by Guy Thorne
CHAPTER XVII
MARJORIE AND DONALD MEGBIE
The valet showed Marjorie Poole into Donald Megbie's study.
She wore a coat and skirt of dark green Harris Tweed with leather collarand cuffs, and a simple sailor hat.
Megbie, who had never met Miss Poole in the country, but only knew herin London and during the season, had never seen her dressed like thisbefore. He had always admired her beauty, the admirable poise of hermanner, the evidences of intellectuality she gave.
At the moment of her entry the journalist thought her more beautifulthan ever, dressed as if for covert-side or purple-painted moor. And hisquick brain realized in a moment that she was dressed thus in anunconscious attempt to escape observation, to be incognito, as it were.
But why had she come to see him? She was in trouble, her face showedthat--it was extraordinary, altogether unprecedented.
Megbie showed nothing of the thoughts which were animating him, eitherin his face or manner. He shook hands as if he had just met Miss Poolein Bond Street.
"Do sit down," he said, "I think you'll find that chair a comfortableone."
Marjorie sat down. "Of course, Mr. Megbie," she said, "you will think itvery strange that I should come here alone; when I tell you why, youwill think it stranger still. And I don't want any one to know that Ihave been here. I shall tell mother, of course, when I get back."
Megbie bowed and said nothing. It was the most tactful thing to do.
"I feel you will not misunderstand my motives," the girl went on, "whenI explain myself. In certain cases, and among certain persons,conventions are bourgeois. We don't know each other very well, Mr.Megbie, though we have sometimes had some interesting talks together.But in a sense I know you better than you know me. You see, I have readyour books and other writings. In common with the rest of the world Ican gather something of your temper of mind, and of your outlook uponlife."
Megbie once more inclined his head. He wondered furiously what all thismight mean. At the moment he was absolutely in the dark. He stretchedout his hand towards a tin of cigarettes that stood on a bracket by theside of the fireplace, and then withdrew it suddenly, remembering whowas present.
"Oh, do smoke," she said, instantly interpreting the movement. "Now letme just tell you exactly why I am here, why I _had_ to come here. Of allthe men I know, you are the most likely to understand. You have made astudy of psychical affairs, of what the man in the street calls'spooks'--you know about dreams."
At that Megbie started forward, every muscle in his body becoming rigidand tense, his hands gripping the knobs of his chair arms.
"Of course!" he said, in a voice that rippled with excitement. "Go on,please. I might have known your coming here this morning is all part ofthe wonderful and uncanny experiences I had last night. You've comeabout Guy Rathbone!"
It was the girl's turn to start. Fear came creeping into eyes which werenot wont to show fear, the proud mouth grew tremulous.
Marjorie stretched out her hands--little hands in tan-coloured gloves."Ah!" she cried, in a voice that had become shrill and full of pain,"then it is true! Things have happened to you too! Mr. Megbie, you and Ihave become entangled in some dark and dreadful thing. I dare not thinkwhat it may be. _But Guy is not dead._"
Megbie answered her in the same words.
"No," he said, "Guy Rathbone is not dead." His voice had sunk severaltones. It tolled like a bell.
"Miss Poole," he went on, "tell me, tell me at once what happened to youlast night."
With a great effort of control, Marjorie began her story.
"It was very late when we got home last night after the party," shesaid. "I was in a curious state of nerves and excitement. I must touchupon a personal matter--this is no time for reticence or false shame. Ihad been with William Gouldesbrough. You know that we were at one timeengaged--oh, this is horribly difficult for me to say, Mr. Megbie."
"Go on, Miss Poole. I know, I know. But what does it matter in such atime as this?"
"Nothing at all," she answered in a resolute voice. "I was engaged toSir William when I found out that my affection was going elsewhere--Guy,Mr. Rathbone----"
"You needn't go into the past, Miss Poole," Donald broke in, "tell meabout last night."
"I was with Sir William at supper-time. There was a remarkable scene. Itwas a sort of triumph for him, and I was with him, every one included mein it. It was, obviously, generally assumed that we had become engagedonce more. On the way home, Sir William again asked me to be his wife. Itold him that I could not give him an answer then. I said that I wouldtell him to-night. He is coming to Curzon Street to-night."
"I beg you, I implore you to wait."
Megbie's words were so grave, he seemed so terribly in earnest, that thegirl shrank from them, as one would shrink from blows.
The same thought began to lurk in the eyes of the woman and the man, thesame incredible and yet frightful thought.
Marjorie's cheeks were almost grey in colour. To Megbie, as he watchedher, she seemed to have grown older suddenly. The lustre seemed to himto have gone out of her hair.
"I reached home," she said. "Mother made me take a cup of beef-tea, andI went to my room. I was preparing for bed, indeed I was brushing myhair before the mirror, when a curious sense of disturbance and almostof fear came over me. I felt as if there was another presence in theroom. Now my looking-glass is a very large one indeed. It commands thewhole of the room. The whole of the room is reflected in it without anypart left out, except of course which I could see where I sat. When thisstrange feeling of another presence came over me, I thought it wasmerely reaction after a terribly exciting night. I looked into theglass and saw that the room was absolutely empty. Still the sensationgrew. It became so strong at last that I turned round. And there, Mr.Megbie, I tell you in the utmost bewilderment, but with extremecertainty, there, though the mirror showed nothing at all, a figure wasstanding, the figure of a man. It was not three feet away."
Megbie broke in upon her narrative.
"The figure," he said in a hushed voice, "was the figure of Mr. EustaceCharliewood, who shot himself at Brighton some little time ago."
She cried out aloud, "Yes! But how did you know?"
"He came to me also, last night. He came to me out of the other world,which is all round us, but which we cannot see. He was trying to tell mesomething about Guy Rathbone."
Marjorie Poole began to sob quietly.
"I knew it," she answered. "Mr. Charliewood in another state sees morethan we see, he knows where Guy is. Oh, my love, my love!"
Megbie went up to her. He had some sal-volatile in his dressing-case,and he made her take it.
"Be brave," he said; "you have more to tell me yet, as I have more totell you. Guy is alive, we are certain of that. But he is in some one'spower. The spirit of this man, Eustace Charliewood, knows where he is.He is trying to tell us. He is trying to make amends for something. Hemust have had something to do with Guy's disappearance."
"Mr. Charliewood," Marjorie said in a whisper, "was WilliamGouldesbrough's intimate friend. He was always about the house. When GuyRathbone disappeared, Eustace Charliewood killed himself. William was atBrighton at the time. He was trying to help me and my mother to findGuy."
"Go on with your story, if you can," Megbie said. "One more effort!"
"I knew that the figure was trying to tell me about Guy. Something toldme that with absolute certainty. But it couldn't tell me. It began toweep and wring its hands. Oh, it was pitiful! Then suddenly, it seemedto realize that it was no use. It stood upright and rigid, and fixed itseyes upon me. Mr. Megbie, such mournful eyes, eyes so full of sorrow andterrible remorse, were never in a human face. As those eyes stared downat me, a deep drowsiness began to creep over me. Sleep came floodingover me with a force and power such as I had never known before. It wasimpossible to withstand it. People who have taken some drug must feellike that. Just as I was, in the chair in front of the dressing-table,I sank into sleep."
&
nbsp; "And your dream?" Megbie said quietly.
She started. "Ah, you know," she said. "The spirit of EustaceCharliewood could not tell me while I was conscious. But in sleep hecould influence my brain in some other mysterious way. I dreamed thatGuy was in a sort of cell. By some means or other I knew that it wasunderground. A man was there, a man whom I have met, a man--a horriblecreature--who is a fellow-worker of Sir William Gouldesbrough. The manwas doing something to Guy. I couldn't see what it was. Then the picturefaded away. I seemed to be moving rapidly in a cold empty place wherethere was no wind or air, sound, or, or--I can't describe it. It was asort of 'between place.'"
"And then?"
"Then I saw you standing by the side of William Gouldesbrough. It was atthe party--Lord Malvin's party, which we had just left. I saw this as iffrom a vast distance. It was a tiny, tiny picture, just as one could seesomething going on under a microscope. William was talking to some onewhom I couldn't see. But I knew it was myself, that I was looking at theexact scene which had happened at the party, when you were going awaywith William, and he had stopped on the way to ask me to go into supperwith him. And, strangely enough, in another part of my mind, thesub-conscious part I suppose, I knew that I was looking at an event ofthe past, and that this was the reason why it seemed so tiny andfar-off. The picture went away in a flash--just like an eye winking.You've been to one of those biograph shows and seen how suddenly thepicture upon the screen goes?--well, it was just like that. Then a voicewas speaking--a very thin and very distant voice. If one could telephoneto the moon, one would hear the voice at the other end just like that, Ishould think. And though the voice was so tiny, it was quite distinct,and it had a note of terrible entreaty. 'Go to Donald Megbie,' it said.'Go at once to Donald Megbie, the writer. He will help. There is stilltime. Go to Donald Megbie. I have been able to communicate with him. Hehas the silver--Guy----' And then, Mr. Megbie, the voice stoppedsuddenly. Those were the exact words. What they meant, I did not know.But when I awoke they remained ringing in my ears like the echo of abell heard over a wide expanse of country. In the morning I resolved tocome to you. I didn't know where you lived, but I looked you up in'Who's Who.' And as soon as I could get away without any one knowing, Icame here."
Donald Megbie rose from his chair. He realized at once that it wasnecessary to keep the same high tension of this interview. If that werelost everything would go.
"I know what the poor troubled spirit--if it is a spirit--of the man,Charliewood, meant by his last words. There is a thing calledpsychometry, Miss Poole. In brief, it means that any article whichbelongs, or has belonged, to any one, somehow retains a part of theirpersonality. It may well be that the mysterious thought-vibrations whichSir William Gouldesbrough has discovered can linger about an actual andmaterial object. Last night, when Sir William left me to take you in tosupper at Lord Malvin's, he left his cigarette-case behind him in theconservatory where we had been sitting. I didn't want to bother himthen, so I put it in my pocket, intending to send it to him to-day; hereit is. It belonged to Guy Rathbone. I found it in Sir William'spossession, and I believe that it has been the means--owing, to some lawor force which we do not yet understand--of bringing us together thismorning." He handed her the cigarette-case.
Neither of them could know that this was the case which EustaceCharliewood had found in the pocket of Rathbone's fur coat, when he hadtaken it from the Bond Street coiffeur in mistake.
Neither of them could see how it had been restored by Charliewood toRathbone, and had been appropriated by Mr. Guest, when the captive hadbeen taken to his silent place below the old house in Regent's Park.
And even Sir William Gouldesbrough did not know that he had seen thething in his study, just as he was starting for Lord Malvin's house, andhad absently slipped it into his pocket, thinking it was his own.