The Lost Million

by William Le Queux

style in French inns, while when weascended to our rooms we found the same bareness and cleanlinesspervading.

  My window looked out upon the village street. The floor was carpetlessand polished, the bed an old-fashioned wooden one, and besides a chair,a chest of drawers, and a washstand, the only other furniture was ajapanned iron stand of hooks upon which to hang coats--that articlewhich is common in every hotel from Archangel to Reggio, and fromEkaterinburg to Lisbon.

  After a wash, we met below and strolled about the village, which, threehundred kilometres distant from Paris, and two hundred from Lyons, was,we found, a charming old-world place, once important, but now, alas!decayed and forgotten in the mad hurry of our modern world. In theheart of the wine-country, with the vines in lines with great regularityeverywhere, it is still a place with a certain amount of commerce, butsurely not so important or busy as in the days when on an average twohundred travelling coaches passed through daily.

  We idled in the old courtyard watching Harris making his repairs, andafter a final smoke upon the bench outside, we all retired about teno'clock, at which hour the whole village seemed already in profoundslumber.

  Shaw's room was, I found, next to mine, but the communicating door wasshut and bolted, while Asta was at the farther end of the corridor. Thelong journey and the fresh air had caused a great drowsiness to overcomeme, and I was exceedingly glad to turn in. A peal of old bells wereclanging somewhere as I blew out my candle, and a few minutes later Imust have dropped off to sleep.

  How long I slept I know not, but I awoke suddenly by feeling a strangetouch upon my cheek, soft, almost imperceptible, yet chilly--a peculiarfeeling that I cannot adequately describe. The contact, whatever itwas, thrilled me, and as I opened my eyes I saw the grey light of dawnwas just appearing. My face was towards the window, and as I looked Isaw distinctly upon my pillow the silhouette of a dark and shadowyhand--a hand with weird, claw-like fingers.

  Startled, I sat up in bed, but when I looked it had vanished.

  It was as though the hand of the Angel of Death himself had touched me!At that instant I recollected the words written by Melvill Arnold beforehe died.

  Holding my breath, and wondering at first whether I had not beendreaming, I looked about me. But there was nothing--absolutely nothing.

  My first impulse was to shout, alarm Shaw, and tell him of my uncannyexperience, but I could hear him snoring soundly in the adjoining room.So I crept out of bed and examined the communicating door. It was stillbolted, just as I had left it.

  Yet I still recollected most distinctly that touch upon my cheek. And Istill had the black silhouette of that phantom hand photographedindelibly upon my memory.

  I tried to persuade myself that the incident was but a mere chimera ofmy overwrought imagination, but, alas! to no avail.

  I had actually seen Something with my own eyes!

  But what could that weird Something have been?

  Of what evil had Melvill Arnold desired to warn me when he had scrawledthose curious final words before expiring?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

  A FURTHER PROBLEM.

  I had seen the sign of the Hand against which Melvill Arnold had warnedme with final effort before he expired.

  I could not close my eyes again. Thoroughly awakened, I lay trying toconvince myself that it was but a bad dream. Yet so distinct had beenthat touch, that I still felt the repulsive contact that had thrilled meand left upon me such a lasting impression.

  In the uncertain light of early morning one's brain is often full ofweird fancies, and as I lay there wondering, a thousand curious unrealconjectures floated through my mind.

  I was not old, yet in my life I had probably travelled more, and seenmore, than most men of my age. Of little love affairs I had had, ofcourse, one or two. None of them had been serious--none, until thepresent.

  Yes, I may as well here confess it. I loved Asta Seymour.

  From the first moment that she had met me in that lonely country road,and I had sat by her side in the car, she had exercised over me astrange and fatal fascination. I found myself beneath the spell of herbewitching beauty.

  I was drawn towards her by some strange, irresistible, unknown power--drawn to her as the moth is drawn towards the candle.

  Fascinated alike by the mystery surrounding her foster-father and by hersweet pensive face, I had been constantly in her company. My thoughtswere ever of her, to the oblivion of all else in the world. She was allin all to me, and I was now involuntarily her slave, so entangled had Ibecome in the net of her sweet and wondrous charm. Ah yes! I lovedher--loved her with all the strength of my being, with all the passionof my soul.

  But I had not spoken. My secret was as yet my own.

  Nevertheless, it was in order to be near her that I, like Nicholson, hadaccepted Shaw's invitation; in order also to protect her, for, knowingwhat I did of the man's peril of arrest, I had been seized by a strangepresage of evil that might befall her.

  I lay awake, listening to the clanging of the old bells of a monasterynear by, and thinking it all over. Yes, in those few weeks I had grownto love her, even though she undoubtedly was in possession of somestrange if not guilty secret.

  Yet how could I reveal my heart to her while recollections of poor Guystill, filled her mind? No, I must wait and watch in patience, my hearttortured constantly by the burning fires of unspoken love.

  Thinking, reflecting, pondering, resolving, I still lay there, whensuddenly I became conscious that my friend in the adjoining room was nolonger snoring.

  I heard a curious sound. He gave a quick, loud gasp, as though ofalarm, followed by a murmured growl. Was he speaking in his sleep? Ilistened attentively until my ears caught another sound. He had risenand was moving about his room.

  I was rather pleased than otherwise, for it relieved the tension, and Ibreathed more freely. The apparition of that claw-like hand before myface had, I believe, somewhat upset my nerves.

  "Is that you, Shaw?" I called out, but there was no response.

  All was quiet. The movement in the adjoining room had ceased.

  Already I had satisfied myself that nobody could enter my room, bothdoors being bolted on the inside, but I slipped again out of bed, and,going to the communicating door, rapped upon it, crying--

  "Shaw! Shaw! Are you asleep?"

  "Hulloa?" growled a sleepy voice. "Why, what's up, eh?"

  "Nothing," I laughed. "Are you still in bed?"

  "Of course I am, why? What's the matter? Anything wrong?"

  "No, nothing," I replied. "Only I heard you groaning, that's all.Talking in your sleep, I expect."

  "I--I didn't know," he said. "Sorry, Kemball, if I disturbed you."

  "All right," I laughed, and then returned to bed again.

  I pondered over the fact that while he certainly had been upon, hisfeet--for I distinctly heard the creaking of the beeswaxed boards--amoment before I called, yet he made pretence of being asleep. The onlyexplanation was that, while asleep, he had got out of bed, a not unusualcircumstance with some people, and with that surmise I had to becontent.

  Truly, that night had been fraught with a strange inexplicable terror.Though dawn spread slowly, and from where I lay I could see the firstflush of crimson in the sky heralding the sun's coming, yet I could notrid myself of that phantom hand, those thin skeleton fingers that hadtouched my cheek and left a chilly impression upon it.

  I rose and looked into the tiny oval toilet-glass, startled when I sawevidence that my experience was an actual tangible one.

  Upon my left cheek was a faint red mark, almost like a scratch, wherethe chilly hand had touched me!

  Carefully I examined it, but there seemed no abrasion of the skin. Bythe deadly contact it had been irritated, inflamed--seared, it seemed,by the chill finger of the dreaded Unknown.

  Moving without a sound, so as not to attract Shaw's attention, I made aminute survey of the apartment, examining the walls to assure myself ofno hidden doorwa
y such as are common in old houses of that description.But there was none. The only modes of ingress were both securely lockedand bolted.

  Soon after six o'clock I dressed and went out. I could remain in thatchamber no longer. I wandered through the quaint old village, alreadyagog, for Arnay-le-Duc retires early and is astir with the rising of thesun. Ascending the hill, I had a look at the round frowning towers ofthe ancient stronghold of the Counts d'Arnay, now, alas! grey,weather-beaten, and ruined. In them a last stand was made by a party ofthe 79th Regiment of Infantry against the Prussians in 1870, when thelatter brought some field-pieces to bear upon the place and completedthe ruin which time had long ago begun. Part of the village hadafterwards been burned by the enemy, who had already devastated thewhole of the smiling countryside of the Cote d'Or, and laid bare thevalley of the Yonne with fire and sword.

  As I stood beneath the battered walls where great ugly holes showed asmute evidence of the destruction wrought by the German guns, a