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Title: The Green Eyes of Bâst

Author: Sax Rohmer

Release Date: March 11, 2005 [EBook #15323]
[Date last updated: October 9, 2005]

Language: English

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THE GREEN EYES
OF BÂST

BY SAX ROHMER

AUTHOR OF

"_The Golden Scorpion_," "_Dope_," "_The Hand of Fu-Manchu_,"
"_The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu_," "_The Return of Fu-Manchu_,"
"_Tales of Secret Egypt_," "_The Yellow Claw_,"
"_The Quest of the Sacred Slipper_," _etc._


A.L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with Robert M. McBride & Co.
Copyright, 1920, by

ROBERT M. MCBRIDE & Co.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Printed in the
United States of America_




CONTENTS


CHAPTER PAGE

     I. I SEE THE EYES                                   1
    II. THE SIGN OF THE CAT                             12
   III. THE GREEN IMAGE                                 22
    IV. ISOBEL                                          32
     V. THE INTERRUPTED SUPPER                          41
    VI. THE VOICE                                       52
   VII. THE CAT OF BUBASTIS                             63
  VIII. MY VISITOR                                      73
    IX. THE VELVET CURTAIN                              84
     X. "HANGING EVIDENCE"                              95
    XI. THE SCARRED MAN                                105
   XII. I DREAM OF GREEN EYES                          117
  XIII. DR. DAMAR GREEFE                               125
   XIV. THE BLACK DOCTOR                               135
    XV. I RECEIVE VISITORS                             147
   XVI. THE GOLDEN CAT                                 158
  XVII. THE NUBIAN MUTE                                169
 XVIII. THE SECRET OF FRIAR'S PARK                     177
   XIX. THE MAN ON THE TOWER                           187
    XX. GATTON'S STORY                                 198
   XXI. IN LONDON AGAIN                                212
  XXII. THE GRAY MIST                                  225
 XXIII. THE INEVITABLE                                 240
  XXIV. A CONFERENCE--INTERRUPTED                      251
   XXV. STATEMENT OF DAMAR GREEFE, M.D.                263
  XXVI. STATEMENT OF DR. DAMAR GREEFE (CONTINUED)      273
 XXVII. STATEMENT OF DR. DAMAR GREEFE (CONCLUDED)      285
XXVIII. THE CLAWS OF THE CAT                           300
  XXIX. AN AFTERWORD                                   309



THE GREEN EYES OF BÂST




CHAPTER I

I SEE THE EYES


"Good evening, sir. A bit gusty?"

"Very much so, sergeant," I replied. "I think I will step into your
hut for a moment and light my pipe if I may."

"Certainly, sir. Matches are too scarce nowadays to take risks with
'em. But it looks as if the storm had blown over."

"I'm not sorry," said I, entering the little hut like a sentry-box
which stands at the entrance to this old village high street for
accommodation of the officer on point duty at that spot. "I have a
longish walk before me."

"Yes. Your place is right off the beat, isn't it?" mused my
acquaintance, as sheltered from the keen wind I began to load my
briar. "Very inconvenient I've always thought it for a gentleman who
gets about as much as you do."

"That's why I like it," I explained. "If I lived anywhere accessible I
should never get a moment's peace, you see. At the same time I have to
be within an hour's journey of Fleet Street."

I often stopped for a chat at this point and I was acquainted with
most of the men of P. division on whom the duty devolved from time to
time. It was a lonely spot at night when the residents in the
neighborhood had retired, so that the darkened houses seemed to
withdraw yet farther into the gardens separating them from the
highroad. A relic of the days when trains and motor-buses were not,
dusk restored something of an old-world atmosphere to the village
street, disguising the red brick and stucco which in many cases had
displaced the half-timbered houses of the past. Yet it was possible in
still weather to hear the muted bombilation of the sleepless city and
when the wind was in the north to count the hammer-strokes of the
great bell of St. Paul's.

Standing in the shelter of the little hut, I listened to the rain
dripping from over-reaching branches and to the gurgling of a turgid
little stream which flowed along the gutter near my feet whilst now
and again swift gusts of the expiring tempest would set tossing the
branches of the trees which lined the way.

"It's much cooler to-night," said the sergeant.

I nodded, being in the act of lighting my pipe. The storm had
interrupted a spell of that tropical weather which sometimes in July
and August brings the breath of Africa to London, and this coolness
resulting from the storm was very welcome. Then:

"Well, good night," I said, and was about to pursue my way when the
telephone bell in the police-hut rang sharply.

"Hullo," called the sergeant.

I paused, idly curious concerning the message, and:

"The Red House," continued the sergeant, "in College Road? Yes, I know
it. It's on Bolton's beat, and he is due here now. Very good; I'll
tell him."

He hung up the receiver and, turning to me, smiled and nodded his head
resignedly.

"The police get some funny jobs, sir," he confided. "Only last night a
gentleman rang up the station and asked them to tell me to stop a
short, stout lady with yellow hair and a big blue hat (that was the
only description) as she passed this point and to inform her that her
husband had had to go out but that he had left the door-key just
inside the dog-kennel!"

He laughed good-humoredly.

"Now to-night," he resumed, "here's somebody just rung up to say that
he thinks, only _thinks_, mind you, that he has forgotten to lock his
garage and will the constable on that beat see if the keys have been
left behind. If so, will he lock the door from the inside, go out
through the back, lock that door and leave the keys at the station on
coming off duty!"

"Yes," I said. "There are some absent-minded people in the world. But
do you mean the Red House in College Road?"

"That's it," replied the sergeant, stepping out of the hut and looking
intently to the left.

"Ah, here comes Bolton."

He referred to a stolid, red-faced constable who at that moment came
plodding across the muddy road, and:

"A job for you, Bolton," he cried. "Listen. You know the Red House in
College Road?"

Bolton removed his helmet and scratched his closely-cropped head.

"Let me see," he mused; "it's on the right--"

"No, no," I interrupted. "It is a house about half-way down on the
left; very secluded, with a high brick wall in front."

"Oh! You mean the _empty_ house?" inquired the constable.

"Just what I was about to remark, sergeant," said I, turning to my
acquaintance. "To the best of my knowledge the Red House has been
vacant for twelve months or more."

"Has it?" exclaimed the sergeant. "That's funny. Still, it's none of
my business; besides it may have been let within the last few days.
Anyway, listen, Bolton. You are to see if the garage is unlocked. If
it is and the keys are there, go in and lock the door behind you.
There's another door at the other end; go out and lock that too. Leave
the keys at the depôt when you go off. Got that fixed?"

"Yes," replied Bolton, and he stood helmet in hand, half inaudibly
muttering the sergeant's instructions, evidently with the idea of
impressing them upon his memory.

"I have to pass the Red House, constable," I interrupted, "and as you
seem doubtful respecting its whereabouts, I will point the place out
to you."

"Thank you, sir," said Bolton, replacing his helmet and ceasing to
mutter.

"Once more--good night, sergeant," I cried, and met by a keen gust of
wind which came sweeping down the village street, showering cascades
of water from the leaves above, I set out in step with my stolid
companion.

It is supposed poetically that unusual events cast their shadows
before them, and I am prepared to maintain the correctness of such a
belief. But unless the silence of the constable who walked beside me
was due to the unseen presence of such a shadow, and not to a habitual
taciturnity, there was nothing in that march through the deserted
streets calculated to arouse me to the fact that I was entering upon
the first phase of an experience more strange and infinitely more
horrible than any of which I had ever known or even read.

The shadow had not yet reached me.

We talked little enough on the way, for the breeze when it came was
keen and troublesome, so that I was often engaged in clutching my hat.
Except for a dejected-looking object, obviously a member of the tramp
fraternity, who passed us near the gate of the old chapel, we met
never a soul from the time that we left the police-box until the
moment when the high brick wall guarding the Red House came into view
beyond a line of glistening wet hedgerow.

"This is the house, constable," I said. "The garage is beyond the main
entrance."

We proceeded as far as the closed gates, whereupon:

"There you are, sir," said Bolton triumphantly. "I told you it was
empty."

An estate agent's bill faced us, setting forth the desirable features
of the residence, the number of bedrooms and reception rooms, modern
conveniences, garage, etc., together with the extent of the garden,
lawn and orchard.

A faint creaking sound drew my glance upward, and stepping back a pace
I stared at a hatchet-board projecting above the wall which bore two
duplicates of the bill posted upon the gate.

"That seems to confirm it," I declared, peering through the trees in
the direction of the house. "The place has all the appearance of being
deserted."

"There's some mistake," muttered Bolton.

"Then the mistake is not ours," I replied. "See, the bills are headed
'To be let or sold. The Red House, etc.'"

"H'm," growled Bolton. "It's a funny go, this is. Suppose we have a
look at the garage."

We walked along together to where, set back in a recess, I had often
observed the doors of a garage evidently added to the building by some
recent occupier. Dangling from a key placed in the lock was a ring to
which another key was attached!

"Well, I'm blowed," said Bolton, "this _is_ a funny go, this is."

He unlocked the door and swept the interior of the place with a ray of
light cast by his lantern. There were one or two petrol cans and some
odd lumber suggesting that the garage had been recently used, but no
car, and indeed nothing of sufficient value to have interested even
such a derelict as the man whom we had passed some ten minutes before.
That is if I except a large and stoutly-made packing-case which
rested only a foot or so from the entrance so as partly to block it,
and which from its appearance might possibly have contained spare
parts. I noticed, with vague curiosity, a device crudely representing
a seated cat which was painted in green upon the case.

"If there ever was anything here," said Bolton, "it's been pinched and
we're locking the stable door after the horse has gone. You'll bear me
out, sir, if there's any complaint?"

"Certainly," I replied. "Technically I shall be trespassing if I come
in with you, so I shall say good night."

"Good night, sir," cried the constable, and entering the empty garage,
he closed the door behind him.

I set off briskly alone towards the cottage which I had made my home.
I have since thought that the motives which had induced me to choose
this secluded residence were of a peculiarly selfish order. Whilst I
liked sometimes to be among my fellowmen and whilst I rarely missed an
important first night in London, my inherent weakness for obscure
studies and another motive to which I may refer later had caused me to
abandon my chambers in the Temple and to retire with my library to
this odd little backwater where my only link with Fleet Street, with
the land of theaters and clubs and noise and glitter, was the
telephone. I scarcely need add that I had sufficient private means to
enable me to indulge these whims, otherwise as a working journalist I
must have been content to remain nearer to the heart of things. As it
was I followed the careless existence of the independent free-lance,
and since my work was accounted above the average I was enabled to
pick and choose the subjects with which I should deal. Mine was not an
ambitious nature--or it may have been that stimulus was lacking--and
all I wrote I wrote for the mere joy of writing, whilst my studies, of
which I shall have occasion to speak presently, were not of a nature
calculated to swell my coffers in this commercial-minded age.

Little did I know how abruptly this chosen calm of my life was to be
broken nor how these same studies were to be turned in a new and
strange direction. But if on this night which was to witness the
overture of a horrible drama, I had not hitherto experienced any
premonition of the coming of those dark forces which were to change
the whole tenor of my existence, suddenly, now, in sight of the elm
tree which stood before my cottage the _shadow_ reached me.

Only thus can I describe a feeling otherwise unaccountable which
prompted me to check my steps and to listen. A gust of wind had just
died away, leaving the night silent save for the dripping of rain from
the leaves and the vague and remote roar of the town. Once, faintly, I
thought I detected the howling of a dog. I had heard nothing in the
nature of following footsteps, yet, turning swiftly, I did not doubt
that I should detect the presence of a follower of some kind. This
conviction seized me suddenly and, as I have said, unaccountably. Nor
was I wrong in my surmise.

Fifty yards behind me a vaguely defined figure showed for an instant
outlined against the light of a distant lamp--ere melting into the
dense shadow cast by a clump of trees near the roadside.

Standing quite still, I stared in the direction of the patch of shadow
for several moments. It may be said that there was nothing to occasion
alarm or even curiosity in the appearance of a stray pedestrian at
that hour; for it was little after midnight. Indeed thus I argued with
myself, whereby I admit that at sight of that figure I had experienced
a sensation which was compounded not only of alarm and curiosity but
also of some other emotion which even now I find it hard to define.
Instantly I knew that the lithe shape, glimpsed but instantaneously,
was that of no chance pedestrian--was indeed that of no ordinary
being. At the same moment I heard again, unmistakably, the howling of
a dog.

Having said so much, why should I not admit that, turning again very
quickly, I hurried on to the gate of my cottage and heaved a great
sigh of relief when I heard the reassuring bang of the door as I
closed it behind me? Coates, my batman, had turned in, having placed a
cold repast upon the table in the little dining-room; but although I
required nothing to eat I partook of a stiff whisky and soda, idly
glancing at two or three letters which lay upon the table.

They proved to contain nothing of very great importance, and having
smoked a final cigarette, I turned out the light in the dining-room
and walked into the bedroom--for the cottage was of bungalow
pattern--and, crossing the darkened room, stood looking out of the
window.

It commanded a view of a little kitchen-garden and beyond of a high
hedge, with glimpses of sentinel trees lining the main road. The wind
had dropped entirely, but clouds were racing across the sky at a
tremendous speed so that the nearly full moon alternately appeared and
disappeared, producing an ever-changing effect of light and shadow. At
one moment a moon-bathed prospect stretched before me as far as the
eye could reach, in the next I might have been looking into a cavern
as some angry cloud swept across the face of the moon to plunge the
scene into utter darkness.

And it was during such a dark spell and at the very moment that I
turned aside to light the lamp that I saw _the eyes_.

From a spot ten yards removed, low down under the hedges bordering the
garden, they looked up at me--those great, glittering cat's eyes, so
that I stifled an exclamation, drawing back instinctively from the
window. A tiger, I thought, or some kindred wild beast, must have
escaped from captivity. And so rapidly does the mind work at such
times that instinctively I had reviewed the several sporting pieces in
my possession and had selected a rifle which had proved serviceable in
India ere I had taken one step towards the door.

Before that step could be taken the light of the moon again flooded
the garden; and although there was no opening in the hedge by which
even a small animal could have retired, no living thing was in sight!
But, near and remote, dogs were howling mournfully.




CHAPTER II

THE SIGN OF THE CAT


When Coates brought in my tea, newspapers and letters in the morning,
I awakened with a start, and:

"Has there been any rain during the night, Coates?" I asked.

Coates, whose unruffled calm at all times provided an excellent
sedative, replied:

"Not since a little before midnight, sir."

"Ah!" said I, "and have you been in the garden this morning, Coates?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, "for raspberries for breakfast, sir."

"But not on this side of the cottage?"

"Not on this side."

"Then will you step out, Coates, keeping carefully to the paths, and
proceed as far as the tool-shed? Particularly note if the beds have
been disturbed between the hedge and the path, but don't make any
marks yourself. You are looking for _spoor_, you understand?"

"Spoor? Very good, sir. Of big game?"

"Of big game, yes, Coates."

Unmoved by the strangeness of his instructions, Coates, an
object-lesson for those who decry the excellence of British Army
disciplinary methods, departed.

It was with not a little curiosity and interest that I awaited his
report. As I sat sipping my tea I could hear his regular tread as he
passed along the garden path outside the window. Then it ceased and
was followed by a vague muttering. He had found something. All traces
of the storm had disappeared and there was every indication of a
renewal of the heat-wave; but I knew that the wet soil would have
preserved a perfect impression of any imprint made upon it on the
previous night. Nevertheless, with the early morning sun streaming
into my window out of a sky as near to turquoise as I had ever seen it
in England, I found it impossible to recapture that uncanny thrill
which had come to me in the dark hours when out of the shadows under
the hedge the great cat's eyes had looked up at me.

And now, becoming more fully awake, I remembered something else which
hitherto I had not associated with the latter phenomenon. I remembered
that lithe and evasive pursuing shape which I had detected behind me
on the road. Even now, however, it was difficult to associate one with
the other; for whereas the dimly-seen figure had resembled that of a
man (or, more closely, that of a woman) the eyes had looked out upon
me from a point low down near the ground, like those of some crouching
feline.

Coates' footsteps sounded again upon the path and I heard him walking
round the cottage and through the kitchen. Finally he reëntered the
bedroom and stood just within the doorway in that attitude of
attention which was part and parcel of the man. His appearance would
doubtless have violated the proprieties of the Albany, for in my rural
retreat he was called upon to perform other and more important
services than those of a valet. His neatly shaved chin, stolid red
countenance and perfectly brushed hair were unexceptionable of course,
but because his duties would presently take him into the garden he
wore, not the regulation black, but an ancient shooting-jacket, khaki
breeches and brown gaiters, looking every inch of him the old soldier
that he was.

"Well, Coates?" said I.

He cleared his throat.

"There are footprints in the radish-beds, sir," he reported.

"Footprints?"

"Yes, sir. Very deep. As though some one had jumped over the hedge and
landed there."

"Jumped over the hedge!" I exclaimed. "That would be a considerable
jump, Coates, from the road."

"It would, sir. Maybe she scrambled up."

"She?"

Coates cleared his throat again.

"There are three sets of prints in all. First a very deep one where
the party had landed, then another broken up like, where she had
turned round, and the third set with the heel-marks very deep where
she had sprung back over the hedge."

_"She?"_ I shouted.

"The prints, sir," resumed Coates, unmoved, "are those of a lady's
high-heeled shoes."

I sat bolt upright in bed, staring at the man and scarcely able to
credit my senses. Words failed me. Whereupon:

"Will you have tea or coffee for breakfast?" inquired Coates.

"Tea or coffee be damned, Coates!" I cried. "I'm going out to look at
those footprints! If you had seen what I saw last night, even your old
mahogany countenance would relax for once, I assure you."

"Indeed, sir," said Coates; "did you see the lady, then?"

"Lady!" I exclaimed, tumbling out of bed. "If the eyes that looked at
me last night belonged to a 'lady' either I am mad or the 'lady' is of
another world."

I pulled on a bath-robe and hurried out into the garden, Coates
showing me the spot where he had found the mysterious foot-prints. A
very brief examination sufficed to convince me that his account had
been correct. Some one wearing high-heeled shoes clearly enough had
stood there at some time whilst the soil was quite wet; and as no
track led to or from the marks, Coates' conclusion that the person who
had made them must have come over the hedge was the only feasible one.
I turned to him in amazement, but recognizing in time the wildly
fantastic nature of the sight which I had seen in the night, I
refrained from speaking of the blazing eyes and made my way to the
bathroom wondering if some chance reflection might not have deceived
me and the presence of a woman's footmarks at the same spot be no
more than a singular coincidence. Even so the mystery of their
presence there remained unexplained.

My thoughts were diverted from a trend of profitless conjecture when
shortly after breakfast time my 'phone bell rang. It was the editor of
the _Planet_, to whom I had been indebted for a number of special
commissions--including my fascinating quest of the Giant Gnu, which,
generally supposed to be extinct, was reported by certain natives and
others to survive in a remote corner of the Dark Continent.

Readers of the _Planet_ will remember that although I failed to
discover the Gnu I came upon a number of notable things on my journey
through the almost unexplored country about the head-waters of the
Niger.

"A most extraordinary case has cropped up," he said, "quite in your
line, I think, Addison. Evidently a murder, and the circumstances seem
to be most dramatic and unusual. I should be glad if you would take it
up."

I inquired without much enthusiasm for details. Criminology was one of
my hobbies, and in several instances I had traced cases of alleged
haunting and other supposedly supernatural happenings to a criminal
source; but the ordinary sordid murder did not interest me.

"The body of Sir Marcus Coverly has been found in a crate!" explained
my friend. "The crate was being lowered into the hold of the S.S.
_Oritoga_ at the West India Docks. It had been delivered by a
conveyance specially hired for the purpose apparently, as the
_Oritoga_ is due to sail in an hour. There are all sorts of curious
details but these you can learn for yourself. Don't trouble to call at
the office; proceed straight to the dock."

"Right!" I said shortly. "I'll start immediately."

And this sudden decision had been brought about by the mention of the
victim's name. Indeed, as I replaced the receiver on the hook I
observed that my hand was shaking and I have little doubt that I had
grown pale.

In the first place, then, let me confess that my retirement to the odd
little retreat which at this time was my home, and my absorption in
the obscure studies to which I have referred were not so much due to
any natural liking for the life of a recluse as to the shattering of
certain matrimonial designs. I had learned of the wreck of my hopes
upon reading a press paragraph which announced the engagement of
Isobel Merlin to Eric Coverly. And it was as much to conceal my
disappointment from the world as for any better reason that I had
slunk into retirement; for if I am slow to come to a decision in such
a matter, once come to, it is of no light moment.

Yet although I had breathed no word of my lost dreams to Isobel but
had congratulated her with the rest, often and bitterly I had cursed
myself for a sluggard. Too late I had learned that she had but awaited
a word from me; and I had gone off to Mesopotamia, leaving that word
unspoken. During my absence Coverly had won the prize which I had
thrown away. He was heir to the title, for his cousin, Sir Marcus,
was unmarried. Now here, a bolt from the blue, came the news of his
cousin's death!

It can well be imagined with what intense excitement I hurried to the
docks. All other plans abandoned, Coates, arrayed in his neat blue
uniform, ran the Rover round from the garage, and ere long we were
jolting along the hideously uneven Commercial Road, East, dodging
traction-engines drawing strings of lorries, and continually meeting
delay in the form of those breakdowns which are of hourly occurrence
in this congested but rugged highway.

In the West India Dock Road the way became slightly more open, but
when at last I alighted and entered the dock gates I recognized that
every newspaper and news agency in the kingdom was apparently
represented. Jones, of the _Gleaner_, was coming out as I went in,
and:

"Hello, Addison!" he cried, "this is quite in your line! It's as mad
as 'Alice in Wonderland.'"

I did not delay, however, but hurried on in the direction of a dock
building, at the door of which was gathered a heterogeneous group
comprising newspaper men, dock officials, police and others who were
unclassifiable. Half a dozen acquaintances greeted me as I came up,
and I saw that the door was closed and that a constable stood on duty
before it.

"I call it damned impudence, Addison!" exclaimed one pressman. "The
dock people are refusing everybody information until Inspector
Somebody-or-Other arrives from New Scotland Yard. I should think he
has stopped on the way to get his lunch."

The speaker glanced impatiently at his watch and I went to speak to
the man on duty.

"You have orders to admit no one, constable?" I asked.

"That's so, sir," he replied. "We're waiting for Detective-Inspector
Gatton, who has been put in charge of the case."

"Ah! Gatton," I muttered, and, stepping aside from the expectant
group, I filled and lighted my pipe, convinced that anything to be
learned I should learn from Inspector Gatton, for he and I were old
friends, having been mutually concerned in several interesting cases.

A few minutes later the Inspector arrived--a thick-set, clean-shaven,
very bronzed man, his dark hair streaked with gray, and with all the
appearance of a retired naval officer, in his well-cut blue serge suit
and soft felt hat; a very reserved man whose innocent-looking blue
eyes gave him that frank and open expression which is more often
associated with a seaman than with a detective. He nodded to several
acquaintances in the group, and then, observing me where I stood, came
over and shook hands.

"Open the door, constable," he ordered quietly.

The constable produced a key and unlocked the door of the small stone
building. Immediately there was a forward movement of the whole
waiting group, but:

"If you please, gentlemen," said Gatton, raising his hand. "I must
make my examination first; and Mr. Addison," he added, seeing the
resentment written upon the faces of my disappointed confrères, "has
special information which I am going to ask him to place at my
disposal."

The constable stood aside and I followed Inspector Gatton into the
stone shed.

"Lock the door again, constable," he ordered; "no one is to be
admitted."

Thereupon I looked about me, and the scene which I beheld was so
strange and gruesome that its every detail remains imprinted upon my
memory.

The building then was lighted by four barred windows set so high in
the walls that no one could look in from the outside. Blazing sunlight
poured in at the two southerly windows and drew a sharp black pattern
of the bars across the paved floor. Kneeling beside a stretcher, fully
in this path of light, so that he presented a curious striped
appearance, was a man who presently proved to be the divisional
surgeon, and two paces beyond stood a police inspector who was engaged
at the moment of our entrance in making entries in his note-book.

On the stretcher, so covered up that only his face was visible, lay
one whom at first I failed to recognize, for the horribly contorted
features presented a kind of mottled green appearance utterly
indescribable.

Stifling an exclamation of horror, I stared and stared at that ghastly
face, then:

"My God!" I muttered. "Yes! it _is_ Sir Marcus!"

The surgeon stood up and the inspector advanced to meet Gatton, but my
horrified gaze had strayed from the stretcher to a badly damaged and
splintered packing-case, which was the only other object in the
otherwise empty shed. At this I stared as much aghast as I had stared
at the dead man.

The iron bands were broken and twisted and the whole of one side lay
in fragments on the floor; but upon a board which had formed part of
the top I perceived the figure of a cat roughly traced in green paint.

Beyond any shadow of doubt this crate was the same which on the night
before had lain in the garage of the Red House!




CHAPTER III

THE GREEN IMAGE


"Yes," said Gatton, "I was speaking no more than the truth when I told
them that you had special information which I hoped you would place at
my disposal. Some of the particulars were given to me over the 'phone,
you see, and I was glad to find you here when I arrived. I should have
consulted you in any event, and principally about--that."

He pointed to an object which I held in my hand. It was a little green
enamel image; the crouching figure of a woman having a cat's head, a
piece of Egyptian workmanship probably of the fourth century B.C.
Considered in conjunction with the figure painted upon the crate, the
presence of this little image was so amazing a circumstance that from
the moment when it had been placed in my hand I had stood staring at
it almost dazedly.

The divisional surgeon had gone, and only the local officer remained
with Gatton and myself in the building. Sir Marcus Coverly presented
all the frightful appearance of one who has died by asphyxia, and
although of course there would be an autopsy, little doubt existed
respecting the mode of his death. The marks of violence found upon the
body could be accounted for by the fact that the crate had fallen a
distance of thirty feet into the hold, and the surgeon was convinced
that the injuries to the body had all been received after death, death
having taken place in his opinion fully twelve hours before.

"You see," said Gatton, "when the crate broke several things which
presumably were in Sir Marcus' pockets were found lying loose amongst
the wreckage. That cat-woman was one of them."

"Yet it may not have been in any of his pockets at all," said I.

"It _may_ not," agreed Gatton. "But that it was somewhere in the crate
is beyond dispute, I think. Besides this is more than a coincidence."

And he pointed to the painted cat upon the lid of the packing-case. I
had already told him of the episode at the Red House on the previous
night, and now:

"The fates are on our side," I said, "for at least we know where the
crate was despatched from."

"Quite so," agreed Gatton. "We should have got that from the carter
later, of course, but every minute saved in an affair such as this is
worth considering. As a pressman you will probably disagree with me,
but I propose to suppress these two pieces of evidence. Premature
publication of clews too often handicaps us. Now, what _is_ that
figure exactly?"

"It is a votive offering of a kind used in Ancient Egypt by pilgrims
to Bubastis. It is a genuine antique, and if you think the history of
such relics is likely to assist the investigation I can give you some
further particulars this evening if you have time to call at my
place."

"I think," said Gatton, taking the figure from me and looking at it
with a singular expression on his face, "that the history of the thing
is very important. The fact that a rough reproduction of a somewhat
similar figure is painted upon the case cannot possibly be a
coincidence."

I stared at him silently for a moment, then:

"You mean that the crate was specially designed to contain the body?"
I asked.

"I am certainly of that opinion," declared Inspector Heath, the local
officer. "It is of just the right size and shape for the purpose."

Once more I began to examine the fragments stacked upon the floor, and
then I looked again at the several objects which lay beside the crate.
They were the personal belongings of the dead baronet and the police
had carefully noted in which of his pockets each object had been
found. He was in evening dress and a light top-coat had been packed
into the crate beside him. In this had been found a cigar-case and a
pair of gloves; a wallet containing £20 in Treasury notes and a number
of cards and personal papers had fallen out of the crate together with
the cat statuette. The face of his watch was broken. It had been in
his waistcoat pocket but it still ticked steadily on where it lay
there beside its dead owner. A gold-mounted malacca cane also figured
amongst the relics of the gruesome crime; so that whatever had been
the object of the murderer, that of robbery was out of the question.

"The next thing to do," said Gatton, "is to trace Sir Marcus's
movements from the time that he left home last night to the time that
he met his death. I am going out now to 'phone to the Yard. We ought
to have succeeded in tracing the carter who brought the crate here
before the evening. I personally shall proceed to Sir Marcus's rooms
and then to this Red House around which it seems to me that the
mystery centers."

He put the enamel figure into his pocket and taking up the broken
board which bore the painted cat:

"You are carrying a top-coat," he said. "Hide this under it!"

He turned to Inspector Heath, nodding shortly.

"All right," he said, with a grim smile, "go out now and talk to the
crowd!"

Having issued certain telephonic instructions touching the carter who
had delivered the crate to the docks, and then imparting to the
representatives of the press a guarded statement for publication,
Inspector Gatton succeeded in wedging himself into my little
two-seater and ere long we were lurching and bumping along the
ill-paved East-end streets.

The late Sir Marcus's London address, which had been unknown to me, we
had learned from his cards, and it was with the keenest anticipation
of a notable discovery that I presently found myself with Gatton
mounting the stairs to the chambers of the murdered baronet.

At the very moment of our arrival the door was opened and a man--quite
obviously a constable in plain clothes--came out. Behind him I
observed one whom I took to be the late Sir Marcus's servant, a
pathetic and somewhat disheveled figure.

"Hello, Blythe!" said Gatton, "who instructed you to come here?"

"Sir Marcus's man--Morris--telephoned the Yard," was the reply, "as he
couldn't understand what had become of his master and I was sent along
to see him."

"Oh," said Gatton, "very good. Report to me in due course."

Blythe departed, and Gatton and I entered the hall. The man, Morris,
closed the door, and led us into a small library. Beside the telephone
stood a tray bearing decanter and glasses, and there was evidence that
Morris had partaken of a hurried breakfast consisting only of biscuits
and whisky and soda.

"I haven't been to bed all night, gentlemen," he began the moment that
we entered the room. "Sir Marcus was a good master and if he was
sleeping away from home he never failed to advise me, so that I knew
even before the dreadful news reached me that something was amiss."

He was quite unstrung and his voice was unsteady. The reputation of
the late baronet had been one which I personally did not envy him, but
whatever his faults, and I knew they had been many, he had evidently
possessed the redeeming virtue of being a good employer.

"A couple of hours' sleep would make a new man of you," said Gatton
kindly. "I understand your feelings, but no amount of sorrow can mend
matters, unfortunately. Now, I don't want to worry you, but there are
one or two points which I must ask you to clear up. In the first place
did you ever see this before?"

From his pocket he took out the little figure of Bâst, the
cat-goddess, and held it up before Morris.

The man stared at it with lack-luster eyes, scratching his unshaven
chin; then he shook his head slowly.

"Never," he declared. "No, I am positive I never saw a figure like
that before."

"Then, secondly," continued Gatton, "was your master ever in Egypt?"

"Not that I am aware of; certainly not since I have been with him--six
years on the thirty-first of this month."

"Ah," said Gatton. "Now, when did you last see Sir Marcus?"

"At half-past six last night, sir. He was dining at his club and then
going to the New Avenue Theater. I booked a seat for him myself."

"He was going alone, then?"

"Yes."

Gatton glanced at me significantly and I experienced an uncomfortable
thrill. In the inspector's glance I had read that he suspected the
presence of a woman in the case and at the mention of the New Avenue
Theater it had instantly occurred to me that Isobel Merlin was
appearing there! Gatton turned again to Morris.

"Sir Marcus had not led you to suppose that there was any likelihood
of his _not_ returning last night?"

"No, sir; that was why, knowing his regular custom, I became so
alarmed when he failed to come back or to 'phone."

Gatton stared hard at the speaker and:

"It will be no breach of confidence on your part," he said, speaking
slowly and deliberately, "for you to answer my next question. The best
service you can do your late master now will be to help us to
apprehend his murderer."

He paused a moment, then:

"Was Sir Marcus interested in some one engaged at the New Avenue
Theater?" he asked.

Morris glanced from face to face in a pathetic, troubled fashion. He
rubbed the stubble on his chin again and hesitated. Finally:

"I believe," he replied, "that there was a lady there who--"

He paused, swallowing, and:

"Yes," Gatton prompted, "who--?"

"Who--interested Sir Marcus; but I don't know her name nor anything
about her," he declared. "I knew about--some of the others, but Sir
Marcus was--very reserved about this lady, which made me think--"

"Yes?"

"That he perhaps hadn't been so successful."

Morris ceased speaking and sat staring at a bookcase vacantly.

"Ah," murmured Gatton. Then, abruptly: "Did Sir Marcus ever visit any
one who lived in College Road?" he demanded.

Morris looked up wearily.

"College Road?" he repeated. "Where is that, sir?"

"It doesn't matter," said Gatton shortly, "if the name is unfamiliar
to you. Had Sir Marcus a car?"

"Not latterly, sir."

"Any other servants?"

"No. As a bachelor he had no use for a large establishment, and
Friars' Park remains in the possession of the late Sir Burnham's
widow."

"Sir Burnham? Sir Marcus's uncle?"

"Yes."

"What living relatives had Sir Marcus?"

"His aunt--Lady Burnham Coverly--with whom I believe he was on bad
terms. Her own son, who ought to have inherited the title, was dead,
you see. I think she felt bitterly towards my master. The only other
relative I ever heard of was Mr. Eric--Sir Marcus's second cousin--now
_Sir_ Eric, of course."

I turned aside, glancing at some books which lay scattered on the
table. The wound was a new one and I suppose I was not man enough to
hide the pain which mention of Eric Coverly still occasioned me.

"Were the cousins good friends?" continued the even, remorseless voice
of the inquisitor.

Morris looked up quickly.

"They were not, sir," he answered. "They never had been. But some few
months back a fresh quarrel arose and one night in this very room it
almost came to blows."

"Indeed? What was the quarrel about?"

The old hesitancy claimed Morris again, but at last:

"Of course," he said, with visible embarrassment, "it was--a woman."

I felt my heart leaping wildly, but I managed to preserve an outward
show of composure.

"What woman?" demanded Gatton.

"I don't know, sir."

"Do you mean it?"

A fierce note of challenge had come into the quiet voice, but Morris
looked up and met Gatton's searching stare unflinchingly.

"I swear it," he said. "I never was an eavesdropper."

"I suggest it was the same woman that Sir Marcus went to see last
night?" Gatton continued.

The examination of Morris had reached a point at which I found myself
hard put to it to retain even a seeming of composure. All Gatton's
questions had been leading up to this suggestion, as I now perceived
clearly enough; and from the cousins' quarrel to Isobel, Eric's
_fiancée_, who was engaged at the New Avenue Theater, was an
inevitable step. But:

"Possibly, sir," was Morris's only answer.

Inspector Gatton stared hard at the man for a moment or so, then:

"Very well," he said. "Take my advice and turn in. There will be much
for you to do presently, I am afraid. Who was Sir Marcus's solicitor?"

Morris gave the desired information in a tired, toneless voice, and we
departed. Little did Gatton realize that his words were barbed, when,
as we descended to the street, he said:

"I have a call to make at Scotland Yard next, after which my first
visit will be to the stage-doorkeeper of the New Avenue Theater."

"Can I be of further assistance to you at the moment?" I asked,
endeavoring to speak casually.

"Thanks, no. But I should welcome your company this afternoon at my
examination of the Red House. I understand that it is in your
neighborhood, so perhaps as you are also professionally interested in
the case, you might arrange to meet me there. Are you returning home
now or going to the _Planet_ office?"

"I think to the office," I replied. "In any event 'phone there making
an appointment and I will meet you at the Red House."




CHAPTER IV

ISOBEL


Ten minutes later I was standing in a charming little boudoir which
too often figured in my daydreams. My own photograph was upon the
mantelpiece, and in Isobel's dark eyes when she greeted me there was a
light which I lacked the courage to try to understand. I had not at
that time learned what I learned later, and have already indicated,
that my own foolish silence had wounded Isobel as deeply as her
subsequent engagement to Eric Coverly had wounded me.

The psychology of a woman is intriguing in its very naïveté, and now
as she stood before me, slim and graceful in her well-cut walking
costume, a quick flicker of red flaming in her cheeks and her eyes
alight with that sweet tantalizing look in which expectation and a hot
pride were mingled, I wondered and felt sick at heart. Desirable she
was beyond any other woman I had known, and I called myself witling
coward, to have avoided putting my fortune to the test on that fatal
day of my departure for Mesopotamia. For just as she looked at me now
she had looked at me then. But to-day she was evidently on the point
of setting out--I did not doubt with the purpose of meeting Eric
Coverly; on that day of the irrevocable past she had been free and I
had been silent.

"You nearly missed me, Jack," she said gayly. "I was just going out."

By the very good-fellowship of her greeting she restored me to myself
and enabled me to stamp down--at least temporarily--the monster
through whose greedy eyes I had found myself considering the happiness
of Eric Coverly.

"I am afraid, Isobel," I replied, "that what I have to tell you is not
by any means pleasant--although--"

"Yes?" she prompted, noting how I hesitated.

"Although it means that you are now the future Lady Coverly."

The bright color left her cheeks. That some black tragedy underlay my
words she had intuitively perceived, but I could see that she failed
to grasp the whole meaning of my bald statement. She sank down slowly
into a cushioned chair, so that a beam of golden light pouring in
through the opened window set aglowing the russet tints in her dark
brown hair.

"Did you know Sir Marcus?" I asked, speaking as gently as I could.

With what intense, if hidden, emotion I awaited her answer it were
impossible to describe.

"Do you mean--"

She met my glance, and I nodded gravely.

"Oh, Jack! When did it happen?"

"Last night. But you have not told me if you knew him?" I persisted.

Isobel shook her head.

"Not in any way--intimately," she replied. "Eric"--she hesitated,
glancing up quickly and as quickly down again--"and he were not on
good terms."

"But you had met him?" I persisted; for I had detected in her manner a
reluctance to discuss Sir Marcus which I failed to understand.

"I used to meet him, Jack, when--when you were away. He came once or
twice with Eric. They were not good friends, even then. But I never
liked him. I quite lost sight of him from the time that he came into
the title--about four years ago, was it not?--until quite recently. He
had been in Russia, I think. Then he--" Again she hesitated. It was
odd how often people hesitated, as if seeking for words, when speaking
of the late baronet. "He called at the theater. Considering that he
knew of my engagement to Eric, his manner was not quite nice. But I
was anxious to prevent trouble, and did not mention the visit to Eric.
Sir Marcus was very persistent, however. One night Eric saw him
leaving the stage-door and I believe there was a dreadful scene at
Eric's rooms."

"And that is all you know of him, Isobel?"

"Practically all, except what I have heard, of course. I might add
that I instructed Marie to tell Sir Marcus I was engaged whenever he
might call in future."

"And did he call again?"

"Marie said that he sent his card up on several occasions, but she
knew how the affair worried me and did not tell me at the time. I saw
him in the stalls occasionally, and--oh!--"

The last word was a mere murmur. Isobel's expression grew more than
ever troubled.

"He was there last night," she whispered, and raising her eyes to me:
"Tell me how it happened, and where--"

But ere I had time to begin there was an interruption. Dimly, a
telephone bell rang. I could hear the voice of Marie, Isobel's maid,
answering the call then:

"Mr. Coverly to speak to you, madam," said Marie, entering the room.

"He must have only just heard the news!" cried Isobel, rising swiftly
and going out.

Consumed by impatience, I walked up and down the dainty apartment
listening to Isobel's muffled voice speaking in the lobby. Twice I
went to the window and peered down into the street, expecting to see
the thick-set figure of Inspector Gatton approaching. My frame of mind
was peculiar and troubled. Gatton's inquiries pointed unmistakably to
a suspicion that Sir Marcus's last hours had been spent, if not
actually with, at any rate near to Isobel. And since the man who would
most directly profit by the baronet's death happened also to be
Isobel's _fiancé_, I foresaw a dreadful ordeal for both if Eric
Coverly was not in a position to establish an alibi.

I had been about to ask her if Coverly had been in her company on the
previous night when the interruption had occurred. Now if Gatton
should arrive and find me in Isobel's flat, what construction would he
put upon my presence?

Yet again I went to the window and peered anxiously up and down the
street. Every cab that approached I expected to contain the inspector,
and I heaved a sigh of relief as one after another passed the door.
Pedestrians who turned the distant corner I scrutinized closely and
was so employed when Isobel came running back to the room.

All her color had fled and her eyes were wide and fear-stricken.

"Oh, Jack, Jack!" she cried, "it is horrible, horrible! Eric is at his
solicitors' and they tell him that suspicion is bound to fall on
_him_! It's preposterous--unthinkable. It must have been some fiend
who committed such a crime, not a human being--"

"Then," I interrupted excitedly, "Coverly was not with you last
night?"

"No! That is the crowning tragedy of it all. He 'phoned me early in
the evening saying that he had an unavoidable business appointment to
keep. From the tone of his voice--"

She ceased speaking abruptly, and stared at me rather wildly.

"Isobel," I said, "you should surely know that you can trust your life
to me--and the life of any one dear to you."

She quickly laid her hand on my arm and her face flushed sweetly. I
fear I had infused my words with an ardor which exhibited at an
earlier and more opportune moment might have changed the course of
both our lives.

"Of course I know, Jack," she said. "But I am so frightened that I
distrust my very self. Well, then, I thought that I noticed a change
in Eric's manner last night--in the tone of his voice. In fact I asked
him if I had done anything of which he had disapproved." She gave me a
quick little embarrassed glance. "He is somewhat exacting, you know.
He laughed at the idea, but in rather a forced way, it seemed. Then he
arranged to meet me for lunch at the Carlton to-day."

"But surely he can satisfactorily account for his movements? He must
have been seen by those who know him."

Isobel frowned in a troubled manner that awakened strange, wild
longings.

"I cannot make it out," she replied. "He appears to be keeping
something back."

"He is very ill-advised. He will certainly have to make up his mind to
speak out when Inspector Gatton examines him. I cannot disguise from
you, Isobel, that the police know that Sir Marcus was at the New
Avenue last night, and since his death occurred some hours later the
nature of their suspicion is obvious enough. Are you joining him at
the solicitors', Isobel?"

"Yes, he asked me to do so."

"Then come along at once. I expect a Scotland Yard man to arrive at
any moment and it would be advisable to see Coverly and to take a
legal opinion before you give your testimony."

"But, Jack!" Isobel confronted me. "You don't think that I or Eric
have anything to hide?"

"Certainly not. You must know that I do not think so. But on the other
hand, the legal mind being used to considering problems of evidence, a
solicitor will be able to advise you of the best course to adopt, and
that most likely to result in your being spared all association with
the inquiry. Meanwhile--let us hurry. I prefer to give Inspector
Gatton my own account of this visit rather than to be discovered here
by him. He will learn from Marie that I have called, of course, but
that doesn't matter."

We had now quitted the flat and were descending the stairs. On
reaching the street I glanced sharply to right and left. But Gatton
was not in sight.

I secured a taxi at the corner and Isobel set out for the office of
Coverly's solicitor. I stood looking after the cab until it was out of
sight and then I set out to walk to the _Planet_ office. By the time
that I had reached Fleet Street I had my ideas in some sort of order
and I sat down to write the first of my articles on the "_Oritoga_
mystery"--for under that title the murder of Sir Marcus Coverly was
destined to figure as the _cause célèbre_ of the moment. I had more
than one reason for reticence and indeed I experienced no little
difficulty in preparing the requisite amount of copy without involving
Isobel and Eric Coverly. Half-way through my task I paused, laid down
my pen, and was on the point of tearing up the pages already written
and declining the commission at the eleventh hour.

A few minutes' reflection, however, enabled me to see that the best
service I could offer to the suspected man (always assuming that he
had no alibi to offer) was that of representing the facts as I saw
them to the vast public reached by this influential journal. In my own
mind I had never entertained a shadow of suspicion that Coverly was
the culprit. Underlying the horrible case I thought I could perceive
even darker things--a mystery within a mystery; a horror overtopping
horror.

I had just resumed work, then, when a boy came in to inform me that
Gatton had rung up and wished to speak to me.

Half fearful of what I should hear, I went to the adjoining room and
took up the receiver. Presently:

"Hullo! Is that Mr. Addison?" came Gatton's voice.

"Yes, speaking. What developments, Gatton?"

"Several. I've got the report of the estate-agent and I've seen the
stage-doorkeeper of the New Avenue! You mustn't write anything until I
see you, but in order to regularize things a bit I've spoken to the
Chief and formally asked his permission to consult you on the
case--about the Egyptian figures, you know. He remembered you at once,
so it's all square. But I've got a bone to pick with you."

"What is that?"

"Never mind now. Can you meet me at the Red House at five o'clock?"

"Yes. I will be there."

"Good. I don't hope for much. It's the strangest case I ever touched.
We are dealing with unusual people, not ordinary criminals."

"I agree."

"If there is any man in London who can see daylight through the
mystery I believe you are the man. Do you know on what I think the
whole thing turns?"

"On some undiscovered incident in Sir Marcus's past, beyond a doubt.
Probably an amorous adventure."

"You're wrong," said Gatton grimly. "It turns on the figure of the
green cat. Good-by. Five o'clock."




CHAPTER V

THE INTERRUPTED SUPPER


I arrived at the Red House before Inspector Gatton. A constable was on
duty at the gate and as I came up and paused he regarded me rather
doubtfully until I told him that I had an appointment with Gatton. I
stared up the drive towards the house. It was not, apparently, a very
old building, presenting some of the worst features of the
mid-Victorian period, and from whence it derived its name I could not
conjecture unless from the fact that the greater part of the facade
was overgrown with some kind of red creeper.

The half-moon formed by the crescent-shaped carriage-way and the wall
bordering the road was filled with rather unkempt shrubbery, laurels
and rhododendrons for the most part, from amid which arose several big
trees. In the blaze of the afternoon sun the place looked commonplace
enough with estate agents' bills pasted in the dirty windows, and it
was difficult to conceive that it had been the scene of the mysterious
crime of which at that hour all London was talking and which later was
to form a subject of debate throughout the civilized world.

Gatton joined me within a few minutes of my arrival. He was
accompanied by Constable Bolton with whom I had first visited the Red
House. Bolton was now in plain clothes, and he had that
fish-out-of-water appearance which characterizes the constable in
mufti. Indeed he looked rather dazed, and on arriving before the house
he removed his bowler and mopped his red face with a large
handkerchief, nodding to me as he did so.

"Good afternoon, sir; it was lucky you came along with me last night.
I thought it was a funny go and I was right, it seems."

"Quite right," said Gatton shortly, "and now here are the keys which
you returned to the depôt this morning."

From his pocket the Inspector produced a steel ring bearing a large
and a small key which I recognized as that which had hung from the
lock of the garage door on the previous night.

We walked along to the garage and Inspector Gatton placed the key in
the lock; then turning to Bolton:

"Now," he directed, "show us exactly what you did."

Bolton replaced his bowler, which hitherto he had carried in his hand,
hesitated for a moment, and then unlocked the door.

"Of course I had my lantern with me last night," he explained, "and
this gentleman and myself stood looking in for a moment."

"Mr. Addison has already described to me exactly what he saw," said
Gatton. "Show us what you did after Mr. Addison left you."

Bolton, with a far-away look in his eyes betokening an effort of
retrospection, withdrew the key from the lock and entered the garage,
Gatton and I following. There was a sky window to light the place, so
that when Bolton reclosed the door we could see well enough. His
movements were as follows: Relocking the door from the inside, he
walked slowly along to a smaller door at the opposite end and with the
other key attached to the ring unfastened it.

"Wait a moment," said Gatton. "Did you look about you at all before
opening this door?"

"Only long enough to find where it was, sir. Just about as long as I
showed you."

"All right. Go on, then."

We followed Bolton out into a very narrow hedge-bordered path,
evidently a tradesman's entrance, and he turned and locked the door
behind him. Slipping the keys into his pocket, he tramped stolidly out
to the main road whereon we emerged immediately beside the garage.

"Ah," murmured Gatton. "Now give me the keys," and as the man did so:
"Throughout all this time did you see or hear anything of an unusual
nature?"

Bolton removed his bowler once more. I had gathered by this time that
he regarded fresh air as an aid to reflection.

"Well, sir," he replied in a puzzled way, "that first door--"

"Well," said Gatton, as the man hesitated.

"It seemed to open more easily just now than it did last night. There
seemed to be a sort of hitch before when it was about half-way open."

"Perhaps the crate was in the way?" suggested Gatton. "Except for the
absence of the crate do you notice anything different, anything
missing, or anything there now that was not there before?"

Bolton shook his head.

"No," he answered; "it looks just the same to me--except, as I say,
that the door seemed to open more easily."

"H'm," muttered Gatton; "and you carried the keys in your pocket until
you went off duty?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. You can go now."

Bolton touched his bowler and departed, and Gatton turned to me with a
grim smile.

"We'll just step inside again," he said, "so as not to attract any
undue attention."

He again unlocked the garage door and closed it as we entered.

"Now," said he, "before we go any further what was your idea in
keeping back the fact that one of the missing links in the chain of
evidence was already in your possession?"

"No doubt," I said rather guiltily, "you refer to the fact of my
acquaintance with Miss Isobel Merlin?"

"I do!" said Gatton, "and to the fact that you nipped in ahead of me
and interviewed this important witness before I had even heard of her
existence." He continued to smile, but the thoroughness and
unflinching pursuit of duty which were the outstanding features of
the man, underlay his tone of badinage. "I want to say," he continued,
"that for your cooperation, which has been very useful to me on many
occasions, I am always grateful, but if in return I give you
facilities which no other pressman has, I don't expect you to abuse
them."

"Really, Inspector," I replied, "you go almost too far. I have done
nothing to prejudice your case nor could I possibly have known until
my interview this morning with Miss Merlin, that it was she in whom
the late Sir Marcus was interested."

"H'm," said Gatton, but still rather dubiously, his frank, wide-open
eyes regarding me in that naïve manner which was so deceptive.

"All that I learned," I continued, "is unequivocally at your disposal.
Finally I may tell you--and I would confess it to few men--that Miss
Merlin is a very old friend and might have been something more if I
had not been a fool."

"Oh!" said Gatton, and his expression underwent a subtle change--"Oh!
That's rather awkward; in fact"--he frowned perplexedly--"it's damned
awkward!"

"What do you mean?" I demanded.

"Well," said he, "I don't know what account Miss Merlin gave to you of
her relations with Sir Marcus--"

"Relations!" I said hotly, "the man was a mere acquaintance; she
hadn't even seen him, except from the stage, for some months past."

"Oh," replied Gatton, "is that so?" He looked at me very queerly. "It
doesn't seem to dovetail with the evidence of the stage-doorkeeper."

I felt myself changing color, and:

"What, then, does the stage-doorkeeper assert?" I asked.

Gatton continued to look at me in that perplexed way, and believing
that I detected the trend of his reflections:

"Look here, Inspector," I said, "let us understand one another.
Whatever may be the evidence of stage-doorkeepers and others, upon one
point you can be assured. Miss Merlin had nothing whatever to do with
this horrible crime. The idea is unthinkable. So confident am I of
this, that you can be perfectly open with me and I give you my word of
honor that I shall be equally frank with you. The truth of the matter
cannot possibly injure her in the end and I am as anxious to discover
it as you are."

Gatton suddenly extended his hand, and:

"Good!" he said. "We understand one another, but how is Miss Merlin
going to explain this?"

He drew a note-book from his pocket, turned over several leaves, and
then:

"On no fewer than six occasions," he said, "I have approximate dates
here, Sir Marcus sent his card to Miss Merlin's dressing-room."

"I know," I interrupted him; "he persecuted her, but she never saw
him."

"Wait a minute. Last night"--Gatton glanced at me sharply--"Marie,
the maid, came down after Sir Marcus's card had been sent to the
dressing-room and talked for several minutes to the late baronet, just
by the doorkeeper's box, but out of earshot. That was at ten o'clock.
At eleven, that is after the performance, Sir Marcus returned, and
again Marie came down to see him. They went out into the street
together and Sir Marcus entered a cab which was waiting and drove off.
Miss Merlin left a quarter of an hour later."

Our glances met and a silence of some moments' duration fell between
us; then:

"You suggest," I said, "that Miss Merlin had arranged a rendezvous
with him and to save appearances had joined him there later?"

"Well"--Gatton raised his eyebrows--"what do _you_ suggest?"

I found myself temporarily at a loss for words, but:

"Knowing nothing of this," I explained, "naturally I was not in a
position to tax Miss Merlin with it. Possibly you have done so. What
is her explanation?"

"I have not seen her," confessed Gatton; "I arrived at her flat ten
minutes after she had gone out--with you."

"You saw Marie?"

"Unfortunately Marie was also out, but I saw an old charwoman who
attends daily, I understand, and it was from her that I learned of
your visit."

"Marie," I said, "may be able to throw some light on the matter."

"I don't doubt it!" replied Gatton grimly. "Meanwhile we have
sufficient evidence to show that Sir Marcus drove from the New Avenue
Theater to this house."

"He may not have driven here at all," I interrupted; "he may have
driven somewhere else and performed the latter part of his journey
here--"

"In the crate!" cried Gatton. "Yes, you are right; his body may
actually have been inside the crate at the time that you and Bolton
arrived here last night; for that would be fully an hour after Sir
Marcus left the stage-door."

"But who can have rung up the police station last night?" I cried,
"and what can have been the object of this unknown person?"

"That we have to find out," said Gatton quietly; "undoubtedly it
formed part of a scheme planned with extraordinary cunning; it was not
an accident or an oversight, I mean. The men who are assisting me
haven't been idle, for we have already learned some most amazing facts
about the case. I haven't yet visited the house myself, but I have
here the report of one of my assistants who has done so; also I have
the keys. The garage I will inspect more carefully later on."

He glanced quickly about the place before we left it, then, leaving
the door locked behind us, we walked along to the gate before which
the constable stood on duty, and from thence proceeded up the drive to
the front entrance. There was a deep porch supported by pillars and
densely overgrown with creeper. I noted, too, a heavy and unhealthy
odor as of decaying leaves, and observed that a perfect carpet of
these lay on the path. In the shade of the big trees it was
comparatively cool, but the heavy malarious smell did not please me
and I imagined that it must have repelled more than one would-be
lessee.

As we approached the porch I saw that the windows of the rooms
immediately left and right of it had been stripped of the agent's
bills, for I could see where fragments of paper still adhered to the
glass. There were no bills in the porch either; but when Gatton opened
the front door I uttered an exclamation of surprise.

We stood in a small lounge-hall. There was a staircase on the left and
three doors opened on to the hall. But although the Red House was
palpably unoccupied, the hall was furnished! There were some rugs upon
the polished floor, a heavy bronze club-fender in front of the grate,
several chairs against the walls and a large palm in a Chinese pot.

"Why," I exclaimed, "the place is furnished and the stairs are
carpeted too!"

"Yes," said Gatton, looking keenly about him, "but according to report
if you will step upstairs you will get a surprise."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, suppose we go and see."

Gatton led the way and I followed up the stairs as far as the first
landing. Here I paused in amazement. For at this point all attempts at
furnishing ceased. The landing was quite bare and so were the stairs
above it! Seeing my expression of incredulous surprise:

"Yes," said Gatton, smiling, "it's a strange arrangement, isn't it?"

We descended again to the furnished hall.

"Look here," continued my companion.

He unlocked a door on the left, having tried several keys from the
bunch which he carried without success, but finally discovering the
right one.

A long rectangular room was revealed, evidently intended for a
dining-room. It was empty and unfurnished, odds and ends of newspaper
and other rubbish lying here and there upon the floor. My astonishment
was momentarily increasing. A second door, that in the center, Gatton
opened, revealing another empty room, but:

"I have reserved this one for the last," he said: "you will find that
it is unlocked."

He pointed to the third door, that on the right, and as he evidently
intended me to open it, I stepped forward, turned the handle and
entered a small square room, exquisitely furnished.

A heavy Persian carpet was spread upon the floor and the windows were
draped with some kind of brightly colored Madras. Tastefully-framed
water-colors hung upon the wall. There was a quaint cabinet in the
room, too; a low cushioned settee and two armchairs. In the center was
a table upon which stood a lamp with a large mosaic shade. Two
high-backed chairs were set to the table--and the table was laid for
supper! A bottle of wine stood in an ice-pail, in which the ice had
long since melted, and a tempting cold repast was spread. The table
was decorated with a bowl of perfect white roses. The silver was good;
the napery was snowy.

Like a fool I stood gaping at the spectacle, until, noting the
direction of Gatton's glance, I turned my attention to the mantelpiece
upon which a clock was ticking with a dull and solemn note.

Standing beside the clock, in a curious carved frame, was a large
photograph of Isobel!




CHAPTER VI

THE VOICE


"This is where the mystery centers," said Gatton.

I made no reply, for I had not yet recovered from the shock of that
discovery in the deserted supper room. It was so wholly unexpected and
yet it so cruelly confirmed the Inspector's undisguised suspicions
that it seemed to me to have created a sort of impalpable barrier
between us. Of this Gatton was evidently conscious. He endeavored to
arouse my interest in the inquiries which he was conducting in the
garage, but for long enough I saw nothing of the place in which we
stood; I could only see that photograph smiling at me inquiringly
through a haze of doubt, and my companion's words reached me in a
muffled fashion. Finally, however, I succeeded in rousing myself from
this dazed condition, and confident as ever that Isobel was innocent
of all complicity in the matter:

"The presence of the photograph," I said, "takes us a step further.
Don't you see, Inspector, that this is a deeply and cunningly laid
trap? What I had taken for a series of unfortunate coincidences I
perceive now to be the workings of an elaborate scheme involving
perfectly innocent people in the crime."

"H'm," said Gatton doubtfully; "it may be as you suggest; at any rate
it is a new point of view and one which I confess had not occurred to
me. There is one witness who can clear up any doubt on the subject."

"You mean Marie?"

"Exactly. She will lie, beyond doubt, but we shall find means to reach
the truth."

"Would it not be advisable, Inspector," I asked excitedly, "to make
sure of her at once?"

Gatton smiled grimly, and:

"Marie would have to make herself invisible to evade Scotland Yard
now," he replied. "She is being watched closely. But," he continued,
"what do you make of these marks on the door?"

We had reclosed the garage door and now were standing immediately
inside. The marks to which my companion had drawn my attention were
situated high up near the roof.

"This may account for the statement of Bolton that the door seemed
more difficult to open last night than to-day," he said. "Unless I am
greatly mistaken, some sort of attachment existed here until quite
recently."

"Possibly a contrivance for reclosing the door?" I suggested.

The marks in fact roughly corresponded to those which would be made by
the presence of such a contrivance and there seemed to have been some
attempt where it had been removed to disguise the holes left by the
screws.

"But the purpose of it?" muttered Gatton helplessly.

"God knows," I said; "the purpose of the whole thing is a mystery
beyond me entirely."

"Assuming that such a piece of mechanism as you suggest had been
attached to the door," mused Gatton, "you would have noticed its
operation last night, unless one of you held the door open."

"Neither of us held the door!" I interrupted excitedly. "I remember
that we stood just outside looking in. I was behind the constable and
he was directing the rays of his lantern into the place."

"H'm," muttered Gatton. "Then it wasn't a contrivance for closing the
door; it was something else. Suppose we investigate the other door?"

We proceeded to the other door and I became aware of an intense
curiosity respecting what we should find, and of a conviction too that
there would be evidence here of another attachment. In this I was
quite correct. Some piece of mechanism had evidently been fastened to
this door also. Together we stood staring up at these tell-tale
screw-holes and then rather blankly we stared at one another.

"We only lack one thing," said Gatton; "the scheme upon which all
these contrivances and apparently isolated episodes were hung
together. Nothing, as we have already assumed, was accident, and
nothing coincidence. It was with some deliberate purpose that the
constable was instructed to walk through this garage, opening and
shutting the doors behind him."

"From whom did these instructions come?"

"That is one of the minor points which I have already cleared up," he
replied. "On my way here I called at the house agent's, as you know,
since I have the keys; I also called at the station. The sergeant who
was on duty last night I could not see, unfortunately, but I
learned--that it was a woman who rang up."

My heart sank lower and lower. It seemed to me as we stood in that
empty garage that an invisible hand was drawing a net closer and
closer about Isobel and my ideas became increasingly chaotic, for the
purpose of it all eluded me, try how I would to conceive of a scheme
by which any one could profit which necessitated the imprisonment, or
worse, of Isobel.

"And the agent?" I asked in a rather toneless voice.

Gatton shook his head.

"I have no reason to doubt the word of this man of business," he
replied, "because at the time when I saw him he could not possibly
have learned of the crime, but nevertheless his account is almost
unbelievable. It appears then, he, too, received his instructions
throughout by telephone."

"What?" I exclaimed.

"By telephone," repeated Gatton. "He was rung up about ten days ago by
some one who made a verbal offer to lease the Red House for a period
of twelve months. A foreigner, who in lieu of the usual references,
was prepared to pay the annual rent in advance. As the Red House, to
use an Irishism, was regarded as something of a white elephant, the
agent was interested, apparently; and when on the following day the
sum agreed upon arrived by post, he did not demur about delivering the
keys to the prospective lessee, who desired to take certain
measurements in regard to carpets and so forth."

"Wait a moment," I interrupted; "to whom did he deliver these keys?"

"To a district messenger who called for them, as the agent had been
advised that one would do."

"Very well. What then?"

"That is all that the agent had to say."

"What, that is all?"

"Substantially there is nothing more. It is quite evident that the
sole intention of this unknown lessee was to secure possession of the
house for the purpose of the crime only."

"Do you mean that from first to last no one but the district messenger
appeared in the matter?"

"No one," Gatton assured me, "and the rent, payment of which quite
disarmed the agent of course, was sent in the form of Treasury notes
and not by check."

"But surely some name, some address, must have been given?"

"A name was given," replied Gatton, "and a hotel address, but
confirmation of their accuracy was never sought, after the receipt of
the money."

"And the voice on the telephone?"

Again I saw that odd expression creep over Gatton's face, and:

"It was a woman's voice," he answered.

"Great heavens!" I muttered--"what does it all mean?"

That the evidence of the cabman when he was discovered and of the
carter who had taken the box from the garage to the docks, and (for it
was possibly the same man) who had first delivered it at the Red
House, would but tighten the net about Isobel, whom I knew to be
innocent, I felt assured.

"Gatton," I said, "this case appears to me to resolve itself into a
deliberate conspiracy of which the end was not the assassination of
Sir Marcus, but the conviction of Miss Merlin!"

Gatton looked at me with evident complexity written all over him.

"I begin to think the same," he confessed. "This business was never
planned and carried out by a woman, I'll swear to that. There is a
woman concerned in it, for at every point we come upon evidence of her
voice issuing the mysterious instructions; but she is not alone in the
matter. Already the intricacy of the thing points to a criminal of
genius. When we know the whole truth, if we ever do, that the crime
was planned by a man of amazing, if perverted, intellect, will be put
beyond dispute, I think."

"What is puzzling me, Gatton," I said, "is the connection existing
between the incidents which took place in this garage and those,
unknown at present, which took place in the furnished room in the Red
House."

"Obviously," replied Gatton, "a supper for two had been prepared, and
that one of those two was the late Sir Marcus is perfectly obvious.
That he expected the other to be Miss Merlin is at least suggested by
the presence of her photograph in the room; for you will have noticed
that it is the _only_ photograph there."

"Nevertheless," I said firmly, "I am positive that no one would be
more surprised than herself to learn of its presence."

"And as I have already said," replied Gatton, "I am rapidly coming
round to your way of thinking. But even if I were quite sure of it the
evidence at the moment is all the other way, you will admit. As to the
connection between this garage and the interrupted supper party (for
obviously it was interrupted) this it must be my business to find
out."

"Don't you think," I said, "that we are attaching perhaps undue
importance to the fact that some kind of fittings have been removed
from the doors? They may have been removed by the late occupier, and
the call to the police depôt may have been made with the idea of
securing a witness, and a credible one, to the presence of the crate
here on the night of the murder."

"At the moment," replied Gatton, musingly, "I cannot see that this
would have served any useful purpose; but nevertheless you may be
right. I am going to assume, however, that you are wrong, and that the
object of sending Bolton here last night was to open and shut these
doors. I propose now to return again to the scene of the interrupted
supper."

Leaving the garage not very much wiser than when we had entered it,
we paced once more up the drive in the shade of the big trees and
were greeted again by the malarious smell of rotting leaves. Entering
the Red House, Gatton and I proceeded first to that incredible oasis
in the desert of empty rooms and my companion made a detailed
examination of everything in the place, even sounding the walls,
examining the fittings of the door, and finally proceeding through the
hall in the direction of the south wing of the house--that nearest to
the garage.

What he expected to find I had no idea, but his attention seemed to be
more particularly directed towards the wainscot and the picture-rails
of the empty and uncarpeted rooms which we entered. Whatever he had
sought he failed to find, and at last we stood in a desolate apartment
looking out into the tangled shrubbery before the windows. The back of
the garage was visible from there and I viewed it dully, wondering
what evil secret it held, and marveling at the trick of fate which had
made me witness of an act in this gruesome drama.

"Of course, Gatton," I said, "we are all along assuming that Sir
Marcus actually met his death in this house. We must remember that he
may merely have been brought here after the crime."

"Such a short period elapsed," replied the Inspector, "between his
leaving the New Avenue Theater and the approximate time of his death
that it seems unlikely that he visited any intermediate spot."

"But he may not have been in the crate when Bolton and I saw it."

"I don't believe he was in the crate then," replied Gatton, "but I
think he was at the Red House nevertheless."

I stared at him with curiosity.

"You mean that he was in the house at the time that the constable and
I opened the garage?"

"I do. I think he was in that room where supper was laid for two."

"Good God!" I exclaimed; for there was something horrible in the idea
of the man who now lay murdered having been in the house presumably
alive, whilst Bolton and I had stood within forty yards of him; in the
idea that it had lain in our power, except for those human limitations
which rendered us ignorant of his presence, to have averted his fate,
perhaps to have checked the remorseless movement of this elaborate
murder machine which seemingly had been set up in the Red House.

"Some one was here last night," declared Gatton suddenly, as we turned
to leave the deserted room, "after you and Bolton had gone. Everything
incriminating the assassin has been removed. Looking at the matter
judicially, it becomes quite evident that any one clever enough to
have planned this crime could not possibly have been guilty of an act
of such glaring stupidity as that of accidentally leaving a photograph
planted upon the mantelpiece."

That this fact had presented itself to the Inspector with such a force
of conviction raised a great load from my mind. It had all along been
evident to me, but I had feared that to the official outlook of my
companion, and the official outlook is always peculiar, it might have
seemed otherwise.

"The clever and cunning villain who planned this thing," I said, "has
overstepped himself, as you say, Gatton. If the murder was planned
artistically, in his attempt to throw the onus of the crime upon
innocent shoulders he has been guilty of a piece of very mediocre
work. It would not deceive a child."

"No, I agree with you there. The discovery of that photograph has done
more to convince me of the innocence of Miss Merlin than any amount of
testimonials to her good character could ever have done. You see," he
added, smiling whimsically, "all sorts of people hitherto unsuspected
by their closest friends of criminal tendency, develop that taint, so
that I am never surprised to find a convicted thief or assassin
possessed of credentials which would do justice to an Archbishop. But
when I see an obviously artificial clew I recognize it a mile off.
Real clews never stare you in the face like that."

Coming out of the front door, we walked down the leaf-strewn drive to
find that the constable on duty at the gate had been joined by a
plain-clothes man who was evidently waiting to speak to the Inspector.

"Yes?" said Gatton eagerly, at sight of the newcomer.

"We have her, sir," he reported tersely.

"Does he refer to Marie?" I asked.

Gatton nodded.

"I think, Mr. Addison," he said, "I will proceed immediately to Bow
Street, where she has been taken to be interrogated. Will you come
with me or are you otherwise engaged?"

I hesitated ere I replied:

"I do not particularly want to confront this woman, but I should be
much indebted if you could let me know the result of your
examination."

"I shall do that without fail," said Gatton, "and some time to-day I
should be obliged if you could provide me with the facts concerning
the little cat-images which you said you had in your possession."

"Certainly," I agreed. "You are still of the opinion that the mark
upon the crate and the image of the cat-woman have an important
bearing upon the crime?"

"I don't doubt it," was the reply. "If the photograph clew is a false
one, the cat clew is a true one and one to be followed up. Perhaps,"
he added, "it would be as well if you returned now and looked out the
points which you think would be of interest, as when I come I may not
have long to stay."

"I will do so," I said, "although I think I can lay my hands upon the
material almost immediately."

Accordingly Gatton set off with the detective who had brought the news
of Marie's arrest and I, turning in the opposite direction, proceeded
towards my cottage in such a state of mental tumult respecting what
the end of all this would be and what it might mean for Isobel, that I
found myself unable to think connectedly; and needless to say I failed
to conjure up by any stretch of the imagination a theory which could
cover this amazing and terrible sequence of events.




CHAPTER VII

THE CAT OF BUBASTIS


"She belongs to the innumerable family of cats which suddenly came
forth from the ruins of Tell Bastah in 1878," I wrote, Sir Gaston
Maspero's "Egyptian Art" lying before me on the table, "and were in a
few years scattered over the whole world."

"She is Bâst, a goddess of good family, the worship of whom flourished
especially in the east of the delta, and she is very often drawn or
named on the monuments, although they do not tell us enough of her
myths or her origin. She was allied or related to the Sun, and was now
said to be his sister or wife, now his daughter. She sometimes filled
a gracious and beneficent rôle, protecting men against contagious
diseases or evil spirits, keeping them off by the music of her
sistrum: she had also her hours of treacherous perversity, during
which she played with her victim as with a mouse, before finishing him
off with a blow of her claws. She dwelt by preference in the city that
bore her name, Poubastit, the Bubastis of classical writers. Her
temple, at which Cheops and Chephren had worked while building their
pyramids, was rebuilt by the Pharaohs of the 22nd Dynasty, enlarged by
those of the 26th; when Herodotus visited it in the middle of the
fifth century B.C. he considered it one of the most remarkable he had
seen in the parts of Egypt through which he had traveled.

"The fêtes of Bâst attracted pilgrims from all parts of Egypt, as at
the present day those of Sidi Ahmed el-Bedawee draw people to the
modern fair of Tantah. The people of each village crowded into large
boats to get there, men and women pell-mell, with the fixed intention
of enjoying themselves on the journey, a thing they never failed to
do. They accompanied the slow progress of navigation with endless
songs, love songs rather than sacred hymns, and there were also to be
found among them flute-players and castanet-players to support or keep
time to the voices. Whenever they passed by a town they approached the
bank as near as they could without landing, and then, while the
orchestra redoubled its noise, the passengers threw volleys of insults
and coarse remarks at the women standing on the banks; they retorted,
and when they had exhausted words ..."

I finished my notes at this point; the improper behavior of the
Ancient Egyptians mentioned by the great Egyptologist having no
possible bearing upon the matter in hand, I thought. I then proceeded
to add some facts directly relating to the votive offerings laid at
the feet of the goddess.

"The greater number of pilgrims, before returning home, left a
souvenir of their visit at the feet of Bâst. It was a votive stele
with a fine inscription, and a picture showing the donor worshiping
his goddess; or a statuette in blue or green pottery, or if they were
wealthy, in bronze, silver, or sometimes gold: the goddess would be
standing, seated, crouching, with a woman's body and a cat's head, a
sistrum or an ægis in her hand. During the Greek period the figures
were in bronze or in painted or gilded wood surmounted by a cat's head
in bronze, many were life-size and modeled with elaborate art; they
had eyes of enamel and amulets on the forehead."

The learned authority went on to explain that these accumulated
offerings were after a time stored by the priests in cellars or in
pits dug expressly for them, "veritable _favissæ_ similar to those of
classical times." They accumulated in thousands, large and small, some
intact and fresh as when just made, others already out of shape and of
no value. The places of concealment were soon forgotten, and the
stores hidden therein reposed beyond the reach of men until the day
when the chances of excavation brought them to light.

My notes completed, I turned my attention to the little image of green
enamel ware which Gatton had left with me for examination. It was not
possible to determine the period at which it was buried, but judging
from the contours and general forms, together with the aspect of the
enamel, I thought I recognized the style of the second Saïte Period,
and attributed the piece to the early Ptolemies, or the fourth century
B.C. It was the time when the worship of Bâst and her subordinate
forms, Pakh, Maît, was most popular, the period when the most
extensive cemetery of cats was established in Egypt. The execution of
the little figure was pure Egyptian, and in no way betrayed Greek
influence.

So far had my studies proceeded when I heard the door-bell ring, and
Coates entered the room.

"Detective-Inspector Gatton to see you, sir."

Gatton came in looking if anything more puzzled than when I had left
him at the Red House; also I thought he looked tired, and:

"Mix yourself a drink, Inspector," I said, pointing to a side-table
upon which refreshments were placed.

"Thanks," replied Gatton. "I have not had time to stop for a drink or
even a smoke since I left you; but evidence is coming in quickly
enough now."

He helped himself to a whisky and soda, being an old visitor and one
used to the Bohemian ways of my household; then setting his glass upon
a corner of my writing-table, he dropped into the armchair and began
in leisurely fashion to fill his pipe.

Although the hour was growing late, sunset was still a long way off
and the prospect visible through the window was bathed in golden
light. From where I sat I could catch a glimpse of the tree-lined
road, and for the first time since that strange experience had
befallen me, I found myself wondering if the vaguely-perceived
follower whom I had detected on the previous night and those blazing
feline eyes which had looked out at me from beneath the shadow of the
hedge could have had any possible connection with the tragedy which at
about the same hour was being enacted in the Red House. I determined
presently to confide the strange particulars to my friend, but first I
was all anxiety to learn what evidence Marie had given; and that this
evidence, to which he had referred had done little more than to
increase Gatton's perplexity was clear enough from his expression.
Therefore:

"Tell me about Marie," I said.

Gatton smiled grimly, took a drink from his glass, and then:

"She began of course as I had anticipated, by denying all knowledge of
the matter, but recognizing that she was in a tight corner, she
presently changed her tactics, and although every available plan was
tried to induce her to change her ground, she afterwards stuck to the
extraordinary story which we first extracted from her. Briefly it was
this:

"The late Sir Marcus had been paying unwelcome attention to Miss
Merlin for a long time, and Marie had instructions that he was to be
discouraged as much as possible. In fact I am pleased to say that your
theory of Miss Merlin's ignorance respecting the murder plot is borne
out by the testimony of her maid. On several occasions, it appears,
when he sent his card to the dressing-room, Marie returned equivocal
messages and did not even inform her mistress of Sir Marcus's visit.
This had been going on for some time when one night whilst Miss Merlin
was on the stage a telephone call came for Marie and a certain
proposal was made to her.

"It was this: if on the following night Sir Marcus should present
himself she was to tell him that Miss Merlin would take supper in his
company after the performance, but that he was to observe every
possible precaution. Marie, according to her account, at first
declined to entertain the proposal, but being informed that it was
merely intended to play a practical joke upon the baronet, she
ultimately consented. I may add that the promise of a ten-pound note
undoubtedly hastened her decision and it was on her receipt of the
amount by post on the following morning that she determined to carry
out her part of the bargain.

"Her instructions had been explicit. She was to tell Sir Marcus that
Miss Merlin would see him after the performance, then when he
presented himself, to inform him that her mistress had decided it
would be more prudent for him to proceed to the rendezvous alone,
where she would join him in a quarter of an hour. She was to give him
the door key (which had arrived with the money) and to direct him to
enter and wait in the room on the right of the hall. A cabman who knew
the address would be waiting at the stage door."

Gatton paused, puffing slowly at his pipe, then: "Unknown to Miss
Merlin," he continued, "this scheme was carried out. Sir Marcus
presented himself at ten o'clock and received Marie's message; he
returned about eleven and she told him, as she had been instructed,
that her mistress would join him in a quarter of an hour. Curiosity
respecting the joke which she believed was being played upon the
baronet prompted her to go outside the stage-door to see if there was
actually a cab waiting. There was, and she heard Sir Marcus ask the
man if he knew the address to which he was to drive.

"The cabman replied that he did, and Marie claims to know no more
about the matter, except that Sir Marcus drove off in the cab, and
that her mistress returned to her flat alone about a quarter of an
hour later. Next point. Inquiries for the cabman have been made at all
the ranks since early this morning, and he turned up at the Yard about
a couple of hours ago. His story is simple enough; some one called up
the rank where he chanced to be standing that evening, instructing him
to call for Sir Marcus at the stage-door of the New Avenue Theater and
to drive him to--"

He paused:

"Yes?"

"To the Red House!"

"At last we have it!" I cried excitedly.

"There is no doubt of it," answered Gatton; "the cabman drove him
there, and it was certainly at the Red House that he met his death.
Indeed the cabby appears to be the last witness who spoke to the
murdered man. He inquired his way to the Red House from a chance
pedestrian, a tramp, whom he met at the corner of College Road. He has
even described this person to us, but I don't think his evidence of
sufficient importance to justify our searching for him. On reaching
the Red House the cabman and his fare found it to be vacant. Sir
Marcus, however, who had a very brusk manner with his inferiors,
having paid the cabman, curtly dismissed him, and the man, who admits
having bargained for a double fare for the journey, because it was
such an out-of-the-way spot, drove away vaguely curious, but not so
curious as another might have been, since London cabmen are used to
strange jobs."

"We are getting near the heart of the mystery."

"H'm," said Gatton, "I'm not so sure. The deeper we go the darker it
gets. A man has been scouring the neighborhood all day in quest of the
carter who delivered the crate to the docks, but so far without
results. I consider it a very important point that we should learn not
only how and when the crate was collected, but when and by whom it was
delivered at the garage."

"Another question," I said: "although I believe I know the answer. Was
it a man or a woman who ordered the cab?"

"Both in the case of Marie and in the case of the cab-rank," replied
Gatton, "it was a woman's voice that spoke."

"Thank God, one doubt is resolved!" I said. "It cannot possibly have
been Isobel in either of these cases!"

"Right!" agreed Gatton, promptly. "I am as glad as you are. There is
clearly a second woman in the case; yet I can't bring myself to
believe that this elaborate scheme was the work of a woman."

"Not of a _jealous_ woman?" I suggested.

"Not of any woman," he replied. "Besides--who put the body into the
crate? What kind of a woman would it be who could do a deed like
that?"

"In other words," said I, "you are still without a ghost of a clew to
the identity of the person who committed the murder, and to the means
employed?"

Resting his pipe upon an ash-tray, the Inspector took up from my
writing-table the little image of Bâst and held it up between finger
and thumb.

"We always come back to the green cat," he said slowly. "I will
trouble you now, Mr. Addison, for the history of such a little image
as this."

"Yes," I replied abstractedly. "But there is a matter about which I
have not spoken to you hitherto because quite frankly I had doubted if
it had any existence outside my imagination; but every new development
of the case is so utterly fantastic that I no longer regard my
experience as being in the least degree outside the province of
possibility. Before we go further, therefore, into the purely
archæological side of the inquiry (and I have still serious doubt
respecting the usefulness of such a quest) let me relate a peculiar
experience which I had last night after I had left Bolton."

Gatton listened in silence whilst I gave him an account of that
evasive shadow which I had perceived behind me, and then of the great
cat's eyes which had looked in through the window.

His expression of naïve wonderment was almost funny; and when I had
concluded:

"Well, Mr. Addison," said he, "if you had told me this story before I
had taken up 'the _Oritoga_ mystery,' for so I observe--" drawing an
evening paper from his pocket--"the press has agreed to entitle the
case, I should have suggested that your peculiar studies had begun to
tell upon your nerves; but this voice on the 'phone and this empty
house in which only one room was furnished, finally the green cat
painted on the packing-case and the green cat which stands there upon
the table have prepared me for even stranger things than your
adventure of last night."

"Yet," I urged, "there is no visible connection between the episodes
of the case and this strange apparition which I saw in the garden last
night."

"There was no visible connection between Sir Marcus's body in a
packing-case in the hold of the _Oritoga_ and the garage of the house
in College Road until we found one," retorted Gatton. "Anyway I am
glad you mentioned the matter to me; I will take a note of it, for it
may prove to provide a link in the chain. And now"--taking out a
note-book and pencil--"for the history of these cat things."

I sighed rather wearily as I crossed the room to my bookcase and took
down the volume of Gaston Maspero, the same which I had been reading
but had returned to its shelf as Gatton had been admitted.

"We have it here in a nutshell," I said.

Gatton methodically noted the passages which I read to him. The task
concluded:

"H'm," he muttered, scanning his notes, "very strange, very strange
indeed. 'She had also her hours of treacherous perversity, during
which she played with her victim as with a mouse, before finishing him
off with a blow of her claws.'"

He raised his eyes and stared at me strangely.

"She played with her victim as with a mouse," he murmured, "before
finishing him off with a blow--"




CHAPTER VIII

MY VISITOR


For long enough after Gatton's departure I sat thinking over our
conversation. Despite the lateness of the hour at which he had
departed, he had had no thought of rest and was setting out in quest
of further evidence to point to the author of Sir Marcus's death. The
room was laden with tobacco smoke, for our conference had lasted more
than two hours, but dusk was very fully established and when presently
as I sat there in the dark contemplating the horrible labyrinth into
which my steps had drifted, Coates entered.

"Ah, Coates," I said, "light up."

He switched on the electric light and I saw layers of smoke--clouds
drifting from the open window towards the newly opened door.

"Shall you be going out again to-night, sir?" asked Coates, standing
rigidly to attention as was his custom when addressing me.

"I think not, Coates," I replied. "I have done enough for one day, but
I should be glad if you would ring up the New Avenue Theater and
inquire if Miss Merlin will speak to me. It will be about time now for
the performance to have finished."

"Very good, sir," said Coates, and proceeded to make the call, whilst
I sat listlessly smoking and listening to his voice. Presently:

"Miss Merlin did not appear to-night, sir," he announced: "she is
indisposed."

"I thought as much," I muttered. "I could hardly have expected after
such a day of horror and excitement that she would have been capable
of appearing to-night. Ring up her flat, Coates," I added. "I should
like to speak to her, for I know she is in great trouble."

"Indeed, sir," Coates permitted himself to remark. "Is it something to
do with the discovery at the docks this morning, sir?"

"It is, Coates," I replied. "It is an utterly damnable business."

"Indeed, sir," said Coates again, and went to the telephone.

Three minutes later I was talking to Isobel.

"I find it utterly impossible to tell you what has happened," she
declared, "since I saw you last. I feel incapable of thinking, and of
course it was quite out of the question for me to go to the theater
to-night. But it is not so bad as it might have been." She hesitated,
then: "I was only able to give them very short notice unfortunately,
but from a selfish point of view, as you know--I was leaving the
stage--very shortly--"

"Yes," I answered dully, "I know; but have you seen the police?"

"I have seen Inspector Gatton," she replied; "but as he told me that
he was coming along to you, no doubt you know what took place."

"No," I replied; "he did not mention the visit, but you quite
recognize the fact, Isobel, that he does not regard you as being in
any way concerned in this ghastly affair."

"He was awfully kind," she admitted; "in fact I quite changed my
opinion regarding the methods of the police authorities after my
interview with Inspector Gatton; but although he was so extremely
tactful with me, I really cannot forgive him his suspicions, which he
was at scarcely any pains to disguise, regarding Eric."

"Regarding Eric!" I exclaimed.

"Oh," continued Isobel, "he may have concealed his views from you, as
he knows that you are--a friend of Eric's; but he was less careful
about concealing them from me. To all intents and purposes Eric is
under police surveillance!"

"But this is utterly incredible!" said I. "You don't mean to tell me,
Isobel, that Coverly has persisted in his silence respecting his
movements last night? If he has done so, in the circumstances he has
only himself to thank. Social position and everything else counts for
nothing when an inquiry concerning a murder is concerned. He knows
that perfectly well."

I think I spoke hotly, and certainly I spoke with a certain
indignation, for I very strongly resented Coverly's attitude in the
case, which could only add to the difficulties and sorrows of Isobel's
position.

Yet a moment afterwards I regretted that I had done so, for:

"Are _you_ going to quarrel with me, too?" she asked pathetically.

"What do you mean? Who has been quarreling with you?"

"Eric quarreled with me fiercely at the solicitors' to-day, and when I
begged of him to be frank respecting his movements last night, his
attitude became"--she hesitated--"almost unbearable. He did not seem
to realize that I was only thinking of him, nor did he seem to realize
the construction which I might have placed upon his silence. I mean,
Jack, what can he possibly have to conceal?"

Temporarily I felt myself to have become tongue-tied. What _could_ it
be that Coverly was concealing? The idea of complicity in the crime I
scouted; nothing could have induced me to believe it. Only one
explanation presented itself to my mind, as evidently it had presented
itself to Isobel's--another woman. However:

"You may depend," I said, endeavoring to speak soothingly, "that he
has some good and sufficient reason for this silence, and one which is
not in any way discreditable. Nevertheless he will have to reconsider
his attitude in the near future. Of course there are times when almost
every one of us would be hard put to it to establish an alibi if we
were called upon to do so--as regards witnesses of our movements, I
mean; but at least we can state roughly where we were during any hour
of the day, even if we have to trust to luck to find witnesses to
prove the truth of words. His attitude of silence, Isobel, is
ridiculous."

"Have you seen the evening papers?" she asked pathetically.

"Some of them," I replied.

"They have got my name in already," she continued, "and my photograph
appears in one. It is outrageous how they leap at an opportunity for
scandal."

"It will all be cleared up," I said, speaking with as much confidence
as I had at my command. "You know and I know that Coverly is innocent
and I don't believe that Gatton thinks him guilty."

A while longer we talked and then I returned rather wearily to my
chair in the room where the air was still laden with tobacco fumes.

Without believing it to contain any very special significance as I had
supposed, but merely attracted by the strangeness of the passage, I
remembered how Gatton had harped upon Maspero's description of the
attributes of Bâst. "Sometimes she plays with her victim as with a
mouse," etc. The big book with its fine plates, several of them
representing cats similar to that which Gatton had left behind for my
more particular examination, still lay open upon the table, and I
reread those passages appertaining to the character of the
cat-goddess, which I had marked for Gatton's information. Scarce
noting what I read--for all the time I was turning over in my mind the
manifold problems of the case--I sat there for an hour perhaps, in
fact until I was interrupted by the entrance of Coates.

"Shall you require me again to-night, sir?" he inquired.

"No," I replied; "you had better turn in now, as in all probability we
shall be early afoot to-morrow, Coates. Inspector Gatton will probably
be calling for me."

"Very good. Good-night, sir," said Coates; and performing a smart
about-turn, he walked out of the room.

I went on reading, not in quest of any particular information, but in
that idle mood when one reads anything, interesting or otherwise. For
a time I heard my conscientious batman fastening doors and windows as
was his nightly custom; then the door of his own room closed and I
heard him no more.

When I first became aware of the howling of distant dogs I know not;
but it was with a great start that I was aroused from my semi-reverie
by the ringing of the door-bell. I realized that I had sat much longer
than I had supposed. It was a quarter to one.

Gatton was my first thought; there must be an unexpected development
in the case calling in some way for my services. Coates was a sound
sleeper and evidently had not been awakened by the ringing of the
bell; therefore, arrayed as I was in pajamas, slippers and bath-robe
(for this, during the hot weather was my indoor costume) I walked out
along the little corridor, unbolted the front door and opened it.

A woman stood there.

For a moment I thought foolishly that it was Isobel, and my heart gave
a great leap. But the delusion was instantly dispelled when my visitor
spoke.

Her voice had a totally different tone from that of Isobel--it was a
low, almost caressing voice, with a vaguely husky note in it,
fascinating in a way, yet although I found myself unable to account
for the fact, vaguely uncanny--queer.

"Please excuse me," she said. "You will naturally wonder what has
brought a visitor to your door at this hour of the night, and indeed
my explanation is a strange one."

She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder as she spoke, out into
the darkness of the roadway. I observed that she was apparently in
evening dress and wore a very handsome cloak, having a thick silk
scarf so draped about her head and shoulders that her face was quite
concealed. Very clearly, now, I could hear the howling of dogs.

Instinct is a curious thing, and that which it prompted me to do at
the moment when I found myself confronting this strange woman was
promptly to awaken Coates! Honestly I was afraid of her and wished for
nothing better than to have the closed door between us. This was all
the more unaccountable as she had the appearance and manners of a
cultured woman, presenting indeed a figure of great elegance as she
stood there with her tall slender form outlined by the moonlight which
slanted down through the trees to form a scimitar of light upon the
path behind her.

Of course I could never have acted upon this singular instinct, but
the decision was taken out of my hands; for suddenly my visitor
uttered a low cry of fear, swayed dizzily and seemed about to fall.

Perforce I stepped forward to support her and before I knew what had
happened, she had tottered into the passage, resting heavily upon my
shoulder.

"Close the door!" she said in that low husky voice. "Quick! Quick! I
have seen them again!"

An unpleasant chill communicated itself to me.

"The eyes!" she whispered. "Two great eyes have followed me! That was
why I knocked at your door. I was afraid."

It was enough, the mention of two great eyes. Leaving my visitor
temporarily to take care of herself, I sprang to the door and closed
it hurriedly. As I turned, in the light from the partly open study
door I saw the woman walking slowly ahead of me. I overtook her,
holding the door fully open for her to pass in.

"Please sit down a while," I said. "You have evidently been seriously
alarmed."

Still there was no sign from Coates, whose voice would have been
welcome music to my ears, for I could not reconcile myself to this
woman's presence, strive how I might, nor could I understand how she
had come to be wandering alone in such a place at that hour. One bond
of sympathy there was between us. I could forgive any one fearing
those awful eyes, for I had feared them myself; and I could no longer
doubt that some strange apparition was haunting the vicinity.

"Believe me, I quite understand," I said, turning to my visitor. "It
is most extraordinary, but I believe there is some unusually large cat
frequenting the neighborhood at present."

I stood by the side table and was on the point of pouring out a glass
of water when the woman raised her white-gloved hand in a gesture of
refusal.

"Thank you," she said, "thank you, but I am quite recovered, and
indeed if the cause of my alarm is no more than a cat, as you say, I
will proceed."

She laughed, and her laughter was low-pitched, but very musical. In
the light of the shaded table-lamp I could see the gleam of white
teeth through her veil, but I could not imagine why she swathed
herself in that manner. Yet in spite of this enwrapping she could not
disguise the fact that she possessed remarkably large and beautiful
eyes. She seemed now to have recovered her composure, but I noted that
she made no attempt to remove her veil.

"Are you quite sure that you will not be nervous on your way?" I
asked.

"Oh, no. I am staying with some friends quite near," she explained,
detecting my curiosity; "and I was indiscreet enough to wander out at
this hour to post a letter."

Possibly this explanation might have satisfied me; it is even possible
that I should have thought little more about the incident at that time
when I lived in a constant turmoil of episodes even stranger, but by
one of those accidents which sometimes seem to be directed by the hand
of an impish fate, I was to learn who or what my visitor was. When I
say I was to learn what she was, perhaps I err; more correctly I was
to learn what she was not, namely, an ordinary human being.

It was as she rose to depart that the hand of fate intervened. I had
only one lamp burning in the room, a table-lamp; and at this moment,
preceded by a sudden accession of light due to some flaw of the
generating plant, the filament expired, plunging the room into
darkness! I stood up with a startled cry. I do not deny that I felt
ill at ease in the gloom with my strange visitor; but worse was to
come. Looking across the darkened room to the chair upon which she was
seated, I saw a pair of blazing eyes regarding me fixedly!

Something in their horrid, luminous watchfulness told me that my
slightest movement was perceptible to my uncanny visitor of whom I
could see nothing but those two fiery eyes.

What I did or what occurred within the next few seconds I am not
prepared to state in detail. I know I uttered a hoarse cry and threw
myself back from those dreadful eyes which seemed to be advancing upon
me. The cry awakened Coates. I heard the pad of his bare feet upon the
floor as he leaped out of bed, and an instant later his door was
opened and he came blundering out into the darkened passage.

"Hello, sir!" he cried, in a half-dazed voice. "Here, Coates!" I
replied, and my tones were far from normal.

Falling over a chair on his way, Coates came running into the study.
An impression I had of a flying shape, and the dimly seen square of
the open window (for that side of the cottage lay in shadow) seemed
momentarily to become blackened.

"Bring a light, Coates!" I cried. "The lamp has gone out."

"Matches on the table, sir," said Coates.

Instantly I remembered that this was the case, that they lay in fact
near to my hand. I struck one, and in its flickering light looked
about the room. My visitor had gone--palpably through the window, for
certainly the front door had not been opened.

"She has gone, Coates!" I exclaimed.

And on this occasion it was Coates who repeated in an amazed voice:

"_She_?"

But even as he spoke, my attention had become diverted.

I was staring at that portion of the table upon which Maspero's book
lay. Beside it had stood the little Bubastis statuette ... but the
statuette was there no longer!




CHAPTER IX

THE VELVET CURTAIN


"This gets me well out of my depth, Mr. Addison," said Inspector
Gatton.

We were standing in the garden at a point near to my open study
window. A small flower-bed intervened between the path and the high
privet hedge. It lay much in shade, and Coates had set tobacco plants
there. But the soil was softer here than elsewhere.

Clearly marked upon it were the imprints of little high-heeled shoes.

"It seems to take us back to the days of 'Spring-heeled Jack,'" my
friend continued; "which was before my time! I don't think _that_
mystery was ever cleared up?"

"No," I replied, meeting his questioning glance; "it never was,
satisfactorily. Therefore the analogy is an unfortunate one. But as
you say, it certainly looks as though my visitor had sprung across a
six-foot hedge!"

"It's absolutely mad," said Gatton gloomily. "Far from helping us, it
only plunges us deeper in the mire."

We returned to the study, and:

"You will have seen the daily papers?" asked the Inspector.

I nodded.

"Practically all of them. They give a hateful prominence to the name
of Miss Merlin."

"And to that of the new baronet--Sir Eric," said Gatton significantly.

I stared at him straightly.

"Do you seriously believe," said I, "that Eric Coverly had anything
whatever to do with the death of his cousin?"

Gatton stirred uneasily in his chair.

"Well," he answered, "ignoring everything else for the moment, who
else benefits by Sir Marcus Coverly's death?"

It was a poser--a question which I had dreaded because I had known it
to be unanswerable.

"He inherits the title," continued Gatton, "and on the death of Lady
Burnham Coverly he inherits Friars' Park. There is some clause or
entail, or legal hotchpotch whereby the estate and revenue remain hers
during her lifetime."

"But I understand the estate is mortgaged?"

"That I have to confirm, Mr. Addison," replied Gatton. "Sir Eric's
solicitor has no information on the point and that of Sir Marcus's man
of business is inexact. But even supposing that only the title is
concerned, many a man has lost his life for less. Then you have to
consider--Miss Merlin."

"In what way?" I demanded

"In relation to the attitude of Sir Marcus. Jealousy makes men (and
women) do strange and desperate things. The character of Eric Coverly,
the new baronet, is a very odd one."

"He is headstrong and in some respects weak," I admitted. "But
otherwise he is an ordinary English gentleman, with the traditions of
an old name and a public school to back him up. I tell you, Gatton,
it's nonsense. His army career alone shows him to be a sound man."

"Yes," murmured Gatton; "he was awarded a decoration for distinguished
service in Egypt."

That seemingly simple remark struck me with all the force of a
physical blow. Gatton began quietly to load his pipe, without even
glancing in my direction; but the covert significance of his words was
all too apparent:

"Gatton," I said--"what the devil are you driving at?"

He slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"What you may term the hocus-pocus side of the case," he replied,
"turns on matters Egyptian, doesn't it? Very well. Who else, that we
know about, is associated, or ever has been associated with Egypt?"

"But--the woman?"

"Ah!" said Gatton. "Now you are getting down to the depths. But
assuming that the extraordinary characteristics of this visitor of
yours can be explained in some way, by deliberate trickery, for
example, might she not be a woman whom Eric Coverly met in Egypt?"

I stared silently a while, and then:

"In short, a rival of Miss Merlin's?" I suggested.

"Precisely. The trick with the photograph was just of the kind one
would expect from a madly jealous woman. Everything planned with
supreme cunning, but the scene at which the hated rival enters the
scheme badly overdone."

"And you believe Coverly's silence to be due to the fact that he is
shielding some one?"

"Well, that or shielding himself. What else can it mean? A man
suspected of murder doesn't hesitate to establish an alibi unless he
is in a desperately tight corner. The exact position of your
strange-eyed acquaintance in the case is not apparent to me at the
moment, I'll admit, but I seem to have heard that there have been rare
instances of human beings with luminous eyes."

"Quite right, Inspector," I agreed; "I hope very shortly to have some
further particulars for you bearing upon this point. I am endeavoring
to obtain a work by Saint-Hilaire dealing with teratology."

"As to her extraordinary activity and agility," Gatton continued, "we
must remember that a privet hedge is not like a stone wall. I mean she
may not have actually cleared the whole six feet, and after all, this
is the age of the athletic girl. There are women athletes who can
perform some extraordinary feats of high-jumping. Of course, there are
still a number of witnesses to be discovered and examined, but I know
by now exactly what to expect. It's an ingenious idea, although not
entirely new to me.

"The whole thing has been managed by means of the telephone--a
powerful ally of the modern criminal. Briefly what happened was this:
The Red House--selected because of its lonely position, but also
because it was fairly accessible--was leased by our missing assassin
without any personal interview taking place. We have to look then in
the first instance for some one possessing considerable financial
resources. It was by the effective substitution of a year's rent--in
cash--for the more usual references, that our man--or woman--whom I
will call 'A' secured possession of the keys and right of entry to the
premises. A limited amount of furniture was obtained in the same
manner. We haven't found the firm who supplied it, but I don't doubt
that the business was done over the telephone, cash being paid as
before. Duplicate keys must have been made for some of the doors, I
think--a simple matter. We shall find that the furnishing people as
well as the caterer who later on supplied the supper were admitted to
the Red House by a district messenger or else had the keys posted to
them for the purpose.

"The whole business was built up around a central idea, simple in
itself: that of inveigling Sir Marcus into the prepared supper-room.
His attendance at the New Avenue Theater last night was doubtless
assured--although we may never prove it--by another of these
mysterious telephone messages, probably purporting to come from Miss
Merlin. The cold-blooded thoroughness with which 'A' arranged for a
crate to be delivered at the garage and for the body of the murdered
man to be taken to the docks and shipped to the West Indies,
illuminates the character of the person we have to seek.

"Discovery sooner or later was inevitable, of course. It came sooner
because of the accident at the docks. Had it come later I don't doubt
that 'A' would have dismantled the Red House again so that the
investigation would have been severely handicapped. As it is, the only
dismantling done was the most important of all."

"You mean?" I said with keen interest.

"The death-machine," answered Gatton. "The cunning device around which
all these trappings were erected. We don't have to wait for the
coroner's inquest nor the pathologists' report to know that Sir Marcus
was asphyxiated."

"In that room where supper was laid for two?" I muttered.

"Can you doubt it?"

"No," I said, "and I don't."

"I have allowed nothing to be touched," continued Gatton, "and I am
going around there now to make a final attempt to unravel the mystery
of how Sir Marcus met his death."

"There is one detail," said I, "which it seems impossible to fit into
its proper place in the scheme. The figure of Bâst painted upon the
crate--you have that at Scotland Yard--and the little image of the
goddess which was stolen from my table last night."

Gatton stood up, uttering a sigh.

"I have always found, Mr. Addison," he replied, "that it is these
outstanding features of a case, these pieces which don't seem to fit,
that are the most valuable clews. It's the apparently simple cases in
which there is no outstanding point that are the most baffling."

I laughed shortly.

"One could not very well complain of the lack of such features in 'the
_Oritoga_ mystery,'" I said. "As a confrère of mine remarked when the
body of Sir Marcus was discovered in the crate, the whole thing is as
mad as 'Alice in Wonderland'!"

Gatton presently departed for the Red House and I accompanied him, for
I was intensely curious to learn by what means the murder of Sir
Marcus had been accomplished. As I proposed later in the morning to
call on Isobel, Coates drove Gatton and myself as far as the Red House
and I instructed the man to wait for me.

Although the morning was still young, the prominence given by the
press to this sensational crime had resulted in the presence of quite
a considerable group of pilgrims who even thus early had arrived to
look upon the scene of the mysterious tragedy. London is a city of
onlookers. The most trivial street accident never lacks its interested
audience, and a house in which a murder is reputed to have taken place
becomes a center upon which the idly curious focus from the four
points of the compass.

Our arrival created a subdued excitement amongst the nondescript group
gathered upon the pavement. Despite the efforts of a constable on
duty, men, women and children persistently gathered before the gates
of the drive peering up at the empty house as if they anticipated
seeing the face of the murderer or an apparition of the victim appear
behind one of the windows. A considerable group, too, was gathered
before the garage, but as Gatton and I descended and began to walk up
the drive there was a general movement in our direction.

"I wonder," said I, "if 'A,' the wanted man, is among the crowd? One
reads that murderers are irresistibly drawn back to the scene of their
crimes."

"He may be," replied Gatton; "anyway there are two C.I.D. men there
for certain, so that 'A' will do well to be upon his guard."

A few moments later I found myself again in the lounge-hall of the Red
House; and the place now seemed to me to have taken on an air of
oppressive mystery. In the very deserted silence of the house I
detected something sinister. Of course, no doubt this was merely an
effect created upon my mind by the ghastly associations of the place;
but I know that whereas on the previous day surprise and curiosity had
been the most characteristic emotions aroused by our discoveries
there, this morning something darker seemed to have taken their place;
and I found myself listening for a sound that never came and wondering
vaguely and vainly, what secret was hidden in this desolate mansion.

By Gatton's orders the room in which that gruesome supper was laid had
been left undisturbed and once more we stood surveying the spotless
napery and sparkling silver. I listened to the ticking of the clock
upon the mantelpiece and stared dully at the wine resting in the
ice-pail which now contained nothing but dirty water. A big dish of
fruit stood upon the table, peaches and apricots and nectarines; and
several large wasps had entered through one of the windows which some
one had opened, and were buzzing sleepily around the dish.
Lastly--there beside the clock stood Isobel's photograph.

For any evidence of a struggle I looked in vain, but the nature of my
companion's investigation was more obscure. Again the whole of his
attention seemed to be directed upon the wall, the window-ledges and
the door-frame. Suddenly:

"Ah," I said, "I know what you are looking for! Some connection
between this room and the garage?"

Gatton, who was kneeling examining a lower panel of the door, looked
up with a grim smile.

"Perhaps I am," he replied.

By the tone of his voice I knew that whatever he had sought he had
failed once more to find. Presently, desisting from this quest of his,
he stood and stared curiously for some time at a recess immediately
behind one of the high-backed chairs drawn up to the supper table. We
had already explored this recess and had found it to be vacant. Gatton
advanced towards it and drew aside the curtain which was draped in the
opening.

It was a recess about four feet wide by three deep and it contained
nothing in the nature of furniture or ornament.

"Does anything strike you as curious about this arrangement?" said my
companion.

I looked for a long time, but failed to detect anything of a notable
nature.

"Nothing," I said, "except that it seems a peculiar idea to drape a
curtain before a recess in that way."

"And such a curtain!" said Gatton, fingering the texture.

I in turn touched the material with my fingers and found it to be an
extremely heavy velvet. Looking upward, I noticed that it was attached
to a rod set so high in the wall on either side that the top of the
drapery actually touched the ceiling.

"Well," said Gatton, looking at me oddly, "in addition to the texture
of the curtain do you notice anything else?"

"No," I confessed.

"Well," he continued, "you may remember that yesterday when I examined
this place, I had to drape the curtain over a chair, which I moved
here for the purpose, in order to see the recess."

"So you did," I said; "I remember."

"Well, doesn't it strike you as odd? If you'll notice the way it is
fastened above, you will see that it is not upon rings. In other words
it is not intended to be opened. You see that it is in one piece so
that anybody having occasion to enter the recess would have to lift it
aside and let it fall to behind him."

I studied the arrangement of the drapings more closely and saw that
his statement was correct; also I saw something else, and:

"This room has been lighted by gas at some time!" I cried. "Here, up
under the picture-rail, is a plug."

"Most houses are provided both with gas and electric light about
here," replied Gatton abstractedly.

But even before he had finished speaking I saw his expression change,
and in a moment he had dragged a chair into the recess.

"Hold the curtain back," he directed sharply.

Standing on the chair, he began to examine the little brass plug to
which I had drawn his attention. For some time I watched him in
silence, and then:

"What do you think you have found?" I inquired.

He glanced down over his shoulder.

"I think I have found a _clew_!" he replied.




CHAPTER X

"HANGING EVIDENCE"


Isobel came into the room and approached the chair from which I had
arisen. In her plain morning frock, with the sun bringing out those
wonderful russet tints in her hair, but having that frightened look
still in her eyes, she had never seemed more beautiful. Yet I saw as I
rose to greet her that she was laboring under the influence of
dangerous nervous excit