The Dark House Part 23

"Perhaps you had better tell him that we are all a.s.sembled. He may have overslept himself."

At the end of five minutes the old butler was back to say that Mr Capel had not answered when he knocked.

"He may be ill," said Lydia anxiously, and then, catching Katrine's eye, she coloured warmly.

Preenham gave Artis a meaning look, and that gentleman followed him out.

"What is it?"

"Mr Capel hasn't been to bed all night, sir."

"Not been to bed all night, Preenham?" said the old lawyer, who had followed. "Did you let him out last night?"

"No, sir."

"Then how can he have gone out? I saw that the door was fastened after you had gone to bed, and it was still fastened when I came down at six."

"And at seven too, sir," said the butler.

"He must be in the house," said Artis. "Go and look round."

"Is Mr Capel ill?" said Katrine.

"No, no, my dear, I think not," said the old lawyer. "I'll go, too, and see."

"It is very strange," said Katrine, turning to Lydia, who looked ashy pale. "I hope nothing is the matter, dear."

She seemed so calm that Lydia took courage and returned to the breakfast-table, while, followed by the old lawyer and Preenham, Artis examined the dining-room and study, then ascended to the first floor, tried the Colonel's door, found it fast, and went on into the drawing-room.

"I tried that door," he said grimly, "because that is the chamber of horrors."

"It is locked, and the key is in my table," said the old lawyer, and then they searched the other rooms, finding Capel's watch, purse and pocketbook, and looked at each other blankly.

"He must be out," said Artis.

"No, sir; here's his hat and stick."

Artis stopped, thinking, and then bounded up the stairs again to the Colonel's door.

"I thought so," he said. "There's something wrong here. Look." He pointed to several holes through the mahogany door, the mark of a saw scoring the panels, and the reddish dust on the lion-skin mat. "Is any one here?" he cried, knocking. "I say! Is any one here? Pah! Look at that!"

He uttered a cry, almost like a woman, as he pointed to a place where the lion-skin rug did not reach, and there, dimly seen by the gloomy light thrown by the stained-gla.s.s window, was a little thread of blood that had run beneath the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

DOCTOR AND NURSE.

The old lawyer ran from the door with an alacrity not to be expected in one of his years, and returned directly with the key that he had found in his table.

"Give it to me," said Artis huskily, and s.n.a.t.c.hing the key he tried to insert it, but his hand trembled so that he did not succeed, and the next moment he shrank away.

"Here, open that door, Preenham," he said.

"I daren't, sir, I daren't indeed. Ah, poor young man!"

"Give me the key," said the old lawyer firmly, and taking it, he tried the door, to find that the lock had been tampered with, so that it was some minutes before he could get it to move.

"Hadn't I better fetch the police, sir?" faltered the butler.

"No; stop," said the old lawyer, turning the handle. "There is some one against the door."

He pushed hard, and with some effort got it open so that he could have squeezed in.

"It is all dark," he said. "No it is the curtain," and forcing his way through, he drew back the hangings from the window.

"It's poor Capel--dead!" whispered Artis, who had followed. "Here, Preenham, come in," he cried angrily. "Oh, how horrible--poor lad!"

The lawyer saw the naked sword lying on the carpet; that the drawers and cabinet had been ransacked; and that the window was not quite shut down.

He took this in at a glance as he ran to where Capel lay close to the door, where he had dragged himself sometime during the early hours of the morn, to lie exhausted after vainly trying to raise the alarm.

"He's dead, sir, dead!" groaned the butler.

"Hush!" cried the old lawyer harshly. "He's not dead. Mr Artis, you are young and active. Quick. That doctor, Mr Heston. You know where he lives. You, Preenham, brandy. Stop. Tell the ladies Mr Capel is ill. Nothing more. Don't spread the alarm."

"Is anything very serious the matter?" said a voice at the door.

"Yes--no, my dear. Go away now," cried the old lawyer, "Mr Capel is ill."

"There is something terribly wrong again," said a deeper voice, and, white as ashes and closely followed by Katrine, Lydia came in.

She uttered a faint cry, and then wrested herself from Artis, who tried to stop her.

"No," she cried, imperiously, changed as it were in an instant from a shivering girl into a thoughtful woman. "Quick: go for help. Mr Girtle, what can I do?"

"Yes, let me help too," said Katrine. "What is it; has he tried to kill himself?"

"No," cried Lydia, turning upon her fiercely. "He was too true a man."

"I'm afraid there has been an attempt made by burglars," said the old lawyer, "and that our young friend has been trying to defend the place; but--but he was locked in here--the key was in my table--and--and--I'm afraid I'm growing very old--things seem so much confused now."

He put his hand to his head for a few moments and looked helplessly from one to the other. Then his customary _sang froid_ seemed to have returned.

"This is not a sight for you, ladies," he said. "Pray go back."

"I am not afraid, Mr Girtle," said Katrine, with a slight shudder as she looked eagerly about the room.