Chapter 17
Now Mr. Ospringe, although he had received so coldly the information supplied by Welton Keynes concerning the suspicious servant he was employing, had not been unmindful of the warning thus conveyed.
Being a very shrewd man, he at first said nothing about it to anybody, but quietly reviewed all the men in his employ without letting them know what he was doing, and decided that one of the two who had joined the household staff quite recently must be the man referred to.
Then he summoned these two to his presence one by one, and after dismissing the first as wholly innocent, he finally interrogated Cockett, beginning very sharply, "What is your name?"
"Williams, sir."
"You have been known by another name?" said Mr. Ospringe sharply, "that of Cockett?"
The man's face changed. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he answered quietly, "Yes, sir, I have."
"What is the meaning of your having two names?"
"My last master disliked the name of Cockett, sir. He said it sounded like a name out of a farce," he replied readily.
Mr. Ospringe smiled. It was so true, and he could not but admit at once that the reason for the change was a good one. "I understand, though, that you have been mixed up with some very undesirable people."
"I've been in the service of a lady who told fortunes, sir, if you mean that," he said. "Miss Ferriby of The Lawns, Chiswick. I know people say that's not a proper thing to do, but Miss Ferriby is such a charitable and good lady, sir, and does so much work among the poor, that most people think that makes a difference, sir."
Mr. Ospringe was interested. He had heard of the fortune-teller at The Lawns, whose wonderfully accurate forecasts and shrewd replies to the questions put to her were indeed a common topic in society. He had heard something, too, of her posing as a philanthropist, although that side of her work had not been so much talked about in the circles in which he moved.
For a moment he said nothing, wondering whether this could be the service which Welton Keynes meant when he uttered his daring warning.
Although there was no suggestion that Miss Ferriby did any harm, unless she worked dangerously upon the imagination of weak-minded women by her prophecies, there was always just enough cant about such a profession as hers to make Mr. Ospringe wonder vaguely whether there might be any connection between the young man's warning and Miss Ferriby's establishment.
It was most unlikely, but still it seemed possible.
"You were with Miss Ferriby long?" he asked suddenly.
"Not very long. She became a little difficult to serve, sir, owing to her taking a gentleman named Keynes, who found fault with all her arrangements, and made himself so objectionable to all us servants, sir, by the things he put into Miss Ferriby's head about us, that we couldn't stand it, sir. More especially, as we knew he was trying to get hold of her, if I may say so, sir, and to marry her. And as she's misshapen, why, we couldn't help but see, sir, that what he was after was just her money."
Mr. Ospringe listened attentively. "And what sort of things, then, did he accuse you of?"
"He called some of us thieves, sir, I believe, till Miss Ferriby she stood up for us and asked him to prove it. Then he couldn't prove anything, and I believe, sir, she told him she wouldn't want his services a month after that."
Mr. Ospringe listened with the same keen attention as ever. "Ah," he said, "there must be something wrong about that young man, I should think."
"Well, sir, of course it's not for me to say. But I never liked the looks of him myself, and as Miss Ferriby was always a most kind and considerate mistress, and as I've never heard anything but praise for her and her kindness to anybody in want, why, sir, of course I'm not altogether an unprejudiced person."
"Of course not. And if this young gentleman were to be asked to prove what he said against you, you could challenge him with a safe conscience?"
"Indeed I could, sir."
"Well, that will do."
Cockett retreated, but when he had got outside the door a smile of malicious satisfaction appeared on his face as he flattered himself that he had turned the tables cleverly upon Welton Keynes.
When he reported progress to his friends at The Lawns, he did not fail to inform them that Welton Keynes was working hard to do them all the mischief he could, and to tell them how successfully his malice had been rendered ineffective.
He was actually on the premises at the time that Welton Keynes found himself shut into the smaller drawing room, and caught in Miss Ferriby's trap.
Welton, after trying the only door of the room and finding it securely fastened, sat down in an armchair by the fire, not to take it easy, but to consider his position. Here was he, in the house which was, he was sure, the headquarters of a gang of desperate and clever criminals, locked in, barred, secured, at their mercy.
By what accident the police had bungled, so that the two officers whom he had seen on that same morning had not appeared at the library window during the morning as arranged, he could not guess. He could hope that they were near at hand, but he could not feel quite sure. Experienced as they were, they were dealing with rogues of an especially shrewd a sort, that it was possible the rogues might have had the best of it, and that the officers of law and order had been outwitted.
In that case, if he was entirely at the mercy of Miss Ferriby and her associates, what had he to expect at their hands?
That they knew something of his doings he was aware. The lady's maid had told him so. And that Miss Ferriby, in addition to anger against him for refusing to join the gang, was jealous as a woman with him on account of Barbara Ashcot, he knew full well.
Here then were now two elements of danger, either of which by itself would have been enough to ruin him: the anger of the gang, including Miss Ferriby, for his warnings to Lady Mirfield, and perhaps also to Mr. Ospringe: and the jealousy of the embittered woman on finding that he preferred another woman to her, and that he would not leave the country with her to become her husband.
Welton wondered how far they would dare to carry their resentment against him. That they would murder him he did not believe. Miss Ferriby at least knew that he had a brother, and that she had behaved in that brother's presence in a manner which had been calculated to arouse his gravest suspicions.
If he should suddenly disappear, inquiries would be instituted at once, and not only Basil, but the Ashcots would give such information concerning The Lawns and its tenants that the police would have amplest evidence against the gang.
This was the first thing that occurred to him to comfort him.
But second thoughts were more disquieting.
In the first place, a jealous woman would not trouble herself about the consequences of her acts -- if she were to make up her mind that the man who had rejected her overtures deserved to die. Miss Ferriby, too, was no ordinary woman, and he thought it not improbable that she had already not only decided upon his punishment, but arranged the means whereby suspicion was to be diverted from herself and her accomplices in the matter.
In the second place, he was by no means sure that the gang had not already made up their minds what to do with him, and with the river so near at hand there might be ways of disposing of him which would be quite compatible with the theory of suicide.
On the whole, he felt by no means comfortable or secure, and knowing that he had been compassing the ruin of the people by whom he was surrounded, he felt that he must be prepared for reprisals of the most violent kind.
In the meantime he decided, before he had been long imprisoned, to make a careful survey of the premises so as to be on his guard against a possible surprise.
In the first place he examined the nooks and corners, lifted up the tapestry that hung on the walls, and assured himself that there was no hiding place in the room itself.
Then he proceeded to try the handle of the door once more, but on examination he discovered something that did not tend to decrease his fears.
The
door was not made of wood, but of iron.
Uncanny fears began to assail him, as he reflected that this was certainly not the first time a prisoner had been confined in a room so well provided against every possibility of escape.
And it was with a sinking heart that he went on to inspect the window, the position of which had, even at his first acquaintance with the apartment, struck him as singular.
For it was small -- not more than three feet high and two feet wide, and was eight feet from the floor.
By balancing one chair with difficulty upon an ottoman, and raising himself upon it with great difficulty, Welton was able to reach the level of the window, and by clinging to the window ledge, to look out.
He had now been confined about an hour in the room, and it was nearly six o'clock. There was some fog outside, which combined with the darkness of a late October evening to make it difficult to make out any objects distinctly. But when his eyes got used to the obscurity, he was able to discern two figures moving, as it were, stealthily about in the darkness.
He was presently able to support himself by placing his feet on the rail of the chair beneath him, and by so doing he was enabled to raise his head high enough to get a wider range of vision.
The figures seemed to have disappeared. Aware how much depended upon his being able to find out what they intended to do, he took advantage of the darkness, and of the apparent absence of any observer, to get his hand high enough to undo the fastening of the window.
Knowing what extreme caution was necessary in dealing with the people by whom he was surrounded, he was careful to move it up inch by inch, and so softly that he himself did not hear a sound.
When the window was open about four inches, he was able not only to see but to hear better, and he became aware that, although he could not yet see them, there were some people in the grounds just underneath the window.
"Will she hold firm?" asked a voice in a whisper.
Welton thought it was the voice of a woman.
The answer was low, but unmistakably the voice of a man. "Firm! We'll make her. We've had enough of this humbugging about. To think of her being such a fool, with all her cleverness, to set her fancy on this bit of a lad! It's sickening, disgusting, that's what it is!"
"What shall we do?"
"With him? Better not inquire, if you're soft-hearted," said the man's voice jeeringly.
"Well, I'm sure you won't be able to do anything very dreadful to the poor young fellow, because we won't let you. He's too good-looking."
"Good-looking? That's all you women think about."
"Well, it does make a difference."
"That young Browne was good looking in a way, yet you didn't trouble yourselves about what became of him."
"Oh, Browne! He was too womanish himself. No, I didn't care for him."
"And I don't see what there is in this fellow that you should all put yourselves into such a fume about him."
"Don't you? Well, he's what we call nice, you see."
"Nice? Yes, very nice, to want to go and give us all away."
"Oh, well, after all, he'd no call to be so fond of us, had he?"
"Do you mean to say you don't want to see him punished for trying to get us all lagged?
"I don't know as I quite say that. But considering we know pretty well how to take care of ourselves, I think there's no need to be harsh."
"It doesn't lie in your hands," remarked the man's voice dryly.
"No more does it in yours. And Miss F. thinks very much as I do, I'll be bound."
"Don't you be too sure of that," replied the man sharply. As he grew a little louder in his excitement, his voice was recognizable, though he was still out of sight, as that of Box.
"What are you waiting here for?" asked the woman after a pause.
"Can't you guess? I'm mounting guard on our friend inside. He's a tricky customer, and we have to make sure of him."
"And who's watching the other side?"
"In the drawing room? Oh, someone we can trust, you may be sure."
"It's my belief the worst thing he's done in your eyes is that he's managed to get Miss F.'s goodwill -- well, and mine."
Box laughed shortly. "What does yours matter?"
The woman took offence at his tone. "It might matter a good deal at a pinch perhaps," she remarked dryly.
Welton, from where he stood uneasily on the rail of the chair, hanging on to the inside of the window ledge as if for his life, heard Box move impatiently.
"If you think we're going to let him go free, and if you think you're going to help him, you may just give up the idea," he said angrily. "We've got quite an anxious enough time of it as it is, and we're not going to stand any traitors in the camp, male or female. So if you don't want to get the same short shrift yourself, you'd better give up the notion of doing anything but keep in line with the rest of us."
There was silence after this speech for some minutes, or so it seemed to Welton, who was listening intently for the woman's reply.
Then Box suddenly cried, "Hello! Here come the others!"
The woman uttered a low cry. "I hate them both," she said.
Welton, watching eagerly, peering into the darkness, thought he discerned two more figures advancing slowly towards the angle of the house. Then suddenly the lights went up in the opposite wing in which the servants' quarters were, and against the illuminated patch Welton was able to distinguish the forms of two men, who were advancing slowly towards the other two people.
As he suddenly recognized in them the two police officers who had called upon him that morning, he was on the point of shouting to them to let them know where he was, when he perceived that they had both stopped short in the middle of the grass, and that they were apparently keeping watch on the movements of Box and the maid.
He could have shouted for joy at the sight of his deliverers who had come so tardily to their rendezvous, when something in the attitude of both struck him with uneasy surprise, and made him refrain for the moment from making himself known.
They signalled to the two people beneath his window, whom he could not see, and after a pause they made more signals as if they had received some in return.
Were they then pretending to be friends of these two members of the gang? Had they gained admission by stratagem, and had they not yet been discovered for what they really were?
It seemed so, for after a short pause Box stepped out of the shadow of the house wall and went to meet them. It was impossible for Welton to hear the words exchanged between him and the policemen, but it was clear that they were conversing not as opponents or enemies, but as friends.
Something made him tremble and feel cold as he watched. He would not at first allow himself to do more than feel vaguely uneasy. He did not dare harbour the ugly suspicion which was trying to steal into his heart.
He told himself that the police officers had succeeded in worming themselves into the confidence of at least one member of the gang, and that by that means they had gained admittance into the grounds. And he supposed it must be Box or the maid, or both, whom they had tricked into believing that they were friends worthy of confidence.
Box had spoken of them as "the others," as if they were friends, or members of the gang. And the maid had replied in the same strain.
More and more surely the horrible fear forced itself into Welton's mind that they were in truth not police officers at all, but two of the cleverest, the most expert, and the most to be dreaded of Miss Ferriby's accomplices, and that they were not tricking Box and the unseen maid, but that they had most perfectly and brilliantly succeeded in tricking him.