The Crimson Blind

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"What do I care for danger when Chris lies yonder?"

"But, dear Frank, there are others to consider besides yourself. There is
your mother, for instance. Oh, you ought not to have come here to-night.
If your father knew!"

"My father? He would be the last person in the world to know. And what
cares he about anything, so long as he has his prints and his paintings?
He has no feelings, no heart, no soul, I may say."

"Frank, you must go at once. Do you know that Reginald Henson is here? He
has ears like a hare; it will be nothing less than a miracle unless he
hears your voice. And then--"

The young man was touched at last. The look of grief died out of his eyes
and a certain terror filled them.

"I think that I should have come in any case," he whispered. "I don't
want to bring any further trouble upon you, Enid, but I wanted to see the
last of her. I came here, and some of the dogs remembered me. If not, I
might have had no occasion to trouble you. And I won't stay, seeing that
Henson is here. Let me have something to remember her by; let me look
into her room for a moment. If you only knew how I loved her! And you
look as if you had no grief at all."

Enid started guiltily. She had quite forgotten her _role_ for the time.
Indeed, there was something unmistakably like relief on her face as she
heard the porter's bell ring from the lodge to the house. Williams
shuffled away, muttering that he would be more useful in the house than
out of it just now, but a glance from Enid subdued him. Presently there
came the sound of wheels on the gravel outside.

"They have come for the--the coffin," Enid murmured. "Frank, it would be
best for you to go. Go upstairs, if you like; you know the way. Only,
don't stay here."

The young man went off dreamily. A heavy grief dulled and blinded his
senses; he walked along like one who wanders in his sleep. Christiana's
room door was open and a lamp was there. There were dainty knick-knacks
on the dressing-table, a vase or two of faded flowers--everything that
denotes the presence of refined and gracious womanhood.

Frank Littimer stood there looking round him for some little time. On a
table by the bedside stood a photograph of a girl in a silver frame.
Littimer pounced upon it hungrily. It was a good picture--the best of
Christiana's that he had ever seen. He slipped out into the corridor and
gently closed the door behind him. Then he passed along with his whole
gaze fixed on the portrait. The girl seemed to be smiling out of the
frame at him. He had loved Christiana since she was a child; he felt that
he had never loved her so much as at this moment. Well, he had something
to remember her by--he had not come here in vain.

It seemed impossible yet to realise that Christiana was dead, that he
would never look into her sunny, tender face again. No, he would wake up
presently and find it had all been a dream. And how different to the last
time he was here. He had been smuggled into the house, and he had
occupied the room with the oak door. He--

The room with the oak door opened and a big man with a white bandage
round his throat stood there with tottering limbs and an ugly smile on
his loose mouth. Littimer started back.

"Reginald," he exclaimed, "I didn't expect to see you here, or--"

"Or you would never have dared to come?" Henson said, hoarsely. "I heard
your voice and I was bound to give you a welcome, even at considerable
personal inconvenience. Help me back to bed again. And now, you insolent
young dog, how dare you show your face here?"

"I came to see Chris," Littimer said, doggedly. "And I came too late.
Even if I had known that I was going to meet you, I should have been here
all the same. Oh, I know what you are going to say; I know what you
think. And some day I shall break out and defy you to do your worst."

Henson smiled as one might do at the outbreak of an angry child. His eyes
flashed and his tongue spoke words that Littimer fairly cowed before. And
yet he did not show it. He was like a boy who has found a stone for the
man who stands over him with the whip. With quick intuition Henson saw
this, and in a measure his manner changed.

"You will say next that you are not afraid of me," he suggested.

"Well," Littimer replied, slowly; "I am not so much afraid of you
as I was."

"Ah! so you imagine that you have discovered something?"

Littimer apparently struggled between a prudent desire for silence and
a disposition to speak. The sneer on the face of his enemy fairly
maddened him.

"Yes," he said, with a note of elation in his voice, "I have made a
discovery, but I am not going to tell you how or where my discovery is.
But I've found Van Sneck."

A shade of whiter pallor came over Henson's face. Then his eyes took on a
murderous, purple-black gleam. All the same, his voice was quite steady
as he replied.

"I'm afraid that is not likely to benefit you much," he said. "Would you
mind handing me that oblong black book from the dressing-table? I want
you to do something for me. What's that?"

There was just the faintest suggestion of a sound outside. It was Enid
listening with all her ears. She had not been long in discovering what
had happened. Once the ghastly farcical incubus was off her shoulders she
had followed Littimer upstairs. As she passed Henson's room the drone of
voices struck on her ears. She stood there and listened. She would have
given much for this not to have happened, but everything happened for the
worst in that accursed house.

But Henson's last words were enough for her. She gathered her skirts
together and flew down the stairs. In the hall Williams stood, with a
grin on his face, pensively scraping his chin with a dry forefinger.

"Now what's the matter, miss?" he cried.

"Don't ask questions," Enid cried. "Go and get me the champagne nippers.
The champagne nippers at once. If you can't find them, then bring me a
pair of pliers. Then come to me on the leads outside the bathroom. It's a
matter of life and death."

CHAPTER XXI

A FIND

David did not appear in the least surprised; indeed, he was long since
past that emotion. Before the bottom of the mystery was reached a great
many more strange things were pretty sure to happen.

"So you bought that cigar-case yourself?" he said.

"Indeed, I did," Ruth answered, eagerly. "Of course I have long known
you by name and I have read pretty well all your tales. I--I liked your
work so much."

David was flattered. The shy, sweet admiration in Ruth's eyes
touched him.

"And I was very glad to meet you," Ruth went on. "You see, we all liked
your stories. And we knew one or two people who had met you, and
gradually you became quite like a friend of ours--Enid and Chris and
myself, you understand. Then a week or two ago I came down to Brighton
with my uncle to settle all about taking the house here. And I happened
to be in Lockhart's buying something when you came in and asked to see
the cigar-case. I recognised you from your photographs, and I was
interested. Of course, I thought no more of it at the time, until Enid
came up to London and told me all about the synopsis, and how strangely
the heroine's case in your proposed story was like hers. Enid wondered
how you were going to get the girl out of her difficulty, and I jokingly
suggested that she had better ask you. She accepted the idea quite
seriously, saying that if you had a real, plausible way out of the
trouble you might help her. And gradually our scheme was evolved. You
were not to know, because of the possible danger to yourself."

"At the hands of Reginald Henson, of course?"

"Yes. Our scheme took a long time, but we got it worked out at last. We
decided on the telephone because we thought that we could not be traced
that way, never imagining for a moment that you could get the number of
your caller over the trunk line. Enid came up to town, and worked the
telephone, Chris was in No. 218, and I brought the money."

"You placed that cigar-case on my doorstep?"

"Yes, I was wound up for anything. It was I whom you saw riding the
bicycle through Old Steine; it was I who dropped the card of
instructions. It seems a shameful thing to say and to do now, but
I--well, I enjoyed it at the time. And I did it for the sake of my
friends. Do I look like that sort of a girl, Mr. Steel?"

David glanced into the beautiful shy eyes with just the suggestion of
laughter in them.

"You look all that is loyal and good and true," he exclaimed. "And I
don't think I ever admired you quite so much as I do at this moment."

Ruth laughed and looked down. There was something in David's glance that
thrilled her and gave her a sense of happiness she would have found it
hard to describe.

"I am so glad you do not despise me," she whispered.

"Despise you!" David cried. "Why? If you only knew how I, well, how I
loved you! Don't be angry. I mean every word that I say; my feelings for
you are as pure as your own heart. If you could care for me as you do for
those others I should have a friend indeed."

"You have made me care for you very much indeed, Mr. Steel," Ruth
whispered.

"Call me David..... How nice my plain name sounds from your lips. Ruth
and David. But I must hold myself in hand for the present. Still, I am
glad you like me."

"Well, you have been so good and kind. We have done you a great deal of
injury and you never blamed us. And you are just the man I have always
pictured as the man I could love ... David!"

"Well, it was only one little kiss, and I'm sure nobody saw us, dear. And
later on, when you are my wife--"

"Don't you think we had better keep to business for the present?" Ruth
said, demurely.

"Perhaps. There is one little point that you must clear up before we go
any farther. How did you manage to furnish those two big dining-rooms
exactly alike?"

"Why, the furniture is there. At the top of the house, in a large attic,
all the furniture is stored."

"But the agent told me it had been removed."

"He was wrong. You can't expect the agent to recollect everything about a
house. The place belonged to the lady whom we may call Mrs. Margaret
Henson at one time. When her home scheme fell through she sold one house
as it was. In the other she stored the furniture. Enid knew of all this,
of course. We managed to get a latch--key to fit 218, and Enid and a man
did the rest. Her idea was to keep you in the dark as much as possible.
After the interview the furniture was put back again, and there you are."

"Diplomatic and clever, and decidedly original, not to say feminine. In
the light of recently acquired knowledge I can quite see why your friends
desired to preserve their secret. But they need not have taken all those
precautions. Had they written--"

"They dared not. They were fearful as to what might become of the reply."

"But they might have come to me openly."

"Again, they dared not for your sake. You know a great deal, David, but
there is darkness and trouble and wickedness yet that I dare not speak
of. And you are in danger. Already Reginald Henson has shown you what
he can do."

"And yet he doesn't know everything," David smiled. "He may have stabbed
me in the back, but he is quite ignorant as to what advice I gave to Enid
Henson, which brings me back to the cigar-case. You saw me looking at it
in Lockhart's. Go on."

"Yes, I watched you with a great deal of curiosity. Finally you went off
out of the shop saying that you could not afford to buy the cigar-case,
and I thought no more of the matter for a time. Then we found out all
about your private affairs. Oh, I am ashamed almost to go on."

The dainty little face grew crimson; the hand in David's trembled.

"But we were desperate. And, after all, we were doing no harm. It was
just then that the idea of the cigar-case came into my mind. We knew that
if we could get you to take that money it would only be as a loan. I
suggested the gift of the case as a memento of the occasion. I purchased
that case with my own money and I placed it with its contents on the
doorstep of your house."

"Did you watch it all the time?"

"No, I didn't. But I was satisfied that nobody passed, and I was
sufficiently near to hear your door open at the hour appointed. Of
course, we had carefully rehearsed the telephone conversation, and I knew
exactly what to do."

David sat very thoughtfully for some little time.

"The case must have been changed," he said. "It is very difficult to say
how, but there is no other logical solution of the matter. At about
half-past twelve on that eventful night you placed on my doorstep a
gun-metal cigar-case, mounted in diamonds, that you had purchased from
Lockhart's?"

"Yes, and the very one that you admired. Of that I am certain."

"Very well. I take that case with me to 218, Brunswick Square, and I
bring it back again. Did I take it with me or not? Anyhow, it was found
on the floor beside the body. It never passed out of my possession to my
knowledge. Next day I leave it at the office of Messrs. Mossa and Mack,
and it gets into the hands of the police."

"Was it not possibly changed there, David?"

"No, because of the initials I had scratched inside it. And beyond all
question that case--the same case, mind you, that I picked up on my
doorstep--was purchased by the man now lying in the hospital here from
Walen's, in West Street. Now, how was the change made?"

"If I could only see my way to help you!"

"The change was made the day you bought the case. By the way, what
time was it?"

"I can't tell you the exact time," Ruth replied. "It was on the morning
of the night of your adventure."

"And you kept it by you all the time."

"Yes. It was in a little box sealed with yellow wax and tied with yellow
string. I went to 219 after I had made the purchase. My uncle was there
and he was using the back sitting-room as an office. He had brought a lot
of papers with him to go through."

"Ah! Did you put your package down?"

"Just for a moment on the table. But surely my uncle would not--"

"One moment, please. Was anybody with your uncle at the time?"

Ruth gave a sudden little cry.

"How senseless of me to forget," she cried. "My uncle was down merely for
the day, and, as he was very busy, he sent for Mr. Reginald Henson to
help him. I did not imagine that Mr. Henson would know anything. But even
now I cannot see what--"

"Again let me interrupt you. Did you leave the room at all?"

"Yes. It is all coming back to me now. My uncle's medicine was locked up
in my bag. He asked me to go for it and I went, leaving my purchase on
the table. It is all coming back to me now.... When I returned Mr. Henson
was quite alone, as somebody had called to see my uncle. Mr. Henson
seemed surprised to see me back so soon, and as I entered he crushed
something up in his hand and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. But
my parcel was quite intact."

"Yellow wax and yellow string and all?"

"Yes, so far as I remember. It was Mr. Henson who reminded my uncle about
his medicine."

"And when you were away the change was made. Strange that your uncle
should be so friendly with both Henson and Bell. Have they ever met under
your roof?"

"No," Ruth replied. "Henson has always alluded to Dr. Bell as a lost man.
He professes to be deeply sorry for him but he has declined to meet him.
Where are you going?"

"I am going with you to see if we can find anything in the waste-paper
basket at No. 219. Bell tells me that your servants have instructions to
touch no papers, and I know that the back sitting-room of your house is
used as a kind of office. I want, if possible, to find the paper that
Henson tried to hide on the day you bought the cigar-case."

The basket proved to be a large one, and was partially filled with
letters that had never been opened--begging-letters, Ruth said. For half
an hour David was engaged in smoothing out crumpled sheets of paper,
until at length his search was rewarded. He held a packet of note-paper,
the usual six sheets, one inside the other, that generally go to
correspondence sheets of good quality. It was crushed up, but Steel
flattened it out and held it up for Ruth's inspection.

"Now, here is a find!" he cried. "Look at the address in green at the
top: '15, Downend Terrace.' Five sheets of my own best notepaper, printed
especially for myself, in this basket! Originally this was a block of six
sheets, but the one has been written upon and the others crushed up like
this. Beyond doubt the paper was stolen from my study. And--what's this?"

He held up the thick paper to the light. At the foot of the top sheet was
plainly indented in outline the initials "D. S."

"My own cipher," David went on. "Scrawled in so boldly as to mark on the
under sheet of paper. Almost invariably I use initials instead of my full
name unless it is quite formal business."

"And what is to be done now?" Ruth asked.

"Find the letter forged over what looks like a genuine cipher," David
said, grimly.

CHAPTER XXII

"THE LIGHT THAT FAILED"

Bell followed Dr. Cross into the hospital with a sense of familiar
pleasure. The cool, sweet smell of the place, the decorous silence, the
order of it all appealed to him strongly. It was as the old war-horse
who sniffs the battle from afar. And the battle with death was ever a
joy to Bell.

"This is all contrary to regulations, of course," he suggested.

"Well, it is," Cross admitted. "But I am an enthusiast, and one doesn't
often get a chance of chatting with a brilliant, erratic star like
yourself. Besides, our man is not in the hospital proper. He is in a
kind of annexe by my own quarters, and he scoffs the suggestion of
being nursed."

Bell nodded, understanding perfectly. He came at length to a
brilliantly-lighted room, where a dark man with an exceedingly high
forehead and wonderfully piercing eyes was sitting up in bed. The dark
eyes lighted with pleasure as they fell upon Bell's queer, shambling
figure and white hair.

"The labour we delight in physics pain," he greeted with a laugh and a
groan. "It's worth a badly twisted shoulder to have the pleasure of
seeing Hatherly Bell again. My dear fellow, how are you?"

The voice was low and pleasant, there was no trace of insanity about the
speaker. Bell shook the proffered hand. For some little time the
conversation proceeded smoothly enough. The stranger was a good talker;
his remarks were keen and to the point.

"I hope you will be comfortable here," Bell suggested.

A faint subtle change came over the other's face.

"All but one thing," he whispered. "Don't make a fuss about it, because
Cross is very kind. But I can't stand the electric light. It reminds me
of the great tragedy of my life. But for the electric light I should be a
free man with a good practice to-day."

"So you are harping on that string again," Bell said, coldly. "I fancied
that I had argued you out of that. You know perfectly well that it is all
imagination, Heritage."

Heritage passed his left hand across his eyes in a confused kind of way.

"When you look at one like that I fancy so," he said. "When I was under
your hands I was forgetting all about it. And now it has all come back
again. Did I tell you all about it, Cross?"

Bell gave Cross a significant glance, and the latter shook his head.

"Well, it was this way," Heritage began, eagerly. His eyes were gleaming
now, his whole aspect was changed. "I was poor and struggling, but I had
a grand future before me. There was a patient of mine, a rich man, who
had a deadly throat trouble. And he was going to leave me all his money
if I cured him. He told me he had made a will to that effect, and he had
done so. And I was in direst straits for some ready cash. When I came to
operate I used an electric light, a powerful light--you know what I mean.
The operation failed and my patient died. The operation failed because
the electric light went out at a critical time.

"People said it was a great misfortune for me, because I was on the
threshold of a new discovery which would have made my name. Nothing of
the kind. I deliberately cut the positive wire of the electric light so
that I should fail, and so that my patient might die and I might get
all his money at once. And he did die, and nobody suspected me--nobody
could possibly have found me out. Then I went mad and they put me under
Bell's care. I should have got well, only he gave up his practice and
drifted into the world again. My good, kind friend Reginald Henson
heard of my case; he interested some people in me and placed me where I
am at present."

"So Reginald Henson knows all about it?" Bell asked, drily.

"My dear fellow, he is the best friend I have in the world. He was most
interested in my case. I have gone over it with him a hundred times. I
showed him exactly how it was done. And now you know why I loathe the
electric light. When it shines in my eyes it maddens me; it brings back
to me the recollection of that dreadful time, it causes me to--"

"Heritage," Bell said, sternly, "close your eyes at once, and be silent."

The patient obeyed instantly. He had not forgotten the old habit of
obedience. When he opened his eyes again at length he looked round him in
a foolish, shamefaced manner.

"I--I am afraid I have been rambling," he muttered. "Pray don't notice
me, Bell; if you are as good a fellow as you used to be, come and see me
again. I'm tired now."

Bell gave the desired assurance, and he and Cross left the room together.

"Any sort of truth in what he has been saying?" asked the latter.

"Very little," Bell replied. "Heritage is an exceedingly clever fellow
who has not yet recovered from a bad breakdown some years ago. I had
nearly cured him at one time, but he seems to have lapsed into bad ways
again. Some day, when I have time, I shall take up his case once more."

"Did he operate, or try some new throat cure?"

"Exactly. He was on the verge of discovering some way of operating for
throat cases with complete success. You can imagine how excited he was
over his discovery. Unfortunately the patient he experimented on died
under the operation, not because the light went out or any nonsense of
that kind, but from failure of the heart's action owing to excitement.
Heritage had no sleep for a fortnight, and he broke down altogether. For
months he was really mad, and when his senses came back to him he had
that hallucination. Some day it will go, and some day Heritage will take
up the dropped threads of his discovery and the world will be all the
better for it. And now, will you do me a favour?"

"I will do anything that lies in my power."

"Then be good enough to let me have a peep at the man who was found
half-murdered in my friend David Steel's conservatory. I'm interested in
that case."

Cross hesitated for a moment.

"All right," he said. "There can't be any harm in that. Come this way."

Bell strolled along with the air of a man who is moved by no more than
ordinary curiosity. But from the first he had made up his mind not to
lose this opportunity. He had not the remotest idea what he expected to
find, but he had a pretty good idea that he was on the verge of an
important discovery. He came at length to the bedside of the mysterious
stranger. The man was lying on his back in a state of coma, his breath
came heavily between his parted lips.

Bell bent low partly to examine the patient, partly to hide his face
from Cross. If Bell had made any discovery he kept the fact rigidly
to himself.

"Looks very young," he muttered. "But then he is one of those men who
never grow any hair on their faces. Young as he looks, I should judge him
to be at least forty-five, and, if I am not mistaken, he is a man who has
heard the chimes at midnight or later. I'm quite satisfied."

"It's more than I am," Cross said, when at length he and his visitor were
standing outside together. "Look here, Bell, you're a great friend of
Steel's, whom I believe to be a very good fellow. I don't want to get him
into any harm, but a day or two ago I found this letter in a pocket-book
in a belt worn by our queer patient. Steel says the fellow is a perfect
stranger to him, and I believe that statement. But what about this
letter? I ought to have sent it to the police, but I didn't. Read it."

And Cross proceeded to take a letter from his pocket. It was on thick
paper; the stamped address given was "15, Downend Terrace." There was no
heading, merely the words "Certainly, with pleasure, I shall be home; in
fact, I am home every night till 12.30, and you may call any time up till
then. If you knock quietly on the door I shall hear you.--D.S."

"What do you make of it?" Cross asked.

"It looks as if your patient had called at Steel's house by appointment,"
Bell admitted. "Here is the invitation undoubtedly in Steel's
handwriting. Subsequently the poor fellow is found in Steel's house
nearly murdered, and yet Steel declares solemnly that the man is a
perfect stranger to him. It is a bad business, but I assure you that
Steel is the soul of honour. Cross, would you be so good as to let me
have that letter for two or three days?"

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