The Corner House. Fred M. White
It is there on the sideboard wrapped up as my expert friend returned it. Where shall I have the pleasure of sending it for you?"
"I will take him with me." Kronin said eagerly. "It will be good to feel that I have got him, that there will be no more cups slipped from ze lip. Sentiment again! But there is no sentiment about these banknotes, my friend."
He counted out forty £5 Bank of England notes on the table with a hand that trembled strangely. He seemed restless and eager to be away now, as if fearful that Bruce might change his mind. The whole thing might have been a dream save for the crisp crackling notes on the table.
"Never rains but it pours," Bruce smiled as he thrust the notes in his breast pocket. "Tomorrow every penny goes for that wonderful lot of old furniture in Tottenham Court Road. What a pleasant surprise for Hetty!"
It required some strength of mind to keep the secret from the girl, but Bruce managed it. It seemed to him that Hetty looked a little white and drawn, but as the evening went on the happy look came back to her eyes again. There was a small fernery at the back of the dining-room into which Gordon hurried Hetty presently.
"My dearest girl, what is the matter?" he asked.
It was good to be with him there, to feel the pressure of his hand, and to look into his keen, resolute face. With Gordon by her side Hetty felt equal to meeting any terrors. Yet after the lapse of a few hours the whole thing seemed so vague and intangible that she hesitated to speak.
"Is it the corner house again?" Bruce suggested playfully.
"Don't laugh, dear," Hetty whispered. "The place haunts, me. I never seem to be able to get away from the horrors of it. And last night----"
"Go on, darling. I promise you not to laugh again."
By degrees Hetty told her story. It was real enough to her, but to Bruce's practical mind it sounded unsubstantial and shadowy. After all, she might easily have imagined the face at the window, and as to the man in the morning room, he had only been mistily reflected in a dim old mirror.
"But I should recognize him anywhere," Hetty protested.
Bruce thought that she would probably never have the chance, but he did not say so.
"Did Countess Lalage allude to it this morning?" he asked.
"Not a word," Hetty admitted. "She was glad to see me better; she breakfasted with Mamie and myself, and she was altogether charming, but----"
"But? There is much behind that word. You don't like her, Hetty?"
"I am afraid of her; I mistrust her; she frightens me. Call it prejudice if you like, but there is something wrong about that woman. Did she find out anything about us last night, Gordon?"
"I had to tell her, of course," Gordon replied. "She accused me of flirting with you, and I had to speak for your sake."
"And what happened after that?"
"Upon my word I forget. Oh, yes. She sent me at once for an ice, saying that she would think of something pretty by the time I returned. She must have forgotten all about it, for when I got back she had vanished."
It was Hetty's turn to hold her peace now. Leona Lalage had not felt equal to facing Gordon at that moment. Even her iron will and resolution were not quite equal to the strain.
"If I was only out of the house," she said. "If I was only out of that house."
Gordon bent and kissed the quivering lips. His little secret was on the tip of his tongue, but he repressed it.
"It will not be for long, dearest," he whispered. "Courage, darling."
If he had only told her; if he had only spoken then!
CHAPTER VII.
AT THE CORNER HOUSE.
Bruce walked home slowly and thoughtfully. The sound of a church clock striking the hour of one came vaguely to his ears. As a matter of fact he was more disturbed by Hetty's disclosures than he cared to admit. Hetty was not in the least given to hallucinations, and, after all, there was something mysterious about Countess Lalage. Still, she was so rich, and she was a favoured guest in some of the best houses.
Bruce put his latchkey in the door and let himself in. As he did so a motor came up and pulled to the pavement. The whole concern was a dull black, like silk; it was absolutely the most noiseless machine Gordon Bruce had ever seen. It came like a ghost out of the darkness; like a black phantom it stood to command.
The driver was clad in goggles and leather coat, thereby proclaiming the fact that he was used to a high rate of speed. He placed a note in Bruce's hand; there was an interrogative gleam in his eyes.
"For me?" Bruce asked.
The man merely made a gesture with his hands. Then followed a sign, by which Bruce knew that he was speaking to a dumb man, a startling affliction for a smart chauffeur.
Not that it mattered much, seeing that the letter was addressed to Bruce. The note inside was evidently dashed off in a violent hurry. It was an agitated request to the recipient to come in the motor at once; there was no address, nothing more than this agitated plea. Under the circumstances there was nothing startling in the presence of the automobile.
Bruce started off, only staying long enough to get his professional black bag. He might have satisfied a little of his curiosity on the way, only his companion's affliction prevented that. He was on familiar ground presently as the car flew along smoothly as a boat sails down stream, until at length it pulled up with a jerk at the end of Lytton-Avenue.
The car had stopped just before the corner house!
Evidently it was going to be a night of surprises. If Bruce had any astonishment he concealed it behind his professional manner. For the corner house was dark and deserted no longer. A brilliant light burnt in the hall. The door was opened presently by a woman who had a Spanish mantilla over her head. Her hair was down, and in the gleam of the lamplight Bruce could see that it was wonderfully long and fair and beautiful. Bruce spoke to her, but she only replied in what he deemed to be Spanish.
So far as he could see there were no signs of dust or desolation about the corner house. The hall was clean and bright, there was a thick carpet on the stairs. Every door was shut save one on the first floor, into which the fair beauty with the lovely hair led the way. Four or five gas jets were flaring away with a hissing roar. A draught from somewhere made them flicker restlessly on a large room absolutely devoid of furniture save for an old-fashioned four-post bedstead in the middle. The air was close and stuffy, as if the window had not been opened for months. There were barred shutters before them.
The Spanish beauty said something, and pointed to the bed. A man in a deep sleep lay there--so deep a sleep that at first Bruce took him to be dead. But there was just the slightest flicker of a pulse, a quiver of the eyelids. On a table close by was a glass containing, from the odour of it, laudanum. A half-empty phial of it was clenched in the patient's hand.
A small, twisted man, with a nose all crooked on one side, and fingers covered with huge orange-coloured freckles! Bruce choked down a cry of amazement. It was indeed proving a night of surprises.
Here was the very man whom Hetty had seen at the window of the corner house--the very man whose features, as seen from the morning room, had been reflected in the mirror. It was impossible that there could be any coincidence here. Once seen the man could never be forgotten. It looked as if the new mystery of the corner house was going to be explained.
Just for a moment Bruce almost lost his self-possession. The beauty with the fair hair was regarding him curiously. He felt half annoyed that he had been so near betraying himself. The medical man was uppermost now. Evidently the patient was in a state of almost collapse from alcoholic poisoning. As is usual in such instances, sleep had forsaken the wretched man, and he had had recourse to drugs. He had taken an overdose