"You speak with such confidence that I am almost reluctant to point out that Sir Alexander does betray very definite signs of mental derangement."
"Undoubtedly."
"Are you changing your mind, then?"
"Certainly not. Sir Alexander was meant to betray such signs."
"Do you doubt the sincerity of Miss Winifred?"
"Not in the slightest. She is honestly concerned, and honestly convinced that her father's mind is failing. It was meant that she should be. It was meant that all of them in that house should be."
"What then is the motive for these events?"
"Why, surely it can be but one of two: either it is hoped that Sir Alexander's heart will give out as a result of fright, or that he will be adjudged mentally incompetent and the management of his affairs pass to someone else."
"His son!"
"I have not had the honour of reading Sir Alexander's will. You have a disappointingly professional mind, Parker. I would caution you to observe that there are other ends which may be as immediate as money."
"But in that case —what does the removal of the mastiff signify?"
"Come, come, Parker —surely it is evident that the mastiff had to be removed for two reasons: primarily because it was quite possible that, even though the dog knew the miscreant who was bringing about the 'vision' Sir Alexander saw on the north wall —recall that he emphasized last night that he saw the thing especially on the north wall —he might disturb the family sufficiently to attract attention to him; secondarily, because the strange absence of the dog could contribute still more to Sir Alexander's fright. It is all of a piece, and you, who know my methods, ought properly to have applied them."
"I have mistaken the point of beginning," I said soberly.
"Yes, the newspaper article was the point of beginning —or perhaps even the coincidental death of Sir James McLeen four months ago. The curious events which have frightened Sir Alexander are not the effects of the curse by any means, nor is the curse their reason for being; no, the curse is simply being used, no more. Sir James McLeen's death, followed by the lurid newspaper article, gave rise to the diabolical plot of which Sir Alexander was picked to be the victim. With any luck, we may be able to forestall the projected ending of this little melodrama."
Pons would say no more, but directly upon our return to the house, now shadowed by the late afternoon sun, he went up to Sir Alexander's rooms. The baronet looked up anxiously at our entrance; he had been playing chess with Kennerly, who got to his feet and would have left the room, had Pons not signaled to him to remain.
"I have only two more questions to ask, Sir Alexander," said Pons.
"Yes?" asked the old man.
"On the occasions of your seeing this spectral miniature of Siva, was it ever still?"
"No, not that I recall. It always seemed to move, to float away from me."
Pons nodded with satisfaction. "Now then, try to think back, Sir Alexander. Can you remember ever hearing anything whatever on the occasion of your sight of this spectral image?"
The baronet slowly shook his head, his eyes puzzled.
"Nothing? Think, man; it is of the utmost importance."
Here Kennerly interjected himself. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you did say that one night —you said — "
"Yes, that's right, Kennerly," said the baronet with more animation than he had shown at any time previously. "I did once or twice hear a sound I thought was like —well, like a clock being wound, only steadily, a kind of whirring sound."
"Capital!" exclaimed Pons. "Well, sir, I think we may say that we shall soon have this ghost laid for you."
"I am not going mad then? I have actually seen things?"
"You have seen things you were meant to see, Sir Alexander. You will hear from me again before you retire tonight."
I was awakened from a doze into which I had fallen in the room's only easy-chair by Pons's hand on my shoulder, and his whispered, "Come, Parker. The game is afoot." I started awake. Save for a small lamp beside our bed, the room was in darkness.
"What time is it?"
"Close to midnight. The house has settled down. Come."
He led the way silently into the hall, and in darkness we went down to the door of Sir Alexander's room, upon which Pons rapped quietly and called out in a low voice to identify himself. In a few moments the bolt was drawn, the door opened cautiously, then swung wide as Sir Alexander recognized us. Pons and I slipped into the room.
"What is it?" asked the old man uncertainly.
"We are effecting a change of rooms, Sir Alexander," said Pons composedly. "If I may, I want to borrow your dressing-robe, your steamer rug, your skullcap. And that leaded cane I see over there; I daresay I may have a use for it. Thank you."
Pons offered no explanation; Sir Alexander asked for none. He took Pons's decision like a military man responding to orders, and within a few moments we had completed the exchange; Sir Alexander was ensconced in our old room, and we were in his.
"Do you now conceal yourself, Parker, behind that chest of drawers near the door," said Pons, while he took up Sir Alexander's position in the old man's chair; in the half-light, there was a remarkable resemblance between them, and a casual glimpse would not have detected the difference.
"What in the devil are we doing here?" I asked.
"Waiting for the ghost of Siva. Unless I am badly mistaken, I think a major attempt will be made tonight to bring matters to a head. My talents may be modest, but there is no need of daring them too much —is that not the way a criminal might reason? Or a scoundrel at least, eh? Now, then, let us be still."
The midnight hour struck, and the minute hand crept slowly around toward one. The old house was quiet, and the only sounds to invade the room were the soft, keening voices of a pair of owls, and the harsh booming of nightjars coasting down the sky. It was not yet one o'clock when I felt rather than heard Pons stir, and at once I became more alert, anxious to miss nothing. Was it a rustle I heard? Was it someone in the hall? In my eagerness I almost gave the show away by calling to ascertain if Pons had heard, but I caught myself in time.
A furtive tapping sounded on the door. I looked over at Pons, who shook his head silently. Once again the tap sounded, a little more peremptorily this time.
In a hoarse, quavering voice, Pons called out, "Who is it?"
Then he got up and shuffled over to the door, not, however, forgetting to carry with him, concealed in the folds of his dressing- robe, the leaded cane which he had elected to use as a weapon.
The place where I stood offered me a view of the threshold; and I turned to face the doorway as Pons threw open the door. I do not know what I expected to see there, I do not know what Pons anticipated, but the reality was most unnerving and almost demoralizing; what would have happened to Sir Alexander if he had been confronted in this fashion by the spectacle that met our eyes, is difficult to guess. For what stood on the threshold and seemed to lean into the room, whistling eerily, was nothing less than a great glowing image of Siva, a terrifying vision filling the doorway. Only for a moment did it stand there; then it seemed to rise up and tower above Pons, who cringed before it as no doubt Sir Alexander might have cringed. A solitary threatening movement caused Pons to fall back; then the thing would have retreated, but Pons's backward movement was a falling away designed only to permit him to grasp and swing the leaded cane he carried.
Before the creature in the doorway could dodge, the cane swung around and crashed down against the side of its head with a horrible tearing sound, which I realized almost at once was the crushing and ripping of papier-mache. The creature lunged for Pons, but at the same time that I leapt forward in response to Pons's call, the cane landed once more, and this time reached its objective, for the thing slumped grotesquely and collapsed on the floor.
"Lights, Parker," said Pons, breathing fast as he stepped back.
I turned up the lights and saw that from beneath the cleverly wrought likeness of Siva p
rojected a pair of very human legs. Under the light, the glow had disappeared, and the papier-mache of the costume seemed almost drab. But on the instant I understood the secret of that horrifying glow.
"Phosphorus!" I exclaimed, looking over at Pons, who was matter-of-factly removing Sir Alexander's dressing-robe and skullcap; the steamer rug had fallen from his shoulders when he had delivered the first blow.
"Yes, yes, of course," replied Pons impatiently. "Surely that was patent? You saw it yourself in the hall last night, though I have no way of knowing how you interpreted it. Now then, come along, before the others get here."
Already there were sounds of movement in the rooms adjoining the hall.
"Aren't you stopping to see. . . ?" I said to Pons's retreating back.
"What need? My dear fellow, it is only too obvious that it is young Saring. Come along. We have yet to verify one aspect of the matter."
He darted from the room, down and across the hall, and into Saring's room, the door of which stood partly open. Here he stood for a moment in soundless concentration; then he went to the closet and began to examine Saring's luggage, where he quickly found what he sought —the tiny, phosphorescent image of Siva, the thin thread which had drawn it along the hall and the garden wall, and the electric contrivance and reel which served to draw the spectral
miniature along the hall floor and into the room through the slightly open door, giving the illusion of having disappeared.
When we emerged from the room, Sir Alexander was coming down the hall, Miss Winifred stood on her threshold, looking with horror across to her father's room, and Miss Megan had appeared.
"We have caught the scoundrel, Sir Alexander," said Pons gravely, and, taking the baronet's arm, he drew him into his rooms and closed the door behind him, admonishing me to give my attention to Miss Winifred, who had plainly recognized the clothing and legs projecting from beneath the elaborate costume worn by Geoffrey Saring in the furtherance of his diabolical scheme.
What took place behind the closed door of Sir Alexander's rooms, I did not know; but shortly after Pons emerged from the room, Kennerly appeared to drive us back to our lodgings in London. Pons said no word until we were on our way into the city, driving under that same moon, smaller still, which had spilled its wan light upon the earth only the previous night.
"You are silent, Parker; did Saring's unmasking surprise you?"
I admitted that it had astonished me.
"You had fixed upon Ransom, of course. Ransom was not without guilt, but he had nothing to do with it. The matter really turned upon the character of our client. The most reliable witnesses for him were his daughter and Kennerly. Kennerly admitted that Sir Alexander was 'difficult,' but, clearly enough for anyone to see, he intimated that the old man had his reasons. These were manifest. And obviously his distrust of Geoffrey Saring was not ill- founded, however slender may have been its reasons for existing.
"Furthermore, the entire matter rested upon one fundamental decision: either Sir Alexander saw the things he described, or he did not. Everyone was quite willing to believe that he had not seen them, most particularly since both Ransom and Saring had reluctantly admitted they had seen nothing. I had no alternative but to act upon the assumption that Sir Alexander saw precisely what he described. Once I had formed this conviction, I had only to look for evidence. There was no lack of it. For one thing, the mysterious calling card was doubtless abstracted and replaced with a blank card in the interval between its receipt and its re-examination. For another, I detected despite some manifest attempt to eradicate it, evidence of phosphorus along the wall of the hall at the skirting- board. Phosphorus had immediately suggested itself in the course of Sir Alexander's narrative. Finally, the phosphorus led to Saring's threshold and there stopped. While this was not conclusive in itself, taken in connection with two other inescapable factors, it was.
"The first of these quite clearly was the fact that both Ransom and Saring lied in denying they had seen anything. Both had seen the image quite well; each had his own reasons for denying sight of it. One because he was its author, the other because he saw no reason why he should spoil a game which would benefit him also. The second of these factors was the motive: this seemed quite manifestly to be an attempt to have Sir Alexander declared mentally incompetent, and only secondarily to bring about his death. Now, Ransom would not particularly benefit by having his brother declared mentally incompetent; he would benefit only by his death. It was he who gambled on Saring's game. It was Saring who would benefit —an actor without a stage, a young man without an occupation, a fortune-hunter, in short, whose marriage was being opposed with what must have seemed to him particularly galling baselessness; for once the old man's mind was suspect, his opposition to his daughter's marriage would be suspect, too. A diabolical plan, Parker, but it might have worked. Its mechanics were well wrought, but simple, too.
"For instance, you did not suspect Saring primarily because his manner was engaging, and because he told us so disarmingly about the way in which he had been called back upstairs by our client to witness the spectral image moving down the hall. It did not occur to you that it was quite within the bounds of possibility for Saring to have tripped his machine, tapped on Sir Alexander's door as he passed, and hurried downstairs before the baronet got to the door to open it. The plan was so simple that you would have rejected it even if I had suggested it. And you were deceived by his by-play at the gate, where instead of looking for clues to the dog's disappearance, he was examining the ground lest he had left anything for me to discover."
"Yet he was one of the most firm in suggesting that Sir Alexander call you in," I objected.
"His scheme called for as much self-confidence as my investigations." He laughed. "We have had a good day and a long day of it, Parker. An interesting matter but one which might well have been fatal. Fortunately for Sir Alexander's frightened determination, it was not. What a pity young Saring did not keep his special talents for the stage!"
The Adventure of the Missing Huntsman
MY FRIEND SOLAR PONS laid a persuasive hand on my arm and slowed our progress along Praed Street not far from our quarters at Number 7. "Gently, Parker," he said. "What do you make of that lady across the street?"
I followed the direction of his gaze and saw an attractive young woman, contemptuous of the wild March wind, striding up the street and turning to go back. She had a good figure, and golden blonde hair worn long in the face of the growing trend toward the shorter style. As she walked, she struck at the calf of her right leg absently with a stick, and from time to time glanced up toward the windows of our quarters.
"She appears to be contemplating a visit to you," I said, "but cannot quite make up her mind."
"Ah," said Pons. "I thought her a young lady of singular determination."
"From the country," I said. "See how she walks."
"An equestrian," added Pons. "Observe how she strikes at her leg; that is a horsewoman's gesture."
"I put her age at thirty-five or so," I went on.
"And moneyed," said Pons. "Her clothing appears to be conservative in cut but even from here it is evident that it is of excellent quality. And I should not be surprised to find that that little sports car up the street is hers. She has driven to town, on impulse, and is now reconsidering that impulse."
"Or she has been to call and, not finding us in, was reluctant to wait."
"No, I think not," said Pons with annoying self-assurance. "She might have come down to sit in her car, but not to pace the street. She appears to be a young lady who cares nothing for the opinions of others or the attention she has already attracted. See there —and there," added Pons, pointing to pedestrians whose eyes had been caught by the lady and who had halted their own progress to fix their gaze upon her.
"But here we are," said Pons, as we reached Number 7, "and our would-be client is still so engrossed in her problem that she is not aware of our arrival."
We mounted to our quarter
s, where Pons crossed directly to the windows facing the street and gazed down. I came up behind him and saw that the lady had now come to a pause and stood looking directly across at us. And then, as if she had caught sight of us, she strode into the street with the intention of crossing to Number 7.
"Ah," said Pons, falling back and rubbing his hands, his eyes alight. "We shall soon learn what troubles her."
The lady Mrs. Johnson ushered into our quarters within a few minutes proved to be uncommonly attractive, with a sensitivity of features which the stubborn set of her chin did not diminish. Her violet eyes met Pons's gaze boldly.
"Mr. Pons, I am Diana Pomfroy," she said at once. "My husband is Colonel Ashton Pomfroy."
"Joint-Master of the Wycherly," replied Pons, and then turned to introduce me.
Our client acknowledged me with a courteous inclination of her head and turned again to Pons. "Then you will have read of the tragedy?"
"A man trampled to death by one of your horses —and the loss of your Joint-Master, Captain Dion Price. Pray sit down, Mrs. Pomfroy."
She took Pons's favourite chair at the fireplace, and Pons leaned up against the mantel facing her.
"I may have come on a fool's errand, Mr. Pons," she began, sitting well forward in her chair, as if eager to impress upon us the importance of her words, "but I could not hold off any longer. There is something very much wrong at Pomfroy Chase. It is almost a month now that they found that man— and Mr. Pons, I should say at once that I saw the body—a horrible sight, and while I know that the inquest was conducted correctly, I cannot believe that everything was allowed to come out. Perhaps I feel some guilt myself because I did not say what I knew and what I suspected."
"And what was it that you knew, Mrs. Pomfroy?"
"Mr. Pons, the dead man —whom no one could identify —was wearing a waistcoat that belonged to Captain Price. I know because I happened to see it when Mrs. Parks was repairing a small tear for him, and I saw the repair on the waistcoat the dead man wore."
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