The House 'Round the Corner Part 21

He went out. The two in the room heard the front door close, and followed his firm tread as he strode to the gate. Then Marguerite rose, and flung wide a window, and her sorrow-laden eyes dwelt unseeing on the far horizon. She stood there, motionless, until Whittaker stirred fretfully.

"Look here, Meg," he began, but was promptly stricken into silence again. Starting at the sound of his voice as though she had heard a serpent's hiss, the girl hurried away without a word, obviously making for the solitude of her own apartment.

He lighted another cigarette.

"By gad!" he cackled to himself, apparently extracting amus.e.m.e.nt from a situation in which the majority of men would have found small cause for humor, "I've stopped those two from billing and cooing, or my name ain't Percy. I can't stomach that big chap, and that's a fact. He's just the sort of fellow a girl might lose her head over, but I've put a spoke in his wheel by bringing ma on the scene. Now I must sit tight, and play naughty little boy in the corner till she arrives. After that, I'll make it my business to shunt pa into some climate better suited for his particular complaint. Maybe I shan't figure so badly in Meg's estimation when she realizes that I did some hard thinking while the other johnny was making eyes at her. I've been looking for some sort of an explosion in this quarter ever since I read of the suicide of Stephen Garth at the Grange, Elmdale. I thought then there was something fishy going on, and I was jolly well not mistaken. If I hadn't been such a dashed fool as to tramp over that confounded moor I'd have been here hours sooner. But all's well that ends well, and this affair shan't slip out of my grip if I can help it."

He had chosen a strange way in which to woo a maid, but there is no accounting for the vagaries of a warped mind, and Percy Whittaker was a true degenerate, one of those physically weak and mentally perverted beings

"In whose cold blood no spark of honor bides."

Yet, even his sluggish pulses could be stirred. The house which had witnessed strange scenes played by stronger actors might be trusted to deal sternly with this popinjay. He got his first taste of its quality before he was an hour older.

CHAPTER IX

SHOWING THE REAL STRENGTH OF AN ILLUSION

Armathwaite went straight to Farmer Burt's house. He reasoned that Burt would be a likely possessor of a smart cob, and that among the farm hands would exist at least one boy of sufficient intelligence to carry through a simple commission without error. He was lucky in finding the farmer at home, watering his stock before completing the hay-making operations. In the bleak North the agriculturist wastes no time when the weather is propitious. If need be, Burt and his men would work till nearly midnight, and feel well pleased if thereby the last rick of dry, sweet-smelling hay was covered with a tarpaulin.

Explanation, backed by ample payment, produced both the boy and the cob.

In the result, the following telegram was handed in at Bellerby post-office ten minutes before the closing hour of eight:

"Postmaster, York,--Kindly give this telegram and accompanying ten pounds to proprietor of princ.i.p.al garage in York. I want to hire powerful and reliable car with experienced chauffeur for one week at least. Will pay full rates on condition that car reaches me by noon to-morrow, Friday. Chauffeur should bring ample supply of petrol, as none available here. I send ten pounds as guarantee for order, and will remit balance of first week's charge in accordance with instructions conveyed by chauffeur. Owner of car will oblige by telegraphing acceptance of offer, with name and address, early to-morrow, paying porterage, which will be refunded.--ARMATHWAITE, The Grange, Elmdale, via Bellerby."

It was a singular fact that the really effective means of burking inquiry by the local authorities only occurred to Armathwaite's perplexed brain as he was hurrying back to the Grange. When all was said and done, who in Elmdale actually knew that the erstwhile Stephen Garth was living? His daughter and Percy Whittaker! He, Armathwaite, could not even be certain that Whittaker had ever seen the man. Well, then, Marguerite had only to vow that her earlier statement was a sheer invention, a species of joke inspired by the worst possible taste--and Stephen Garth would rest quietly in his grave! The pretense left the mystery insoluble as ever where the girl herself was concerned, but that phase of the difficulty might be dealt with in the privacy of her own home. The chief draw-back--an official inquiry, with its far-reaching developments--would be surmounted. The Jacksons might be trusted to forget everything they had heard that day. There remained James Walker. Well, his evidence was discredited at the outset.

Armathwaite himself would be a most convincing witness against Walker.

It would be easy to show that the pushful and amorous youth who had bluffed his way into the house in order to insult a lady who would have nothing to do with him, and was forcibly ejected by the new tenant, had fallen into a singular and most amazing blunder when he said that Marguerite Garth had told him that her father was still alive.

The more Armathwaite reviewed this possible way out of a really threatening situation the more he liked it. The surprising thing was that he had not thought of it sooner. Even Percy Whittaker's confounded impertinence in telegraphing to his sister was robbed of its sting.

Suppose the police got wind of the message, they would make little of it. How did it run? "Meg greatly disturbed by rumors concerning death which occurred in Grange two years ago." It was awkwardly phrased, perhaps, but was capable of explanation. She was "disturbed" by the "rumors." What rumors? Not that her father was not dead, but that some other man had died and been buried in his place! Who had spread the rumors? Why, Walker himself! Had he not jeered at Marguerite, and endeavored to palliate his offense by repeating the absurd t.i.ttle-tattle to the man who had kicked him out of the house? Thin ice, this; but it might bear if not pressed unduly. By rare luck Whittaker had asked his sister to communicate with the girl's mother. There was no reference to her father. In effect, a friend of long standing had recognized the fact that she had only one parent left.

Armathwaite was bothered by no scruples in this matter. He had promised Marguerite Ogilvey his help in her efforts to safeguard the father whom she held so dear, and he would fulfill his bond to the letter.

Personally, he ran no risk. His acquaintance with Elmdale and its strange tragedy was only a day old. As for Marguerite herself, no jury in the land would punish a daughter who lied to protect her own father.

There remained Percy Whittaker. What crooked line would that curiously-const.i.tuted youth take? He could be bribed into acquiescence; but what terms would he exact? Armathwaite felt a certain tightening of his lips when he answered his own question. At any rate, the vitally important thing now was to gain time, and he was confident that a bold front would carry a most attractive and winsome girl past the dangers of the morrow.

Oddly enough, as he neared the Grange, the old house itself seemed to smile at him in a friendly and encouraging way. The setting sun lent warmth to its gray walls and glinted cheerfully from its windows. One pane of gla.s.s in particular--probably because it had a slightly convex surface--a pane in one of the windows of Meg's bedroom, winked continuously as his body swayed with each onward stride. It might have been saying:

"Leave it to me! Leave it to me! I've watched ten generations of men and women pa.s.sing beneath, and I know how gently Time deals with humanity's sorrows."

The idea so obsessed him that he loitered inside the gate, and glanced up to see if, by any chance, Marguerite might be in the room and have noticed his approach. Yes, she was there! She threw open the window, which, in view of what happened within the next half-minute, moved upward with a noiseless ease that was absolutely uncanny.

"Dinner is just coming in," she said. "Betty has put some hot water in your bedroom, the one opposite this, and you must hurry over your toilet."

"I also have good news," he answered gayly. "I've hit on a plan that should rout the enemy."

"Which enemy?" she asked in a lower tone.

"The powers that be," and he waved a comprehensive arm to indicate the world at large. "By putting back the clock twenty-four hours we defeat every sort of combination that can take the field against us. I'll propound the scheme at dinner, so prepare to feast with a light heart."

With expressive pantomime she inquired if Percy Whittaker was to share their council, and he replied with a nod. He was loth to deprive his eyes of the perfect picture she offered there, with her elbows resting on the window-sill, her head and shoulders set, as it were, in a frame, and the last rays of the sun brightening her pallid cheeks and weaving strands of spun gold in her brown hair. But the summons from the kitchen was not to be flouted, so he made for the door.

It will be remembered that the hall was lighted directly from the upper part of the front door, and the stained-gla.s.s window on the half-landing of the stairs. Indirectly, its gloom could be dissipated by any one of three interior doors, but all of them happened to be closed. Thus, when Armathwaite's tall figure appeared in the porch, it effectually withdrew the light gained through the gla.s.s in the front door until the door itself was opened.

He had his hand on the handle when he heard a most weird groaning and shrieking caused by the closing of the bedroom window. Practically in the same instant he caught an affrighted yell from inside the house, and some one shot violently down the stairs and into the hall, falling in a huddled heap on the floor. Armathwaite had the door open in a second, and found Percy Whittaker lying at the foot of the stairs, while Marguerite's voice came in a cry of alarm:

"What is it? What has happened? Percy, is that you?"

By that time Armathwaite had partly raised the fallen man, who did not seem to have an atom of breath left in his body. Mrs. Jackson, too, came from the kitchen with a lamp, and Marguerite appeared on the stairs.

"What's the matter?" she cried again. "Did Percy fall? Is he hurt?"

"I imagine he missed his footing on the stairs," said Armathwaite coolly. "At any rate, he struck the floor with such a thump that he is winded.... Now, old chap, pull yourself together! Can't you stand?

Shall I carry you to a chair?"

In a dazed way Whittaker endeavored to stand upright. At once he uttered a croak of agony, and would have collapsed once more if Armathwaite were not supporting him.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the other, "I'm afraid he is more damaged than I thought. Show a light here, Mrs. Jackson. Now, go ahead, and open the door of Mr. Whittaker's room if it is closed. I'll take him there, and find out the extent of the mischief."

Even in the confusion of the moment Armathwaite noticed that Percy was gazing at the wall near the clock with the distended eyes of fear. Mrs.

Jackson saw it, too, and with the outspokenness of her cla.s.s, did not hesitate to put her thought into words.

"Eh, my, but t' poor young man'll hae seen t' ghost," she cried.

"I--I saw some spook," muttered Whittaker weakly. "Where is it? What was it? I'm sure I saw something."

"Go upstairs," Armathwaite commanded Mrs. Jackson angrily. "Or, better still, hand the lamp to Miss Meg, and stop talking nonsense."

Quickly he had Whittaker stretched on a bed, and soon ascertained that the trouble, whatever it might be, lay in the right ankle. The sufferer had taken off the patent-leather boots, and was wearing felt slippers, so examination of his injury was no difficult matter. Armathwaite, evidently no novice in such emergencies, shook his head when Whittaker flinched or cried aloud in pain if a tendon was touched or an effort made to twist the foot slightly.

"Put that lamp down," he said to Mrs. Jackson, "and bring me a basin of cold water. You, Meg," he went on, "might tear a sheet, or any piece of strong linen, into strips about three inches wide. Be as quick as you can, please! Every minute saved now may mean a week afterwards."

"What's gone wrong?" whispered Whittaker, when the women had flown. "Is it a smash?"

"No, thank goodness! You'd not get over a broken ankle in a hurry. But you've collected a very nasty sprain, and possibly lacerated some ligaments as well. Fortunately, I know what to do before the joint has time to swell. How in the world did you contrive to pitch downstairs?

The steps are broad, and the grade less than the average."

"I--I didn't fall. That is, I mean I didn't trip or stumble over anything. I saw that thing--the ghost--and simply crumpled up. I think I must have nearly fainted."

"But, my dear fellow, what you took for a ghost was merely the reflection of a painted figure in a stained-gla.s.s window."

"It was more than that. I'm not quite a fool. I never saw anything so ghastly in my life. Didn't you say that the man was found hanging in the hall near the clock? Well, I saw him, I tell you. I had turned the corner of the stairs when suddenly the beastly thing loomed up right in front of my eyes. Then it groaned most horribly. I couldn't be mistaken.

I was thinking of nothing of the sort. In fact, I was wondering whether Meg would take a sensible view of things, and agree that I did right in getting Edie to send for her mater. Then that cursed vision appeared. If I didn't see it I'm going dotty. Why, I felt my hair rising, and I dropped as though I'd been shot."

"Of course, I can't convince you now," said Armathwaite, "but when you are able to get about again I'll show you just what happened."