is useless,” he said, in his dull, mechanical tones. “For in this matter you are as blind as I am. There are things beyond your comprehension. I am going down to see what is happening below.”
He began to feel his way to the staircase, Geoffrey following.
“Are we never going to do anything?” the younger man exclaimed passionately.
“Yes, yes. Patience, lad! The day of reckoning is coming as sure as I stand before you. But to follow your late antagonist is futile. You might as well try to beat the wind that carries away your hat on a stormy day.”
Mrs. Gordon sat in the dining-hall, pale, ashen, and trembling from head to foot. It seemed as if an ague had fallen upon her. Every now and then a short, hysterical laugh escaped her lips, more horrible and more impressive than any outbreak of fear or passion.
And yet there was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; they could only look at her with moist eyes and a yearning sympathy that was beyond all words.
“It will pass,” Mrs. Gordon said faintly. “We all have our trials; and mine are worse than the rest. Gordon, take me to bed.”
She passed up the stairs leaning on the arm of her husband. Time was when these things demanded vivid explanations. They were too significant now. Ralph crept fumblingly over the floor till he stood by Marion’s side. He touched her hand; he seemed to know where to find it. The hand was wet. Ralph touched her cheek.
“You are crying,” he said, gently for him.
“Yes,” Marion admitted, softly. “Oh, if I could only do anything to help! If you only knew how my heart goes out to these poor people!”
“And yet it may be your turn next, Marion. But I hope not—I hope not. We could not lose the only sunshine in the house!”
Marion choked down a sob. When she turned to Ralph again, he was far off, feeling his way along the room—feeling, feeling always for the clue to the secret.
XII - GEOFFREY IS PUT TO THE TEST
The house was quiet at last. When these mysterious things had first happened, fear and alarm had driven sleep from every eye, and many was the long night the whole family had spent, huddled round the fire till grey morn chased their fears away.
But as the inhabitants of a beleaguered city learn to sleep through a heavy bombardment, so had the Ravenspurs come to meet these horrors with grim tenacity. They were all upstairs now behind locked doors, with a hope that they might meet again on the morrow. Only Geoffrey was up waiting for his uncle Ralph.
He came at length so noiselessly that Geoffrey was startled, and motioned to him that he should follow him without a word.
They crept like ghosts along the corridor until they reached a room with double doors at the end of the picture gallery. Generations ago this room had been built for a Ravenspur who had developed dangerous homicidal mania, and in this room he had lived virtually a prisoner for many years.
After they had closed the two doors, a heavy curtain was drawn over the inner one, and Ralph fumbled his way to the table and lighted a candle.
“Now we can talk,” he said quietly, “but not loud. Understand that the matter is to be a profound secret between us, and that not a soul is to know of it—not even Vera.”
“I have already given my promise,” said Geoffrey.
“I know. Still there is no harm in again impressing the fact on your mind. Geoffrey, you are about to see strange things—things that will test your pluck and courage to the uttermost.”
Geoffrey nodded. With the eagerness of youth he was ready.
“I will do anything you ask me,” he replied. “I could face any danger to get at the bottom of this business.”
“You are a good lad. Turn the lamp down very low, and then open the window. Have you done that?”
“Yes; I can feel the cold air on my face.”
Ralph crossed to the window, and putting out his hand, gave the quaint, mournful call of the owl. There was a minute’s pause, and then came the answering signal. A minute or two later, and a man’s head and shoulders were framed in the open window. Geoffrey would have dashed forward, but Ralph held him back.
“Not so impatient,” he said. “This is a friend.”
Geoffrey asked no questions, though he was puzzled to know why the visitor did not enter the castle by the usual way. At Ralph’s request he closed the window and drew the heavy curtains, and the lamp was turned up again.
“My nephew,” said Ralph. “A fine young fellow, and one that you and I can trust. Geoffrey, this is my old friend Sergius Tchigorsky.”
Geoffrey shook hands with Tchigorsky. To his intense surprise he saw that the face of the stranger was disfigured in the same way as that of his uncle. Conscious that his gaze was somewhat rude, he looked down. Tchigorsky smiled. Very little escaped him, and to him the young man’s mind was as clear as a brook.
“My appearance startles you,” he said, “Some day you will learn how your uncle and myself came to be both disfigured in this terrible way. That secret will be disclosed when the horror that haunts this house is lifted!”
“Will it ever be lifted, sir?” Geoffrey asked.
“We can do so at any time,” Tchigorsky replied in his deep voice. “You may be surprised to hear that we can place our hand on the guilty party at a moment’s notice and bring the offender to justice. Your eyes ask me why we do not do so instantly. We refrain, as the detectives refrain from arresting one or two of a big gang of swindlers, preferring to spread their nets till they have them all in their meshes. There are four people in this business, and we must take the lot of them, or there will be no peace for the house of Ravenspur. You follow me?”
“Perfectly,” Geoffrey replied. “An enemy so marvellously clever must not be treated lightly. Do you propose to make the capture tonight?”
Ralph Ravenspur laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh, and was mirthless. His scarred face was full of scornful amusement.
“Not to-night, or to-morrow night, or for many nights,” he said “We have all the serpent wisdom of the Old World against us, the occult knowledge of the East allied to the slippery cunning that Western education gives. There will be many dangers before we have finished, and the worst of these dangers will fall upon you.”
Ralph brought his hand down with a sudden clap on his nephew’s shoulders. Tchigorsky regarded him long and earnestly as if he would read his very soul.
“You will do,” he said curtly. “I am satisfied you will do, and I never make a mistake in my estimate of a man yet. Ravenspur, are you ready?”
“Aye; aye. I have been ready this long time.”
The lamp was extinguished, and list slippers were donned, and with no more provision than a box of
