CHAPTER X
The Mysterious Light
It was some moments before I could think clearly, so real and vivid hadthat vision been. I threw out my arms to assure myself that I was stillin bed; I could scarcely believe that I was not really shivering behindthe hedge, staring across at that lighted window and the dreadful dramait revealed. I was bathed in perspiration and yet felt chilled to thevery marrow.
Indeed, my teeth were chattering as I groped my way to the light, turnedit on, and looked at my watch. It was nearly one o'clock. The night wasclear and pleasant, with a faint breeze stirring. There was no moon, butthe stars were shining so brightly that one looked for it instinctively.
I knew it was no use to return to bed until my nerves were quieter; and,indeed, that vision had banished all desire for sleep; so I filled mypipe, lighted it, drew up a chair and sat down by the open window. Thestreet below was deserted; and for an instant I found myself wonderingthat it was not thronged with people, roused by the scream which hadawakened me. Then I remembered that there had been no scream, that I hadsimply dreamed it.
But I had only to close my eyes to see again that lighted window and theshadows on the blind. It seemed even clearer to me than it had been inthe dream. I could see every detail of the struggle, and I opened myeyes abruptly so that I might escape the end. There was somethingsupernatural about it; I had never dreamed a dream like that before--adream which, waking, I could rehearse at pleasure. Perhaps it was notwholly a vision; perhaps it had some foundation in reality, sometelepathic origin. I had read of such things, sceptically; but some ofthe phenomena of thought transference had, I knew, been accepted,reluctantly enough, even by the scientific world.
Was it not possible that Marcia Lawrence had been lured to the Kingdoncottage or taken there against her will? Who could say how that oldinjury done the Endicotts would flower and fruit? Who could say whathatred, what desire for vengeance, rankled in the hearts of theKingdons? I remembered how the face of the maid had darkened withmalice, how her eyes had blazed with infernal joy, as she stood there inthe door of the library, thinking herself unseen. Her sister I knewnothing of, but if they resembled each other as sisters usually do, Icould well believe them capable of any cruelty. Was it not possible thatMarcia Lawrence was in their hands? Was it not possible that my dreampossessed a basis of reality? I had been thinking of her all theevening; I had gone to sleep with the problem of her disappearance stillon my mind; I had been studying her photograph--I was, in a word, inspiritual touch with her, responsive to any suggestion emanating fromher--we were tuned to the same pitch. Such, I fancied, was theexplanation of the phenomena which a telepathist would give. She hadsent that cry into the night, and I, being en rapport with her, hadheard it--had witnessed the tragedy which called it forth. Perhaps thestruggle was not yet ended; perhaps, even at this moment----
I sprang to my feet, hurried into my clothes, caught up my hat, openedmy door and ran noiselessly down the stair. I would solve this problemto-night, if it could be solved. I had been wrong in turning away fromthe Kingdon cottage the evening before; I should, at least, have made aneffort to discover if Marcia Lawrence were really there. But it had notoccurred to me then that she could be in any danger. I had thought toomuch of what Curtiss would wish me to do; too little of what thenecessities of the case required. Well, I would not make that mistake asecond time.
As I look back upon my frame of mind at that moment and consider theimpulse which sent me forth from my room at that hour of the night, Irealise how overwrought I was. At a distance, in cold blood, it seems anabsurd thing to have done; yet, under the same conditions, I should nodoubt behave again in much the same way. And even admitting itsabsurdity, I am not prepared to say, in view of the event, that therewas not back of it some instinct worth following. There are forces innature not yet explained or recognised, and I am still inclined to thinkthat it was one of these which drew me forth upon that midnight errand.
In a very fever of impatience, I hurried along the street, under thetrees, meeting no one except a patrolman. I heard him stop, as I passedhim, and knew that he was looking back after me, but I kept on withoutpausing, and heard him finally start on again. In a minute more Ireached the Lawrence place, and stopped in the shadow of a tree for alook around. The house loomed through the darkness grim and gloomy, withno light showing anywhere. I leaped the fence, assured that I wasunseen, and pushed my way forward through the grove toward the pathwhich led to the cottage.
Beneath the trees, the darkness was absolute and I could go forward butslowly; yet, starting from the library steps, I found the path withoutdifficulty, and felt my way cautiously along it, until I came to thehedge which marked the limits of the Kingdon place. I examined the housewith care, but there was fronting me no lighted window upon which atragedy could be pictured. Indeed, I saw no vestige of a light and wasabout to conclude that my midnight pilgrimage had been in vain, when myeye was caught by a faint glimmer near the ground. At first, I was notsure it was a light at all; then I decided that it was a reflection ofsome sort, or perhaps a phosphorescent glow. But as I stared at it, witheyes contracted, it suddenly took shape in the darkness, and I saw thatthe light proceeded from a small ventilator set in the foundation of thehouse.
Trembling with excitement, I softly opened the gate and entered thegrounds. Here, with nothing between me and the stars, I suddenly foundmyself in what seemed a veritable blaze of light. I was seized withpanic lest I be seen and scurried into the shadow of the house, thendropped beside the ventilator and examined it.
It was of the ordinary type--a plate of iron some six or eight inchessquare, perforated with holes perhaps half an inch in diameter, and setin the foundation about six inches from the ground.
I applied an eye to one of the holes and endeavoured to see what laybeyond. For a moment, I saw absolutely nothing; then I perceived infront of me a stretch of clay, which ended abruptly at a distance of sixor eight feet. A few inches above the level of my eye were the beamssupporting the floor of the cottage. But it was only a glance I gave tothese details, though I found them afterwards photographed upon mybrain; it was the space beyond which fixed my attention--the space wherethe clay bank before me dropped abruptly to what was no doubt the cellarof the cottage.
It was from this space that the light proceeded, but of what lay withinit I could see almost nothing--only enough, indeed, to fire mycuriosity. For from time to time a shadow moved between me and thelight--a shadow which showed that the cellar was not empty. The light, Ijudged, had been placed on a stool or table on the opposite side of thecellar. From the way it varied, now bright, now dim, I decided it was acandle, and that the motions of the person working near it caused theflame to flicker. These motions would continue for a time withconsiderable regularity; then they would cease while the workerevidently stopped to rest, and then begin again.
Who was this person and what was this work which must be done at such anhour? In vain I sought an answer. I pressed my ear to the ventilator,but could hear nothing; nothing, at least, beyond the faintest of faintsounds, which gave me no clue to what was happening within. I peeredthrough the little orifice moment after moment, until the shadows grewconfused and blurred and my eyes ached under the strain.
I rose to rest myself. Then it suddenly occurred to me that the cellarmust have a window. Skirting the house cautiously, I at last came to it.But it was closed and curtained so effectually that only a faint glimmerhere and there betrayed the light within. I listened, but could hear nosound.
Fairly nonplussed, I returned to the hedge and sat down against it toconsider. The shadow had given me no indication of whether the workerwas man or woman; yet to the first question I had asked myself therecould be only one answer. It was one or both of the Kingdon women whowere working in the cellar--both, I finally decided, since it wasimprobable that one could spend the night there without the knowledge ofthe other. But what were they doing?
To this I could find no answer. It was not merely an errand,
because thelight remained. Minute after minute I sat there, until I heard a clocksomewhere strike two, and still the light remained. I crept forward tothe ventilator and peered through again. The shadows were movingbackward and forward, just as they had been an hour before. There wassomething uncanny about them, and I shivered as I watched. It seemed tome that they were made by some person alternately rising and stooping,but why should any one do that for hours at a time? Some subtleassociation of ideas brought before my eyes the vision which hadconfronted Jean Valjean on that night when he had peered through thegrated window into the Convent of Little Picpus--the dim light, the vasthall, the motionless figure on the floor before the cross. Was some suchexplanation to be sought here? Were these long-continued risings andstoopings a series of genuflexions before some shrine--a penance,perhaps, imposed for some transgression? The thought seemed absurd. ButI could think of no other explanation of these singular motions.
At last, weary with long staring, I went back to my seat beside thehedge and waited. Half an hour passed, then I saw the glimmer at theventilator suddenly disappear, and a moment later, a light gleamedthrough the kitchen window. It went on toward the front of the house,and I saw the shadow of a woman's figure on the blind as it passed thewindow in front of me. Only one shadow--there was only one woman in thehouse, or, at least, only one awake and moving about. There had beenonly one in the cellar.
My resolution was taken. I went straight forward to the door at the sideof the house and knocked sharply. At the same instant, the lightvanished. I waited a moment, then knocked again, more loudly.
"Who's there?" called a voice, so harsh, so fierce, that it fairlystartled me.
"Open the door," I said. "I wish to see Miss Lawrence."
"This is not Miss Lawrence's home," cried the voice.
"I know it; but she's here."
"She's not here!" and the voice rose to a scream. "Be off, or I'll firethrough the door!"
What sort of fury was this, I asked myself, and I stepped to one side tobe out of range of a possible bullet.
"Be off!" screamed the voice again. "I'll fire, I swear it! The law willjustify me."
There could be no question of that; it would be worse than folly toattempt to force an entrance with this fury opposing me, so I retreatedagain to the hedge and sat down to see what would happen. But nothinghappened, and deciding at last that Miss Kingdon, or whoever it was hadanswered me, had gone to bed, I turned my steps toward the hotel just asthe dawn was tingeing the east with grey.
And one thing I determined on--I would purchase a revolver. Only a foolventures unarmed into the tiger's den.