The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY IN NEW YORK

I

It was never quite clear to me how Jim Shorthouse

managed to get his private secretaryship; but,

once he got it, he kept it, and for some years he

led a steady life and put money in the savings

bank.

One morning his employer sent for him into the

study, and it was evident to the secretary’s trained

senses that there was something unusual in the

air.

“Mr. Shorthouse,” he began, somewhat nervously,

“I have never yet had the opportunity of observing

whether or not you are possessed of personal

courage.”

Shorthouse gasped, but he said nothing. He

was growing accustomed to the eccentricities

of his chief. Shorthouse was a Kentish man; Sidebotham was “raised” in Chicago; New York

was the present place of residence.

“But,” the other continued, with a puff at his

very black cigar, “I must consider myself a poor

judge of human nature in future, if it is not one of

your strongest qualities.”

The private secretary made a foolish little bow

in modest appreciation of so uncertain a compliment.

Mr. Jonas B. Sidebotham watched him

narrowly, as the novelists say, before he continued

his remarks.

“I have no doubt that you are a plucky fellow

and—” He hesitated, and puffed at his cigar

as if his life depended upon it keeping alight.

“I don’t think I’m afraid of anything in

particular, sir—except women,” interposed the

young man, feeling that it was time for him

to make an observation of some sort, but still

quite in the dark as to his chief’s purpose.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Well, there are no

women in this case so far as I know. But there

may be other things that—that hurt more.”

“Wants a special service of some kind, evidently,”

was the secretary’s reflection. “Personal

violence?” he asked aloud.

“Possibly (puff), in fact (puff, puff) probably.”

Shorthouse smelt an increase of salary in the air.

It had a stimulating effect.

“I’ve had some experience of that article, sir,”

he said shortly; “but I’m ready to undertake anything

in reason.”

“I can’t say how much reason or unreason there

may prove to be in this particular case. It all

depends.”

Mr. Sidebotham got up and locked the door of

his study and drew down the blinds of both

windows. Then he took a bunch of keys from his

pocket and opened a black tin box. He ferreted

about among blue and white papers for a few

seconds, enveloping himself as he did so in a cloud

of blue tobacco smoke.

“I feel like a detective already,” Shorthouse

laughed.

“Speak low, please,” returned the other, glancing

round the room. “We must observe the utmost

secrecy. Perhaps you would be kind enough to

close the registers,” he went on in a still lower

voice. “Open registers have betrayed conversations

before now.”

Shorthouse began to enter into the spirit of the

thing. He tiptoed across the floor and shut the

two iron gratings in the wall that in American houses supply hot air and are termed “registers.”

Mr. Sidebotham had meanwhile found the paper he

was looking for. He held it in front of him and

tapped it once or twice with the back of his right

hand as if it were a stage letter and himself the

villain of the melodrama.

“This is a letter from Joel Garvey, my old

partner,” he said at length. “You have heard me

speak of him.”

The other bowed. He knew that many years

before Garvey & Sidebotham had been well

known in the Chicago financial world. He knew

that the amazing rapidity with which they accumulated

a fortune had only been surpassed

by the amazing rapidity with which they had

immediately afterwards disappeared into space.

He was further aware—his position afforded

facilities—that each partner was still to some extent

in the other’s power, and that each wished most

devoutly that the other would die.

The sins of his employer’s early years did not

concern him, however. The man was kind and

just, if eccentric; and Shorthouse, being in New

York, did not probe to discover more particularly

the sources whence his salary was so regularly paid.

Moreover, the two men had grown to like each other and there was a genuine feeling of trust

and respect between them.

“I hope it’s a pleasant communication, sir,” he

said in a low voice.

“Quite the reverse,” returned the other, fingering

the paper nervously as he stood in front of the fire.

“Blackmail, I suppose.”

“Precisely.” Mr. Sidebotham’s cigar was not

burning well; he struck a match and applied it

to the uneven edge, and presently his voice spoke

through clouds of wreathing smoke.

“There are valuable papers in my possession

bearing his signature. I cannot inform you of

their nature; but they are extremely valuable to

me . They belong, as a matter of fact, to Garvey as

much as to me. Only I’ve got them—”

“I see.”

“Garvey writes that he wants to have his

signature removed—wants to cut it out with his

own hand. He gives reasons which incline me to

consider his request—”

“And you would like me to take him the papers

and see that he does it?”

“And bring them back again with you,” he

whispered, screwing up his eyes into a shrewd

grimace.

“And bring them back again with me,” repeated

the secretary. “I understand perfectly.”

Shorthouse knew from unfortunate experience

more than a little of the horrors of blackmail.

The pressure Garvey was bringing to bear upon

his old enemy must be exceedingly strong. That

was quite clear. At the same time, the commission

that was being entrusted to him seemed somewhat

quixotic in its nature. He had already “enjoyed”

more than one experience of his employer’s

eccentricity, and he now caught himself wondering

whether this same eccentricity did not sometimes

go—further than eccentricity.

“I cannot read the letter to you,” Mr. Sidebotham

was explaining, “but I shall give it into your

hands. It will prove that you are my—er—my

accredited representative. I shall also ask you not

to read the package of papers. The signature in

question you will find, of course, on the last page,

at the bottom.”

There was a pause of several minutes during

which the end of the cigar glowed eloquently.

“Circumstances compel me,” he went on at length

almost in a whisper, “or I should never do this.

But you understand, of course, the thing is a ruse.

Cutting out the signature is a mere pretence. It is nothing. What Garvey wants are the papers

themselves. "

The confidence reposed in the private secretary

was not misplaced. Shorthouse was as faithful to

Mr. Sidebotham as a man ought to be to the wife

that loves him.

The commission itself seemed very simple.

Garvey lived in solitude in the remote part of Long

Island. Shorthouse was to take the papers to him,

witness the cutting out of the signature, and to be

specially on his guard against any attempt, forcible

or otherwise, to gain possession of them. It seemed

to him a somewhat ludicrous adventure, but he

did not know all the facts and perhaps was not the

best judge.

The two men talked in low voices for another hour,

at the end of which Mr. Sidebotham drew up the

blinds, opened the registers and unlocked the door.

Shorthouse rose to go. His pockets were stuffed

with papers and his head with instructions; but

when he reached the door he hesitated and turned.

“Well?” said his chief.

Shorthouse looked him straight in the eye and

said nothing.

“The personal violence, I suppose?” said the

other. Shorthouse bowed.

“I have not seen Garvey for twenty years,” he

said; “all I can tell you is that I believe him

to be occasionally of unsound mind. I have heard

strange rumours. He lives alone, and in his lucid

intervals studies chemistry. It was always a

hobby of his. But the chances are twenty to one

against his attempting violence. I only wished

to warn you—in case—I mean, so that you may

be on the watch.”

He handed his secretary a Smith and Wesson

revolver as he spoke. Shorthouse slipped it into

his hip pocket and went out of the room.

A drizzling cold rain was falling on fields covered

with half-melted snow when Shorthouse stood, late

in the afternoon, on the platform of the lonely little

Long Island station and watched the train he had

just left vanish into the distance.

It was a bleak country that Joel Garvey, Esq.,

formerly of Chicago, had chosen for his residence

and on this particular afternoon it presented a

more than usually dismal appearance. An expanse

of flat fields covered with dirty snow stretched away

on all sides till the sky dropped down to meet

them. Only occasional farm buildings broke the

monotony, and the road wound along muddy lanes and beneath dripping trees swathed in the cold raw

fog that swept in like a pall of the dead from the sea.

It was six miles from the station to Garvey’s

house, and the driver of the rickety buggy

Shorthouse had found at the station was not

communicative. Between the dreary landscape

and the drearier driver he fell back upon his own

thoughts, which, but for the spice of adventure

that was promised, would themselves have been

even drearier than either. He made up his mind

that he would waste no time over the transaction.

The moment the signature was cut out he would

pack up and be off. The last train back to Brooklyn

was 7.15; and he would have to walk the six miles

of mud and snow, for the driver of the buggy had

refused point-blank to wait for him.

For purposes of safety, Shorthouse had done

what he flattered himself was rather a clever thing.

He had made up a second packet of papers identical

in outside appearance with the first. The inscription,

the blue envelope, the red elastic band, and

even a blot in the lower left-hand corner had been

exactly reproduced. Inside, of course, were only

sheets of blank paper. It was his intention to

change the packets and to let Garvey see him put

the sham one into the bag. In case of violence the bag would be the point of attack, and he

intended to lock it and throw away the key.

Before it could be forced open and the deception

discovered there would be time to increase his

chances of escape with the real packet.

It was five o’clock when the silent Jehu pulled

up in front of a half-broken gate and pointed with

his whip to a house that stood in its own grounds

among trees and was just visible in the gathering

gloom. Shorthouse told him to drive up to the

front door but the man refused.

“I ain’t runnin’ no risks,” he said; “I’ve got a

family.”

This cryptic remark was not encouraging, but

Shorthouse did not pause to decipher it. He paid

the man, and then pushed open the rickety old

gate swinging on a single hinge, and proceeded

to walk up the drive that lay dark between close-standing

trees. The house soon came into full

view. It was tall and square and had once

evidently been white, but now the walls were

covered with dirty patches and there were wide

yellow streaks where the plaster had fallen away.

The windows stared black and uncompromising

into the night. The garden was overgrown with

weeds and long grass, standing up in ugly patches beneath their burden of wet snow. Complete

silence reigned over all. There was not a sign of

life. Not even a dog barked. Only, in the

distance, the wheels of the retreating carriage

could be heard growing fainter and fainter.

As he stood in the porch, between pillars of

rotting wood, listening to the rain dripping from

the roof into the puddles of slushy snow, he was

conscious of a sensation of utter desertion and

loneliness such as he had never before experienced.

The forbidding aspect of the house had the

immediate effect of lowering his spirits. It might

well have been the abode of monsters or demons

in a child’s wonder tale, creatures that only dared

to come out under cover of darkness. He groped

for the bell-handle, or knocker, and finding neither,

he raised his stick and beat a loud tattoo on

the door. The sound echoed away in an empty

space on the other side and the wind moaned past

him between the pillars as if startled at his audacity.

But there was no sound of approaching footsteps

and no one came to open the door. Again he beat

a tattoo, louder and longer than the first one; and,

having done so, waited with his back to the house

and stared across the unkempt garden into the

fast gathering shadows.

Then he turned suddenly, and saw that the door

was standing ajar. It had been quietly opened

and a pair of eyes were peering at him round the

edge. There was no light in the hall beyond and

he could only just make out the shape of a dim

human face.

“Does Mr. Garvey live here?” he asked in a firm

voice.

“Who are you?” came in a man’s tones.

“I’m Mr. Sidebotham’s private secretary. I

wish to see Mr. Garvey on important business.”

“Are you expected?”

“I suppose so,” he said impatiently, thrusting

a card through the opening. “Please take my

name to him at once, and say I come from Mr.

Sidebotham on the matter Mr. Garvey wrote

about.”

The man took the card, and the face vanished

into the darkness, leaving Shorthouse standing in

the cold porch with mingled feelings of impatience

and dismay. The door, he now noticed for the first

time, was on a chain and could not open more than

a few inches. But it was the manner of his reception

that caused uneasy reflections to stir within

him—reflections that continued for some minutes

before they were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and the flicker of a light in

the hall.

The next instant the chain fell with a rattle, and

gripping his bag tightly, he walked into a large

ill-smelling hall of which he could only just see the

ceiling. There was no light but the nickering

taper held by the man, and by its uncertain

glimmer Shorthouse turned to examine him. He

saw an undersized man of middle age with brilliant,

shifting eyes, a curling black beard, and a nose that

at once proclaimed him a Jew. His shoulders were

bent, and, as he watched him replacing the chain,

he saw that he wore a peculiar black gown like

a priest’s cassock reaching to the feet. It was

altogether a lugubrious figure of a man, sinister

and funereal, yet it seemed in perfect harmony

with the general character of its surroundings.

The hall was devoid of furniture of any kind, and

against the dingy walls stood rows of old picture

frames, empty and disordered, and odd-looking bits

of wood-work that appeared doubly fantastic as

their shadows danced queerly over the floor in the

shifting light.

“If you’ll come this way, Mr. Garvey will see

you presently,” said the Jew gruffly, crossing the

floor and shielding the taper with a bony hand. He never once raised his eyes above the level of

the visitor’s waistcoat, and, to Shorthouse, he somehow

suggested a figure from the dead rather than

a man of flesh and blood. The hall smelt decidedly

ill.

All the more surprising, then, was the scene that

met his eyes when the Jew opened the door at the

further end and he entered a room brilliantly

lit with swinging lamps and furnished with a

degree of taste and comfort that amounted to

luxury. The walls were lined with handsomely

bound books, and armchairs were arranged round

a large mahogany desk in the middle of the room.

A bright fire burned in the grate and neatly framed

photographs of men and women stood on the

mantelpiece on either side of an elaborately carved

clock. French windows that opened like doors

were partially concealed by warm red curtains, and

on a sideboard against the wall stood decanters and

glasses, with several boxes of cigars piled on top

of one another. There was a pleasant odour

of tobacco about the room. Indeed, it was in

such glowing contrast to the chilly poverty of

the hall that Shorthouse already was conscious

of a distinct rise in the thermometer of his

spirits.

Then he turned and saw the Jew standing in the

doorway with his eyes fixed upon him, somewhere

about the middle button of his waistcoat. He

presented a strangely repulsive appearance that

somehow could not be attributed to any particular

detail, and the secretary associated him in his mind

with a monstrous black bird of prey more than

anything else.

“My time is short,” he said abruptly; “I hope

Mr. Garvey will not keep me waiting.”

A strange flicker of a smile appeared on the

Jew’s ugly face and vanished as quickly as it came.

He made a sort of deprecating bow by way of

reply. Then he blew out the taper and went out,

closing the door noiselessly behind him.

Shorthouse was alone. He felt relieved. There

was an air of obsequious insolence about the old

Jew that was very offensive. He began to take

note of his surroundings. He was evidently in the

library of the house, for the walls were covered

with books almost up to the ceiling. There was

no room for pictures. Nothing but the shining

backs of well-bound volumes looked down upon

him. Four brilliant lights hung from the ceiling

and a reading lamp with a polished reflector stood

among the disordered masses of papers on the desk.

The lamp was not lit, but when Shorthouse put his

hand upon it he found it was warm . The room

had evidently only just been vacated.

Apart from the testimony of the lamp, however,

he had already felt, without being able to give a

reason for it, that the room had been occupied a

few moments before he entered. The atmosphere

over the desk seemed to retain the disturbing

influence of a human being; an influence, moreover,

so recent that he felt as if the cause of it were

still in his immediate neighbourhood. It was

difficult to realise that he was quite alone in the

room and that somebody was not in hiding. The

finer counterparts of his senses warned him to act

as if he were being observed; he was dimly

conscious of a desire to fidget and look round, to

keep his eyes in every part of the room at once,

and to conduct himself generally as if he were the

object of careful human observation.

How far he recognised the cause of these sensations

it is impossible to say; but they were sufficiently

marked to prevent his carrying out a strong

inclination to get up and make a search of the

room. He sat quite still, staring alternately at

the backs of the books, and at the red curtains;

wondering all the time if he was really being watched, or if it was only the imagination playing

tricks with him.

A full quarter of an hour passed, and then

twenty rows of volumes suddenly shifted out

towards him, and he saw that a door had opened

in the wall opposite. The books were only sham

backs after all, and when they moved back again

with the sliding door, Shorthouse saw the figure

of Joel Garvey standing before him.

Surprise almost took his breath away. He had

expected to see an unpleasant, even a vicious

apparition with the mark of the beast unmistakably

upon its face; but he was wholly unprepared

for the elderly, tall, fine-looking man who stood

in front of him—well-groomed, refined, vigorous,

with a lofty forehead, clear grey eyes, and a

hooked nose dominating a clean shaven mouth and

chin of considerable character—a distinguished

looking man altogether.

“I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting, Mr. Shorthouse,”

he said in a pleasant voice, but with no

trace of a smile in the mouth or eyes. “But the

fact is, you know, I’ve a mania for chemistry, and

just when you were announced I was at the most

critical moment of a problem and was really compelled

to bring it to a conclusion.”

Shorthouse had risen to meet him, but the

other motioned him to resume his seat. It was

borne in upon him irresistibly that Mr. Joel

Garvey, for reasons best known to himself, was

deliberately lying, and he could not help wondering

at the necessity for such an elaborate misrepresentation.

He took off his overcoat and sat

down.

“I’ve no doubt, too, that the door startled you,”

Garvey went on, evidently reading something of

his guest’s feelings in his face. “You probably

had not suspected it. It leads into my little

laboratory. Chemistry is an absorbing study to

me, and I spend most of my time there.” Mr.

Garvey moved up to the armchair on the opposite

side of the fireplace and sat down.

Shorthouse made appropriate answers to these

remarks, but his mind was really engaged in

taking stock of Mr. Sidebotham’s old-time partner.

So far there was no sign of mental irregularity

and there was certainly nothing about him to

suggest violent wrong-doing or coarseness of

living. On the whole, Mr. Sidebotham’s secretary

was most pleasantly surprised, and, wishing to

conclude his business as speedily as possible, he

made a motion towards the bag for the purpose of opening it, when his companion interrupted

him quickly—

“You are Mr. Sidebotham’s private secretary,

are you not?” he asked.

Shorthouse replied that he was. “Mr. Sidebotham,”

he went on to explain, “has entrusted

me with the papers in the case and I have the

honour to return to you your letter of a week

ago.” He handed the letter to Garvey, who took

it without a word and deliberately placed it in

the fire. He was not aware that the secretary

was ignorant of its contents, yet his face betrayed

no signs of feeling. Shorthouse noticed, however,

that his eyes never left the fire until the last

morsel had been consumed. Then he looked up

and said, “You are familiar then with the facts

of this most peculiar case?”

Shorthouse saw no reason to confess his

ignorance.

“I have all the papers, Mr. Garvey,” he replied,

taking them out of the bag, “and I should be

very glad if we could transact our business as

speedily as possible. If you will cut out your

signature I—”

“One moment, please,” interrupted the other.

“I must, before we proceed further, consult some papers in my laboratory. If you will allow me

to leave you alone a few minutes for this purpose

we can conclude the whole matter in a very short

time.”

Shorthouse did not approve of this further

delay, but he had no option than to acquiesce, and

when Garvey had left the room by the private

door he sat and waited with the papers in his

hand. The minutes went by and the other did

not return. To pass the time he thought of

taking the false packet from his coat to see that

the papers were in order, and the move was

indeed almost completed, when something—he

never knew what—warned him to desist. The

feeling again came over him that he was being

watched, and he leaned back in his chair with the

bag on his knees and waited with considerable

impatience for the other’s return. For more than

twenty minutes he waited, and when at length

the door opened and Garvey appeared, with profuse

apologies for the delay, he saw by the clock

that only a few minutes still remained of the time

he had allowed himself to catch the last train.

“Now I am completely at your service,” he said

pleasantly; “you must, of course, know, Mr.

Shorthouse, that one cannot be too careful in matters of this kind—especially,” he went on,

speaking very slowly and impressively, “in dealing

with a man like my former partner, whose

mind, as you doubtless may have discovered, is at

times very sadly affected.”

Shorthouse made no reply to this. He felt that

the other was watching him as a cat watches a

mouse.

“It is almost a wonder to me,” Garvey added,

“that he is still at large. Unless he has greatly

improved it can hardly be safe for those who are

closely associated with him.”

The other began to feel uncomfortable. Either

this was the other side of the story, or it was the

first signs of mental irresponsibility.

“All business matters of importance require the

utmost care in my opinion, Mr. Garvey,” he said

at length, cautiously.

“Ah! then, as I thought, you have had a great

deal to put up with from him,” Garvey said, with

his eyes fixed on his companion’s face. “And, no

doubt, he is still as bitter against me as he was

years ago when the disease first showed itself?”

Although this last remark was a deliberate

question and the questioner was waiting with

fixed eyes for an answer, Shorthouse elected to take no notice of it. Without a word he pulled

the elastic band from the blue envelope with a

snap and plainly showed his desire to conclude the

business as soon as possible. The tendency on the

other’s part to delay did not suit him at all.

“But never personal violence, I trust, Mr.

Shorthouse,” he added.

“Never.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Garvey said in a sympathetic

voice, “very glad to hear it. And now,”

he went on, “if you are ready we can transact this

little matter of business before dinner. It will

only take a moment.”

He drew a chair up to the desk and sat down,

taking a pair of scissors from a drawer. His

companion approached with the papers in his hand,

unfolding them as he came. Garvey at once took

them from him, and after turning over a few pages

he stopped and cut out a piece of writing at the

bottom of the last sheet but one.

Holding it up to him Shorthouse read the words

“Joel Garvey” in faded ink.

“There! That’s my signature,” he said, “and

I’ve cut it out. It must be nearly twenty years

since I wrote it, and now I’m going to burn it.”

He went to the fire and stooped over to burn the little slip of paper, and while he watched it being

consumed Shorthouse put the real papers in his

pocket and slipped the imitation ones into the bag.

Garvey turned just in time to see this latter movement.

“I’m putting the papers back,” Shorthouse said

quietly; “you’ve done with them, I think.”

“Certainly,” he replied as, completely deceived,

he saw the blue envelope disappear into the black

bag and watched Shorthouse turn the key. “They

no longer have the slightest interest for me.”

As he spoke he moved over to the sideboard, and

pouring himself out a small glass of whisky asked

his visitor if he might do the same for him. But

the visitor declined and was already putting on his

overcoat when Garvey turned with genuine surprise

on his face.

“You surely are not going back to New York

to-night, Mr. Shorthouse?” he said, in a voice of

astonishment.

“I’ve just time to catch the 7.15 if I’m quick.”

“But I never heard of such a thing,” Garvey

said. “Of course I took it for granted that you

would stay the night.”

“It’s kind of you,” said Shorthouse, “but really

I must return to-night. I never expected to stay.”

The two men stood facing each other. Garvey

pulled out his watch.

“I’m exceedingly sorry,” he said; “but, upon my

word, I took it for granted you would stay. I

ought to have said so long ago. I’m such a lonely

fellow and so little accustomed to visitors that I

fear I forgot my manners altogether. But in any

case, Mr. Shorthouse, you cannot catch the 7.15,

for it’s already after six o’clock, and that’s

the last train to-night.” Garvey spoke very

quickly, almost eagerly, but his voice sounded

genuine.

“There’s time if I walk quickly,” said the

young man with decision, moving towards the

door. He glanced at his watch as he went.

Hitherto he had gone by the clock on the mantelpiece.

To his dismay he saw that it was, as his

host had said, long after six. The clock was half

an hour slow, and he realised at once that it was no

longer possible to catch the train.

Had the hands of the clock been moved back

intentionally? Had he been purposely detained?

Unpleasant thoughts flashed into his brain and

made him hesitate before taking the next step.

His employer’s warning rang in his ears. The

alternative was six miles along a lonely road in the dark, or a night under Garvey’s roof. The

former seemed a direct invitation to catastrophe, if

catastrophe there was planned to be. The latter—well,

the choice was certainly small. One thing,

however, he realised, was plain—he must show

neither fear nor hesitancy.

“My watch must have gained,” he observed

quietly, turning the hands back without looking

up. “It seems I have certainly missed that train

and shall be obliged to throw myself upon your

hospitality. But, believe me, I had no intention of

putting you out to any such extent.”

“I’m delighted,” the other said. “Defer to the

judgment of an older man and make yourself

comfortable for the night. There’s a bitter storm

outside, and you don’t put me out at all. On the

contrary it’s a great pleasure. I have so little

contact with the outside world that it’s really a

god-send to have you.”

The man’s face changed as he spoke. His

manner was cordial and sincere. Shorthouse

began to feel ashamed of his doubts and to read

between the lines of his employer’s warning. He

took off his coat and the two men moved to the

armchairs beside the fire.

“You see,” Garvey went on in a lowered voice, “I understand your hesitancy perfectly. I didn’t

know Sidebotham all those years without knowing

a good deal about him—perhaps more than you do.

I’ve no doubt, now, he filled your mind with all

sorts of nonsense about me—probably told you

that I was the greatest villain unhung, eh? and all

that sort of thing? Poor fellow! He was a fine

sort before his mind became unhinged. One of his

fancies used to be that everybody else was insane,

or just about to become insane. Is he still as bad

as that?”

“Few men,” replied Shorthouse, with the manner

of making a great confidence, but entirely refusing

to be drawn, “go through his experiences and reach

his age without entertaining delusions of one kind

or another.”

“Perfectly true,” said Garvey. “Your observation

is evidently keen.”

“Very keen indeed,” Shorthouse replied, taking

his cue neatly; “but, of course, there are some

things”—and here he looked cautiously over his

shoulder—“there are some things one cannot talk

about too circumspectly.”

“I understand perfectly and respect your

reserve.”

There was a little more conversation and then Garvey got up and excused himself on the plea of

superintending the preparation of the bedroom.

“It’s quite an event to have a visitor in the

house, and I want to make you as comfortable as

possible,” he said. “Marx will do better for a little

supervision. And,” he added with a laugh as he

stood in the doorway, “I want you to carry back a

good account to Sidebotham.”

II

The tall form disappeared and the door was shut.

The conversation of the past few minutes had

come somewhat as a revelation to the secretary.

Garvey seemed in full possession of normal instincts.

There was no doubt as to the sincerity of his

manner and intentions. The suspicions of the first

hour began to vanish like mist before the sun.

Sidebotham’s portentous warnings and the mystery

with which he surrounded the whole episode had

been allowed to unduly influence his mind. The

loneliness of the situation and the bleak nature of

the surroundings had helped to complete the

illusion. He began to be ashamed of his suspicions

and a change commenced gradually to be wrought

in his thoughts. Anyhow a dinner and a bed were preferable to six miles in the dark, no dinner, and

a cold train into the bargain.

Garvey returned presently. “We’ll do the best

we can for you,” he said, dropping into the deep

armchair on the other side of the fire. “Marx is a

good servant if you watch him all the time. You

must always stand over a Jew, though, if you want

things done properly. They’re tricky and uncertain

unless they’re working for their own interest. But

Marx might be worse, I’ll admit. He’s been with

me for nearly twenty years—cook, valet, housemaid,

and butler all in one. In the old days, you know,

he was a clerk in our office in Chicago.”

Garvey rattled on and Shorthouse listened with

occasional remarks thrown in. The former seemed

pleased to have somebody to talk to and the sound

of his own voice was evidently sweet music in his

ears. After a few minutes, he crossed over to the

sideboard and again took up the decanter of

whisky, holding it to the light. “You will join me

this time,” he said pleasantly, pouring out two

glasses, “it will give us an appetite for dinner,” and

this time Shorthouse did not refuse. The liquor

was mellow and soft and the men took two glasses

apiece.

“Excellent,” remarked the secretary.

“Glad you appreciate it,” said the host, smacking

his lips. “It’s very old whisky, and I rarely touch

it when I’m alone. But this,” he added, “is a

special occasion, isn’t it?”

Shorthouse was in the act of putting his glass

down when something drew his eyes suddenly to

the other’s face. A strange note in the man’s

voice caught his attention and communicated

alarm to his nerves. A new light shone in

Garvey’s eyes and there flitted momentarily across

his strong features the shadow of something that

set the secretary’s nerves tingling. A mist spread

before his eyes and the unaccountable belief rose

strong in him that he was staring into the visage

of an untamed animal. Close to his heart there

was something that was wild, fierce, savage. An

involuntary shiver ran over him and seemed to

dispel the strange fancy as suddenly as it had

come. He met the other’s eye with a smile, the

counterpart of which in his heart was vivid

horror.

“It is a special occasion,” he said, as naturally as

possible, “and, allow me to add, very special

whisky.”

Garvey appeared delighted. He was in the

middle of a devious tale describing how the whisky came originally into his possession when the door

opened behind them and a grating voice announced

that dinner was ready. They followed the

cassocked form of Marx across the dirty hall, lit

only by the shaft of light that followed them from

the library door, and entered a small room where

a single lamp stood upon a table laid for dinner.

The walls were destitute of pictures, and the

windows had Venetian blinds without curtains.

There was no fire in the grate, and when the men

sat down facing each other Shorthouse noticed

that, while his own cover was laid with its due

proportion of glasses and cutlery, his companion

had nothing before him but a soup plate, without

fork, knife, or spoon beside it.

“I don’t know what there is to offer you,” he

said; “but I’m sure Marx has done the best he can

at such short notice. I only eat one course for

dinner, but pray take your time and enjoy your

food.”

Marx presently set a plate of soup before the

guest, yet so loathsome was the immediate presence

of this old Hebrew servitor, that the spoonfuls

disappeared somewhat slowly. Garvey sat and

watched him.

Shorthouse said the soup was delicious and bravely swallowed another mouthful. In reality

his thoughts were centred upon his companion,

whose manners were giving evidence of a gradual

and curious change. There was a decided difference

in his demeanour, a difference that the secretary felt at first, rather than saw. Garvey’s quiet self-possession

was giving place to a degree of suppressed

excitement that seemed so far inexplicable.

His movements became quick and nervous, his eye

shifting and strangely brilliant, and his voice, when

he spoke, betrayed an occasional deep tremor.

Something unwonted was stirring within him and

evidently demanding every moment more vigorous

manifestation as the meal proceeded.

Intuitively Shorthouse was afraid of this growing

excitement, and while negotiating some uncommonly

tough pork chops he tried to lead the

conversation on to the subject of chemistry, of

which in his Oxford days he had been an

enthusiastic student. His companion, however,

would none of it. It seemed to have lost

interest for him, and he would barely condescend to

respond. When Marx presently returned with a

plate of steaming eggs and bacon the subject

dropped of its own accord.

“An inadequate dinner dish,” Garvey said, as soon as the man was gone; “but better than nothing,

I hope.”

Shorthouse remarked that he was exceedingly

fond of bacon and eggs, and, looking up with the

last word, saw that Garvey’s face was twitching

convulsively and that he was almost wriggling in

his chair. He quieted down, however, under the

secretary’s gaze and observed, though evidently

with an effort—

“Very good of you to say so. Wish I could join

you, only I never eat such stuff. I only take one

course for dinner.”

Shorthouse began to feel some curiosity as to

what the nature of this one course might be, but he

made no further remark and contented himself with

noting mentally that his companion’s excitement

seemed to be rapidly growing beyond his control.

There was something uncanny about it, and he

began to wish he had chosen the alternative of the

walk to the station.

“I’m glad to see you never speak when Marx is

in the room,” said Garvey presently. “I’m sure it’s

better not. Don’t you think so?”

He appeared to wait eagerly for the answer.

“Undoubtedly,” said the puzzled secretary.

“Yes,” the other went on quickly. “He’s an excellent man, but he has one drawback—a really

horrid one. You may—but, no, you could hardly

have noticed it yet.”

“Not drink, I trust,” said Shorthouse, who would

rather have discussed any other subject than the

odious Jew.

“Worse than that a great deal,” Garvey replied,

evidently expecting the other to draw him out.

But Shorthouse was in no mood to hear anything

horrible, and he declined to step into the trap.

“The best of servants have their faults,” he said

coldly.

“I’ll tell you what it is if you like,” Garvey went

on, still speaking very low and leaning forward

over the table so that his face came close to the

flame of the lamp, “only we must speak quietly in

case he’s listening. I’ll tell you what it is—if you

think you won’t be frightened.”

“Nothing frightens me,” he laughed. (Garvey

must understand that at all events.) “Nothing

can frighten me,” he repeated.

“I’m glad of that; for it frightens me a good

deal sometimes.”

Shorthouse feigned indifference. Yet he was

aware that his heart was beating a little quicker

and that there was a sensation of chilliness in his back. He waited in silence for what was to

come.

“He has a horrible predilection for vacuums,”

Garvey went on presently in a still lower voice

and thrusting his face farther forward under the

lamp.

“Vacuums!” exclaimed the secretary in spite of

himself. “What in the world do you mean?”

“What I say of course. He’s always tumbling

into them, so that I can’t find him or get at him.

He hides there for hours at a time, and for the life

of me I can’t make out what he does there.”

Shorthouse stared his companion straight in the

eyes. What in the name of Heaven was he talking

about?

“Do you suppose he goes there for a change of

air, or—or to escape?” he went on in a louder voice.

Shorthouse could have laughed outright but for

the expression of the other’s face.

“I should not think there was much air of any

sort in a vacuum,” he said quietly.

“That’s exactly what I feel,” continued Garvey

with ever growing excitement. “That’s the

horrid part of it. How the devil does he live

there? You see—”

“Have you ever followed him there?” interrupted the secretary. The other leaned back in his

chair and drew a deep sigh.

“Never! It’s impossible. You see I can’t follow

him. There’s not room for two. A vacuum only

holds one comfortably. Marx knows that. He’s

out of my reach altogether once he’s fairly inside.

He knows the best side of a bargain. He’s a

regular Jew.”

“That is a drawback to a servant, of course—”

Shorthouse spoke slowly, with his eyes on his plate.

“A drawback,” interrupted the other with an

ugly chuckle, “I call it a draw-in, that’s what

I call it.”

“A draw-in does seem a more accurate term,”

assented Shorthouse. “But,” he went on, “I

thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She

used to, when I was at school—though perhaps—it’s

so long ago—”

He hesitated and looked up. Something in

Garvey’s face—something he had felt before he

looked up—stopped his tongue and froze the words

in his throat. His lips refused to move and became

suddenly dry. Again the mist rose before his

eyes and the appalling shadow dropped its veil

over the face before him. Garvey’s features began

to burn and glow. Then they seemed to coarsen and somehow slip confusedly together. He stared

for a second—it seemed only for a second—into the

visage of a ferocious and abominable animal; and

then, as suddenly as it had come, the filthy shadow

of the beast passed off, the mist melted out, and

with a mighty effort over his nerves he forced

himself to finish his sentence.

“You see it’s so long since I’ve given

attention to such things,” he stammered. His

heart was beating rapidly, and a feeling of

oppression was gathering over it.

“It’s my peculiar and special study on the other

hand,” Garvey resumed. “I’ve not spent all these

years in my laboratory to no purpose, I can assure

you. Nature, I know for a fact,” he added with

unnatural warmth, “does not abhor a vacuum.

On the contrary, she’s uncommonly fond of ’em,

much too fond, it seems, for the comfort of my

little household. If there were fewer vacuums

and more abhorrence we should get on better—a

damned sight better in my opinion.”

“Your special knowledge, no doubt, enables you

to speak with authority,” Shorthouse said, curiosity

and alarm warring with other mixed feelings in

his mind; “but how can a man tumble into a

vacuum?”

“You may well ask. That’s just it. How can

he? It’s preposterous and I can’t make it out

at all. Marx knows, but he won’t tell me. Jews

know more than we do. For my part I have

reason to believe—” He stopped and listened.

“Hush! here he comes,” he added, rubbing his

hands together as if in glee and fidgeting in his

chair.

Steps were heard coming down the passage,

and as they approached the door Garvey seemed

to give himself completely over to an excitement

he could not control. His eyes were fixed on the

door and he began clutching the tablecloth with

both hands. Again his face was screened by the

loathsome shadow. It grew wild, wolfish. As

through a mask, that concealed, and yet was thin

enough to let through a suggestion of, the beast

crouching behind, there leaped into his countenance

the strange look of the animal in the human—the

expression of the were-wolf, the monster. The

change in all its loathsomeness came rapidly over

his features, which began to lose their outline.

The nose flattened, dropping with broad nostrils

over thick lips. The face rounded, filled, and

became squat. The eyes, which, luckily for

Shorthouse, no longer sought his own, glowed with the light of untamed appetite and bestial

greed. The hands left the cloth and grasped the

edges of the plate, and then clutched the cloth

again.

“This is my course coming now,” said Garvey,

in a deep guttural voice. He was shivering. His

upper lip was partly lifted and showed the teeth,

white and gleaming.

A moment later the door opened and Marx

hurried into the room and set a dish in front

of his master. Garvey half rose to meet him,

stretching out his hands and grinning horribly.

With his mouth he made a sound like the snarl

of an animal. The dish before him was steaming,

but the slight vapour rising from it betrayed by

its odour that it was not born of a fire of coals.

It was the natural heat of flesh warmed by the

fires of life only just expelled. The moment the

dish rested on the table Garvey pushed away his

own plate and drew the other up close under his

mouth. Then he seized the food in both hands

and commenced to tear it with his teeth, grunting

as he did so. Shorthouse closed his eyes, with a

feeling of nausea. When he looked up again

the lips and jaw of the man opposite were stained

with crimson. The whole man was transformed. A feasting tiger, starved and ravenous, but without

a tiger’s grace—this was what he watched for

several minutes, transfixed with horror and

disgust.

Marx had already taken his departure, knowing

evidently what was not good for the eyes to look

upon, and Shorthouse knew at last that he was

sitting face to face with a madman.

The ghastly meal was finished in an incredibly

short time and nothing was left but a tiny pool

of red liquid rapidly hardening. Garvey leaned

back heavily in his chair and sighed. His smeared

face, withdrawn now from the glare of the lamp,

began to resume its normal appearance. Presently

he looked up at his guest and said in his natural

voice—

“I hope you’ve had enough to eat. You

wouldn’t care for this, you know,” with a downward

glance.

Shorthouse met his eyes with an inward loathing,

and it was impossible not to show some of the

repugnance he felt. In the other’s face, however,

he thought he saw a subdued, cowed expression.

But he found nothing to say.

“Marx will be in presently,” Garvey went on.

“He’s either listening, or in a vacuum.”

“Does he choose any particular time for his

visits?” the secretary managed to ask.

“He generally goes after dinner; just about this

time, in fact. But he’s not gone yet,” he added,

shrugging his shoulders, “for I think I hear him

coming.”

Shorthouse wondered whether vacuum was

possibly synonymous with wine cellar, but gave no

expression to his thoughts. With chills of horror

still running up and down his back, he saw Marx

come in with a basin and towel, while Garvey

thrust up his face just as an animal puts up its

muzzle to be rubbed.

“Now we’ll have coffee in the library, if you’re

ready,” he said, in the tone of a gentleman addressing

his guests after a dinner party.

Shorthouse picked up the bag, which had lain

all this time between his feet, and walked through

the door his host held open for him. Side by side

they crossed the dark hall together, and, to his

disgust, Garvey linked an arm in his, and with his

face so close to the secretary’s ear that he felt the

warm breath, said in a thick voice—

“You’re uncommonly careful with that bag, Mr.

Shorthouse. It surely must contain something

more than the bundle of papers.”

“Nothing but the papers,” he answered, feeling

the hand burning upon his arm and wishing he

were miles away from the house and its abominable

occupants.

“Quite sure?” asked the other with an odious

and suggestive chuckle. “Is there any meat in it,

fresh meat—raw meat?”

The secretary felt, somehow, that at the least

sign of fear the beast on his arm would leap upon

him and tear him with his teeth.

“Nothing of the sort,” he answered vigorously.

“It wouldn’t hold enough to feed a cat.”

“True,” said Garvey with a vile sigh, while the

other felt the hand upon his arm twitch up and

down as if feeling the flesh. “True, it’s too small

to be of any real use. As you say, it wouldn’t

hold enough to feed a cat.”

Shorthouse was unable to suppress a cry. The

muscles of his fingers, too, relaxed in spite of himself

and he let the black bag drop with a bang to

the floor. Garvey instantly withdrew his arm and

turned with a quick movement. But the secretary

had regained his control as suddenly as he had lost

it, and he met the maniac’s eyes with a steady and

aggressive glare.

“There, you see, it’s quite light. It makes no appreciable noise when I drop it.” He picked it

up and let it fall again, as if he had dropped it for

the first time purposely. The ruse was successful.

“Yes. You’re right,” Garvey said, still standing

in the doorway and staring at him. “At any rate

it wouldn’t hold enough for two,” he laughed.

And as he closed the door the horrid laughter

echoed in the empty hall.

They sat down by a blazing fire and Shorthouse

was glad to feel its warmth. Marx presently

brought in coffee. A glass of the old whisky and

a good cigar helped to restore equilibrium. For

some minutes the men sat in silence staring into

the fire. Then, without looking up, Garvey said

in a quiet voice—

“I suppose it was a shock to you to see me eat

raw meat like that. I must apologise if it was

unpleasant to you. But it’s all I can eat and it’s

the only meal I take in the twenty-four hours.”

“Best nourishment in the world, no doubt;

though I should think it might be a trifle strong

for some stomachs.”

He tried to lead the conversation away from

so unpleasant a subject, and went on to talk

rapidly of the values of different foods, of vegetarianism

and vegetarians, and of men who had gone for long periods without any food at all. Garvey

listened apparently without interest and had

nothing to say. At the first pause he jumped in

eagerly.

“When the hunger is really great on me,” he

said, still gazing into the fire, “I simply cannot

control myself. I must have raw meat—the first

I can get—” Here he raised his shining eyes

and Shorthouse felt his hair beginning to rise.

“It comes upon me so suddenly too. I never can

tell when to expect it. A year ago the passion

rose in me like a whirlwind and Marx was out

and I couldn’t get meat. I had to get something

or I should have bitten myself. Just when it was

getting unbearable my dog ran out from beneath

the sofa. It was a spaniel.”

Shorthouse responded with an effort. He

hardly knew what he was saying and his skin

crawled as if a million ants were moving over it.

There was a pause of several minutes.

“I’ve bitten Marx all over,” Garvey went on

presently in his strange quiet voice, and as if he

were speaking of apples; “but he’s bitter. I doubt

if the hunger could ever make me do it again.

Probably that’s what first drove him to take

shelter in a vacuum.” He chuckled hideously as he thought of this solution of his attendant’s

disappearances.

Shorthouse seized the poker and poked the fire

as if his life depended on it. But when the

banging and clattering was over Garvey continued

his remarks with the same calmness. The

next sentence, however, was never finished. The

secretary had got upon his feet suddenly.

“I shall ask your permission to retire,” he

said in a determined voice; “I’m tired to-night;

will you be good enough to show me to my room?”

Garvey looked up at him with a curious cringing

expression behind which there shone the gleam

of cunning passion.

“Certainly,” he said, rising from his chair.

“You’ve had a tiring journey. I ought to have

thought of that before.”

He took the candle from the table and lit it, and

the fingers that held the match trembled.

“We needn’t trouble Marx,” he explained. “That

beast’s in his vacuum by this time.”

III

They crossed the hall and began to ascend the

carpetless wooden stairs. They were in the well of the house and the air cut like ice. Garvey, the

flickering candle in his hand throwing his face

into strong outline, led the way across the first

landing and opened a door near the mouth of

a dark passage. A pleasant room greeted the

visitor’s eyes, and he rapidly took in its points

while his host walked over and lit two candles

that stood on a table at the foot of the bed. A fire

burned brightly in the grate. There were two

windows, opening like doors, in the wall opposite,

and a high canopied bed occupied most of the

space on the right. Panelling ran all round the

room reaching nearly to the ceiling and gave a

warm and cosy appearance to the whole; while

the portraits that stood in alternate panels

suggested somehow the atmosphere of an old

country house in England. Shorthouse was agreeably

surprised.

“I hope you’ll find everything you need,”

Garvey was saying in the doorway. “If not, you

have only to ring that bell by the fireplace. Marx

won’t hear it of course, but it rings in my

laboratory, where I spend most of the night.”

Then, with a brief good-night, he went out and

shut the door after him. The instant he was gone

Mr. Sidebotham’s private secretary did a peculiar thing. He planted himself in the middle of the

room with his back to the door, and drawing the

pistol swiftly from his hip pocket levelled it across

his left arm at the window. Standing motionless

in this position for thirty seconds he then suddenly

swerved right round and faced in the other direction,

pointing his pistol straight at the keyhole of

the door. There followed immediately a sound of

shuffling outside and of steps retreating across the

landing.

“On his knees at the keyhole,” was the

secretary’s reflection. “Just as I thought. But

he didn’t expect to look down the barrel of a

pistol and it made him jump a little.”

As soon as the steps had gone downstairs and

died away across the hall, Shorthouse went over

and locked the door, stuffing a piece of crumpled

paper into the second keyhole which he saw

immediately above the first. After that, he made

a thorough search of the room. It hardly repaid

the trouble, for he found nothing unusual. Yet he

was glad he had made it. It relieved him to find

no one was in hiding under the bed or in the deep

oak cupboard; and he hoped sincerely it was not

the cupboard in which the unfortunate spaniel had

come to its vile death. The French windows, he discovered, opened on to a little balcony. It

looked on to the front, and there was a drop of

less than twenty feet to the ground below. The

bed was high and wide, soft as feathers and

covered with snowy sheets—very inviting to a

tired man; and beside the blazing fire were a

couple of deep armchairs.

Altogether it was very pleasant and comfortable;

but, tired though he was, Shorthouse had no

intention of going to bed. It was impossible to

disregard the warning of his nerves. They had

never failed him before, and when that sense of

distressing horror lodged in his bones he knew

there was something in the wind and that a red

flag was flying over the immediate future. Some

delicate instrument in his being, more subtle than

the senses, more accurate than mere presentiment,

had seen the red flag and interpreted its meaning.

Again it seemed to him, as he sat in an armchair

over the fire, that his movements were being carefully

watched from somewhere; and, not knowing

what weapons might be used against him, he felt

that his real safety lay in a rigid control of his

mind and feelings and a stout refusal to admit that

he was in the least alarmed.

The house was very still. As the night wore on the wind dropped. Only occasional bursts of sleet

against the windows reminded him that the

elements were awake and uneasy. Once or twice

the windows rattled and the rain hissed in the

fire, but the roar of the wind in the chimney grew

less and less and the lonely building was at last

lapped in a great stillness. The coals clicked,

settling themselves deeper in the grate, and the

noise of the cinders dropping with a tiny report

into the soft heap of accumulated ashes was the

only sound that punctuated the silence.

In proportion as the power of sleep grew upon

him the dread of the situation lessened; but so

imperceptibly, so gradually, and so insinuatingly

that he scarcely realised the change. He thought

he was as wide awake to his danger as ever. The

successful exclusion of horrible mental pictures of

what he had seen he attributed to his rigorous

control, instead of to their true cause, the creeping

over him of the soft influences of sleep. The

faces in the coals were so soothing; the armchair

was so comfortable; so sweet the breath that

gently pressed upon his eyelids; so subtle the

growth of the sensation of safety. He settled

down deeper into the chair and in another moment

would have been asleep when the red flag began to shake violently to and fro and he sat bolt upright

as if he had been stabbed in the back.

Someone was coming up the stairs. The boards

creaked beneath a stealthy weight.

Shorthouse sprang from the chair and crossed

the room swiftly, taking up his position beside

the door, but out of range of the keyhole. The

two candles flared unevenly on the table at the

foot of the bed. The steps were slow and cautious—it

seemed thirty seconds between each one—but

the person who was taking them was very

close to the door. Already he had topped the

stairs and was shuffling almost silently across the

bit of landing.

The secretary slipped his hand into his pistol

pocket and drew back further against the wall,

and hardly had he completed the movement when

the sounds abruptly ceased and he knew that

somebody was standing just outside the door and

preparing for a careful observation through the

keyhole.

He was in no sense a coward. In action he

was never afraid. It was the waiting and wondering

and the uncertainty that might have loosened

his nerves a little. But, somehow, a wave of

intense horror swept over him for a second as he thought of the bestial maniac and his attendant

Jew; and he would rather have faced a pack of

wolves than have to do with either of these men.

Something brushing gently against the door set

his nerves tingling afresh and made him tighten his

grasp on the pistol. The steel was cold and

slippery in his moist fingers. What an awful

noise it would make when he pulled the trigger!

If the door were to open how close he would

be to the figure that came in! Yet he knew

it was locked on the inside and could not possibly

open. Again something brushed against the

panel beside him and a second later the piece of

crumpled paper fell from the keyhole to the floor,

while the piece of thin wire that had accomplished

this result showed its point for a moment in the

room and was then swiftly withdrawn.

Somebody was evidently peering now through

the keyhole, and realising this fact the spirit of

attack entered into the heart of the beleaguered

man. Raising aloft his right hand he brought it

suddenly down with a resounding crash upon the

panel of the door next the keyhole—a crash that,

to the crouching eavesdropper, must have seemed

like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky. There

was a gasp and a slight lurching against the door and the midnight listener rose startled and alarmed,

for Shorthouse plainly heard the tread of feet

across the landing and down the stairs till they

were lost in the silences of the hall. Only, this time,

it seemed to him there were four feet instead of two.

Quickly stuffing the paper back into the keyhole,

he was in the act of walking back to the fireplace

when, over his shoulder, he caught sight of a white

face pressed in outline against the outside of the

window. It was blurred in the streams of sleet,

but the white of the moving eyes was unmistakable.

He turned instantly to meet it, but the

face was withdrawn like a flash, and darkness

rushed in to fill the gap where it had appeared.

“Watched on both sides,” he reflected.

But he was not to be surprised into any sudden

action, and quietly walking over to the fireplace

as if he had seen nothing unusual he stirred the

coals a moment and then strolled leisurely over to

the window. Steeling his nerves, which quivered

a moment in spite of his will, he opened the

window and stepped out on to the balcony. The

wind, which he thought had dropped, rushed past

him into the room and extinguished one of the

candles, while a volley of fine cold rain burst all

over his face. At first he could see nothing, and

the darkness came close up to his eyes like a wall. He went a little farther on to the balcony and

drew the window after him till it clashed. Then

he stood and waited.

But nothing touched him. No one seemed to be

there. His eyes got accustomed to the blackness

and he was able to make out the iron railing, the

dark shapes of the trees beyond, and the faint

light coming from the other window. Through

this he peered into the room, walking the length

of the balcony to do so. Of course he was standing

in a shaft of light and whoever was crouching

in the darkness below could plainly see him. Below? —That there should be anyone above did

not occur to him until, just as he was preparing to

go in again, he became aware that something was

moving in the darkness over his head. He looked

up, instinctively raising a protecting arm, and

saw a long black line swinging against the dim

wall of the house. The shutters of the window

on the next floor, whence it depended, were thrown

open and moving backwards and forwards in the

wind. The line was evidently a thickish cord, for

as he looked it was pulled in and the end disappeared

in the darkness.

Shorthouse, trying to whistle to himself, peered

over the edge of the balcony as if calculating the

distance he might have to drop, and then calmly walked into the room again and closed the window

behind him, leaving the latch so that the lightest

touch would cause it to fly open. He relit the

candle and drew a straight-backed chair up to

the table. Then he put coal on the fire and

stirred it up into a royal blaze. He would willingly

have folded the shutters over those staring windows

at his back. But that was out of the question.

It would have been to cut off his way of escape.

Sleep, for the time, was at a disadvantage. His

brain was full of blood and every nerve was

tingling. He felt as if countless eyes were upon

him and scores of stained hands were stretching

out from the corners and crannies of the house to

seize him. Crouching figures, figures of hideous

Jews, stood everywhere about him where shelter

was, creeping forward out of the shadows when

he was not looking and retreating swiftly and

silently when he turned his head. Wherever he

looked, other eyes met his own, and though they

melted away under his steady, confident gaze, he

knew they would wax and draw in upon him the

instant his glances weakened and his will wavered.

Though there were no sounds, he knew that in

the well of the house there was movement going on, and preparation . And this knowledge, inasmuch

as it came to him irresistibly and through other and more subtle channels than those of the senses

kept the sense of horror fresh in his blood and

made him alert and awake.

But, no matter how great the dread in the heart,

the power of sleep will eventually overcome it.

Exhausted nature is irresistible, and as the minutes

wore on and midnight passed, he realised that

nature was vigorously asserting herself and sleep

was creeping upon him from the extremities.

To lessen the danger he took out his pencil and

began to draw the articles of furniture in the room.

He worked into elaborate detail the cupboard, the

mantelpiece, and the bed, and from these he passed

on to the portraits. Being possessed of genuine skill,

he found the occupation sufficiently absorbing. It

kept the blood in his brain, and that kept him

awake. The pictures, moreover, now that he considered

them for the first time, were exceedingly

well painted. Owing to the dim light, he centred

his attention upon the portraits beside the fireplace.

On the right was a woman, with a sweet, gentle

face and a figure of great refinement; on the left

was a full-size figure of a big handsome man with

a full beard and wearing a hunting costume of

ancient date.

From time to time he turned to the windows

behind him, but the vision of the face was not repeated. More than once, too, he went to the

door and listened, but the silence was so profound

in the house that he gradually came to believe the

plan of attack had been abandoned. Once he went

out on to the balcony, but the sleet stung his face

and he only had time to see that the shutters

above were closed, when he was obliged to seek

the shelter of the room again.

In this way the hours passed. The fire died

down and the room grew chilly. Shorthouse had

made several sketches of the two heads and was

beginning to feel overpoweringly weary. His feet

and his hands were cold and his yawns were prodigious.

It seemed ages and ages since the steps

had come to listen at his door and the face had

watched him from the window. A feeling of

safety had somehow come to him. In reality he

was exhausted. His one desire was to drop upon

the soft white bed and yield himself up to sleep

without any further struggle.

He rose from his chair with a series of yawns

that refused to be stifled and looked at his watch.

It was close upon three in the morning. He made

up his mind that he would lie down with his

clothes on and get some sleep. It was safe enough,

the door was locked on the inside and the window

was fastened. Putting the bag on the table near his pillow he blew out the candles and dropped

with a sense of careless and delicious exhaustion

upon the soft mattress. In five minutes he was

sound asleep.

There had scarcely been time for the dreams to

come when he found himself lying side-ways across

the bed with wide open eyes staring into the darkness.

Someone had touched him, and he had

writhed away in his sleep as from something

unholy. The movement had awakened him.

The room was simply black. No light came

from the windows and the fire had gone out as

completely as if water had been poured upon it.

He gazed into a sheet of impenetrable darkness

that came close up to his face like a wall.

His first thought was for the papers in his coat

and his hand flew to the pocket. They were safe;

and the relief caused by this discovery left his

mind instantly free for other reflections.

And the realisation that at once came to him

with a touch of dismay was, that during his sleep

some definite change had been effected in the room.

He felt this with that intuitive certainty which

amounts to positive knowledge. The room was

utterly still, but the corroboration that was speedily

brought to him seemed at once to fill the darkness

with a whispering, secret life that chilled his blood and made the sheet feel like ice against

his cheek.

Hark! This was it; there reached his ears, in

which the blood was already buzzing with warning

clamour, a dull murmur of something that rose

indistinctly from the well of the house and became

audible to him without passing through walls or

doors. There seemed no solid surface between

him, lying on the bed, and the landing; between

the landing and the stairs, and between the stairs

and the hall beyond.

He knew that the door of the room was standing

open ! Therefore it had been opened from the inside . Yet the window was fastened, also on the

inside.

Hardly was this realised when the conspiring

silence of the hour was broken by another and a

more definite sound. A step was coming along

the passage. A certain bruise on the hip told

Shorthouse that the pistol in his pocket was ready

for use and he drew it out quickly and cocked it.

Then he just had time to slip over the edge of the

bed and crouch down on the floor when the step

halted on the threshold of the room. The bed was

thus between him and the open door. The window

was at his back.

He waited in the darkness. What struck him as peculiar about the steps was that there seemed

no particular desire to move stealthily. There was

no extreme caution. They moved along in rather

a slipshod way and sounded like soft slippers or

feet in stockings. There was something clumsy,

irresponsible, almost reckless about the movement.

For a second the steps paused upon the threshold,

but only for a second. Almost immediately they

came on into the room, and as they passed from

the wood to the carpet Shorthouse noticed that

they became wholly noiseless. He waited in suspense,

not knowing whether the unseen walker

was on the other side of the room or was close

upon him. Presently he stood up and stretched

out his left arm in front of him, groping, searching,

feeling in a circle; and behind it he held the pistol,

cocked and pointed, in his right hand. As he rose

a bone cracked in his knee, his clothes rustled as

if they were newspapers, and his breath seemed

loud enough to be heard all over the room. But

not a sound came to betray the position of the

invisible intruder.

Then, just when the tension was becoming

unbearable, a noise relieved the gripping silence.

It was wood knocking against wood, and it came

from the farther end of the room. The steps had

moved over to the fireplace. A sliding sound almost immediately followed it and then silence

closed again over everything like a pall.

For another five minutes Shorthouse waited, and

then the suspense became too much. He could not

stand that open door! The candles were close

beside him and he struck a match and lit them,

expecting in the sudden glare to receive at least

a terrific blow. But nothing happened, and he

saw at once that the room was entirely empty.

Walking over with the pistol cocked he peered

out into the darkness of the landing and then

closed the door and turned the key. Then he

searched the room—bed, cupboard, table, curtains,

everything that could have concealed a man; but

found no trace of the intruder. The owner of the

footsteps had disappeared like a ghost into the

shadows of the night. But for one fact he might

have imagined that he had been dreaming: the bag

had vanished !

There was no more sleep for Shorthouse that

night. His watch pointed to 4 a.m. and there were

still three hours before daylight. He sat down at

the table and continued his sketches. With fixed

determination he went on with his drawing and

began a new outline of the man’s head. There

was something in the expression that continually

evaded him. He had no success with it, and this time it seemed to him that it was the eyes that

brought about his discomfiture. He held up his

pencil before his face to measure the distance between

the nose and the eyes, and to his amazement

he saw that a change had come over the features.

The eyes were no longer open. The lids had closed!

For a second he stood in a sort of stupefied

astonishment. A push would have toppled him

over. Then he sprang to his feet and held a candle

close up to the picture. The eye-lids quivered,

the eye-lashes trembled. Then, right before his

gaze, the eyes opened and looked straight into his

own. Two holes were cut in the panel and this

pair of eyes, human eyes, just fitted them.

As by a curious effect of magic, the strong fear

that had governed him ever since his entry into

the house disappeared in a second. Anger rushed

into his heart and his chilled blood rose suddenly

to boiling point. Putting the candle down, he

took two steps back into the room and then flung

himself forward with all his strength against the

painted panel. Instantly, and before the crash

came, the eyes were withdrawn, and two black

spaces showed where they had been. The old

huntsman was eyeless. But the panel cracked

and split inwards like a sheet of thin cardboard;

and Shorthouse, pistol in hand, thrust an arm through the jagged aperture and, seizing a human

leg, dragged out into the room—the Jew!

Words rushed in such a torrent to his lips that

they choked him. The old Hebrew, white as chalk,

stood shaking before him, the bright pistol barrel

opposite his eyes, when a volume of cold air rushed

into the room, and with it a sound of hurried steps.

Shorthouse felt his arm knocked up before he had

time to turn, and the same second Garvey, who

had somehow managed to burst open the window

came between him and the trembling Marx. His

lips were parted and his eyes rolled strangely in

his distorted face.

“Don’t shoot him! Shoot in the air!” he shrieked.

He seized the Jew by the shoulders.

“You damned hound,” he roared, hissing in his

face. “So I’ve got you at last. That’s where your

vacuum is, is it? I know your vile hiding-place at

last.” He shook him like a dog. “I’ve been after

him all night,” he cried, turning to Shorthouse, “all

night, I tell you, and I’ve got him at last.”

Garvey lifted his upper lip as he spoke and

showed his teeth. They shone like the fangs of

a wolf. The Jew evidently saw them too, for he

gave a horrid yell and struggled furiously.

Before the eyes of the secretary a mist seemed

to rise. The hideous shadow again leaped into Garvey’s face. He foresaw a dreadful battle, and

covering the two men with his pistol he retreated

slowly to the door. Whether they were both mad,

or both criminal, he did not pause to inquire. The

only thought present in his mind was that the

sooner he made his escape the better.

Garvey was still shaking the Jew when he

reached the door and turned the key, but as he

passed out on to the landing both men stopped

their struggling and turned to face him. Garvey’s

face, bestial, loathsome, livid with anger; the Jew’s

white and grey with fear and horror;—both turned

towards him and joined in a wild, horrible yell that

woke the echoes of the night. The next second

they were after him at full speed.

Shorthouse slammed the door in their faces and

was at the foot of the stairs, crouching in the

shadow, before they were out upon the landing.

They tore shrieking down the stairs and past him,

into the hall; and, wholly unnoticed, Shorthouse

whipped up the stairs again, crossed the bedroom

and dropped from the balcony into the soft snow.

As he ran down the drive he heard behind him in

the house the yells of the maniacs; and when

he reached home several hours later Mr. Sidebotham

not only raised his salary but also told him to buy

a new hat and overcoat, and send in the bill to him.