Chapter Thirteen. Tells of Another Mystery.

In the drawing-room a startling scene presented itself.

Lying in a heap across the blue silk-covered sofa lay the figure of the lady whom I had seen from without, seated at the piano, while beside her were the gardener and a scared female servant bending over her, and trying to restore her to consciousness.

A short distance away a second female figure was lying face downwards upon the carpet near the window—a young woman in cap and apron whom I recognised as the maid who had lowered the Venetian blinds. Around her face a long black scarf had been twisted tightly, and she lay there motionless.

“Oh! Mr Taking!” gasped the woman, bending over her mistress, “I’m so glad you’re here. There’s been men in the house!”

“Men!” he cried, amazed. “What’s happened to Mrs Parham?”

“We don’t knew. We’ve sent for the doctor and the perlice.”

“But look at Jane!” he exclaimed, crossing to her. “She’ll be suffocated;” and falling on his knees he quickly untied the slip-knot by which the black scarf—a long narrow one with coloured stripes at the ends like an Italian santuzza—had been secured around the girl’s face.

As we turned her over we saw that her drawn countenance was white to the lips. There was no movement that either of us could discover.

I stood gazing at the startling scene, wondering what had occurred.

Mrs Parham was, I saw, a brown-haired, good-looking young lady of about twenty-six. Her black silk blouse was fastened at the throat by a beautiful diamond brooch—one from her husband’s stock perhaps—but she wore no other ring except the badge of matrimony.

Her eyes were closed, and it appeared as though she had fainted, yet across her left cheek from mouth to ear was a deep livid ridge. A scarf somewhat similar to that used to stifle the cries of the maid had been used upon her.

“Tell us what’s happened?” inquired Laking, eagerly. “Who’s done this?”

The housemaid, turning from her mistress, replied,—

“Jane went to pull down the blinds about three-quarters of an hour ago, and I heard the mistress playing the piano in here. Then she suddenly stopped, but knowing that Jane was here I thought she was talking to her. Then I didn’t think any more about it till I found that the hot water hadn’t been put in the mistress’s bedroom, and that the blinds were still up. I went down to the kitchen, but cook said that Jane was still with the mistress. I said she’d been there a long time, and cook said perhaps she was getting a blowing up. It was ’er night out last night, and she was a half-hour late, and Mrs Parham is very particular, as you know.”

“And didn’t you hear anything?” I asked, surprised.

“Not a sound. It was the quietness of the place that first aroused my suspicion,” said the girl. “I crept along the hall and listened at the door to hear what the mistress was saying to Jane. But there was no sound. Then I went back and told cook, and we thought that they’d both gone upstairs perhaps. Presently I went back and tapped at the door, for it was nearly an hour since Jane had gone into the room. Nobody answered, so I pushed the door open, and there, to my horror, saw ’em both lying on the floor with these black things round their faces.”

“And you rushed out and gave the alarm?”

“I called in Lane, who’d just finished work and was going home. Then we hailed a telegraph boy who was passing and sent him for the doctor and the police. At first we thought the poor mistress was dead, but, you see, she’s still breathing, although very slightly. Look!” she added, holding up the scarf, “there’s a funny smell about it.”

“Chloroform!” declared the gardener, Lane. “I ’ad it when I ’ad my operation in the ’orspital. I know that smell well enough.”

“But what was the motive?” I asked, puzzled, glancing around the room and noticing that beyond a chair having been overturned and an antimacassar lying on the floor there was no sign of disorder.

The electric bell rang sharply, the cook went to answer the door, and a few moments later a constable in uniform entered.

To him I briefly explained the circumstances, without, however, telling him of the strange scene I had witnessed when I halted outside the gate. Then after the housemaid and gardener had told their stories, he bent over the prostrate lady, listening intently.

“She’s still alive, that’s quite certain,” was his remark, then crossing over to the girl he knelt beside her.

He made a cursory examination and shook his head dubiously. Like ourselves, he had doubts whether she still breathed. I had placed my hand upon her heart, but could discover no palpitation. There was a rigidity about the body, too, that caused me to suspect that the scarf had been around her mouth too long, and that she had expired under the effects of the drug.

We explained to the constable that a doctor in the vicinity had been called, and while we awaited his arrival I made a tour of the room with the officer.

It was a beautifully furnished apartment in the Louis Quinze style, with massive gold-framed mirrors and consoles, and furniture in gilt and pale blue, a room which betrayed everywhere the hand of a woman of culture and artistic taste.

Upon the wall was a large velvet-lined frame, on which were a number of beautiful old miniatures, and behind the grand piano stood a huge palm that reached nearly to the ceiling. Suddenly as I advanced to the window, close to where the maid had been lying—for the gardener and the cook’s brother had now lifted her on to a small couch—I noticed that there was a little glass-topped table in which were displayed some fine pieces of antique silver, and standing upon it was a cabinet portrait in a dark red leather frame.

The picture caught my eye and caused me to start. I stood glaring at it in utter bewilderment, scarce believing my own eyes.

Was I mistaken in those features? No. It was the same face—undoubtedly the same face!

The portrait was exactly similar, but somewhat larger, than that which Eric and I had discovered in Winsloe’s kitbag—the picture of the dead unknown!

A sudden suggestion occurred to me to obtain possession of it. It might be of the greatest use to us in establishing the unfortunate man’s identity. I therefore took it up, glanced at it, and in an abstracted manner placed it upon a side table near a curtain, intending later on to transfer it to the pocket of my overcoat—even at the risk of committing the offence of theft. In this I saw no harm. I was seeking to solve a mystery; and surely every mode was fair, now that a man had been done to death.

I recollected Eric’s terrible accusation, and held my breath.

Yes, he was Sybil’s secret lover without a doubt. Those letters were sufficient proof of that.

And yet was it not strange that Mrs Parham should place the portrait in her room in a position so conspicuous?

The constable was as much puzzled as myself regarding the motive of the attack.

My own theory was that there had been two men lurking in the house, and hearing Mrs Parham playing the piano, they managed to enter the room unobserved, for there was a large Japanese screen before the door. An instant afterwards the maid entered, switched on the light, and let down the blinds, but while doing so, the men so suddenly discovered made a bold attack upon both, deftly twisting the scarves about their faces ere either of them could call for assistance.

The maid had evidently been attacked from behind by one of the men concealed at the back of the curtain at the moment when she had lowered the last blind. From this fact I suspected that the girl knew them and they feared recognition.

Yet the reason of that bold, desperate attack was surely an entire mystery.

Subsequent examination showed that they must have entered the front door with a duplicate key, probably almost immediately before, otherwise the gardener or Mrs Parham herself must have seen them approaching the house.

But when they had so successfully silenced both mistress and maid, what had been their next action? That was the mystery.

At first my impulse was to explain what I had seen from the pavement, yet I saw, on due reflection, that it was far better to keep that knowledge to myself, more especially if I could manage to obtain possession of that very valuable piece of evidence, the dead man’s photograph.

Laking went into the other rooms on the ground floor, and switched on the light in all of them, while the constable and myself made a careful examination in order to see whether any robbery had taken place. As far as we could ascertain, however, nothing had been disturbed. No drawer stood open, and although in both dining-room and library were large glass cases filled with valuable antiques, china, enamels, miniatures and old glass, nothing had apparently been touched.

“I wonder if the men are in the ’ouse now?” suggested the maid-servant suddenly, the word “man” being always very expressive in the vocabulary of the kitchen.

“Not likely,” declared the constable. “They’ve gone long ago. I wonder who they were?”

“Perhaps they thought that only Mrs Parham and Jane were at home,” remarked the cook’s brother. “And then, when they found Lane, my sister and Emily they got frightened, and cleared out.”

“Most probably,” was the policeman’s reply. “They were disturbed by something; that’s very evident. They intended to have the silver, because it’s easy got rid of. Perhaps it’s the gang what worked Norwood a couple of months ago. Two of ’em got five years at the Old Bailey last week.”

“They were a desperate pair, whoever they were,” I said. “Men don’t carry scarves like these and chloroform all ready if they don’t mean to do some big piece of business. The affair, whatever it was, must have been well planned.”

“They had their pals outside this house, no doubt. Men like those don’t work without spies watching the house to give alarm.”

His words caused me to ponder.

If one of the gang had been outside, then I had certainly been noted, for I had stood before the gate for quite a minute. I had been noticed, without a doubt! They knew that I had seen that thin, tall figure crossing the room so stealthily!

Perhaps I had quite unintentionally frightened them and prevented them from fully carrying out their object! When I had gone the spy outside might have given the signal which caused them to make their escape.

Now that I recollected, I remembered most distinctly that while I had spoken to the lamplighter, somebody a little distance down the road was whistling gaily a music-hall air.

There was a muffin-man, too, who had suddenly commenced to ring his bell as I had stopped to speak and was balancing his tray upon his head as he passed by us, glancing into my face.

Was he the spy?

I was in the study, discussing the affair with the constable, when the doctor was announced.

I followed him into the drawing-room and noted his surprise when he saw Mrs Parham lying there.

Quickly he made his examination and relieved our minds by declaring that she would before long return to consciousness.

Then he crossed to the maid Jane, placed his hand upon her heart, opened her eyes, felt her hands, and bent the fingers.

For a long time he scrutinised her very carefully, taking up a small mirror and holding it close to her mouth, while we stood anxiously awaiting his verdict.

At last he turned to us, shook his grey head, and said,—

“The poor girl is dead?”