forefinger, I picked up the corners of some ofthe furniture coverings. There was nothing but the furnitureunderneath, except in one instance, where I saw, upon an easy-chair, aplate with some mouldy remnants of food upon it. No wonder theatmosphere was foetid.
I was about to leave the room, glad to get out of it, when I noticed ina corner of the ceiling a dark, yellow-brown stain, about a yard incircumference. This struck me as curious, and I went over and stoodunder it, and gazed up at it, endeavouring to discover its origin. ThenI saw that it was moist. I pulled up one of the blinds in order to seebetter, but my scrutiny failed to give me any inkling as to the originof the stain.
I went out, shut and locked the door, and entered several other rooms,the doors of all of which I found locked. One room was very likeanother, the only difference being that the smell in some was closer andnastier than the smell in others, though all the smells had, what I maycall the same "flavour"--a "taste" of dry rot. I wondered if SirCharles knew how his house was being neglected, how dirt and dust werebeing allowed to accumulate.
This was Lady Thorold's boudoir, if I remembered aright. The inside ofthe lock was so rusty that I had difficulty in turning the key.Everything shrouded, as elsewhere, but, judging from the odd projectionsin the coverings, I concluded that ornaments and bric-a-brac had beenleft upon the tables.
Nor was I mistaken. As I lifted the cloths and dust sheets, objectsthat I remembered seeing set about the room in the old days, becamerevealed. There were several beautiful statues, priceless pieces ofantique furniture from Naples and Florence, curious carved woodenfigures that Sir Charles had collected during his travels in theSouthern Pacific, cloisonne vases from Tokio and Osaka, a barely decentsculpture bought by Sir Charles from a Japanese witch-doctor who lived ahermit's life on an island in the Inland Sea--how well I remembered LadyThorold's emphatic disapproval of this figure, and her objection to herhusband's displaying it in the way he did--treasures from differentparts of China, from New Guinea, Burmah, the West Indies and elsewhere.
Another cloth I lifted. Beneath it were a number of photographs inframes, piled faces downward in heaps. I picked up some of them, andtook them out to look at. A picture of Vera in a short frock, with ateddy-bear tucked under her arm, interested me; so did a portrait ofLady Thorold dressed in a fashion long since past; and so did a portraitof my old father in his Guards uniform. The rest were portraits ofpeople I didn't know. I looked at one or two more, and was about toreplace the frames where I had found them, when I turned up one thatstartled me.
It was a cabinet, in a bog-oak frame, of the man whose likeness hadcaused the commotion at Houghton, the man who had called himselfSmithson. But it was not a portrait similar to the one I had takenaway. The same man, undoubtedly, but in a different attitude, andapparently many years younger.
Closely I scrutinised it.
The enigma presented was complete. I am not a pilferer, but Iconsidered that I should be justified in putting the portrait into mypocket, and I did so without another thought. Then I replaced all theframes where I had found them, and resumed my ramble over the house.
In the rest of the rooms on that floor, I found nothing further ofinterest. On the floor above, however, a surprise was in store for me.
The first two rooms were bedrooms, neglected-looking and very dusty.There were fewer coverings here. Dust was upon the floor, on the beds,on the chairs and tables, on the window-sills, on the wash-stands, onthe chests of drawers, on the mantelpiece--everywhere. In the nextroom, the door of which I was surprised to find unlocked, just the same.A table of dark mahogany was thickly coated with dust.
Hullo! Why, what was this? I thought at once of a detective friend ofmine, and wondered what he would have said, what opinion he would haveformed and what conclusion he would have come to, had he been in myplace at that moment. For on the table, close to the edge of it, wasthe clear outline of a hand. Someone had quite recently--apparentlywithin the last few hours, and certainly since the previous day--put hishand upon that dusty table. I scanned the outline closely; thensuddenly I started.
There could be no doubt whatever--it was not the outline of Taylor'shand. The fingers that had rested there were long and tapering. Thiswas not the impression of a man's hand, but of a woman's--of a woman'sleft hand.
Evidently some one had been in this room recently. From point to pointI walked, looking for further traces, but there were none that I couldsee. What woman could have been in here so lately? And did the old manasleep downstairs know of her entry? He must have, for she could nothave entered the house, had he not admitted her. I felt I was becomingquite a clever detective, with an exceptional gift for deduction fromthe obvious. Another gleam of intelligence led me to conclude that thiswoman's presence in the house probably accounted for Taylor'sdetermination not to let me go over the house.
I thought I heard a sound. I held my breath and stood still, listeningintently, but the only sound that came to me was the distant shrillwhistle of some one summoning a taxi. Outside in the passage, all wasstill as death. I walked to the end of the passage, peeped into otherbedrooms, then returned to the room with the table bearing the imprintof the hand.
The windows overlooked Belgrave Street--double windows, which made thesound of the traffic down below inaudible. Carelessly I watched forsome moments the vehicles and passers-by, unconsciously striving topuzzle out, meanwhile, the problem of the hand. Suddenly, two figuresapproaching along the pavement from the direction of Wilton Street,arrested my attention. They seemed familiar to me. As they camenearer, a strange feeling of excitement possessed me, for I recognisedthe burly form of Davies, or "Smithson," and as he had called himself,and, walking beside him, Sir Charles Thorold. The two appeared to beengaged in earnest conversation.
They disappeared where the street turned, and as I came away from thewindow I noticed, for the first time, that the room had another door, adoor leading presumably into a dressing-room. I went over to it. Itwas locked.
I tried a key on the bunch, but at once discovered that a key was in thedoor. The door was locked on the inside!
I knocked. There was no answer. And just then I distinctly heard asound inside the room.
"Who's there?" I called out. "Let me in!"
A sound, resembling a sob, reached me faintly. I heard light footfalls.The key turned slowly, and the lock clicked.
I turned the handle, and went in.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
MORE MYSTERY.
I halted on the threshold, wondering and aghast.
Vera, in her hat and jacket, stood facing me a few yards away. She wasextremely pale. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and I saw atonce she had been weeping.
For a moment neither of us spoke. Then, pulling myself together--
"Why, darling, what are you doing here?" I asked.
She did not answer. Her big, blue, unfathomable eyes were set on mine.There was in them an expression I had not seen there before--an odd,unnatural look, which made me feel uncomfortable.
"What are you doing here?" I repeated. "Why did you call upon me withDavies?"
Her lips moved, but no words came. I went over and took her hand. Itwas quite cold.
Suddenly she spoke slowly, and hoarsely, but like some one in a trance.
"I cannot tell you," she said simply. "I wanted to see you."
"Oh, but you _must_!"
Her eyes met mine, and I saw her arched brows contract slightly.
"Nobody says, `must' to me," she answered, in a tone that chilled me.
"Vera! Vera!" I exclaimed, dismayed at her strange manner, "what isthe matter? What has happened to you, darling? Why are you like this?Don't you need my help now? You told me on the telephone that you did."
"On the telephone? When was that?"
"Why, not three weeks ago. Surely you remember? It was the last timewe spoke to each other. You had begun to tell me your address, whensuddenly we were cut off."
I saw her knit her brows, as though trying to remember. Then, all atonce, memory seemed to return.
"Ah, yes," she exclaimed, more in her ordinary voice. "I recollect. Iwanted your help then. I needed it badly, but now--"
"Well, what?" I said anxiously, as she checked herself.
"It's too late--now," she whispered. My arm was about her thin waist,and I felt that she shuddered.
"Vera, what has happened? Tell me--oh, tell me, dearest!"
I took both her small hands in mine. I was seriously alarmed, for therewas a strange light in her eyes.
"Why did you not come when I wanted you?" she asked, bitterly.
"I would have, but how could I without knowing where you were?"
She paused in indecision.
"I'm sorry. You are too late, Dick," and she shook her head mournfully.
"Oh,