely," she protested. "Susan, this is not your room. Impossible!"
"Nobody else's," Susan said, with a sudden glimmer of reason. "Think I don't know. Oh, my dearie, why did you ever come here? A house of sorrows, if ever there was one. And all the purple and fine linen in the world will never make it anything else."
Ailsa led the way without further expostulation. She was getting accustomed to these surprises. It struck her now for the first time that ever and anon Susan displayed suggestions of refinement of speech as if she had seen better days. Certainly she had no reason to complain on the score of comfort in her room. The place was magnificently furnished, the suite of ebony, inlaid with ivory, fit for the room of a duchess. Ailsa was struck by the thickness of the carpet, the beauty of the pictures. And on the dressing-table stood a splendid array of flowers in Bohemian glasses.
The old woman slept here beyond doubt. She was in a position to indicate this thing and that which she needed. There was an ivory comb and a pair of silver-backed brushes. Ailsa wondered that she had never seen these wonders for herself before. And yet Susan seemed to take it as a matter of course.
"Get me into bed, dearie," she said, "for I am very tired. I don't know who you are, but you are very kind to a poor, worn creature like me."
It was strange how the speaker lapsed from sense to childishness and back again. She had been badly knocked about by somebody, but she had been terribly frightened at the same time. She lay heavily on the bed as Ailsa undressed her. Under her coarse black dress was the finest lace and linen, and on her breast hung a gold locket, with the features of a beautiful little girl inside. Ailsa wondered more and more. There was every suggestion of luxury and refinement here, and yet Susan's hands were hard, and red, and knotted with the toil of years. There was some strange mystery here, and Ailsa meant to get at the bottom of it. She had her aged burden comfortably between the sheets at last.
"And now you are going to sleep peacefully till morning," she commanded. "Is there anything that I can get for you before I go to bed myself?"
The figure between the sheets opened her eyes and looked around. Just for a moment she was absolutely clear and sensible.
"No thank you, Miss Ailsa," she said, quite briskly. "I met with an accident—caught my foot in the stair-carpet. It is a good thing that he is not in the house. He would have said that it was entirely my own fault. Just as if anybody can prevent accidents of that kind! But you should not have come here, miss."
"Why not?" Ailsa asked. "Somebody had to put you to bed. Why not?"
"I don't know," Susan replied, lapsing into her vague manner again. "But don't you tell him anything about it, and don't you trust to the other one whatever you do. It is the sixth panel from the floor, counting 16 from the picture of the lady by Holbein. And don't you make any mistake about that. Oh, she's a deep one, she is!"
So there was another woman in this maddening business somewhere, Ailsa told herself. Ailsa would have liked to get something more from Susan; but she had really fallen asleep by this time, and it seemed a pity to wake her. Also it might not be policy to arouse her suspicions more than was necessary. Very quietly Ailsa crept down the stairs just in time to hear the sullen bang of the front door as Colville let out the strange guest. He was in the hall as Ailsa passed along. He said "Good-night!" in his usual cold, distant manner, as if nothing out of the common had taken place.
"I am going to bed," he said. "It is nearly three o'clock. If you have not quite finished down here, will you turn out the gas as you come up?"
"I will see to that," Ailsa replied. "Mr. Colville, who was that strange man? And what did he want in the house in so questionable a manner? Above all, do you think he was telling the truth about Ronald Braybrooke?
