CASE III: THE NEMESIS OF FIRE
I
By some means which I never could fathom, John Silence always contrivedto keep the compartment to himself, and as the train had a clear run oftwo hours before the first stop, there was ample time to go over thepreliminary facts of the case. He had telephoned to me that verymorning, and even through the disguise of the miles of wire the thrillof incalculable adventure had sounded in his voice.
"As if it were an ordinary country visit," he called, in reply to myquestion; "and don't forgot to bring your gun."
"With blank cartridges, I suppose?" for I knew his rigid principles withregard to the taking of life, and guessed that the guns were merely forsome obvious purpose of disguise.
Then he thanked me for coming, mentioned the train, snapped down thereceiver, and left me, vibrating with the excitement of anticipation, todo my packing. For the honour of accompanying Dr. John Silence on one ofhis big cases was what many would have considered an empty honour--andrisky. Certainly the adventure held all manner of possibilities, and Iarrived at Waterloo with the feelings of a man who is about to embark onsome dangerous and peculiar mission in which the dangers he expects torun will not be the ordinary dangers to life and limb, but of somesecret character difficult to name and still more difficult to copewith.
"The Manor House has a high sound," he told me, as we sat with our feetup and talked, "but I believe it is little more than an overgrownfarmhouse in the desolate heather country beyond D----, and its owner,Colonel Wragge, a retired soldier with a taste for books, lives therepractically alone, I understand, with an elderly invalid sister. So youneed not look forward to a lively visit, unless the case provides someexcitement of its own."
"Which is likely?"
By way of reply he handed me a letter marked "Private." It was dated aweek ago, and signed "Yours faithfully, Horace Wragge."
"He heard of me, you see, through Captain Anderson," the doctorexplained modestly, as though his fame were not almost world-wide; "youremember that Indian obsession case--"
I read the letter. Why it should have been marked private was difficultto understand. It was very brief, direct, and to the point. It referredby way of introduction to Captain Anderson, and then stated quite simplythat the writer needed help of a peculiar kind and asked for a personalinterview--a morning interview, since it was impossible for him to beabsent from the house at night. The letter was dignified even to thepoint of abruptness, and it is difficult to explain how it managed toconvey to me the impression of a strong man, shaken and perplexed.Perhaps the restraint of the wording, and the mystery of the affair hadsomething to do with it; and the reference to the Anderson case, thehorror of which lay still vivid in my memory, may have touched the senseof something rather ominous and alarming. But, whatever the cause, therewas no doubt that an impression of serious peril rose somehow out ofthat white paper with the few lines of firm writing, and the spirit of adeep uneasiness ran between the words and reached the mind without anyvisible form of expression.
"And when you saw him--?" I asked, returning the letter as the trainrushed clattering noisily through Clapham Junction.
"I have not seen him," was the reply. "The man's mind was charged to thebrim when he wrote that; full of vivid mental pictures. Notice therestraint of it. For the main character of his case psychometry could bedepended upon, and the scrap of paper his hand has touched is sufficientto give to another mind--a sensitive and sympathetic mind--clear mentalpictures of what is going on. I think I have a very sound general ideaof his problem."
"So there may be excitement, after all?"
John Silence waited a moment before he replied.
"Something very serious is amiss there," he said gravely, at length."Some one--not himself, I gather,--has been meddling with a ratherdangerous kind of gunpowder. So--yes, there may be excitement, as youput it."
"And my duties?" I asked, with a decidedly growing interest. "Remember,I am your 'assistant.'"
"Behave like an intelligent confidential secretary. Observe everything,without seeming to. Say nothing--nothing that means anything. Be presentat all interviews. I may ask a good deal of you, for if my impressionsare correct this is--"
He broke off suddenly.
"But I won't tell you my impressions yet," he resumed after a moment'sthought. "Just watch and listen as the case proceeds. Form your ownimpressions and cultivate your intuitions. We come as ordinary visitors,of course," he added, a twinkle showing for an instant in his eye;"hence, the guns."
Though disappointed not to hear more, I recognised the wisdom of hiswords and knew how valueless my impressions would be once the powerfulsuggestion of having heard his own lay behind them. I likewise reflectedthat intuition joined to a sense of humour was of more use to a man thandouble the quantity of mere "brains," as such.
Before putting the letter away, however, he handed it back, telling meto place it against my forehead for a few moments and then describe anypictures that came spontaneously into my mind.
"Don't deliberately look for anything. Just imagine you see the insideof the eyelid, and wait for pictures that rise against its dark screen."
I followed his instructions, making my mind as nearly blank as possible.But no visions came. I saw nothing but the lines of light that pass toand fro like the changes of a kaleidoscope across the blackness. Amomentary sensation of warmth came and went curiously.
"You see--what?" he asked presently.
"Nothing," I was obliged to admit disappointedly; "nothing but the usualflashes of light one always sees. Only, perhaps, they are more vividthan usual."
He said nothing by way of comment or reply.
"And they group themselves now and then," I continued, with painfulcandour, for I longed to see the pictures he had spoken of, "groupthemselves into globes and round balls of fire, and the lines that flashabout sometimes look like triangles and crosses--almost like geometricalfigures. Nothing more."
I opened my eyes again, and gave him back the letter.
"It makes my head hot," I said, feeling somehow unworthy for not seeinganything of interest. But the look in his eyes arrested my attention atonce.
"That sensation of heat is important," he said significantly.
"It was certainly real, and rather uncomfortable," I replied, hoping hewould expand and explain. "There was a distinct feeling ofwarmth--internal warmth somewhere--oppressive in a sense."
"That is interesting," he remarked, putting the letter back in hispocket, and settling himself in the corner with newspapers and books. Hevouchsafed nothing more, and I knew the uselessness of trying to makehim talk. Following his example I settled likewise with magazines intomy corner. But when I closed my eyes again to look for the flashinglights and the sensation of heat, I found nothing but the usualphantasmagoria of the day's events--faces, scenes, memories,--and in duecourse I fell asleep and then saw nothing at all of any kind.
When we left the train, after six hours' travelling, at a littlewayside station standing without trees in a world of sand and heather,the late October shadows had already dropped their sombre veil upon thelandscape, and the sun dipped almost out of sight behind the moorlandhills. In a high dogcart, behind a fast horse, we were soon rattlingacross the undulating stretches of an open and bleak country, the keenair stinging our cheeks and the scents of pine and bracken strong aboutus. Bare hills were faintly visible against the horizon, and thecoachman pointed to a bank of distant shadows on our left where he toldus the sea lay. Occasional stone farmhouses, standing back from the roadamong straggling fir trees, and large black barns that seemed to shiftpast us with a movement of their own in the gloom, were the only signsof humanity and civilisation that we saw, until at the end of a bracingfive miles the lights of the lodge gates flared before us and we plungedinto a thick grove of pine trees that concealed the Manor House up tothe moment of actual arrival.
Colonel Wragge himself met us in the hall. He was the typical armyofficer who had seen service, real service, an
d found himself in theprocess. He was tall and well built, broad in the shoulders, but lean asa greyhound, with grave eyes, rather stern, and a moustache turninggrey. I judged him to be about sixty years of age, but his movementsshowed a suppleness of strength and agility that contradicted the years.The face was full of character and resolution, the face of a man to bedepended upon, and the straight grey eyes, it seemed to me, wore a veilof perplexed anxiety that he made no attempt to disguise. The wholeappearance of the man at once clothed the adventure with gravity andimportance. A matter that gave such a man cause for serious alarm, Ifelt, must be something real and of genuine moment.
His speech and manner, as he welcomed us, were like his letter, simpleand sincere. He had a nature as direct and undeviating as