by Sax Rohmer
Paul Harley lay back upon the cushions and glanced at me with aquizzical smile. The big, up-to-date car which Colonel Menendez hadplaced at our disposal was surmounting a steep Surrey lane as though nogradient had existed.
"Some engine!" he said, approvingly.
I nodded in agreement, but felt disinclined for conversation, beingabsorbed in watching the characteristically English scenery. This,indeed, was very beautiful. The lane along which we were speeding wasnarrow, winding, and over-arched by trees. Here and there sunlightpenetrated to spread a golden carpet before us, but for the most partthe way lay in cool and grateful shadow.
On one side a wooded slope hemmed us in blackly, on the other lay dellafter dell down into the cradle of the valley. It was a poetic corner ofEngland, and I thought it almost unbelievable that London was only sometwenty miles behind. A fit place this for elves and fairies tosurvive, a spot in which the presence of a modern automobile seemed adesecration. Higher we mounted and higher, the engine running stronglyand smoothly; then, presently, we were out upon a narrow open road withthe crescent of the hills sweeping away on the right and dense woodsdipping valleyward to the left and behind us.
The chauffeur turned, and, meeting my glance:
"Cray's Folly, sir," he said.
He jerked his hand in the direction of a square, gray-stone towersomewhat resembling a campanile, which uprose from a distant clump ofwoods cresting a greater eminence.
"Ah," murmured Harley, "the famous tower."
Following the departure of the Colonel on the previous evening, he hadlooked up Cray's Folly and had found it to be one of a series of houseserected by the eccentric and wealthy man whose name it bore. He hadhad a mania for building houses with towers, in which his rival--andcontemporary--had been William Beckford, the author of "Vathek," a workwhich for some obscure reason has survived as well as two of the threetowers erected by its writer.
I became conscious of a keen sense of anticipation. In this, I think,the figure of Miss Val Beverley played a leading part. There wassomething pathetic in the presence of this lonely English girl in sosingular a household; for if the menage at Cray's Folly should provehalf so strange as Colonel Menendez had led us to believe, then truly wewere about to find ourselves amid unusual people.
Presently the road inclined southward somewhat and we entered the fringeof the trees. I noticed one or two very ancient cottages, but no traceof the modern builder. This was a fragment of real Old England, andI was not sorry when presently we lost sight of the square tower; foramidst such scenery it was an anomaly and a rebuke.
What Paul Harley's thoughts may have been I cannot say, but he preservedan unbroken silence up to the very moment that we came to the gatelodge.
The gates were monstrosities of elaborate iron scrollwork, craftsmanshipclever enough in its way, but of an ornate kind more in keeping with theorange trees of the South than with this wooded Surrey countryside.
A very surly-looking girl, quite obviously un-English (a daughter ofPedro, the butler, I learned later), opened the gates, and we enteredupon a winding drive literally tunnelled through the trees. Of the housewe had never a glimpse until we were right under its walls, nor shouldI have known that we were come to the main entrance if the car had notstopped.
"Looks like a monastery," muttered Harley.
Indeed that part of the building--the north front--which was visiblefrom this point had a strangely monastic appearance, being built ofsolid gray blocks and boasting only a few small, heavily barred windows.The eccentricity of the Victorian gentleman who had expended thousandsof pounds upon erecting this house was only equalled, I thought, by thatof Colonel Menendez, who had chosen it for a home. An out-jutting wingshut us in on the west, and to the east the prospect was closed by thetallest and most densely grown box hedge I had ever seen, trimmed mostperfectly and having an arched opening in the centre. Thus, the entranceto Cray's Folly lay in a sort of bay.
But even as we stepped from the car, the great church-like oaken doorswere thrown open, and there, framed in the monkish porch, stood thetall, elegant figure of the Colonel.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "welcome to Cray's Folly."
He advanced smiling, and in the bright sunlight seemed even moreMephistophelean than he had seemed in Harley's office.
"Pedro," he called, and a strange-looking Spanish butler who wore hisside-whiskers like a bull fighter appeared behind his master; a sallow,furtive fellow with whom I determined I should never feel at ease.
However, the Colonel greeted us heartily enough, and conducted usthrough a kind of paved, covered courtyard into a great lofty hall.Indeed it more closely resembled a studio, being partly lighted by amost curious dome. It was furnished in a manner quite un-English, butvery luxuriously. A magnificent oaken staircase communicated with agallery on the left, and at the foot of this staircase, in a mechanicalchair which she managed with astonishing dexterity, sat Madame deStaemer.
She had snow-white hair crowning the face of a comparatively youngwoman, and large, dark-brown eyes which reminded me strangely of theeyes of some animal although in the first moment of meeting I could notidentify the resemblance. Her hands were very slender and beautiful, andwhen, as the Colonel presented us, she extended her fingers, I was notsurprised to see Harley stoop and kiss them in Continental fashion;for this Madame evidently expected. I followed suit; but truth to tell,after that first glance at the masterful figure in the invalid chair Ihad had no eyes for Madame de Staemer, being fully employed in gazing atsomeone who stood beside her.
This was an evasively pretty girl, or such was my first impression. Thatis to say, that whilst her attractiveness was beyond dispute, analysisof her small features failed to detect from which particular qualitythis charm was derived. The contour of her face certainly formed adelightful oval, and there was a wistful look in her eyes which was halfappealing and half impish. Her demure expression was not convincing, andthere rested a vague smile, or promise of a smile, upon lips which wereperfectly moulded, and indeed the only strictly regular feature of anevertheless bewitching face. She had slightly curling hair and the lineof her neck and shoulder was most graceful and charming. Of one thing Iwas sure: She was glad to see visitors at Cray's Folly.
"And now, gentlemen," said Colonel Menendez, "having presented you toMadame, my cousin, permit me to present you to Miss Val Beverley, mycousin's companion, and our very dear friend."
The girl bowed in a formal English fashion, which contrasted sharplywith the Continental manner of Madame. Her face flushed slightly, and asI met her glance she lowered her eyes.
"Now M. Harley and M. Knox," said Madame, vivaciously, "you are quite athome. Pedro will show you to your rooms and lunch will be ready in halfan hour."
She waved her white hand coquettishly, and ignoring the proffered aidof Miss Beverley, wheeled her chair away at a great rate under a sortof arch on the right of the hall, which communicated with the domesticoffices of the establishment.
"Is she not wonderful?" exclaimed Colonel Menendez, taking Harley'sleft arm and my right and guiding us upstairs followed by Pedro andthe chauffeur, the latter carrying our grips. "Many women would beprostrated by such an affliction, but she--" he shrugged his shoulders.
Harley and I had been placed in adjoining rooms. I had never seen suchrooms as those in Cray's Folly. The place contained enough oak to havedriven a modern builder crazy. Oak had simply been lavished upon it. Myown room, which was almost directly above the box hedge to which I havereferred, had a beautiful carved ceiling and a floor as highly polishedas that of a ballroom. It was tastefully furnished, but the foreign notewas perceptible everywhere.
"We have here some grand prospects," said the Colonel, and truly enoughthe view from the great, high, wide window was a very fine one.
I perceived that the grounds of Cray's Folly were extensive andcarefully cultivated. I had a glimpse of a Tudor sunken garden, but thebest view of this was from the window of Harley's room, which becauseit was the end room on the
north front overlooked another part of thegrounds, and offered a prospect of the east lawns and distant park land.
When presently Colonel Menendez and I accompanied my friend there Iwas charmed by the picturesque scene below. Here was a real old herbalgarden, gay with flowers and intersected by tiled moss-grown paths.There were bushes exhibiting fantastic examples of the topiary art, andhere, too, was a sun-dial. My first impression of this beautiful spotwas one of delight. Later I was to regard that enchanted demesne withsomething akin to horror; but as we stood there watching a gardenerclipping the bushes I thought that although Cray's Folly might beadjudged ugly, its grounds were delightful.
Suddenly Harley turned to our host. "Where is the famous tower?" heenquired. "It is not visible from the front of the house, nor from thedrive."
"No, no," replied the Colonel, "it is right out at the end of the eastwing, which is disused. I keep it locked up. There are four rooms inthe tower and a staircase, of course, but it is inconvenient. I cannotimagine why it was built."
"The architect may have had some definite object in view," said Harley,"or it may have been merely a freak of his client. Is there anythingcharacteristic about the topmost room, for instance?"
Colonel Menendez shrugged his massive shoulders. "Nothing," he replied."It is the same as the others below, except that there is a stairleading to a gallery on the roof. Presently I will take you up, if youwish."
"I should be interested," murmured Harley, and tactfully changed thesubject, which evidently was not altogether pleasing to our host. Iconcluded that he had found the east wing of the house something of awhite elephant, and was accordingly sensitive upon the point.
Presently, then, he left us and I returned to my own room, but beforelong I rejoined Harley. I did not knock but entered unceremoniously.
"Halloa!" I exclaimed. "What have you seen?"
He was standing staring out of the window, nor did he turn as I entered.
"What is it?" I said, joining him.
He glanced at me oddly.
"An impression," he replied; "but it has gone now."
"I understand," I said, quietly.
Familiarity with crime in many guises and under many skies had developedin Paul Harley a sort of sixth sense. It was a fugitive, ficklething, as are all the powers which belong to the realm of genius orinspiration. Often enough it failed him entirely, he had assured me,that odd, sudden chill as of an abrupt lowering of the temperature,which, I understood, often advised him of the nearness of enmityactively malignant.
Now, standing at the window, looking down into that old-world garden, hewas "sensing" the atmosphere keenly, seeking for the note of danger. Itwas sheer intuition, perhaps, but whilst he could never rely upon itsanswering his summons, once active it never misled him.
"You think some real menace overhangs Colonel Menendez?"
"I am sure of it." He stared into my face. "There is something very,very strange about this bat wing business."
"Do you still incline to the idea that he has been followed to England?"
Paul Harley reflected for a moment, then:
"That explanation would be almost too simple," he said. "There issomething bizarre, something unclean--I had almost said unholy--at workin this house, Knox."
"He has foreign servants."
Harley shook his head.
"I shall make it my business to become acquainted with all of them,"he replied, "but the danger does not come from there. Let us go down tolunch."
CHAPTER V
VAL BEVERLEY