The Mystery of the Ravenspurs. Fred M. White
and Ravenspur’s room. Imminent as the peril was, he yet paused to push his blanket out of sight As he came to the door of Ravenspur’s room the cry rose higher. He stooped, and then his fingers touched something warm.
“Marion,” he said; “I can catch the subtle fragrance of your hair.”
The girl swallowed a scream. She was trembling from head to foot with fear and excitement. It was dark, the cry from within was despairing, the intense horror of it was dreadful.
“Yes, yes,” she whispered hoarsely. ‘“I was lying awake and I heard it. And that good old man told me today that his time was coming. I—I was going to rouse the house. The door is locked.”
“Do nothing of the sort. Stand aside.”
The voice was low but commanding. Marion obeyed mechanically. With great strength and determination Ralph flung himself against the door. At the second assault the rusty iron bolt gave and the door flew open.
Inside, Ravenspur lay on his bed. By his bedside a night light cast a feeble, pallid ray. There was nobody in the room besides Ravenspur himself. He lay back absolutely rigid, a yellow hue was over his face like a painted mask, his eyes were wide open, his lips twisted convulsively. Evidently he was in some kind of cataleptic fit, and his senses had not deserted him.
He was powerless to move, and made no attempt to do so. The man was choking to death; and yet his limbs were rigid. A sickly, sweet odor filled the room and caused Ralph to double up and gasp for breath. It was as if the whole atmosphere were drenched with a fine spray of chloroform. Marion stood in the doorway like a fascinated white statue of fear and despair.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What is that choking smell?”
Ralph made no reply. He was holding his breath hard. There was a queer, grinning smile on his face as he turned towards the window.
The fumbling, clutching, long hands rested for a moment on Ravenspurs forehead, and the next moment there was a sound of smashing glass, as with his naked fists Ralph beat in the lozenge-shaped windows.
A quick, cool draught of air rushed through the room, and the figure of on the bed ceased to struggle.
“Come in,” said Ralph. “There is no danger now.”
Marion entered. She was trembling from head to foot; her face was like death.
“What is it? What is it?” she cried. “Uncle Ralph, do you know what it is?”
“That is a mystery,” Ralph replied. “There is some fiend at work here. I only guessed that the sickly odor was the cause of the mischief. You are better, sir?”
Ravenspur was sitting up in bed. The color had come to his lips; he no longer struggled to breathe.
“I am all right,” he said. His eye beamed affectionately on Marion. “Ever ready and ever quick, child, you saved my life from that nameless horror.”
“It was Uncle Ralph,” said Marion. “I heard your cry, but Uncle Ralph was here as soon as I was. And it was a happy idea of his to break the window.”
“It was that overpowering drug,” said Ravenspur. “What it is and where it came from must always remain a mystery. This is a new horror to haunt me—and yet there were others who died in their beds mysteriously. I awoke to find myself choking; I was stifled by that sweet smelling stuff; I could feel that my heart was growing weaker. But go, my child; you will catch your death of cold. Go to bed.”
With an unsteady smile Marion disappeared. As she closed the door behind her, Ravenspur turned and grasped his son’s wrist fiercely.
“Do you know anything of this?” he demanded. “You are blind, helpless; yet you were on the spot instantly. Do you know anything of this I say?”
Ralph shook his head.
“It was good luck,” he said. “And how should I know anything? Ah! a blind man is but a poor detective.”
Yet as Ralph passed to his strange quarters, there was a queer look on his face. The long, lean claws were crooked as if they were fastened about the neck of some enemy, some foe to the death.
“The hem of the mystery,” he muttered. “Patience, and prudence, and the day shall come when I shall have it by the throat, and such a lovely throat too!”
IV - 101 BRANT STREET
There was nothing about the house to distinguish it from its stolid and respectable neighbors. It had a dingy face, woodwork painted a dark red, with the traditional brass knocker and bell-pull. The windows were hung with curtains of the ordinary type, the venetian blinds were half-down, which in itself is a sign of middle-class respectability. In the centre of the red door was a small brass plate bearing the name of Dr. Sergius Tchigorsky.
Not that Dr. Tchigorsky was a medical practitioner in the ordinary sense of the word. No neatly-appointed ‘pill-box’ ever stood before 101; no patient ever passed the threshold.
Tchigorsky was a savant and a traveller to boot; a man who dealt in strange and out-of-the-way things; and the interior of his house would have been a revelation to the top-hatted, frock-coated doctors and lawyers and city men who elected to make their home in Brant-street W.
The house was crammed with curiosities and souvenirs of travel from basement to garret. A large sky-lighted billiard-room at the back of the house had been turned into a library and laboratory combined.
And here, when not travelling, Tchigorsky spent all his time, seeing strange visitors from time to time, Mongolians, Hindoos, natives of Thibet—for Tchigorsky was one of the three men who had penetrated to the holy city of Lassa, and returned to tell the tale.
The doctor came into his study from his breakfast, and stood ruminating, rubbing his hands before the fire. In ordinary circumstances he would have been a fine man of over six feet in height.
But a cruel misfortune had curved his spine, while his left leg dragged almost helplessly behind him, his hands were drawn up as if the muscles had been cut and then knotted up again.
Tchigorsky had entered Lassa five years ago as a god who walks upright. When he reached the frontier six months later he was the wreck he still remained. And of those privations and sufferings Tchigorsky said nothing. But there were times when his eyes gleamed and his breath came short, and he pined for the vengeance yet to be his.
As to his face, it was singularly strong and intellectual. Yet it was disfigured with deep seams checkered like a chessboard. We have seen something like it before, for the marks were identical with those that disfigured Ralph Ravenspur and made his face a horror to look upon.
A young man rose from the table where he was making some kind of an experiment. He was a fresh-colored Englishman, George Abell by name, and he esteemed it a privilege to call himself Tchigorsky’s secretary.
“Always early and always busy,” Tchigorsky said. “Is there anything in the morning papers that is likely to interest me, Abel?”
“I fancy so,” Abell replied thoughtfully. “You are interested in the Ravenspur case?”
A lurid light leapt into the Russian’s eyes. He seemed to be strangely moved. He paced up and down the room, dragging his maimed limb after him.
“Never more interested in anything in my life,” he said. “You know as much of my past as any man, but there are matters, experiences unspeakable. My face, my ruined frame! Whence come these cruel misfortunes? That secret will go down with me to the grave. Of that I could speak to one man alone, and I know not whether that man is alive or dead.”
Tchigorsky’s words trailed off into a rambling, incoherent murmur. He was far away with his own gloomy and painful thoughts. Then he came back to earth with a start. He stood with his