away. Once more the house was silent asdeath.
Truly, that deserted house was a house of mystery.
CHAPTER NINE.
THE GENTLEMAN NAMED PAULTON.
On creeping back to her room, I found Vera awaiting me anxiously.
She, too, had heard the men talking, she had recognised her father's andhis companion's voices, though unable to catch what was being said. Ibent, and we exchanged kisses. In a few words I told her what hadoccurred, and explained the situation. I wanted to ask her about theman Davies; how she came to know him, and if she had known him long.There were other matters, too, that I wished to talk to her about, butthere was no time to do so then.
Though I pride myself upon a rapidity of decision in moments of crises,and have misled the more ingenuous among my friends into believing thatI really am a man of exceedingly strong character, who would never findhimself at a loss if brought suddenly face to face with a criticalproblem, I don't mind admitting that I am an invertebrate, vacillatingcreature at such times. Oh, no, I never lose my head. Don't thinkthat. But when instant decision is needed, and there are severaldecisions one might come to, I get quite "jumpy," half make up my mindto take one course, half make up my mind to take the opposite course,and finally take the third, or it may be the fourth or fifth.
"Well, you had better get away at once, dear," Vera urged quickly, whenI had told her what I had heard below.
"But what are you going to do?" I asked.
"Oh, I know what I'm going to do," she replied at once, "but I want tohave your plan. I know, dear, you are never at a loss when `up againstit,' to use your own phrase. You have often told me so, or implied it."
Now I did not entirely like her tone. There was a curious gleam in hereyes, which I mistrusted. I had noticed that gleam before, on occasionswhen she had been drawing people on to make admissions that they did notwish to make. She was rather too fond, I had sometimes thought, ofindulging in a form of intellectual pastime that I have heard people whotalk slang--a thing that I detest--call "pulling you by the leg." Thesuspicion crossed my mind at that moment, that Vera was trying to "pullmy leg"--and I frankly didn't like it.
"This is no time for joking, Vera," I said, for the "gleam" in her eyeshad now become a twinkle. "This is a time for action--and very promptaction."
I wondered how she could jest at such a moment. "That is why I want youto act," she answered innocently, "and to act promptly. However, as Ibelieve you have no idea what to do, Dick, I'm going to tell you what todo, and you must do it--promptly. Now, follow me. I know my way aboutthis place." She led me softly along the corridor, turned to the right,then to the left, and then to the left again. Presently we reached thetop of a flight of steep, and very narrow wooden stairs.
"Follow me," she whispered again, "and keep one hand on that rope,"indicating a cord that served as a bannister. "These stairs areslippery, or they always used to be. As a child, I used to fall downthem every Sunday."
We were on the first floor. The stairs continued to the ground floor.She turned suddenly.
"How about your gloves and umbrella?"
There was the curious look in her eyes again, so I paid no attention.
"Have you matches?" she asked, a moment later.
I struck one, and, stooping, we made our way along a narrow, darkpassage, with a low ceiling. Five stone steps down into a damp, stonetunnel, about twenty feet in length, then to the right, and we came to awooden door.
"Give me your keys," she said.
I did so, and she unlocked the door. It led into a little stone-flaggedyard. On three sides of it were high walls, walls of houses. The wallon the fourth side, only a few feet high, was surmounted by iron rails.Stone steps led up to the gate at the end of the rails. She opened thegate, re-locking it when we had passed out, and we stood in astone-flagged cul-de-sac, about fifteen yards long, across the open endof which, the traffic of the street could be seen passing to and fro.
"And now," she said, when we had reached the street, disobeying theinjunction of Paulton, "you are going to tell me what I must do next."
I hailed a taxi, and we drove off in it, discussing plans as we wentalong.
Then I secured a room for her in a comfortable little hotel I knew of,in a street off Russell Square. The difficulty that now arose, was howto get her luggage.
She told me all her things were packed, as she was to have left forParis that night, alone. The order received from her father was, thatshe should remain in an obscure lodging near Rue la Harpe, the addressof which, he had given her. There she would receive furtherinstructions. These instructions, she told me, were to come either fromher father, or from Paulton. She had strict orders not to communicatewith Davies. Her luggage was in Brighton. Sir Charles and Lady Thoroldhad been staying in Brighton, and she had come up that morning. Paultonhad met her at Victoria, and taken her in a cab direct to her father'sempty house in Belgrave Street. He had told her that if she dared goout before he came to her at ten that night, he would go to the police.
"But who is this man Davies?" I asked.
"A friend."
"But cannot you tell me something more concerning him?" I demanded.
"At present, no. I regret, Dick, that I am not allowed to sayanything--my lips are sealed."
"And Paulton. Why obey him so subserviently?"
"Ah!" she sighed. "Because I am compelled."
With these rebuffs, I was forced to be satisfied.
With regard to the plan for recovering her luggage, I rose to theoccasion. After pondering the problem for a quarter of an hour, Isuggested that she should write a note to her mother in Brighton, sayingthat Paulton had suddenly changed his plans, and that her luggage waswanted at once. It was to have been sent off at eight o'clock thatnight, when Paulton would meet it at Victoria, she had told me. Thebearer of the note we would now send to Brighton--a District Messenger--would be instructed to bring the luggage back with him. I looked up thetrains in the railway-guide, and found it would be just possible for themessenger to do this in the time. To avoid any mishap, I told themessenger to alight, on his return journey, at Clapham Junction, andbring the luggage from there, in a taxi, to the hotel near RussellSquare.
We dined together upstairs, at the _Trocadero_--ah! how I enjoyed thatevening! How delightful it was to sit _tete-a-tete_ with her. Beforewe had finished dinner, word was brought to us that Vera's luggage hadarrived.
"I think I managed that rather well," I said. "Don't you?"
"No," she answered, "I don't."
"No?"
"As you ask me, I may as well tell you that I think you could hardlyhave `managed' it worse. You have simply put Paulton on my track."
"But how?"
"How! Really, my dear Dick, your intelligence resembles a child's. Yousend a messenger for my luggage. Acting on your instructions, he bringsit from Brighton to Clapham Junction by train, then hails a taxi, andbrings the luggage on it direct to this hotel. Paulton is told by mymother in Brighton, that a messenger from London called for the luggage.All he has to do, is to ring up the messenger offices, until he findsthe one where you engaged your messenger. Having found that out, heascertains from the messenger the address to which he took the luggagein the taxi, and at once he comes and finds me."
"But," I said quickly, "Paulton is not in Brighton."
"How can that matter? He can easily find out who took my luggage. Itell you, dear, if Paulton finds me, worse still, if he finds me withyou, the result will be terrible for all of us. You should yourselfhave gone to Clapham, met the messenger-boy there, and yourself havebrought the luggage here."
I felt crushed. I had believed my plan had been laid so cleverly. Atthe same time, my admiration for Vera's foresight increased, though Idid not tell her so.
We went back to the hotel at once, took away the luggage with us, and byten o'clock that night she was comfortably settled in another smallhotel, within a stone's throw of Hampstead Heath.
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br /> My sweet-faced, well-beloved told me many things I wanted to know, butalas! not everything, and all the time we conversed, I had to bear inmind the important fact that she believed me to be familiar with SirCharles' secret--the secret that had led to his sudden flight fromHoughton with her mother, herself and the French maid. I mistrustedthat French maid--Judith. I had disliked the tone in which she hadaddressed Vera, when she had called her away from me that night atHoughton, and told her that Lady Thorold wanted her. I had noticed themaid on one or two previous occasions, and from the first I had dislikedher. Her voice was so smooth, her manner so artificially deferential,and altogether she had seemed to me stealthy and cat-like. I believedher to be a