CHAPTER X
AN AFFAIR WITH THE CARETAKER
I read in the library until late, hearing the howl ofthe wind outside with satisfaction in the warmth andcomfort of the great room. Bates brought in some sandwichesand a bottle of ale at midnight.
“If there’s nothing more, sir—”
“That is all, Bates.” And he went off sedately to hisown quarters.
I was restless and in no mood for bed and mournedthe lack of variety in my grandfather’s library. I movedabout from shelf to shelf, taking down one book afteranother, and while thus engaged came upon a series oflarge volumes extra-illustrated in water-colors of unusualbeauty. They occupied a lower shelf, and Isprawled on the floor, like a boy with a new picture-book,in my absorption, piling the great volumes about me.They were on related subjects pertaining to the Frenchchateaux.
In the last volume I found a sheet of white note-paperno larger than my hand, a forgotten book-mark,I assumed, and half-crumpled it in my fingers before Inoticed the lines of a pencil sketch on one side of it. Icarried it to the table and spread it out.
It was not the bit of idle penciling it had appearedto be at first sight. A scale had evidently been followedand the lines drawn with a ruler. With such trifles mygrandfather had no doubt amused himself. There wasa long corridor indicated, but of this I could make nothing.I studied it for several minutes, thinking it mighthave been a tentative sketch of some part of the house.In turning it about under the candelabrum I saw thatin several places the glaze had been rubbed from thepaper by an eraser, and this piqued my curiosity. Ibrought a magnifying glass to bear upon the sketch.The drawing had been made with a hard pencil and theeraser had removed the lead, but a well-defined imprintremained.
I was able to make out the letters N. W. 3/4 to C.—a reference clearly enough to points of the compass anda distance. The word ravine was scrawled over a roughoutline of a doorway or opening of some sort, and thenthe phrase:
THE DOOR OF BEWILDERMENT
Now I am rather an imaginative person; that is whyengineering captured my fancy. It was through his tryingto make an architect (a person who quarrels withwomen about their kitchen sinks!) of a boy who wantedto be an engineer that my grandfather and I failed to hitit off. From boyhood I have never seen a great bridge orwatched a locomotive climb a difficult hillside withouta thrill; and a lighthouse still seems to me quite thefinest monument a man can build for himself. Mygrandfather’s devotion to old churches and medievalhouses always struck me as trifling and unworthy of agrown man. And fate was busy with my affairs thatnight, for, instead of lighting my pipe with the littlesketch, I was strangely impelled to study it seriously.
I drew for myself rough outlines of the interior ofGlenarm House as it had appeared to me, and then Itried to reconcile the little sketch with every part ofit.
“The Door of Bewilderment” was the charm that heldme. The phrase was in itself a lure. The man who hadbuilt a preposterous house in the woods of Indiana andcalled it “The House of a Thousand Candles” was quitecapable of other whims; and as I bent over this scrap ofpaper in the candle-lighted library it occurred to methat possibly I had not done justice to my grandfather’sgenius. My curiosity was thoroughly aroused as to thehidden corners of the queer old house, round which thewind shrieked tormentingly.
I went to my room, put on my corduroy coat for itsgreater warmth in going through the cold halls, took acandle and went below. One o’clock in the morning isnot the most cheering hour for exploring the dark recessesof a strange house, but I had resolved to have alook at the ravine-opening and determine, if possible,whether it bore any relation to “The Door of Bewilderment.”
All was quiet in the great cellar; only here and therean area window rattled dolorously. I carried a tape-linewith me and made measurements of the length anddepth of the corridor and of the chambers that were setoff from it. These figures I entered in my note-book forfurther use, and sat down on an empty nail-keg to reflect.The place was certainly substantial; the candleat my feet burned steadily with no hint of a draft; butI saw no solution of my problem. All the doors alongthe corridor were open, or yielded readily to my hand.I was losing sleep for nothing; my grandfather’s sketchwas meaningless, and I rose and picked up my candle,yawning.
Then a curious thing happened. The candle, whosethin flame had risen unwaveringly, sputtered and wentout as a sudden gust swept the corridor.
I had left nothing open behind me, and the outerdoors of the house were always locked and barred. Butsome one had gained ingress to the cellar by an openingof which I knew nothing.
I faced the stairway that led up to the back hall of thehouse, when to my astonishment, steps sounded behindme and, turning, I saw, coming toward me, a man carryinga lantern. I marked his careless step; he was undoubtedlyon familiar ground. As I watched him hepaused, lifted the lantern to a level with his eyes andbegan sounding the wall with a hammer.
Here, undoubtedly, was my friend Morgan,—again!There was the same periodicity in the beat on the wallthat I had heard in my own rooms. He began at thetop and went methodically to the floor. I leanedagainst the wall where I stood and watched the lanternslowly coming toward me. The small revolver withwhich I had fired at his flying figure in the wood was inmy pocket. It was just as well to have it out with thefellow now. My chances were as good as his, though Iconfess I did not relish the thought of being found deadthe next morning in the cellar of my own house. Itpleased my humor to let him approach in this way, unconsciousthat he was watched, until I should thrust mypistol into his face.
His arms grew tired when he was about ten feet fromme and he dropped the lantern and hammer to his side,and swore under his breath impatiently.
Then he began again, with greater zeal. As he camenearer I studied his face in the lantern’s light with interest.His hat was thrust back, and I could see his jawhard-set under his blond beard.
He took a step nearer, ran his eyes over the wall andresumed his tapping. The ceiling was something lessthan eight feet, and he began at the top. In settlinghimself for the new series of strokes he swayed towardme slightly, and I could hear his hard breathing. I wasdeliberating how best to throw myself upon him, but asI wavered he stepped back, swore at his ill-luck andflung the hammer to the ground.
“Thanks!” I shouted, leaping forward and snatchingthe lantern. “Stand just where you are!”
With the revolver in my right hand and the lanternheld high in my left, I enjoyed his utter consternation,as my voice roared in the corridor.
“It’s too bad we meet under such strange circumstances,Morgan,” I said. “I’d begun to miss you; butI suppose you’ve been sleeping in the daytime to gatherstrength for your night prowling.”
“You’re a fool,” he growled. He was recovering fromhis fright,—I knew it by the gleam of his teeth in hisyellow beard. His eyes, too, were moving restlesslyabout. He undoubtedly knew the house better than Idid, and was considering the best means of escape. Idid not know what to do with him now that I had himat the point of a pistol; and in my ignorance of his motivesand my vague surmise as to the agency back ofhim, I was filled with uncertainty.
“You needn’t hold that thing quite so near,” he said,staring at me coolly.
“I’m glad it annoys you, Morgan,” I said. “It mayhelp you to answer some questions I’m going to put toyou.”
“So you want information, do you, Mr. Glenarm? Ishould think it would be beneath the dignity of a greatman like you to ask a poor devil like me for help.”
“We’re not talking of dignity,” I said. “I want youto tell me how you got in here.”
He laughed.
“You’re a very shrewd one, Mr. Glenarm. I came inby the kitchen window, if you must know. I got in beforeyour solemn jack-of-all-trades locked up, and Iwalked down to the end of the passage there”—he indicatedthe direction with a slight jerk of his head—“and slept until it was time to go to work. You cansee how easy it was!”
I laughed now at the sheer assuranc
e of the fellow.
“If you can’t lie better than that you needn’t tryagain. Face about now, and march!”
I put new energy into my tone, and he turned andwalked before me down the corridor in the directionfrom which he had come. We were, I dare say, a prettypair,—he tramping doggedly before me, I following athis heels with his lantern and my pistol. The situationhad played prettily into my hands, and I had every intentionof wresting from him the reason for his interestin Glenarm House and my affairs.
“Not so fast,” I admonished sharply.
“Excuse me,” he replied mockingly.
He was no common rogue; I felt the quality in himwith a certain admiration for his scoundrelly talents—a fellow, I reflected, who was best studied at the pointof a pistol.
I continued at his heels, and poked the muzzle of therevolver against his back from time to time to keep himassured of my presence,—a device that I was to regret asecond later.
We were about ten yards from the end of the corridorwhen he flung himself backward upon me, threw hisarms over his head and seized me about the neck, turninghimself lithely until his fingers clasped my throat.
I fired blindly once, and felt the smoke of the revolverhot in my own nostrils. The lantern fell frommy hand, and one or the other of us smashed it with ourfeet.
A wrestling match in that dark hole was not to myliking. I still held on to the revolver, waiting for achance to use it, and meanwhile he tried to throw me,forcing me back against one side and then the other ofthe passage.
With a quick rush he flung me away, and in the samesecond I fired. The roar of the shot in the narrow corridorseemed interminable. I flung myself on the floor,expecting a return shot, and quickly enough a flash brokeupon the darkness dead ahead, and I rose to my feet,fired again and leaped to the opposite side of the corridorand crouched there. We had adopted the same tactics,firing and dodging to avoid the target made by the flashof our pistols, and watching and listening after the roarof the explosions. It was a very pretty game, but destinednot to last long. He was slowly retreating towardthe end of the passage, where there was, I remembered,a dead wall. His only chance was to crawl through anarea window I knew to be there, and this would, I feltsure, give him into my hands.
After five shots apiece there was a truce. The pungentsmoke of the powder caused me to cough, and helaughed.
“Have you swallowed a bullet, Mr. Glenarm?” hecalled.
I could hear his feet scraping on the cement floor;he was moving away from me, doubtless intending tofire when he reached the area window and escape beforeI could reach him. I crept warily after him, ready tofire on the instant, but not wishing to throw away mylast cartridge. That I resolved to keep for close quartersat the window.
He was now very near the end of the corridor; Iheard his feet strike some boards that I rememberedlay on the floor there, and I was nerved for a shot anda hand-to-hand struggle, if it came to that.
I was sure that he sought the window; I heard hishands on the wall as he felt for it. Then a breath ofcold air swept the passage, and I knew he must bedrawing himself up to the opening. I fired and droppedto the floor. With the roar of the explosion I heardhim yell, but the expected return shot did not follow.
The pounding of my heart seemed to mark the passingof hours. I feared that my foe was playing sometrick, creeping toward me, perhaps, to fire at closerange, or to grapple with me in the dark. The cold airstill whistled into the corridor, and I began to feel thechill of it. Being fired upon is disagreeable enough,but waiting in the dark for the shot is worse.
I rose and walked toward the end of the passage.
Then his revolver flashed and roared directly ahead,the flame of it so near that it blinded me. I fell forwardconfused and stunned, but shook myself togetherin a moment and got upon my feet. The draft of airno longer blew into the passage. Morgan had takenhimself off through the window and closed it after him.I made sure of this by going to the window and feelingof it with my hands.
I went back and groped about for my candle, whichI found without difficulty and lighted. I then returnedto the window to examine the catch. To my utter astonishmentit was fastened with staples, driven deepinto the sash, in such way that it could not possiblyhave been opened without the aid of tools. I tried itat every point. Not only was it securely fastened, butit could not possibly be opened without an expenditureof time and labor.
There was no doubt whatever that Morgan knewmore about Glenarm House than I did. It was possible,but not likely, that he had crept past me in the corridorand gone out through the house, or by some othercellar window. My eyes were smarting from the smokeof the last shot, and my cheek stung where the burntpowder had struck my face. I was alive, but in my vexationand perplexity not, I fear, grateful for my safety.It was, however, some consolation to feel sure I hadwinged the enemy.
I gathered up the fragments of Morgan’s lantern andwent back to the library. The lights in half the candlestickshad sputtered out. I extinguished the remainderand started to my room.
Then, in the great dark hall, I heard a muffled treadas of some one following me,—not on the great staircase,nor in any place I could identify,—yet unmistakablyon steps of some sort beneath or above me. Mynerves were already keyed to a breaking pitch, and theghost-like tread in the hall angered me—Morgan, or hisally, Bates, I reflected, at some new trick. I ran into myroom, found a heavy walking-stick and set off for Bates’room on the third floor. It was always easy to attributeany sort of mischief to the fellow, and undoubtedly hewas crawling through the house somewhere on an errandthat boded no good to me.
It was now past two o’clock and he should have beenasleep and out of the way long ago. I crept to his roomand threw open the door without, I must say, the slightestidea of finding him there. But Bates, the enigma,Bates, the incomparable cook, the perfect servant, sat ata table, the light of several candles falling on a bookover which he was bent with that maddening gravityhe had never yet in my presence thrown off.
He rose at once, stood at attention, inclining his headslightly.
“Yes, Mr. Glenarm.”
“Yes, the devil!” I roared at him, astonished atfinding him,—sorry, I must say, that he was there. Thestick fell from my hands. I did not doubt he knewperfectly well that I had some purpose in breaking inupon him. I was baffled and in my rage flounderedfor words to explain myself.
“I thought I heard some one in the house. I don’twant you prowling about in the night, do you hear?”
“Certainly not, sir,” he replied in a grieved tone.
I glanced at the book he had been reading. It was avolume of Shakespeare’s comedies, open at the firstscene of the last act of The Winter’s Tale.
“Quite a pretty bit of work that, I should say,” heremarked. “It was one of my late master’s favorites.”
“Go to the devil!” I bawled at him, and went downto my room and slammed the door in rage and chagrin.