The House of Mystery Part 16

It was Annette.

In the s.p.a.ce of his long gasp, her hand touched the gas jet. It went out; the room faded into absolute darkness.

And the vision which stood out from the black background made him sway and clutch at the garments in the closet. For her robes radiated dull light, like a coal seen behind ashes. It was as though she were about to burst into flame. On her head gleamed a dull star; from it, the radiance of her robe fell away toward her feet in lesser light, like the tail-streamer of a comet. All emotion of despair, disillusion, rage, were expressed for a moment within him by an emotion of supernatural awe which sent the tremors running from his face to his spine, and his spine to his feet. She stood a perfect phantom of the night, like Annette called back from the dead.

The pillar of dull light was moving now. She had stooped; he heard a faint creak, he imagined that he felt new air. Suddenly, too, a voice which had been droning far away became audible. And now the pillar of light was sinking, sinking through the floor. The feet were gone, the torso; the star of light was level with the floor, was gone. He was looking into darkness.

Mrs. Markham's controlled, vibrant voice rose clearly from below--he caught every word:

"Come, Helen; be strong. He loves you. His love calls you!"

Silence for a quarter of a minute; then a swish as of garments agitated by some swift motion; then Annette's well-remembered contralto voice of a boy--Annette's voice, which had spoken such things to him--

"_Robert, dearest, I have come again. Robert, I keep for you out here the little ring. Robert, we will be happy!_"

And the voice of a man, sobbing and breaking between the exclamatives:

"_My little Lallie--Dear Helen--how long I've waited--sweetheart--how many years!_"

And the voice of Annette.

"_Only a few more years to wait, dearest--and now that you have faith, I can come to you sometimes--but, oh, dearest, I foresee a danger--a great danger!_"

Ten minutes later, Rosalie tiptoed from the library from which she had observed the seance to the last detail of method, and made her way to the closet wherein she had shut Dr. Blake. She opened the door with all precaution, fumbled, found nothing, whispered. No one answered. At last she stepped within, plugged the keyhole with her key, and lit a match.

The closet was empty.

Rosalie crept upstairs to her own room. When she lit the gas, she was crying softly and--as of old habit under emotional stress--talking to herself under her breath.

"I had to do it," she whispered. "He'd believe nothin' but his eyes!"

She sat down then, and surveyed her belongings. "The job's over. What whelps it makes people--just to touch this business!"

XII

ANNETTE LIES

Blake rose from a night of protracted, dull suffering; of quick rages; of hideous, unrelieved despairs. When the day came and the city roared about him again, the habits of life rea.s.serted themselves. He rose, dressed, sent for coffee, gained the pathetic victory of swallowing it.

His face, seared by all the inner fires of that night, settled now to a look of steel resolution. He rose from his coffee, opened his desk and wrote this note:

MY DEAR MME. LE GRANGE:

I understand perfectly your motive in asking me to invade a private house and peep through a keyhole. It was the only thing which would have disillusioned me. Had you told me this, I would not have believed you. Though it was harsh treatment, I thank you. I enclose a check for a hundred dollars, payment two weeks in advance for your services, which I shall need no longer. You did your job well.

You will understand, I think, that I do not reflect on you when I ask you never to see me again. You would recall something which I shall try for the rest of my life to forget.

WALTER H. BLAKE.

P.S. Do as you please about this--but I should prefer you to give Mrs. Markham the customary notice.

As he sealed the letter and put on his hat that he might go to post it with his own hands, he had the look of a man who has settled everything and for life. But the clanging lid of the letter box had no sooner closed than the look of resolution began to leave his face. For two hours, he paced the streets of Manhattan. He found himself at length apostrophizing a brick wall, "Who could believe it?" And again, to a lamp-post, "I can't believe it!" And again, "She made her!" He wheeled on this, turned into a drug store, shut himself into the telephone booth, and called up the Markham house.

After an eternal minute, he was answered in Annette's own deep, thrilling contralto:

"h.e.l.lo!"

He paused, controlled his voice, and plunged in:

"Miss Markham, this is Dr. Blake. Please don't go away from the telephone. You owe it to me to listen--"

"I shall listen--"

"Very well. You will remember that I have respected your wishes about keeping away from you. I do not want to make you any trouble. But something has happened in which you are concerned, and which makes it imperative that I should speak to you face to face for five minutes--"

"Something important?" he heard her voice tremble. He remembered then that cheated and humiliated lovers had been known to shoot women; he had raised his voice; perhaps, what with her bad conscience, she was thinking of that.

"Understand me," he added, speaking lower. "I shall be kind. I shall do nothing violent nor disagreeable. I want five minutes, at your house, in the Park--anywhere. Though I would prefer to see you alone, I would consent to the presence of your aunt. But you must see me!"

"I must see you," she repeated--musingly he thought--"Aunt Paula is away."

"Could you come at once to that Eighty-sixth Street entrance of the Park?"

A pause, and--

"I will come," she said.

"Good-by--at once," he answered, and hung up the receiver, without further word. Outside, he hurled himself into a taxicab. Spurred on by an offer of an extra dollar for speed, the chauffeur raced north.

Annette was sitting on a bench by the Park gate. Not until he had paid and dismissed the chauffeur did she look up. She wore a smile, which faded as she caught his expression. With its fading came the old, worn look; he had never, even at that first meeting on the train, seen it more p.r.o.nounced. A flood of perverse tenderness came over him; he found himself obliged to steel his heart. And so, it was Annette who spoke first:

"What is the matter--oh, what has happened?"

He stood towering over her.

"Miss Markham, I came to ask a simple question. Do not be afraid to tell me the truth. What did you do last night?"

"What did I do last night?" she repeated. "Why do you ask?"

"Answer, please. Where were you last night--what did you do?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"It will be better, I a.s.sure you," he replied, "if you do not act with me."

"You have never seemed harsh before--"