The Dark House

"The Dark House" (continued 3)

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He treated himself to a thoroughly good cigar, and rolled out the blue clouds of smoke as he strode along, wagging his umbrella behind him.

“Always through all these years running down rogues! What a temptation to a man, to make a change and go the other way. Million and a half o’ money, in a shape as could be carried in a small black bag. Why, I could put my hand on it, and go and set up somewhere as a king, and never be found out. Shall I?”

It was quite dark, and Mr Linnett took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and tucking his umbrella under his arm, playfully fitted them on his own wrists.

“No,” he said; “they wouldn’t look well there.”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Party breaks up.

“Dinner over, of course, Preenham?”

“Oh, dear, yes, sir,” said that worthy, taking Artis’s hat and cane. “Carriage was ordered for half-past seven, and they’ve gone to the theatre, sir.”

“Gone where?”

“Theatre, sir—Haymarket, sir.”

“Why, Preenham—”

“It was Mr Girtle, sir, proposed it. Said it would be a pleasant change for everybody. The carriage was ordered, and dinner an hour sooner.”

“The sky will fall next,” said Artis, with a sneering laugh. “Bring me some coffee in the library, and—no, some brandy and soda and the cigars.”

“Yes, sir. Miss D’Enghien’s in the drawing-room, sir. Had a bad headache, and didn’t go.”

“Why didn’t you say that at first?” cried Artis; and he went up two stairs at a time, to find Katrine in the act of throwing herself into a chair, and looking flushed and hot.

“You here?” she said, wearily.

“My darling!” he cried. “If I had only known. At last!”

He threw himself at her feet, clasped her waist, and drew her half resisting towards him, while before a minute had elapsed, her arms were resting upon his shoulders, and her eyes were half closed in a dreamy ecstasy, as she yielded to the kisses that covered her face.

Suddenly, with a quick motion, she threw him off.

“Quick—some one,” she whispered.

Her ears were sharper than his, and she had heard the dull rattle of the door handle.

“I don’t know what to take,” she said, in a weary voice; “I suppose it will not be better before morning.”

“I have taken the brandy and soda into the library, sir,” said Preenham. “Would you like it brought up here?”

“To be sure,” he cried. “The very thing for your headache. Bring it up, Preenham.”

“You madman!” cried Katrine, angrily. “You take advantage of my weakness for you. Another moment, and we should have been discovered. No, no; keep away.”

“Miss is as good as a mile.”

“You grow more reckless, every day. We must be careful.”

“Careful! I’m sick of being careful.”

“Hush!”

The butler entered with a tray and the brandy and soda.

“Open it, sir?”

“Yes. Two. Now try that. Best thing in the world for a bad head.”

The old butler withdrew as softly as he had come in, and Katrine took two or three sips from her glass, while Artis tossed his off, and then, setting it down, walked quickly to the door.

Katrine’s eyes dilated, and, bending forward, she listened, and then sprang up and glided quickly across from the inner room to meet Artis half-way, and be clasped in his arms.

“What have you done?” she cried.

“Nothing.”

“You have fastened the door.”

“Nonsense.”

“I say you have!”

“Well, suppose I have. What then?”

“You madman! Unfasten the door.”

“Not I.”

“I tell you that you are mad,” she cried, trying to free herself. “Gerard, dear Gerard, be reasonable.”

She writhed herself free and ran and turned the bolt back. He followed to refasten it, but she held him.

“Think of the consequences of our being found locked in here.”

“Bah! no one will come now till after eleven, and if they did I don’t care. Look here,” he cried, clasping her to his breast again, “suppose this Arabian Night sort of fortune were found, do you think I am blind? You would marry this Capel.”

“Well?”

“I won’t have it,” he cried.

“Why not?” she whispered, and her creamy arms clasped about his neck. “We are so poor, Gerard, and we must have money to live.”

“Yes, but at that cost,” he cried, passionately.

“Well, what then? Think! Over a million, which you should share. Gerard—dearest—you will not be so foolish, when I am so near this gigantic prize. He is my complete slave. I can do with him just what I will.”

“But—Kate—I believe you would—”

He did not achieve his sentence, but responded passionately to her caresses till he felt her suddenly grow rigid in his arms, and then one arm was snatched from his neck, and, with her hand, she struck him sharply across the face.

“How dare you!” she cried.

Gerard Artis let his hands fall to his side, and Katrine darted to a tall figure in evening dress standing just inside the door, and flung herself at his knees.

“Save me!” she half shrieked, “from the insults of this man.”

Paul Capel drew himself aside, and Katrine fell prostrate on the thick carpet, as he gravely opened the door.

The girl sprang to her feet and darted out of the room, while Capel, after watching her for a moment or two, closed the door, turned the bolt, and then threw his crush hat upon a table, his black wrapper over a chair, and tore off his white gloves, changing the ivory-handled malacca cane from hand to hand as he did so.

“Home soon,” said Artis, with a sneer, as he slowly walked to the little table, poured out some more brandy, and gulped it down.

“Yes,” replied Capel, gravely. “Thank Heaven I did come home soon. I came to spend an hour alone with the woman I loved.”

“And you were forestalled,” cried Artis. “Here, what are you going to do?”

“Thrash a contemptible scoundrel within an inch of his life,” cried Capel; and he made a grasp at Artis’s arm.

But the latter eluded him, bounded to the fire-place, and picked up the bright poker.

“Keep off,” he cried, “or I’ll murder you.”

Cling! Jingle!

He had struck the glass lustres of the great chandelier, and the fragments fell tinkling down.

Crack! A yell of pain! A dull thud!

With a dexterous blow, Capel caught Artis’s right hand with the stout cane, numbing his nerves, so that the poker fell. With a second blow, he seemed to hamstring his adversary, who staggered, and would have fallen, but for Capel’s hand grasping him by the collar; and then, for two or three minutes, there was a hail of blows falling, and a terrible struggle going on. The light chairs were kicked aside, a table overturned, a vase and several ornaments swept from a cheffonier, and suppressed cries, panting noises and blows, filled the gloomy room, till, after one final stroke with the cane, Capel dashed the helpless, quivering man to the floor, and placed his foot upon his breast.

An hour later, when Preenham went up from a confidential talk with his fellow-servants to admit Mr Girtle and Lydia—back from the theatre—he found the front door open. Had he been half an hour sooner, he would have seen Katrine, fully dressed, supporting Artis down the dark stairs, and out into the darkness of the great square, where they were seen by the light of one of the street lamps to enter a cab, and then they passed out of sight.

Preenham saw nothing, and Mr Girtle and Lydia ascended to the drawing-room, the latter feeling light-hearted and happy, in spite of the evening’s disappointment.

The old lawyer uttered a cry of dismay, as he saw the wreck, and that Capel was seated in a low chair, bent down, with his face buried in his hands.

“My dear boy! What is it?” he cried, as Lydia ran to his side, and her soft hand was laid or his.

“Don’t touch me, woman,” he almost yelled, as he sprang from his chair. “Oh,” he said, softly, “it is you?”

He took and kissed her hand, and then left the room.

“Preenham, what does this mean?” cried Mr Girtle, as the butler brought in lights; and they learned the truth.

Chapter Thirty.

Where the Treasure lay.

Six months elapsed before Mr Linnett put into execution the project he had had in his mind that night when he playfully tried the handcuffs on his wrists.

He had meant business, as he termed it, the next morning, but on presenting himself at the chief office, one of his superiors sent for him, and announced an important task.

“Extradition, eh, sir? America?”

“Yes. Cross at once; put yourself in communication with the New York police, and then spare no expense. He must be found.”

“When shall I start, sir?”

“Now.”

Mr Linnett did start now, saying to himself as he entered a carriage for Liverpool:

“Well, they didn’t set me the job. It was my own doing, and the news will keep.”

So it came about that one morning, when he presented himself at the Dark House, he was saluted by Mr Preenham with:

“Why, how do you do? We thought we’d quite lost you, Mr Linnett, sir. You look quite brown.”

“I’ve been pretty well all over America since I saw you, Mr Preenham, and now, sir, just go and give them my card and say I want to see them on very particular business.”

“Have you found out anything, Mr Linnett?”

“You wait a bit, my dear sir. Just take up the card.”

Mr Girtle was in the library with Paul Capel at the time, for the old man had settled down there, treating the younger as if he were a son. He had talked several times of going, but Capel begged him not to leave, and he always stayed.

“Well, Preenham, for me?”

“He said you and master, sir—the gentleman.”

“Ah! Linnett. The detective. Will you see him?”

“No,” said Capel, sternly. “I don’t want that affair opened again.”

“But my dear boy—”

“There; very well. Show him up.”

The detective came in, smiling, but only to encounter a stern look in return.

“I’ve called, gentlemen, about that little matter of the notes and jewels that were lost.”

“My good fellow,” said Capel, angrily, “I will not have that matter taken up again. It is dead.”

“Well, sir, the fact is, you wouldn’t let me take it up; but I did it on my own account.”

“You did?” said Mr Girtle.

“Yes, sir; it took me months piecing together, as I had to do it all from the outside, without seeing the place. I was sent abroad, and have only just come back. Last night, however, I took out my notes and went into it again, and I think I can say I’ve found the treasure.”

“Found it, man?” cried Capel, interested in spite of himself. “Where? The place was thoroughly well searched.”

“Oh! yes, sir, of course.”

“Then you know who took it?”

“Yes, sir; that’s it.”

“Who was it, then?”

“Ah! come, sir, that’s better.”

“Yes, yes, go on,” cried Capel excitedly, and at that moment it was not the treasure that filled his eyes, but the figure of a sweet, gentle girl, who had watched beside his sick bed.

“Well, the fact is, gentlemen, I very soon came to the conclusion that the great treasure had not been stolen.”

“Why?” said Mr Girtle.

“No notes were put in circulation that I could find—old notes—and no valuable jewels sold.”

“To be sure, yes,” said Mr Girtle. “My idea.”

“That wasn’t worth much, gentlemen; but I felt sure from the beginning that the treasure was taken by someone on the premises.”

“Not that couple, I’ll swear,” said Mr Girtle.

“Nor the servants,” said Capel.

“There, sir, it’s all in a nutshell,” said Linnett, hesitating.

“Stop!” said Mr Girtle. “What terms do you propose for this information?”

“Oh, sir, I wasn’t hesitating about that, but because I don’t like letting it go now I’ve found it. It was so much trouble to find the clue, I hardly like parting with it. But here you are, sir, and if I may make terms, I may say I’m only a few pounds out of pocket—ten will cover it—but I should like it if Mr Capel here would give me that Indian knife, that kukri. I’ve a fancy for saving up that sort of article.”

“Take the horrible thing and welcome,” said Capel impatiently.

“Well, gentlemen, I pieced together all that was published, with Doctor Heston’s notions, the servants’ knowledge, and my own ideas.”

“Well?”

“Well, gentlemen, it was that old Indian servant who took the treasure.”

“Impossible!”

“Not a bit. He had the keys—he knew how to use them.”

“He was as honest as the day,” cried Mr Girtle.

“Exactly, sir, that’s just it. Honesty made him take it.”

“Absurd?” said Capel.

“Not a bit, sir, excuse me. He knew that fellow Pillar, the footman, meant it. You know he had a fight with him at the door.”

“Well, granted,” said Capel.

“He watched, sir, night and day, and wouldn’t leave the place, and at last, when—”

“I know,” said Capel, “those Italians.”

“Now, you shouldn’t take away people’s character, sir,” said the detective reproachfully. “It was that Indian. He wasn’t satisfied that the secret place was safe. He was sure it would be broken open, and so that night, or the one before, he took the treasure out, and put it where he felt certain that no one would look for it.”

“And where was that?” cried Capel.

The detective smiled.

“As I said, gentlemen, where no one would look for it.”

“And that was?”

“In the dead man’s own charge, sirs. In the coffin.”

Capel and Mr Girtle sank back in their chairs.

“And if you open that vault, gentlemen, and the iron tomb, and the steel chest, you’ll find it safe and sound.”

“There’s one more thing, sir, I should like to say, and that is about that old Indian servant. He was struck down, no doubt, or fainted after he had killed the footman, defending the treasure. I can’t quite say what happened then, but it looks to me as if some one came upon the old fellow when he was lying helpless—some one who also meant to steal that treasure—and that he, or she, or whoever it was, chloroformed the old man to death. I had it on the doctor’s authority that he did not die of his wounds; but this is only theory. I can’t say.”

It was a theory that sent a chill through Paul Capel, and he dared not put his thoughts about the fair Creole into shape.

All proved about the treasure precisely as Mr Linnett had said, for when, with much compunction, the various caskets were opened once again, there lay the two cases beneath the cloth-of-gold robe, safely in the keeping of the dead man, whereat, and for other reasons, Mr Linnett much rejoiced.

Later on, old Mr Girtle had his wish, that of giving Lydia away to the man she loved—one who often afterwards told her he wondered how he could have been so blind—blind, he said, as the old place, which was kept, in accordance with the Colonel’s last commands, closed in front, but bright and gay behind, while Paul Capel used to say, “It is astonishing how much human sunshine can be got into a Dark House.”

The End.