The House 'Round the Corner Part 27

"Yet, from what you have told me, I gather that Mr. Armathwaite is a gentleman?"

"He has all the airs of one," said Walker.

"And he must have thought you had behaved discourteously to his cousin before he would use actual violence towards you!"

"Nothing of the sort, sir. Miss Meg jumped down my throat for no reason whatever. Of course, Mr. Armathwaite hadn't heard the beginning of it, and may have imagined I was to blame, but I wasn't."

"Perhaps there is an explanation that may be news to you. You are not aware, I take it, that Mrs. Garth is now Mrs. Ogilvey?"

"By jing!" cried Walker, rather forgetting himself, "that's the name Tom Bland tried to tell me, but he couldn't rightly get his tongue round it."

"Probably. But don't you see the bearing this important fact has on to-day's proceedings? I have reason to believe that Mrs. Garth and her daughter disagreed with Mr. Garth before his death. At any rate, she seems to have married again within a very short time, and Miss Meg may have fancied that you were trying purposely to insult and annoy her by referring to a bygone tragedy. The mere presence of this Mr.

Armathwaite, who is wholly unknown here, lends color to that a.s.sumption.

He may be a 'cousin' by the second marriage. It is even conceivable that Mrs. Ogilvey, as Mrs. Garth now is, did not wish her second husband's relatives to know of the way in which her first husband met his death.

The fact that Mr. Armathwaite rented the Grange can be regarded as nothing more than an ordinary coincidence. Isn't it possible, Mr.

Walker, that you blundered very seriously in thrusting yourself into Miss Meg's presence, and forcing an unpalatable revelation on her?"

Walker's red face positively blanched. For one instant his nerve failed him.

"I never thought of that," he muttered, in dire confusion.

"It strikes me as a perfectly tenable theory," said Dobb, rising, and thereby showing that the interview was at an end. "You took me rather by surprise when you called me out of my office this afternoon, but I have given the matter some calm reflection in the interim, and have come to the conclusion that you found in Elmdale what is vulgarly known as a mare's nest."

Walker stood up, too. He realized that he was being dismissed with ignominy, and resented it. Thumping an oak table with his clenched fist, he cried pa.s.sionately:

"Not me! You'll see in a day or two, Mr. Dobb, who's makin' the mistake.

If I'm wrong I'll eat humble pie, but I'm not eatin' any now, thank you.

I came to you, meanin' to do a good turn to all parties----"

"Restrain yourself, please," broke in the solicitor, speaking with cold dignity. "What kind of 'good turn' is it that rakes up bygone troubles, and spreads scandalous gossip?"

"You've missed my point entirely, Mr. Dobb," protested Walker. "I thought that you, being a friend of the Garths, could drop a quiet hint to Miss Meg not to talk about her dead-and-gone father as though he might arrive here by the next train--that's all."

"But it is not all. If it were, your att.i.tude would be understandable, even praiseworthy. What you are saying indirectly is that Mr. Stephen Garth is alive, and that some unknown person lies in Bellerby churchyard."

Thus cornered, Walker floundered badly.

"I'm not able to argue with you, sir, and that's the truth," he said.

"Neither do I want to be drawn into a squabble of this sort. Of course, I know nothing of any second marriage; but, even if I did, Miss Meg isn't a little girl, who might have forgotten her real father. Look here! I stick to my notion, and that's the long and the short of it.

There's a mystery at Elmdale, and it's bound to come out, no matter what difference of opinion there may be between you and me."

A parlormaid entered with a telegram.

"Excuse me one moment," said Mr. Dobb; "that is, unless you wish to go!"

he added.

Walker was constrained to put on a bold front before the servant.

"I can wait another couple of minutes," he said off-handedly. The lawyer smiled; but, for his own purposes, he did not wish to quarrel outright with his visitor. He opened the buff envelope, and read, and not even the experience of a lifetime served to mask the incredulous dismay which leaped to his face.

For the message ran:

"Have reason to believe that a gentleman pa.s.sing under the name of Robert Armathwaite is in or near Nuttonby. Kindly make guarded inquiries and wire result.--SIGMATIC."

Now, "Sigmatic" was the code address of a department of the India Office in which Mr. Dobb's eldest son held a responsible position. That phrase, "pa.s.sing under the name of," suggested many possibilities to the legal mind. Moreover, the fact that a Government department was interested, and that the ordinary official channel for investigation was not employed, gave him furiously to think. In any event, he had been saved from the exceeding unwisdom of treating James Walker too cavalierly.

"I'll just answer this, as the messenger is waiting," he said pleasantly. "If you're not in a hurry, Mr. Walker, sit down again. I'll send in a decanter of sherry and some cigarettes. Help yourself, will you?"

He went out. James Walker grinned, and plunged his clenched fists into his trousers pockets.

"That telegram knocked old Dobb into a c.o.c.ked hat," he mused. "Wonder what was in it? Something to do with the Garths, I'll bet! Keep a steady hand on the reins, Jimmy, my boy, and you'll finish with the best of 'em yet!"

CHAPTER XII

THE DAWN OF A BLACK FRIDAY

There were three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor of the Grange, all nearly of equal size, and remarkably s.p.a.cious, since they corresponded in area with the rooms beneath. Percy Whittaker occupied the westerly front room, Marguerite had pre-empted the easterly one, and Armathwaite's room lay in the north-east angle. Thus, he was early aroused by the morning sun, and was up and about long before Mrs.

Jackson or Betty put in an appearance. For lack of the bath which he had been prevented from ordering through Tom Bland, he splashed in an old-fashioned shallow zinc contrivance which reminded him of former days in Baluchistan. Crossing the landing afterwards, meaning to look in on Percy Whittaker, he glanced at the now oddly familiar black figure in the stained-gla.s.s window.

At the moment his thoughts were not dwelling on the topic which had occupied them, well nigh to the exclusion of all else, since he had first set eyes on Elmdale, yet, by some occult influence, no sooner did he meet the cold, unseeing glare of the painted effigy than his brain began to calculate the significance of certain dates. The _Nuttonby Gazette_ dated Sat.u.r.day, June 22nd, of two years ago, had stated that the inquest on Stephen Garth was held at the Fox and Hounds Inn, Elmdale, "to-day" (so the enterprising Banks had evidently brought out a special edition). Mrs. Jackson and Police Constable Leadbitter had deposed to the finding of the body on "Friday evening," which would be the 21st. Mrs. Jackson and Betty had last seen Garth alive on the Wednesday. Certain post-mortem indications showed that the death had taken place that night, the 19th. To-day, Friday, two years later, was the 19th! Armathwaite was not a nervous subject, but he was aware once more of a creepy sensation when he realized that this sunlit morning probably heralded in the fatal anniversary.

Seen in a clear and penetrating light, and closely examined at an hour when each line stood out boldly, the face of the figure revealed certain peculiarities. Artists in stained gla.s.s seldom attempt to convey subtleties in flesh tints. At best, their craft is mainly decorative, and effects are obtained by judicious grouping of colors, each of a distinct tone value, rather than by the skilled merging of light into shadow, which is the painter's chief aim. But, in this instance, a deliberate attempt had been made to depict features of a truly malevolent cast. The oval formed by the open visor of the helmet gave scope for the use of an almost invisible casing of lead, which also provided the larger outline of the helmet itself, and of an enormous raven, with outstretched wings, perched on the crest.

Yet, instead of the youthful and n.o.ble countenance which tradition would surely ascribe to a gallant prince, the face which peered from the casque was that of an evil-minded ascetic. Indeed, the longer Armathwaite looked, the more he was convinced that the artist had tried to suggest a mere skull covered with dead skin. The nose was pinched, and the nostrils were unpleasantly prominent. The lips were mere seams of dried parchment, and the cavernous eyes were really two empty sockets.

This sinister and ghoul-like visage was totally at variance with the remainder of the work. The armor was correct from helm to sollerets, with hauberk and corselet, greaves and jambards, while the gauntleted hands were crossed, in true warrior fashion, on the hilt of a long, straight sword. The vignette border of tendrils and vine-leaves was charming in design and rich in well-blended color, and an observer of critical taste could not fail to compare the gross offense of the portrait with the quiet beauty of its setting. To some minds, there is an element in art which denies a true sense of harmony to a distorted imagination, and the notion was suddenly borne in on Armathwaite that the same hand had never limned that demoniac face and the remainder of the window. The one might have been the product of some debauchee steeped in the worst excesses of a libidinous society, while the other breathed the calm serenity of the Renaissance. Armathwaite had in full measure the hunter's instinct which incites mankind to seek out and destroy ferocious beasts. If he had a weapon in his hands at the moment he would have smashed that diabolical mask out of existence.

The unaccountable spasm pa.s.sed, and he entered Whittaker's room, to find that disconsolate youth lying on his back, wide awake, and staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Hullo!" he said cheerily. "Had a good night's rest?"

"Pretty fair," muttered the invalid, turning his eyes dully on the other. "That doctor chap doped me, I expect. Anyhow I slept till I heard you splashin' in the bath."

"How's the ankle?"

"Rotten. Look here, Mr. Armathwaite, you seem to understand this sort of thing. Bar jokes, how long must I remain here?"

"In bed, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"A week, at least. After that, you may be able to hop about on one leg."

"If _you_ were in my place, would you stop in bed a week?"