Chapter Eight. More Mystery.

I halted on the threshold, wondering and aghast.

Vera, in her hat and jacket, stood facing me a few yards away. She was extremely pale. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and I saw at once she had been weeping.

For a moment neither of us spoke. Then, pulling myself together—

“Why, darling, what are you doing here?” I asked.

She did not answer. Her big, blue, unfathomable eyes were set on mine. There was in them an expression I had not seen there before—an odd, unnatural look, which made me feel uncomfortable.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “Why did you call upon me with Davies?”

Her lips moved, but no words came. I went over and took her hand. It was quite cold.

Suddenly she spoke slowly, and hoarsely, but like some one in a trance.

“I cannot tell you,” she said simply. “I wanted to see you.”

“Oh, but you must!”

Her eyes met mine, and I saw her arched brows contract slightly.

“Nobody says, ‘must’ to me,” she answered, in a tone that chilled me.

“Vera! Vera!” I exclaimed, dismayed at her strange manner, “what is the matter? What has happened to you, darling? Why are you like this? Don’t you need my help now? You told me on the telephone that you did.”

“On the telephone? When was that?”

“Why, not three weeks ago. Surely you remember? It was the last time we spoke to each other. You had begun to tell me your address, when suddenly we were cut off.”

I saw her knit her brows, as though trying to remember. Then, all at once, memory seemed to return.

“Ah, yes,” she exclaimed, more in her ordinary voice. “I recollect. I wanted your help then. I needed it badly, but now—”

“Well, what?” I said anxiously, as she checked herself.

“It’s too late—now,” she whispered. My arm was about her thin waist, and I felt that she shuddered.

“Vera, what has happened? Tell me—oh, tell me, dearest!”

I took both her small hands in mine. I was seriously alarmed, for there was a strange light in her eyes.

“Why did you not come when I wanted you?” she asked, bitterly.

“I would have, but how could I without knowing where you were?”

She paused in indecision.

“I’m sorry. You are too late, Dick,” and she shook her head mournfully.

“Oh, don’t say that,” I cried, not knowing what to think. “Has some misfortune befallen you? Tell me what it is. You surely know that you can trust me.”

“Trust you!”

There was bitterness, nay mockery, in her voice.

“Good heavens, yes! Why not?” I cried.

“There is no one in whom I can trust. I can trust you, Mr Ashton, least of all—now.”

Evidently she was labouring under some terrible delusion. Had some one slandered me—poisoned her mind against me?

“How long have you been here?” I asked suddenly, thinking it best to change the subject for the moment.

“Since early this morning,” she answered at once.

“Did you come here alone?”

“Alone? No, he brought me.”

”‘He?’ Who is ‘he’?”

“Dago Paulton.”

“Dago Paulton?” I echoed. “Is he the man Smithson?” I asked shrewdly.

“Of course. Who else did you suppose?” Then, suddenly, her expression changed to one of surprise.

“But you don’t know him, surely,” she exclaimed. “You have never even met him. He told me so himself.”

“No, but I know about him,” I said, with recollection crowding upon me.

“You don’t! You cannot! Who told you about him? And what did they tell you? Oh, this is awful, it is worse than I feared,” she exclaimed, in great distress. “And now it is all too late.”

“Too late for what? To do what?”

“To help me. To save me from him.”

“Does this man want to marry you?”

“He is going to. He must marry me. Ah! You don’t know—you—”

My love shuddered, without completing her sentence.

“Why? Is it to save your father?” I hazarded again.

“To save my father—and my mother,” she exclaimed. And then, to my surprise, she sank upon a chair, flung her arms out upon the table in front of her, hid her face up on them, and began to sob hysterically.

“Vera, my dearest, don’t—oh! don’t,” I said beseechingly, as I bent down, put an arm tenderly about her, and kissed her upon the cheek. “Don’t cry like that, darling. It’s never too late, until a misfortune has really happened. You are not married to him. There may be a way of escape. Trust me. Treat me as a friend—we have been friends so long—tell me everything, and I will try to help you out of all your trouble.”

She started up.

“Trust you!” she burst forth, her face flushed. “Can I trust any one?”

“I’ve done nothing; I don’t know what you mean, or to what you refer!” I exclaimed blankly.

“Can you look at me like that,” she said slowly, after a pause, “and tell me, upon your oath, that you did not reveal my father’s secret; that you have never revealed it to anybody—never in your life?”

“I give you my solemn oath, Vera, that I have never in my life revealed it to anybody, or hinted at it, or said anything, either consciously or unconsciously, that might have led any one to suspect,” I answered fervently, with my eyes fixed on hers.

Truth to tell, I had not the remotest idea what the secret was, nor, until this instant, had it ever occurred to me to think that Sir Charles possessed a secret. I felt, however, that I had a part to play, and I was determined to play it to the best of my ability. Vera seemed to take it quite for granted that I knew her father’s secret, and I felt instinctively that, were I to endeavour to assure her that I was in complete ignorance of everything, she would not, under the circumstances, believe a single word I said.

“Do you believe me now?” I asked, as she did not speak.

“Yes—I do believe you,” was her slow response. And then she let me take her in my ready arms again.

She seemed to have been suddenly relieved of a great weight, and now she spoke in quite her ordinary way.

“Where is Paulton now?” was my next question. At last there seemed to be some remote possibility of the tangle of past events becoming gradually unravelled. I knew, however, that I was treading thin ice. A single careless word might lead her to suspect my duplicity. In a sense, I was still groping in the dark, pretending that I knew a great deal, whereas I knew nothing.

“He is coming to-night to fetch me.”

“At what time?”

“At ten o’clock.”

“And you are to wait here until then?”

“Yes.”

“What have you had to eat?”

“Some tea, and bread and butter,” and she glanced towards a table, on which stood a teapot and an empty plate.

“You can’t subsist on that,” I said quickly.

“More food is to be brought to me by old Taylor at five o’clock.”

I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter-past four.

“Why don’t you go out and go away?” I suggested. “There is surely nothing to prevent you. Why do you remain here in helpless inactivity?”

“Where should I go? I haven’t any money. I haven’t a sou. Besides—besides—I dare not disobey. If I did, he—he’d—he’d bring disaster—terrible disaster, upon me!”

“I can lend you some money,” I said. Then a thought struck me.

“Why not come away with me?” I exclaimed. “I will get you a room at an hotel, see to you, provide you with money, and take care that nobody objectionable—neither this fellow Paulton, nor anybody else—molests you.”

“Ah, Dick, if only I dared!” she exclaimed fervently, with shining eyes.

“You love me, Vera—do you not?”

“You know that I do, Dick.”

“Then leave here. Who is to prevent you? Where are your father and mother?”

She turned sharply.

“How can you ask that?” she cried, with a quick glance. I pulled myself together on the instant. I was forgetting to be cautious.

“Wouldn’t it be safe for you to appeal to them for help?” I asked vaguely.

She paused, evidently reflecting, and I breathed more freely.

“Under the circumstances—no,” she said at last, with decision. “They must await developments. I must remain here. Listen! What was that?” And she started in fear.

The door stood ajar. The door of the room I had been in, which opened on to the passage, was also open. Both of us listened intently. The sound of men’s voices, somewhere in the house, became audible.

I crept out into the passage on tiptoe, walked a little distance along it, stopped, and listened again. Yes, there were voices in the hall. Two men were talking. At once I recognised that Sir Charles Thorold, and the man known as Davies, were engaged in earnest conversation in low tones. In the otherwise silent and deserted house, their words were distinctly audible.

“We must get a doctor—we must,” I heard the big fellow say deeply. “I thought at first the fellow was asleep, then that he was drunk. The pulse is hardly perceptible.”

“But how can we?” Thorold answered. “It isn’t safe. There would be inquiries, and if he should die there would surely be an inquest, and then—”

He dropped his voice, and I could not catch the last words. Then Davies again spoke.

“I found this umbrella, and these gloves, on the table in his room,” I heard him say, “and there are two tea-cups on the table. Both have been used, used within the last half-hour, I should say. The tea in them is still warm, and the teapot is quite hot.” My heart stopped its beating. I put out an arm to support myself. A slight feeling of giddiness came over me. I broke out into a cold perspiration, for I had left my gloves and umbrella in the old man’s room!

My mouth turned suddenly dry, as I thought of the tea I had doctored with the drops from the flask, of which only a little was needed to send “a strong man to sleep—for ever.”

But Davies and Sir Charles were talking again, so I pulled myself together.

“How do you account for this umbrella and the gloves?” I heard Davies ask, and Thorold answered: “Let me have a look at them.”

They were silent for some moments.

“He has had some one there, that’s evident,” Sir Charles said. “Who on earth can it have been? This is an expensive umbrella, silk, and gold-mounted, and these gloves, too, are good ones. It’s extraordinary their owner should have forgotten to take them with him.”

“He may be in the house still,” answered Davies. “I hope, for his own sake, he isn’t,” Sir Charles said, in a hard voice. “Let us come and have a look at poor old Taylor. We shall find the keys in his pocket, anyway, and when we have attended to the other matter, we’ll go up and see Vera, and try to bring her to her senses with regard to Paulton. She must do it—hang it—she must! I hate the thought of it, but it’s my only chance of escape from this accursed parasite!”

Voices and footsteps died away. Once more the house was silent as death.

Truly, that deserted house was a house of mystery.