The Wiles of the Wicked

by William Le Queux

theabrasion of the skin was, I discovered, only slight.

  At first my brain was confused and puzzled, as though my dulled senseswere wrapped in cotton wool. At a loss to account for the time that hadelapsed, I lay upon the carpet just as I was, in vague, ignorantwonderment. My eyes, dazzled by the bright sunlight, pained me, and Iclosed them. Perhaps I dozed. Of that I am not quite sure. All I knowis that when I opened my eyes again the pain in my head seemed better,and my senses seemed gradually to recognise, appreciate, and perceive.

  I was lying on my side upon the carpet, and slowly, with a carefuleffort involuntarily made by the march of intellect, I gazed around me.

  The place was unfamiliar--utterly unfamiliar. I wondered if I wereactually dreaming. I felt my head, and again glanced at my hand. No.There was sufficient proof that my skull had been injured, and that Iwas lying alone in that room with the bar of sunlight slanting straightbefore my eyes.

  Gradually, and not without considerable difficulty--for I was stillhalf-dazed--I made out the objects about me, and became aware of mysurroundings.

  My eyes were amazed at every turn. Whereas Hickman's apartment was adirty, shabby lodging-house sitting-room of that stereotyped kind sowell known to Londoners, the place wherein I found myself was a ratherlarge, handsomely furnished drawing-room, the two long windows of whichopened out upon a wide lawn, with a park and a belt of high trees farbeyond. From where I was I could see a wealth of roses, and across thelawn I saw the figure of a woman in a white summer blouse.

  The carpet whereon I was stretched was soft and rich, the furniture wasof ebony, with gilt ornamentations--I think French, of the Empireperiod--while close to me was a grand piano, and upon a chair beside ita woman's garden hat.

  I looked at that hat critically. It belonged to a young woman, nodoubt, for it was big and floppy, of soft yellow straw, with cherries,and had strings to tie beneath the chin. I pictured its owner as prettyand attractive.

  About that room there were screens from Cairo, little inlaidcoffee-tables from Algiers, quaint wood-carvings of the Madonna beneathglass shades, fashioned by the peasants of Central Russia, Italianstatuary, and modern French paintings. The room seemed almost a museumof souvenirs of cosmopolitan travel. Whoever was its owner, heevidently knew the value of _bric-a-brac_, and had picked up hiscollection in cities far afield.

  The door was closed, and over it hung a rich _portiere_ of dark-blueplush edged with gold. The sculptured over-mantel, in white marble,was, I quickly detected, a replica of one I had seen and admired in theBargello, in Florence. One object, however, aroused my wonder. It waslying on the floor straight before me, an object in white marble, thesculptured arm of a woman with the index-finger outstretched. The limbwas of life-size proportions, and had apparently been broken off at theelbow.

  I staggered unevenly to my feet, in order to further pursue myinvestigations, and then I saw, upon a pedestal close to me, the marblefigure of a Phryne with its arm broken.

  In the centre of that handsome apartment I stood and gazed wonderinglyaround. My transition from that bizarre sitting-room in Chelsea to thishouse, evidently in the country, had been effected in a manner beyondcomprehension. My surprising surroundings caused my weakened brain toreel again. I was without hat or overcoat, and as I glanced down at mytrousers they somehow did not seem to be the same that I had beenwearing on the previous night.

  Instinctively I felt that only by some extraordinary and mysteriousmeans could I have been conveyed from that close-smelling lodging inChelsea to this country mansion. The problem uppermost in my mind wasthe identity of the place where I had thus found myself on recovering mysenses, and how I got there.

  My eyes fell upon the push of an electric-bell. My position, lyingthere injured upon the carpet, demanded explanation, and without furtherhesitation I walked across and pressed the ivory button.

  I heard no sound. The bell must have rung far away, and this gave methe idea that the house was a large one.

  Intently I listened, and a few minutes later heard a footstep. The dooropened, and an elderly man-servant, with grey whiskers, appeared in theentry asking--"Did you ring, sir?"

  "Yes," I answered. "Will you kindly inform me where I am?"

  He regarded me with a strange, puzzled expression, and then, in alarm,he rushed forward to me, crying--"Why, sir! You've hurt your head!Look! You're covered with blood!"

  His grey face was pale, and for an instant he stood regarding meopen-mouthed.

  "Can't you answer my question?" I demanded hastily. "I know that I'veinjured my head. I didn't call you in order to learn that. I want toknow where I am."

  The man's countenance slowly assumed a terrified expression as heregarded me, and then, without further word, he flew from the room asfast as his legs could carry him. I heard him shouting like a lunatic,in some other part of the house, and stood utterly dumbfounded at hisextraordinary behaviour. He had escaped from my presence as though hehad seen an apparition.

  A few minutes later, however, he returned, accompanied by a dark-haired,well-dressed man of about thirty, tall, rather good-looking, andapparently a gentleman. The instant the latter saw me he rushedforward, crying, in a voice of distress--

  "Oh, my dear sir, whatever has happened?"

  "My head," I explained. "It was that ugly-faced scoundrel Hickman.Where is he?"

  "Hickman?" echoed the new-comer. "Hickman? Who's he?"

  "Oh, it's all very well for you to pretend to know nothing about it," Icried angrily. "But I tell you that as soon as I'm able I'll apply fora warrant for his arrest on a charge of attempted murder. Last night hetried to kill me."

  "I don't understand you," the stranger responded. "I don't, of course,expect you to admit any complicity in the affair," I snapped. "You'd bea fool if you did. All I tell you is that an attempt has been made uponmy life by a man to whom I was introduced as Hickman."

  "Not in this room?"

  I hesitated.

  "No, not in this room," I admitted. "It was in a house at Chelsea."

  The young man exchanged meaning glances with the man-servant.

  "At Chelsea!" repeated the stranger. "In London?"

  "In London."

  "Well, that's very curious," he remarked. Then, turning to the servant,said--

  "Gill, go and fetch Doctor Britten at once. Say nothing of this to anyone in the house."

  "Yes, sir," answered the servant, who instantly withdrew.

  "I suppose you've sent for the doctor to bandage my head?" I remarkedcynically. "I'm perfectly competent to do that if you'll kindly obligeme with a little warm water, a sponge, and some clean old linen."

  "No, no," he urged. "Wait in patience until Britten comes. He'll behere in a moment. I saw him returning home only ten minutes ago."

  "But how came I here?" I demanded.

  He hesitated, regarding me with evident distrust, mingled withconsiderable alarm.

  "I--I really don't know," he responded lamely.

  "That's all nonsense," I cried, with more force than politeness. "Ifind myself here, in this room, wounded and weak through loss of blood,after having been half murdered, and then you have the cool impudence todeny all knowledge of how I came here. You're a liar--that's plain."

  I had grown angry at this lame attempt of his to feign ignorance.

  "You are extremely complimentary," he answered, colouring slightly.

  "Well, perhaps you won't mind telling me the time. I find that thatcunning scoundrel Hickman, not content with trying to poison me with aprepared cigar and striking me on the head in that cowardly way, hasalso robbed me of my watch and chain."

  He glanced at his watch.

  "It's half-past two," he answered abruptly.

  "Half-past two! Then it happened more than twelve hours ago," Iobserved.

  "I wish Britten would hurry," the young man remarked. "I don't like thelook of that wound. It's such a very nasty place."

  "Only a scalp-wound," I said
lightly. "Properly bandaged, it will beall right in a few days. There's fortunately no fracture."

  "Well, you're in a pretty mess, at any rate."

  "And so would you be," I said, "if you had been entrapped as I've been."

  His face seemed bloodless, as though the discovery of my presence therehad caused him the utmost alarm. He fidgeted and glanced eagerly nowand then towards the door.

  At last I distinguished advancing footsteps, and there entered anelderly, dapper, white-bearded little man, whose general demeanour andbuttoned frock-coat gave him the air of the medical practitioner. Heheld his silk hat in his hand, and as he placed it down I