The dingy little cart containing the clean linen of the Rectory, was on its way by an unusually roundabout route. Neddy Mellin, the washer woman's son, who disliked work as much as he liked play, which was natural in a lad of thirteen, grumbled openly at the uncongenial task of driving the large white donkey. The animal herself, who answered to the name of Nelly, grumbled also in her own way, as she objected to innovations. Hitherto she had been allowed to take the short road to the parson's residence; now she was compelled to go by the long one, which was particularly annoying on this damp, misty November afternoon. With the obstinacy of her race she refused to trot, and although Neddy whipped her, coaxed her, and threatened her, Nelly tstill behaved as though she were attending a funeral. Mrs. Mellin did not mind. Throned amidst the bundles of linen, she peered through the fog for something she particularly wished to see. Only when the cart arrived midway down a melancholy, deserted thoroughfare, bordered by dripping elm-trees, did she speak. Then the cart stopped as she fancied she heard an order.
"There," said Mrs. Mellin, pointing with a fat, red finger at a dreary mansion which stood in a disorderly garden. "Maranatha! I never did 'ear of sich a queer name in all my born days."
"It's a scripter name, and has to do with cursing," explained her son, who, being a choir-boy, knew something about the Bible.
"Then don't let me 'ear you use sich a wicked word, or I'll take the skin off your back," said his mother, wiping her large crimson face with a corner of her tartan shawl. "Maranatha! it gives me the shivers, it do."
"You're using it yourself," murmured Neddy, in an injured tone.
"Me, being your elder and your ma, has a right to use words as ain't fit for you," said Mrs. Mellin, tartly, "and as we've got the washing of the new gent as has come to live there, I'll say the name often enough. I'll be bound. But not you, Neddy. Say the 'Ouse, and I'll know what you mean. And for 'Eaven's sake, child don't 'it the donkey. I want to look at the place."
Mrs. Mellin craned forward so as to get a better view, and stared at the square, ugly building, the damp red bricks of which were almost hidden by dark curtains of untrimmed ivy. Smoke came from one chimney, which showed that the house was inhabited, but as the shutters were up and the door closed, there was a sinister look about the whole place which made the washerwoman shiver. In its wilderness of shrubs and long grass, girdled by gigantic elms, all sopping and dripping, the mansion loomed portentously through the mists. It looked like a house with an evil history, and the queer name on the gate suited it extraordinarily well. Mrs. Mellin was not imaginative, yet she shivered again as she signed that Nelly could proceed. Tired of standing and anxious to get her day's work over, Nelly changed her funeral pace for a more active one.
"Maranatha!" murmured Mrs. Mellin, as the cart turned into the Parade. "Well, baronet or no baronet, he won't get much good out of Maranatha. Arter suicides you may paint a 'ouse, you may furnish a 'ouse, and you may advertise 'ouses till you're sick, but them as comes to live in sich allays leaves afore the term's out. An' no wonder 'ow long he'll stay?"
"Who'll stay?" asked Neddy curiously.
"I wasn't speaking to you, child. 'Old your tongue and drive on. I do 'ope as Mrs. Craver ain't 'eard. This will be news for 'er. And that Emily Pyne is sich a gossip, as never was."
All the way to the Rectory, Mrs. Mellin continued to talk in this way to herself, while Neddy kept his ears open to drink in every word. He was a slender boy with a wonderfully delicate complexion, curly golden hair, and innocent blue eyes, looking, on the whole, like a stray angel. And when in the choir he not only looked like an angel but sang like one, as his voice was remarkably beautiful.
But all Neddy's goods were in the shop-window, since he was as naughty an urchin as ever existed, to worry a hard-working mother. He told lies, he played truant, he associated with the worst boys in the parish, smoked on the sly, and behaved like the unscrupulous young rascal he truly was. Yet, when necessary, Neddy could play the saint so perfectly that his conduct, taken in conjuncture with his angelic looks, quite imposed upon the Rector, who believed him to be a modern Samuel.
Mrs. Mellin had her doubts, as experience told her otherwise, but naturally, she kept them to herself, and proclaimed on all and every occasion that Neddy was too good to live. All the same she was on her guard against his wiles, and rebuked him sharply when she noticed that he was listening to her soliloquy. By the time she had finished telling him where bad boys went and how they fared when they died, the cart appeared at the Rectory and Mrs. Craver appeared at the back door.
The parson's wife was a busy, little sharp-faced woman, arrayed in a shabby black silk, with collar and cuffs of ragged white lace, carefully mended. The stipend for looking after the souls of the Hedgerton people was by no means large, and the Rev. George Craver found it difficult to make both ends meet. Indeed, they would not have met at all had not Mrs. Craver been a notable housewife, who looked at both sides of a penny before parting with it, and who made shillings do the work of pounds. She scraped and screwed and pinched, and buzzed about the house from dawn till darkness like a busy bee, keeping her eye on everything and on everyone. According to custom she welcomed Mrs. Mellin into the kitchen and proceeded to count the washing, while Neddy sat outside in the cart and smoked a surreptitious cigarette. After the usual weekly wrangle over missing articles, scanty starching, bad ironing, and excessive charging, Mrs. Craver gave the woman a cup of tea and asked questions.
It was her duty, as she conceived it as the Rector's wife, to know all that went on in the dull, seaside parish, and Mrs. Mellin could supply her with more information than most people. Therefore, Mrs. Craver sent the general servant, who was her solitary factotum, into the wood-shed to clean knives and brush boots while she listened to the weekly report. Mrs. Mellin began by a reference to her sister-gossip and rival spy.
"I do 'ope, ma'am, as that Emily Pyne ain't been tellin' you things, as she ain't to be depended on, with her silly tongue and blind eye." The washerwoman spoke as if the lady in question had only one organ of vision, whereas she had two, and very sharp eyes they were.
"No. I haven't seen Miss Pyne," said Mrs. Craver, briskly. "Has she been doing anything wrong?"
"'Eaven forgive her, ma'am; she never does anything right," said Mrs. Mellin, piously. "Not that I've got anything against her, for the time being, 'cept her gossiping constant when she should be working, and dressing above her station to which she 'ave been called. No, ma'am, never do I speak against Emily, though she did try to catch Mellin, when we was gels, failing, nater'ly, when she 'ave a game leg, and remaining a spinster through 'Eaven's 'and being 'eavy on 'er, may she be forgiven."
"Well, well; what's the news?" Mrs. Craver had heard all about Miss Pyne's wickedness before, and spoke impatiently.
Mrs. Mellin wiped her face, sipped her tea, and shook her head. "There ain't no news as is startling, ma'am, as bombs and bloodshed don't come 'ere while we 'ave the King--long may he reign over us. But that 'ouse in Ladysmith Road, as is so unlucky, is let at last."
"Maranatha?"
"Which the very name do give me the shudders, ma'am. It's a wicked name."
"It is an odd name," agreed the sharp little woman, "and I asked the Rector about it. He says it is a Syriac word, meaning the Lord comes, or has come."
"Neddy told me it was a cuss, ma'am."
"He shouldn't know anything about curses at his age, Mrs. Mellin. Mr. Craver said that St. Paul used the word as expressing a curse."
"There now"--Mrs. Mellin was admiringly triumphant--"to think as how Neddy do pick up things. And a curse is on that 'ouse, Mrs. Craver, ma'am, for never 'ave it been lucky. The gent as built it fifty years back lost his arm, as my mother told me; the family as come after him buried two children in a year; a suicide was the nex' pusson as lived there, and it stayed empty for years till Mrs. Splurge took it to be ruined by the breaking of the bank her cash was in and 'ave her daughter run away with a young man as wasn't what he ought to be. It's a cussed 'ouse, and looks like one."
"H'm! It has a bad history. Well, and who has taken it now?"
"A baronet."
"Nonsense! Why should a baronet take a furnished house in this dull town?"
Mrs. Mellin set down her cup and folded her tartan shawl round her in quite a tragic manner. "That's what I arsk myself, ma'am," she said, impressively. "Mrs. Splurge, 'oping to make money after losing her all, advertised the 'ouse to be let furnished. But for two years it hev been standing as empty as my 'usband's 'ead, people fighting shy of its bad luck, as you might say, Mrs. Craver, ma'am. And now Sir 'Ector Wyke hev come, bag and baggage, with a 'ousekeeper as I hevn't seen, though write me she did, saying as she'd engaged me to do the washin'."
"Sir Hector Wyke?" Mrs. Craver searched her memory. "I seem to have heard the name before."
"'Ave he done anything bad?" inquired the washerwoman, eagerly. "Anything as would make 'im 'ide his guilty 'ead. Baronets is bad, as we know."
"Rubbish! Baronets are no worse than other people. But I fancy I have heard my son, Mr. Edwin, mention the name. I'll ask him about Sir Hector when he comes down at the week end."
"Shouldn't be surprised if Mr. Edwin 'ad quite a gory story to tell." said Mrs. Mellin, hopefully, for, like all her class, she loved horrors. Anyhow. I'll keep my eye on the 'ouse and the 'ousekeeper."
"What is her name?"
"Vence, she writes it. Jane Vence, and a heathen name it is, ma'am. I haven't set eyes on her myself; but one as hev tole me ses as she's an old witch in looks, with a tongue as wicked as that of Emily Pyne's, and I can't say wuss nor that."
"Mrs. Vence." The Rector's wife repeated the name so as to remember it. "And what other servants?"
"None." burst out Mrs. Mellin, triumphantly, "And that's the wust of it, ma'am. I do say as a baronet should be'ave as a baronet, and not come to live in a musty, fusty old 'ouse with one old woman."
"It is strange. When did Sir Hector come?"
"Two days ago, ma'am. I wonder you 'aven't 'eard."
"No. You bring the news to me."
"And proud I am to do so, me thinking as Emily Pyne would be before'and. I s'pose the Rector will call, ma'am?"
"I suppose he will. We don't often have a baronet come to Hedgerton."
"And the Rector 'ull find out all about Sir 'Ector, I s'pose?"
"Mrs. Mellin, you are much too curious about your neighbours," said Mrs. Craver, severely, and quite overlooking the fact that she was encouraging the woman to gossip. "Learn to mind your own business, and don't pry into other people's concerns. Probably Sir Hector has heard that the air is good here, and has come down for the benefit of his health."
"Ho!" Mrs. Mellin rubbed her nose and took no notice of the rebuke. "He's ill then, is he?"
"Now I come to think of it, Edwin did mention his name," murmured Mrs. Craver to herself, while the washerwoman strained her ears to listen. "Sir Hector Wyke? Yes. He is a rich man, very popular and fashionable in London. Not so young as he was, and engaged to a young lady."
"She hev throwed him over." cried Mrs. Mellin, eagerly, "and his 'eart is broke, so he hev come down 'ere to pine away and die. 'Eaven, what grass we are, and 'ow soon we're cast inter the oven!"
"Don't be silly, Mrs. Mellin. Sir Hector has probably come down for his health, and wishing to be quiet has only brought his housekeeper with him. There is no mystery about the matter."
"Baronets who live in style don't come to cussed 'ouses with one old woman to look after them." said Mrs. Mellin doggedly. "Mark my words, ma'am, there's going to be a tragity at Maranatha, and it won't be the fust, ma'am."
"We don't have tragedies here, you foolish woman."
"Oh, don't we, ma'am?" Mrs. Mellin stood up to give her words due effect. "Why, that 'ouse in Ladysmith Road is full of 'em. And, if you remember, Richard Jones beat his wife to death only five years back, and Mrs. Warner ran away with the purser of a ship as went to Chiner; while the children as hev been scalded to death and drownded is 'undreds, you might put it. No tragity!" Mrs. Mellin snorted. "Why, ma'am, my own sister Laura was in one."
"She only ran away." said Mrs. Craver, also standing up to intimate that the conference was ended.
"And 'oo did she run with?" inquired the washerwoman mysteriously, "She was 'ere to-day and gone to-morrer, as you might say. Twenty and more years ago she was as lovely a gel as you ever see, but disappear she did, leaving nothing be'ind to tell her whereabouts, and not a line hev I 'ad since. Why, you remember Laura yourself, ma'am, as you was only a five year bride when you come 'ere with Mr. Craver."
"I remember that your sister disappeared during the first year of my husband becoming Rector of Hedgerton," said Mrs. Craver, drily. "She was a pretty girl, but flighty and discontented. And as she was always fond of the theatre, I daresay she went on the stage. Of course, as she was twenty-five when she disappeared, she was old enough to choose her own way, although I can't say that either I or Mr. Craver approved of her choice."
"'Ow do you know, ma'am, that she made that choice?" questioned Mrs. Mellin, with dignity. "Play-acting Laura loved, there's no denying, but she mightn't have gone play-acting after all. No, ma'am, some villain lured 'er away when she was parlourmaid in Maranatha with the wife of the gent as cut 'is throat in the back room. No wonder I shiver when I 'ears the name, ma'am, for that 'ouse was the ruin of my lovely, innercent sister."
"Mrs. Mellin, you are allowing that house to get on your nerves----"
"Me being a marter to 'em and taking 'og-'ead's of physic." murmured Mrs. Mellin.
"So think no more about the matter. Take Sir Hector Wyke's washing and be thankful. Meanwhile, tell me more news, and be as quick as you can."
Mrs. Craver made this request so as to lure Mrs. Mellin from the subject of the house in Ladysmith Road, as she saw plainly enough that the woman was becoming quite hysterical over the place. The laundress fell into the trap and talked of this person and of that with great gusto, telling what he said and what they said and what she said, with full details of what all said. Mrs. Craver examined and cross-examined and re-examined the good lady, and there was scarcely a person in the place who was not discussed thoroughly. At the end of half-an-hour the Rector's wife was in full possession of all that had taken place in the parish during the week, and mentally arranged the facts so that she might report to her husband. Not that he wished to hear, being something of a book-worm. But Mrs. Craver always presented her seven-days' budget regularly, because she thought that it assisted him in his clerical work. Perhaps it did, as it certainly kept him advised of all that went on. When the examination was concluded Mrs. Mellin retired with many blessings on the head of her hostess and climbed back into the dingy cart. Neddy, having tossed aside the fag-end of his surreptitious cigarette, drove away meekly, while Mrs. Craver witnessed the departure. The washerwoman, still haunted by the memory of the newly-tenanted house, cried back a warning.
"You'll see, ma'am, as a tragity will 'appen at Maranatha. Mark me, ma'am."
When it became known--chiefly through the agency of Mrs. Mellin--that a baronet was living at Maranatha the excitement was very great. It appeared strange to one and all that a titled and wealthy gentleman should leave the pleasures of London to take up his residence in a dull place such as Hedgerton truly was. Originally a rude fishing village, it had of late years been exploited by the jerry-builder, so that it might be improved into a watering-place and a play-ground for trippers. A huddle of quaint houses was buried in a hollow by the shore and faced the estuary of the Thames into which stretched for no great distance a rough stone pier. Sometimes floating on water and sometimes stranded on mud were many fishing-smacks, which went out regularly to the harvest of the sea, while river steamers occasionally called to discharge cargoes or to land passengers. Since Hedgerton had been dignified by the name of a watering-place the steamers called more frequently, especially in summer, and on the whole did fairly well. But somehow they did not bring to Hedgerton the prosperity anticipated by the jerry-builder.
The place did not thrive in spite of doctors' recommendations, cheap fares, and lavish advertisement. Above the hollow wherein nestled the original town stretched a flat, well-wooded country, dotted sparsely with houses, and there was a railway station at Redleigh, three miles away. New Hedgerton, as it was called, consisted of many hastily-built bungalows extending in a lean line along the cliffs, but those were occupied only in summer, and therefore remained empty for the greater part of the year. There was an asphalt esplanade running spaciously from east to west in front of these bungalows, a small bandstand, and a crude hall for public entertainments roofed with galvanised iron. At intervals roads branched at right angles from the esplanade, passing between houses old and new to run finally through woodlands or between the hedges which divided vast meadows from the highway. In spring and summer the country looked very picturesque with the foliage of trees, the blossom of orchards, and the rainbow hue of multitudinous flowers, but the change was marked in autumn and winter. Then the balmy air grew raw and chill; there were damp mists overlying the land morning and evening, while the lack of life gave the place a melancholy aspect. At the fall of the year the inhabitants of the district retired into their houses like rabbits in burrows, as the climate of this particular part of England did not tempt them to lead an out-of-door life. On the whole, therefore, Hedgerton was not a desirable locality either for a pleasure-seeker or for an invalid in summer.
This being the case, the Hedgerton gossips asked one another daily why Sir Hector Wyke had come down to the place during the season of mists and rain, of leafless boughs and ruined orchards. No one was able to give an answer, although it was frequently suggested that the baronet's health was bad. But a man in bad health would scarcely come to so unhealthy a place at so unhealthy a time.
Therefore, there must be some other reason. Everyone tried to learn what it was, and everyone failed. No information was supplied by the tenant of Maranatha, who lived a very secluded life and appeared greatly desirous to be left to himself. He saw no one, and when he took his solitary walks he spoke to no one. Even Mr. Craver was denied admittance when he sought to welcome the stranger to his parish and he returned home to tell his wife that Wyke was probably a misanthropic creature, who disliked his fellow-men.
The description aroused Mrs. Craver's curiosity, and she was even more particular than usual in examining Mrs. Mellin when that spy came to report what had taken place in the parish during the week. The washerwoman could only state, after three weeks watching, that her bills and the bills of the tradespeople were paid regularly, and she saw no one but Mrs. Vence, who as not inclined to be communicative, and that the house appeared to be as neglected now as it was when Sir Hector first went to live in it. It would seem that the mysterious baronet did not so much live in Maranatha as camp in it, since no attempt was made to brush up the residence or improve the garden in any way. Sir Hector, save for occasional walks, stayed indoors, like a snail in a shell, and Mrs. Mellin augured ill from this suspicious retirement. She chiefly blamed the house itself for the doings of its tenant.
"There's a cuss on it," she declared with relish, when Mrs. Craver was speculating as to the meaning of the whole queer business. "If Solomon hisself, as was 'appy with a thousand wives, lived in that 'ouse he'd ha' been miserable within the week. Why, the name tells you what it is, ma'am. What do Maranatha whisper to you but ruin, which there 'as been, and suicide, which 'appened, and bankruptcy, with the elopement of gels--which we know is common there. No ma'am, say what you like, it'll be murder nex'; and 'Eaven be betwixt us and 'arm, save and bless us." Mrs. Mellin always ended these dismal prognostications with the observation that she hoped she would not be called upon to give evidence at the inquest, as murders got on her nerves.
Mrs. Craver was little less fortunate with her son when she asked questions, for all that Edwin could say amounted to nothing. Sir Hector Wyke was a rich man, and a popular man, who had been in the army, and was now a gentleman at large. Edwin had met him in Society, and liked him fairly well although--as he put it--Wyke was not a man he would care to make a chum of.
Mrs. Craver suggested that he should call on the baronet and renew his acquaintance, but this Edwin refused to do. He said that if Wyke wished to improve the acquaintance he could call at the Rectory, and as the recluse showed no disposition to do this, it would be best to leave him alone. The Rector agreed with his son, and Mrs. Craver therefore found herself in the minority. All the same, she remained intensely curious, and frequently wondered what mystery lay behind the whole business. She even questioned, in a delicate way, Hall the postman and Jervis the policeman, but was unable to learn anything from either. Hall simply said that he delivered very few letters, which were received by Mrs. Vence--whom he described as an old hag, while Jervis declared that he saw nothing and knew nothing and heard nothing likely to say why the tenant of Maranatha lived so hermit-like. It was quite painful for brisk little Mrs. Craver to learn that she could discover nothing--she knew the history and daily doings of every soul in Hedgerton.
"I'm sure, George." she said plaintively, to the Rector, "one-half the world does not know how the other half lives."
"Then I'm sure it isn't your fault or Mrs. Mellin's or Miss Pyne's either," retorted her husband, whereat she was offended, and wondered more than ever if she would discover the truth.
To inflame her curiosity still more an event occurred at the end of four weeks which startled her and startled everyone with its far-reaching consequences. Sir Hector had been leading his secluded life for quite a month when the event happened. It began in quite a commonplace way with the delivery of a letter by Hall at Maranatha. About seven o'clock on a foggy November evening Hall was travelling along the esplanade on his red-painted Government bicycle when he alighted to examine his bag. He knew that he had delivered all letters save one, and searched his bag to find the last missive. By the light of the lamp the postman looked at the address, and saw that it was directed to Sir Hector Wyke at Maranatha. With a grunt of satisfaction that his duties for the day would soon be over, Hall was about to mount his machine again when Jervis appeared. The bulky form of the constable loomed portentously through the mists, and Hall guessed who he was.
"Jervis," said the postman, pausing for a moment.
"Hall," answered the officer, as if delivering a countersign, and flashed his bull's-eye on the weather-beaten face of the first speaker, "a shocking night, ain't it? Rain and fog, and bitter cold."
"Why not? 'Tain't June roses as you'll smell in November, Jervis."
"No, worse luck, and night dooty ain't no catch at this time of the year. Now, I'll be bound, Hall, as you're nearly finished, and can get home to your warm bed sharp."
"And to tripe and onions, as my old woman does do a turn, Jervis," said Hall, licking his lips. "I've only got this one letter to deliver to Sir Hector Wyke, as folks is talking about so."
"Don't see why they should talk," said the officer bluffly. "Sir Hector pays his way and keeps himself quiet. Ain't any of my business, or of yours."
"But he never sees no one, and never comes out, and never has any callers."
"He's got one to-night," said Jervis unexpectedly. "You know Sankey?"
"Him as drives the trap to and fro this place and Redleigh?"
Jervis nodded and stuck his big thumbs in his belt. "Got a rotten old fly on the job. Well, I saw it to-night with a fare in it, when Sankey stopped to ask me where Maranatha was. I gave him the tip as it was in Ladysmith Road, so Sankey drove off. I wonder his blessed old nag did the three miles without falling a corpse."
"Did you see who was the fare?" asked Hall, pondering.
"No. Wasn't any of my business. I see you're as curious as the rest of 'em about that bar'nit. Why, Mrs. Craver herself has asked questions by the dozen, as you might say. Anyhow, Sankey left his passenger at Maranatha and drove back to Redleigh, for I see him returning."
"Oh," remarked Hall, in guttural tones, "so his fare stops all night with Sir Hector, I s'pose."
"Why shouldn't he or her, for whether the fare was a male or a female I don't rightly know."
"Well, Sir Hector ain't 'ad no one to stay with him before."
"Dessay," returned the policeman, carelessly, "but he has to make a start. I just tell you what, Hall, you're getting like the rest of the folk hereabouts with their jaw."
"Sir Hector do live such a queer life, Jervis."
"He lives the life as pleases him, as I s'pose he's got the right to."
"I tell you there's something strange in a baronet coming down to this dull place when the weather's so bad," persisted the postman, ominously. "Have you seen the gent?"
"Twice. A little gent with a waxed moustache and dressed up to the nines with fine clothes. I touched my helmet but he only nodded, and never stopped to pass the time o' day."
"Well, he wouldn't, he being a swell and you only a copper, Jervis."
"That's a nasty way of talking, Hall. S'pose I was to report you to your superior for idling when your letter should be delivered."
"And s'pose I was to tell Sergeant Purse at Redleigh as you stopped me on the esplanade to gossip about what ain't any business of yours," retorted Hall, tartly. "Two can play at that game, policeman."
"Go and earn your salary." said Jervis, loftily, and walked away.
"You go and hang yourself," was the not very obvious reply of the postman; and the two opponents were parted by the heavy fog which dropped its curtain between them.
Chuckling over having had the last word, Hall mounted his machine and pedalled slowly round the corner, only too anxious to deliver the last letter and get home to his tripe and onions. He knew that the next turning was in Ladysmith Road, and it was as well that he did, for the mists were so thick that he proceeded with some difficulty. The man could hear the noise of the waves through the fog, and shivered in the chill, raw air. As there were few lamps he found himself in complete darkness when he bicycled up the road, and therefore had to ride cautiously. Finally, he was compelled to dismount, and take his machine on to the pavement, feeling for guidance along the fence on the right-hand side. Shortly he came to the first gate, and the electric torch he carried showed him in black-painted letters "The Firs," but he passed that gate as not being the one he wanted. The second gate he also passed, as it was inscribed "The Elms," and then he walked for quite a long way in the dense gloom to find Maranatha which stood by itself. Finally, he stumbled on the third gate, the inscription of which told him that he had reached his goal when he flashed the electric torch on to the black letters. Hall left his machine leaning against the fence in the dim light of the street lamp--for at this point there was one--and opened the gate to walk slowly up the path between the tangled herbage and under the dripping trees. It curved gradually--a cobble-stone path overgrown with weeds--until it ended in an open space before the house. Through the mists a light beamed from a fanlight over the door, and Hall, anxious to get home, rapped loudly in the approved style of the postman. There was no answer, although he waited for quite a minute, and he searched with his torch for the letterbox. Just as he found it and was about to slip in the letter the door suddenly opened. A stream of radiance poured forth to illuminate the untidy garden, and a man dashed out in a violent hurry. In his exit, he drove Hall against one of the brick pillars of the porch, and by the time the postman recovered his breath the man had disappeared, running swiftly.
"Here's a rum go," said Hall, speaking to himself. "I wonder if that's the blessed baronite, and what he's up to? Here!"--he raised his voice as he faced the open door--"anyone in? I can't wait here all night!"
There was no reply. The house preserved an ominous silence, which made Hall shiver, as Mrs. Mellin had done. Fearing that there was something wrong, and remembering the sinister chatter of the neighbourhood, Hall stepped hastily into the hall. It was of no great size, carpeted throughout, and furnished with a black oak settle on one side and a small rosewood table on the other, together with a hat-rack and an umbrella-stand. Doors were visible right and left; while beyond were stairs and a narrow passage beside them leading towards the back of the house. A swinging lamp illuminated the hall, and in its light everything appeared to be dusty and uncared for. Mrs. Vence certainly was not a particularly good housekeeper, or she would not have neglected her work in this fashion.
Astonished by the continued silence, the postman stood hesitating in the hall, while the sea-fog poured in like smoke through the open door. He did not know what to do. The sudden opening of the door, and the violent exit of the unknown man, and now this ominous silence disconcerted Hall. He had just opened his mouth to call again, when there came the sound of a long, faint sigh, and the door on the left opened slowly to reveal the tottering figure of an old woman. She gasped when she saw the postman, and suddenly appeared to gather strength as she moved forward to seize his arm.
"Where is he?" she demanded, faintly, and with a gasp. "Did you catch him?"
"Catch who, Mrs. Vence?" asked Hall, placing the letter on the rosewood table, since Mrs. Vence did not seem capable of taking it.
"The man who ran out."
"No. He opened the door and pushed past me, and bolted."
"Bolted!" Mrs. Vence screamed. "The villain!"
"Come!" With unnatural strength she dragged the startled postman through the door on the left and into a comfortable study, cleaner in looks than was the hall. On the hearthrug before the fire lay a man in evening dress face upward with a knife in his heart. Hall uttered a cry of horror, and his teeth chattered like castanets. "Murder!" he gasped.
"Murder!" echoed Mrs. Vence, with a shrill scream. "He did it--the man who bolted. Catch him. Catch him!" She pushed the postman fiercely out of the room in a tremendous hurry. "Get a policeman. Catch him. Quick! Quick!"
Hall did not need much urging. With a pale face and dry lips he ran out of the house, down the path, and through the gate, intending to mount his bicycle and race for Jervis, who could not be far away. Then he made a startling discovery. His bicycle was gone. Not a sign of it remained.
"The murderer has gone off on it," said Hall, blankly.
Hall was astonished to find that his bicycle had vanished. Taken by surprise he could only stand at the gate and stare helplessly about him. At last, thinking that something must be done, he shouted wildly for Jervis. In his agitation it never occurred to him that the policeman might be at the other end of the esplanade. As it happened, however, Jervis was close at hand, and shortly his voice boomed strangely out of the mists.
"What's the trouble? Is that you Hall?"
"He's dead! He's got a knife in his heart!" gasped the postman, who was clinging to the fence and feeling sick.
Jervis suddenly loomed hugely out of the fog, and entered into the circle of blurred light cast by the street-lamp. "Who is dead?" he asked, in surprise.
"Sir Hector Wyke," babbled Hall, whose nerves were very much shaken. "I saw him lying dead. Mrs. Vence showed me his corpse. My bicycle is gone----"
"Gone!" Jervis shook the terrified man. "Why I saw your bicycle slip along under the lamp nigh which we were talking on the esplanade. I come here straight when I hear your voice, wondering why you should be in the Ladysmith Road and your bicycle----"
"It was the murderer, Jervis. He dashed past me when I stopped at the door yonder to deliver the letter you saw. He has taken my bicycle. Stop him. He ought to be hanged. Oh, oh, oh!" He broke down, shivering and crying.