30 chapters
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30 chapters
Chapter One.
Chapter One.
“Don’t drink our sherry, Charles?” Mr Preenham, the butler, stood by the table in the gloomy servants’ hall, as if he had received a shock. “No, sir; I took ’em up the beer at first, and they shook their heads and asked for wine, and when I took ’em the sherry they shook their heads again, and the one who speaks English said they want key-aunty.” “Well, all I have got to say,” exclaimed the portly cook, “is, that if I had known what was going to take place, I wouldn’t have stopped an hour after
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Chapter Two.
Chapter Two.
“Had my uncle met with any great disappointment?” said the first speaker, a frank-looking man with closely curling brown hair, and a high, white forehead. “What, to make him take to this strange life? Oh, no. He was peculiar, but not unhappy. He liked to be alone, but he was always bright and cheerful at his club.” “You met him there, then?” said a fresh voice, and a handsome, dark young fellow, who had been leaning back in an easy chair in the dim drawing-room, sat up quickly, playing with his
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Chapter Three.
Chapter Three.
“No, no!” cried the old Indian, whose English in his rage and excitement was less distinct, “a thief—come to rob—my dear lord—a thief!” “I hope, sir,” said the footman, growing calmer and looking in an injured way at Mr Girtle, “you know me better than that, sir. Mr Preenham here will tell you I’ve cleaned the plate regular all the ten years I’ve been here.” The old solicitor turned to the butler. “Yes, sir; Charles’s duty has been to clean the plate, but it is in my charge, and I have kept the
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Chapter Four.
Chapter Four.
“What, the Italian professors? Pooh! what a child you are. I did not mind.” Lydia gazed at her with a feeling of shrinking wonder, and there was something almost fierce in the beautiful eyes, as Katrine sat there by one of the tables of the ill-lit drawing-room, the two pairs of wax candles in old-fashioned silver sticks seeming to emit but a feeble light, and but for the warm glow of the fire, the great room would have been sombre in the extreme. “What time is it, Lydia? There, don’t start like
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Chapter Five.
Chapter Five.
“There, what did I tell you?” said Katrine, in a low, sweet voice, as she smiled at her companions. “To Gerard Artis, son of my cousin, William Artis,” read on Mr Girtle, in the same monotonous, unmoved way; and then he stopped to draw one of the candles forward in front of the parchment. The young man shifted his position uneasily, and drew in his breath quickly as he thought of the testator’s immense wealth, and glanced at Katrine. “I shall not get all,” he thought, “for he will leave somethin
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Chapter Six.
Chapter Six.
“What do you mean?” he whispered, hastily. She looked full in his eyes, and he tried to read the mystery in their depths, but without avail. “Why don’t you speak?” he cried. “Some things are better left unspoken,” she replied. “Don’t be rash.” “I’ll wait.” he whispered, “if you wish it.” “I do wish it. Take no notice of what I say or do. Promise me that.” “Promise me you will not make me jealous, and I’ll wait.” “But maybe I shall make you jealous,” she said. “Still, you know me. Wait.” “I’m sor
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Chapter Seven.
Chapter Seven.
Paul Capel felt a natural instinctive shrinking from approaching the bed, but he did not hesitate, stepping forward with reverence, and even then his heart gave a throb of satisfaction that one of his female companions should have stepped calmly to his side. Lying there as in a darkened tent, with a couple of Indian tulwars crossed upon the bed’s head, was a perfectly plain oaken coffin of unusual size, and without the slightest ornamentation save that on the lid, resting against the side, was a
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Chapter Eight.
Chapter Eight.
“The ladies! Don’t let the ladies come!” It was too late; they were already there; and the women-servants were dimly seen in the gloom at the foot of the stairs. “But what is wrong?” cried Capel. “I—I—” The butler passed his hand over his humid face, and looked piteously from one to the other. “Preenham! Speak, man! At once!” said Mr Girtle, sternly. “I woke at half-past seven, sir,” he said, in a trembling voice, “and wondered that I had not been called at seven. Mr Ramo, sir, always rose very
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Chapter Nine.
Chapter Nine.
“Impossible!” said the lawyer. “The door is shut. Stop. Let me see,” and stooping, he thrust his hand inside the silken robe the old Indian wore. There was a dead silence as he searched hastily, and then drew out the keys and chain. “All safe,” he cried; “see, here are the keys. They slip off and on this spring swivel; the old man always wore them there. The key of that door; the key of the iron chamber; the key of the steel chest. Gentlemen, I shall remove the keys. Mr Capel, they are yours, no
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Chapter Ten.
Chapter Ten.
“Now, then,” he cried; “is it surrender?” There was no answer, and, he thrust his hand beneath the bed, seized the man’s leg, and dragged him out into the room, but only to loose his hold and start away. “Why, doctor!” he cried, “he’s dead.” The doctor caught up a candlestick and dropped on one knee beside the fresh horror, while the light from the bull’s-eye was again brought to bear, and mingled with the wan, yellow rays that struggled in through the panes. “Good God, gentlemen!” gasped the bu
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Chapter Eleven.
Chapter Eleven.
One of Artis’s favourite allusions was to the house his companion inherited. “I felt horribly jealous of you at first,” he said. “Seemed such a pot of money; but with special commands to live here with a haunted room, and a mausoleum beyond it—no, thank you.” “What shall you do with the chamber of horrors?” said Artis, on another occasion. “You heard—it is to be built-up.” “No, no; I mean the bedroom. Ugh!” “I shall take that as my own.” “What? A room haunted with the spirits of three dead men!
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Chapter Twelve.
Chapter Twelve.
“Well, Mr Girtle,” said Capel, at last, in a voice that he vainly strove to make firm; “what have you to say?” “To say?” said the old lawyer, hastily. “Oh, it is all a cock and bull story,” cried Artis. “There never was any treasure.” “Silence, sir,” cried the old lawyer recovering himself. “How can you speak like that in the presence of the dead?” “Bah!” cried Artis. “Presence of the dead, indeed! Presence of a mummy. Would you have me pull a long face as I went through the British Museum?” “I
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Chapter Thirteen.
Chapter Thirteen.
“No one accused you, Mr Artis.” “Oh, no, of course not; that would be too good a joke. Then I shall stay.” “Our case is different,” said Lydia, turning red, and then pale. “Mr Capel, Miss D’Enghien and I, if we can be of no more use, would like to say good-bye this afternoon.” “But why?” cried Capel, as he glanced at the speaker, and then fixed his eyes on Katrine. “There is no occasion for you to leave.” “I think Miss Lawrence is right,” said Katrine. “But I want help and counsel from both of y
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Chapter Fourteen.
Chapter Fourteen.
“Oh, impossible.” “Perhaps so, sir, but I am telling you what I believe. Do you think he had any enemies here?” “Oh, no; the servants seemed to have been on friendly terms.” “Well, it hardly seems like it.” “That wretch must have yielded to a terrible temptation,” said Capel, “and the other was defending his master’s goods.” “What goods?” said the doctor. Capel was silent. “I see, sir, there is more mystery about this than you care to explain. Was there some heavy sum of money in the late Colone
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Chapter Fifteen.
Chapter Fifteen.
“I say,” he cried, returning the gaze, “what do you mean? You don’t think I killed those two fellows, and got the plunder, do you?” “I don’t know,” she replied. “Well, then, I didn’t. I never had the chance.” “Or the brains to conceive such a coup .” “Look here,” cried Artis. “Don’t speak so loud, Gerard.” “Oh, very well. But look here, Madam Clever, did you manage that bit of business?” Katrine raised her soft, white hands. “Don’t do that,” said the young man. “You make me want to kiss them.” “
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Chapter Sixteen.
Chapter Sixteen.
“Katrine, you here?” he exclaimed. There were candles on an occasional table, and he lit one before the little wax match burned down, and then he remained speechless for the moment, gazing at Katrine D’Enghien, who stood within the back drawing-room, her long hair loosely knotted on her neck, her white arms outstretched before her, and half away from him. She stood motionless, as if turned to stone. “Katrine!” he cried again. He took a step or two towards her, his first impulse being to clasp he
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Chapter Seventeen.
Chapter Seventeen.
“What, have you found the clue?” “Not yet,” said the old man, quietly; “but I have found an angel.” “A what?” “An angel. You did not know we had one in this house.” “Indeed, but I did,” cried Capel. “Ah, yes,” said the old man, looking at him thoughtfully; “but I’m afraid we are not thinking of the same.” “Indeed, but we are,” said Capel, warmly. “No one who has seen Miss D’Enghien—” “Could hesitate to say that she is a very handsome woman,” said the old lawyer, “but I was referring to Miss Lawr
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Chapter Eighteen.
Chapter Eighteen.
Keys? Yes, there were several there which the old lawyer used. Capel recalled that the key of the plate closet had been placed there when Preenham had handed it over. He listened, but there was no further sound. Yes; the low breathing could be heard, and it suddenly dawned upon Capel that Katrine had been approaching him—there she was close at hand. He had only to stretch forth his arms and the next instant she would have been folded to his breast. It was a hard fight, but he had read of a sudde
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Chapter Nineteen.
Chapter Nineteen.
“Here, you’re always putting on the pace too much, Dick,” said the little man. “A fellow wants a little time. He’s on, you see if he isn’t. My respects to you, Mr Barnes. Hah! nice flavoured drop of gin that.” “You see, you know the house well,” continued the tall man. “Often been, of course?” “Oh, yes; had many a glass of wine there, when poor Charles was alive.” “Rather a bit of mystery, that,” said the little man. “I put that and that together, and I set it down that he was trying the job on
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Chapter Twenty.
Chapter Twenty.
Then the lover intervened on her behalf. No; she could not be. To suppose that she was awake was to credit her with being deceitful—with cheating him into the belief that night that she was asleep. He was about to spring out, throw himself at her feet, and waken her with his caresses, but a chilling feeling of repulsion stayed him. It might work mischief in the terrible fright it would give her at being awakened in that gloomy room. And besides, what a place to select for his passionate avowals.
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Chapter Twenty One.
Chapter Twenty One.
There was no answer; only a vigorous thrust from the hands placed upon his chest, and he felt that she was trying to open the door, trembling violently the while. “Katrine,” he whispered, “why do you not trust me? Wake up. There is nothing to fear.” He tried to clasp her in his arms again, but with a quick movement she eluded him, and as he caught at her again, it seemed as if the great curtain had been thrust into his arms, for he grasped that, and as he flung it away, the door struck him in th
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Chapter Twenty Two.
Chapter Twenty Two.
“Quick, Morris,” whispered a voice. “No, no. Curse you. Shut the window. There’s only one. Where’s your matches? Quick, light the glim! Ah, would you? Lie still and bite that. You just move again and I’ll pull the trigger.” The barrel of a revolver had been thrust between Capel’s teeth, and as he lay back with the man on his chest, half stunned, helpless and despairing, he saw indistinctly the figure against the window, heard the sash slide down, and the darkness was complete as the curtain was
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Chapter Twenty Three.
Chapter Twenty Three.
“Are we going to wait for Capel?” said Artis. “I’m so hungry, I feel quite ashamed,” said Katrine; “but I think we ought to wait.” “There is nothing to be ashamed of in a healthy young appetite, my dear young lady,” said the old lawyer. “I have been reading in my room since six, and I should like to begin. I don’t suppose he will be long. Mr Capel out, Preenham?” “I think not, sir,” said the butler, who was bringing in a covered dish. “Perhaps you had better tell him that we are all assembled. H
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Chapter Twenty Four.
Chapter Twenty Four.
“It is all dark,” he said. “No it is the curtain,” and forcing his way through, he drew back the hangings from the window. “It’s poor Capel—dead!” whispered Artis, who had followed. “Here, Preenham, come in,” he cried angrily. “Oh, how horrible—poor lad!” The lawyer saw the naked sword lying on the carpet; that the drawers and cabinet had been ransacked; and that the window was not quite shut down. He took this in at a glance as he ran to where Capel lay close to the door, where he had dragged h
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Chapter Twenty Five.
Chapter Twenty Five.
“I came to see if I could help you.” “And glided in like a thief, to hide there, listening to his words. What is it you want to know? Was it to hear him say he loved you?” whispered Lydia, with her face full of scorn. “I do not understand you.” “You do understand. And it was not for that. You have heard him whisper to you—no—waste upon you loving words enough.” “Really,” said Katrine, who had recovered from her temporary confusion, consequent upon the abrupt discovery of her presence. “Surely, m
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Chapter Twenty Six.
Chapter Twenty Six.
“No, no,” said Mr Girtle, hurriedly. “I have not seen him yet. I was so angry that I returned at once. I really beg your pardon, but all this trouble has rather taken me off my balance.” He nodded, and left the room, and Katrine glanced at the doctor. “Over-work and anxiety, my dear madam,” he said. “I shall have to give him a little advice. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll go up-stairs.” “But doctor,” cried Katrine; “is Mr Capel really better?” “It is hardly just to call him better while this d
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Chapter Twenty Seven.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
That afternoon, when Mr Girtle entered the library, he found a plainly-dressed man awaiting him—a man who, save that he gave the idea of having once been a soldier, might have passed for anything, from a publican to an idler whose wife let lodgings, and made it unnecessary for him to toil or spin. “Morning, sir. You had my card, I see. I’ve called about the attempt made here the other night.” “Attempt?” “Yes, sir; the burglary.” “How did you know there was an attempt?” “Oh, we get to know a litt
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Chapter Twenty Eight.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
“Yes, yes. I see what is the matter with you, my man,” said Heston. “I’ll soon set you all right.” “Lor’, what humbugs doctors are,” said the detective, looking at his prescription, as he went away. “I suppose I must take this stuff, though, before I go and see him again.” “Curious thing, nature,” said Heston, as soon as the detective had gone; “that man thinks he’s ill, and there’s nothing whatever the matter with him. Fancy, brought on from hard thought and work.” The doctor was wiser than the
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Chapter Twenty Nine.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
“Why didn’t you say that at first?” cried Artis; and he went up two stairs at a time, to find Katrine in the act of throwing herself into a chair, and looking flushed and hot. “You here?” she said, wearily. “My darling!” he cried. “If I had only known. At last!” He threw himself at her feet, clasped her waist, and drew her half resisting towards him, while before a minute had elapsed, her arms were resting upon his shoulders, and her eyes were half closed in a dreamy ecstasy, as she yielded to t
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Chapter Thirty.
Chapter Thirty.
So it came about that one morning, when he presented himself at the Dark House, he was saluted by Mr Preenham with: “Why, how do you do? We thought we’d quite lost you, Mr Linnett, sir. You look quite brown.” “I’ve been pretty well all over America since I saw you, Mr Preenham, and now, sir, just go and give them my card and say I want to see them on very particular business.” “Have you found out anything, Mr Linnett?” “You wait a bit, my dear sir. Just take up the card.” Mr Girtle was in the li
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