Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced fromscanned images of public domain material from the GooglePrint archive.
The House of Strange Secrets
A DETECTIVE STORY
BYA. Eric Bayly
NEW YORKE. P. DUTTON & COMPANY31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET1899
COPYRIGHT, 1899BYE. P. DUTTON & CO.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I.--THE STRANGE AFFAIR ON THE LONELY MOOR 1 II.--THE MAN THAT DISAPPEARED 9 III.--THE MYSTERY OF THE PADDED FOOTPRINTS 17 IV.--GOOD NEWS AND BAD 28 V.--SELENE'S STORY 33 VI.--THE FIRST ENCOUNTER 39 VII.--THE HAUNTED BARN AND ITS STRANGE INHABITANT 52 VIII.--THE SILENT HOUSE AND THE FOLKS THAT DWELT THERE 58 IX.--THE MAJOR'S MESSAGE AND HOW IT WAS DELIVERED 66 X.--THE AFFAIR OF THE BICYCLE 75 XI.--IN THE LION'S DEN 80 XII.--THE MAJOR REVEALS HIS SECRET 86 XIII.--THE HORRORS OF DURLEY DENE 95 XIV.--THE FIGURE IN THE MOONLIGHT 99 XV.--MAJOR JONES' ERRAND 106 XVI.--THE MAN FROM BURTON'S 116 XVII.--MR. POTTER'S SOLUTION 125 XVIII.--AN ASTOUNDING CONFESSION 130 XIX.--A TRUCE AND A PROMISE 139 XX.--MR. HORNCASTLE, FROM DARTMOOR 145 XXI.--MR. POTTER SHOWS HIS HAND 153 XXII.--WHOSE WAS THE WRITING? 162 XXIII.--THE MYSTERY OF THE MANSE BARN 170 XXIV.--THE FATE OF THE EAVESDROPPER 177 XXV.--IN THE OAK-PANELLED HALL 185 XXVI.--LIGHT IN DARK PLACES 191 XXVII.--THE SQUIRE'S STORY 201 XXVIII.--THE SQUIRE'S STORY (CONTINUED) 205 XXIX.--THE SQUIRE'S STORY (CONTINUED) 215 XXX.--THE SQUIRE'S STORY (CONCLUSION) 224 XXXI.--THE BEGINNING OF THE END 230 XXXII.--THE WIZARD'S MARSH 236 XXXIII.--A MAN FROM THE GRAVE 244 XXXIV.--SOLVING THE MYSTERY 249 XXXV.--THE LAST TWIST IN THE YARN 257
CHAPTER I
THE STRANGE AFFAIR ON THE LONELY MOOR
"Squire Carrington's carriage, this way, please," proclaimed thismagnificent powdered footman wearing the Marquis of Moorland's livery.His stentorian tones echoing from the porch, over which were suspendedthe nobleman's arms, interrupted an edifying conversation between SquireCarrington's coachman and the individual who presided over another localdignitary's stables, both of whom, with their carriages, had takenrefuge from the inclement weather beneath the stately ash trees whichwere the pride of their noble owner and his gardener (by the way, a farmore important personage).
"Well, good e'ning to yer, Mr. Wilkes," remarked the Carringtoncoachman, flicking up his horses; "I'll tell yer some more about theole man and 'is hexentricities next time I 'ave the pleasure of renooingour acquaintance." And wrapping his topcoat round him, so as to shieldhis valuable carcase from the drizzling rain, the venerable retainer incharge of Mr. Harold Carrington's spirited greys turned his horses'heads and drew up the carriage--a coach of out-of-date pattern--at thefront door, which had been held open for two gentlemen in evening dresswho were effecting an early departure from the annual ball given by theMarquis to all the neighbouring gentry.
The elder of the two was an extremely tall, cadaverous, and grizzled manof perhaps sixty years of age. This was Squire Carrington himself, theowner of the manse, situate in the neighbouring village of Northden;while his companion was his only son, Laurence, a handsome young fellowof two-and-twenty, quite as tall as his father, but, unlike Mr.Carrington, senior, well built and of athletic appearance.
The elder man paused for a moment in the porch.
To the casual observer he would have appeared to be buttoning his glove,but to the keen eye of Laurence it seemed that the cause of the oldergentleman's sudden stop was to give himself an opportunity of peeringnervously into the night before taking the few steps necessary to reachthe carriage waiting outside. This scrutiny being evidentlysatisfactory, Mr. Carrington hurried forward, entered the vehicle, andensconced himself in the far corner. Laurence followed, after taking aglance back at the capacious hall, brilliantly lighted with fairy lampsand thronged with vivacious ladies and laughing men on their way to orfrom the supper rooms.
The front door closed, shutting out the gay scene from the young man'sgaze. The coachman whipped up his horses, and in a moment the carriagewas bowling down the dark avenue, presently emerging into the rain andthe high road beyond.
"Shame to leave so awfully early," muttered Laurence, leaning back onthe comfortable cushions and lighting a cigarette.
"You know my reasons," answered Mr. Carrington. "I--well, I don't liketo have the carriage out too late, and, besides, it's twelve o'clockalready."
"Twelve o'clock, yes; just the best time, dad, you know it is! And whycouldn't I have walked home or got a lift in the Everards' waggonette,as I suggested? Another of these absurd fears of yours, I suppose. Mydear dad, what on earth would the people say if they learned that you,a J.P., magistrate, and all the rest of it, were actually frightenedout of your life of burglars?"
"Laurence, you must not speak like that, nor take advantage of mylittle--er--weakness." And the old gentleman relapsed into a silencebroken only by the patter of the rain on the carriage windows and theclatter of the horses' hoofs on the macadam road.
"Nice girl, that Miss Scott!" Laurence remarked, after a long pause;"not extraordinary pretty, but there's something awfully taking abouther. Did you see her hair? Of course you didn't. But it was somethingworth seeing--a mass of golden tresses. I never saw anything like it.And her smile! I danced five times with her--all waltzes; but I supposethat was not wrong, eh? She's clever, and no mistake, for a girl herage. I don't suppose she's more than nineteen."
"Born in 1867, that is twenty-five years old now," mumbled Mr.Carrington half aloud.
"Twenty-five, Dad! How on earth do you know her age?" exclaimed theyoung man in tones of surprise.
"What--what? Did I speak? Oh, nothing. I was just then rather deep in mythoughts."
"'Pon my word," said Laurence, "I believe you're getting into yoursecond dotage, Daddy."
The old gentleman did not reply. He seemed too occupied with his ownmeditations to take any notice of his son's further remarks either uponthe festivities at the Marquis's house or the young lady who hadattracted him to no small degree, and whose praises he continued to singthroughout the first part of the eight miles' drive to Northden.
Those who are acquainted with that part of the North Riding of Yorkshirein which the village mentioned lies will recollect that the road betweenNorthden and the Marquis of Moorland's seat runs for some littledistance along the east edge of the extensive moor, from which, at aprehistoric period, some ancestor of the august owner of theneighbouring country took his title. The Carrington carriage was halfwayacross this stretch of heath--the most deserted part of the route--whenthe coachman suddenly became aware of the fact that some
other vehicleor person was closely following in his rear. Turning round in his seat,he glared into the darkness behind, and fancied that he discerned thefigure of a man on horseback riding immediately behind the carriage.
He thought nothing of this, deciding that the fellow-traveller waseither a mounted postman riding home, or some country doctor who hadbeen called out at a late hour to visit a patient in some distant partof his large district of practice.
For some reason or other, however, the coachman happened to glance backagain a minute or two later, when he was astounded beyond measure to seethat the supposed man on horseback was a cyclist, and that, with whatthe coachman set down as "confounded impidence," he was riding alongsidethe coach, and cautiously peering in through the steam-coated window atthe occupants of the carriage!
Now, James Moggin was a servant who had no little respect for the personof his lord and master (though he did occasionally allude to him inconversing with particularly intimate acquaintances as the "ole man"),and this cyclist's action he considered a dastardly outrage upon theprivacy of Mr. Carrington and his son. He therefore drew up suddenly,and seizing his whip, intended, in his own words, to give themisdemeanant "a 'elp on 'is way." But though he did not know it, by sodoing he gave the inquisitive cyclist the opportunity he needed.
The dark figure on the machine, pedalling suddenly forward, made his wayin front of the carriage, dismounted lightly, and threw down the cycleupon the ground in such a way that the horses could not proceed withoutstepping upon it. Moggin, perforce, drew up hurriedly, and bent forwardin an endeavour to scrutinise the features of the strange bicyclist. Inthe darkness he was unable to perceive more than the mere outline of hisform, but even that was sufficient to cause his feelings of surprise togive way to a sensation of horror. There was something strange, what hedid not know, about the man who had so suddenly and silently compelledhim to draw up in the dreariest part of the great bare moor. Heshuddered, and noticed that the horses were both trembling.
Meanwhile let us return to the inmates of the carriage.
Laurence had vainly endeavoured to draw his father into conversation,but the old man seemed so engrossed in his meditations that his soneventually ceased from lamenting Mr. Carrington's peculiar behaviour,and gave himself up to the enjoyment of his cigarette and pleasantthoughts, in which the central figure was none other than Miss SeleneScott, his newly made acquaintance.
Of a sudden the old man sprang up in his seat, and clutched wildly atLaurence's arm.
"Good heavens!" he cried in accents demonstrative of mortal dread, "didyou see that face at the window?"
"Don't be absurd, Dad," exclaimed Laurence somewhat angrily, "if youscream like that, old Moggin will be getting down to see if I'mmurdering you. Gracious me," he added after a pause, "what's the fellowstopping for?"
The young man did not have to wait long for an answer to his lastquestion. With startling suddenness the right-hand window of the vehiclewas struck by something outside that could not be seen owing to thesteam. A loud clatter of falling glass ensued, and for a moment a largejagged hole in the pane yawned at them. Then in this space thereappeared first a hideous-looking dark face, and then, when that portionof the intruder's anatomy was withdrawn, a long, bony hand gripping acocked revolver which was directed precisely at Squire Carrington'shead.
The report of a shot rang out, and almost simultaneously the oppositewindow glass smashed amid a terrific din. Through the smoke that filledthe carriage Laurence turned and looked at his father. With a low moan,the Squire had flung up his hands and fallen forward senseless upon thefloor!