The Crimson Blind

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Christabel was evidently putting a strong constraint on her tongue, for
she merely bowed and said nothing. She had her own good reasons for the
diplomacy of silence. Henson and Frank Littimer were disappearing in the
direction of the staircase.

"I say nothing," Christabel said. "But at the same time I don't fancy I
shall care very much for your distinguished friend Reginald Henson."

Littimer smiled. All his good humour seemed to have returned to him. Only
the dark lines under his eyes were more accentuated.

"A slimy, fawning hound," he whispered. "A mean fellow. And the best of
it is that he imagines that I hold the highest regard for him.
Good-night."

CHAPTER XXVIII

A SQUIRE OF DAMES

A little later, and Christabel sat before her looking-glass with her
lovely hair about her shoulders. The glasses were gone and her
magnificent eyes gleamed and sparkled.

"Good night's work," she said to her smiling reflection. "Now the danger
is passed and now that I am away from that dreadful house I feel a
different being. Strange what a difference a few hours has made! And I
hardly need my disguise--even at this moment I believe that Enid would
not recognise me. She will be pleased to know that her telegram came in
so usefully. Well, here I am, and I don't fancy that anybody will
recognise Christabel Lee and Chris Henson for one and the same person."

She sat there brushing her hair and letting her thoughts drift along idly
over the events of the evening. Reginald Henson would have felt less easy
in his mind had he known what these thoughts were. Up to now that oily
scoundrel hugged himself with the delusion that nobody besides Frank
Littimer and himself knew that the second copy of "The Crimson Blind" had
passed into Bell's possession.

But Chris was quite aware of the fact. And Chris _as_ Chris was supposed
by Henson to be dead and buried, and was, therefore, in a position to
play her cards as she pleased. Up to now it seemed to her that she had
played them very well indeed. A cipher telegram from Longdean had warned
her that Henson was coming there, had given her more than a passing hint
what Henson required, and her native wit had told her why Henson was
after the Rembrandt.

Precisely why he wanted the picture she had not discovered yet. But she
knew that she would before long. And she knew also that Henson would try
and obtain the print without making his presence at Littimer Castle
obvious. He was bringing Frank Littimer with him, and was therefore going
to use the younger man in some cunning way.

That Henson would try and get into the castle surreptitiously Chris had
felt from the first. Once he did so the rest would be easy, as he knew
exactly where to lay his hand on the picture. Therefore he could have no
better time than the dead of night. If his presence were betrayed he
could turn the matter aside as a joke and trust to his native wit later
on. If he had obtained the picture by stealth he would have discreetly
disappeared, covering his tracks as he retreated.

Still, it had all fallen out very fortunately. Henson had been made to
look ridiculous; he had been forced to admit that he was giving Littimer
a lesson over the Rembrandt, and though the thing appeared innocent
enough on the surface, Chris was sanguine that later on she could bring
this up in evidence against him.

"So far so good," she told herself. "Watch, watch, watch, and act when
the time comes. But it was hard to meet Frank to-night and be able to say
nothing. And how abjectly miserable he looked! Well, let us hope that the
good time is coming."

Chris was up betimes in the morning and out on the terrace. She felt no
further uneasiness on the score of the disguise now. Henson was certain
to be inquisitive, it was part of his nature, but he was not going to
learn anything. Chris smiled as she saw Henson lumbering towards her. He
seemed all the better for his night's rest.

"The rose blooms early here," he said, gallantly. "Let me express
the hope that you have quite forgiven me for the fright I gave you
last night."

"I guess I don't recollect the fright," Chris drawled. "And if there was
any fright I calculate it was on the other side. And how are you this
morning? You look as if you had been in the wars. Got some trouble with
your throat, or what?"

"A slight operation," Henson said, airily. "I have been speaking too
much in public lately and a little something had to be removed. I am
much better."

The ready lie tripped off his tongue. Chris smiled slightly.

"Do you know, you remind me very much of somebody," he went on. "And yet
I don't know why, because you are quite different. Lord Littimer tells me
you are an American."

"The Stars and Stripes," Chris laughed. "I guess our nation is the first
on earth. Now, if you happen to know anything about Boston--"

"I never was in Boston in my life," Henson replied, hastily. The name
seemed to render him uneasy. "Have you been in England very long?"

Chris replied that she was enjoying England for the first time. But she
was not there to answer questions, her _role_ was to ask them. But she
was dealing with a past-master in the art of gleaning information, and
Henson was getting on her nerves. She gave a little cry of pleasure as a
magnificent specimen of a bloodhound came trotting down the terrace and
paused in friendly fashion before her.

"What a lovely dog," she exclaimed. "Do you like dogs, Mr. Henson?"

She looked up beamingly into his face as she spoke; she saw the heavy
features darken and the eyes grow small with anger.

"I loathe them, and they loathe me," Henson growled. "Look at him!"

He pointed to the dog, who showed his teeth with an angry growl. And yet
the great sleek head lay against the girl's knee in perfect confidence.
Henson looked on uneasily and backed a little way. The dog marked his
every movement.

"See how the brute shows his teeth at me," he said.

"Please send him away, Miss Lee. I am certain he is getting ready for
a spring."

Henson's face was white and hot and wet, his lips trembled. He was
horribly afraid. Chris patted the silky head and dismissed the dog
with a curt command. He went off instantly with a wistful, backward
look in his eye.

"We are going to be great friends, that doggie and I," Chris said, gaily.
"And I don't like you any the better, Mr. Henson, because you don't like
dogs and they don't like you. Dogs are far better judges of character
than you imagine. Dr. Bell says--"

"What Dr. Bell?" Henson demanded, swiftly.

Chris had paused just in time: perhaps her successful disguise had made
her a trifle reckless.

"Dr. Hatherly Bell," she said. "He used to be a famous man before he fell
into disgrace over something or another. I heard him lecture on the
animal instinct in Boston once, and he said--but as you don't care for
dogs it doesn't matter what he said."

"Do you happen to know anything about him?" Henson asked.

"Very little. I never met him, if that is what you mean. But I heard that
he had done something particularly disgraceful. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing more than a mere coincidence," Henson replied. "It is just a
little strange that you should mention his name here, especially after
what had happened last night. I suppose that, being an American, you fell
in love with the Rembrandt. It was you who suggested securing it in its
place, and then preventing my little jest from being successfully carried
out. Of course you have heard that the print was stolen once?"

"The knowledge is as general as the spiriting away of the
Gainsborough Duchess."

"Quite so. Well, the man who stole the Rembrandt was Dr. Hatherly Bell.
He stole it that he might pay a gambling debt, and it was subsequently
found in his luggage before he could pass it on to the purchaser. I am
glad you mentioned it, because the name of Bell is not exactly a
favourite at the castle."

"I am much obliged to you," said Chris, gravely. "Was Dr. Bell a
favourite once?"

"Oh, immense. He had great influence over Lord Littimer. He--but here
comes Littimer in one of his moods. He appears to be angry about
something."

Littimer strode up, with a frown on his face and a telegram in his hand.
Henson assumed to be mildly sympathetic.

"I hope it is nothing serious?" he murmured.

"Serious," Littimer cried. "The acme of audacity--yes. The telegram has
just come. 'Must see you tonight on important business affecting the
past. Shall hope to be with you some time after dinner!'"

"And who is the audacious aspirant to an interview?" Chris asked,
demurely.

"A man I expect you never heard of," said Littimer, "but who is quite
familiar to Henson here. I am alluding to that scoundrel Hatherly Bell."

"Good heavens!" Henson burst out. "I--I mean, what colossal impudence!"

CHAPTER XXIX

THE MAN WITH THE THUMB AGAIN

Chris gave Henson one swift searching glance before her eyes dropped
demurely to the ground. Lord Littimer appeared to be taking no heed of
anything but his own annoyance. But quick as Chris had been, Henson was
quicker. He was smiling the slow, sad smile of the man who turns the
other cheek because it is his duty to do so.

"And when does Dr. Bell arrive?" he asked.

"He won't arrive at all," Littimer said, irritably. "Do you suppose I
am going to allow that scoundrel under my roof again? The amazing
impudence of the fellow is beyond everything. He will probably reach
Moreton Station by the ten o'clock train. The drive will take him an
hour, if I choose to permit the drive, which I don't. I'll send a groom
to meet the train with a letter. When Bell has read that letter he will
not come here."

"I don't think I should do that," Henson said, respectfully.

"Indeed! You are really a clever fellow. And what would you do?"

"I should suffer Bell to come. As a Christian I should deem it my duty to
do so. It pains me to say so, but I am afraid that I cannot contravert
your suggestion that Bell is a scoundrel. It grieves me to prove any man
that. And in the present instance the proofs were overpowering. But there
is always a chance--a chance that we have misjudged a man on false
evidence."

"False evidence! Why, the Rembrandt was actually found in Bell's
portmanteau."

"Dear friend, I know it," Henson said, with the same slow, forgiving
smile. "But there have been cases of black treachery, dark conspiracies
that one abhors. And Bell might have made some stupendous discovery
regarding his character. I should see him, my lord; oh, yes, I should
most undoubtedly see him."

"And so should I," Chris put in, swiftly.

Littimer smiled, with all traces of his ill-temper gone. He seemed to
be contemplating Henson with his head on one side, as if to fathom
that gentleman's intentions. There was just the suspicion of contempt
in his glance.

"In the presence of so much goodness and beauty I feel quite lost," he
said. "Very well, Henson, I'll see Bell. I may find the interview
diverting."

Henson strolled away with a sigh of gentle pleasure. Once out of sight he
flew to the library, where he scribbled a couple of telegrams. They were
carefully worded and related to some apocryphal parcel required without
delay, and calculated to convey nothing to the lay mind. A servant was
despatched to the village with them. Henson would have been pleased had
he known that the fascinating little American had waylaid his messenger
and read his telegrams under the plea of verifying one of the addresses.
A moment or two later and those addresses were carefully noted down in a
pocket-book. It was past five before Chris found herself with a little
time on her hands again. Littimer had kept her pretty busy all the
afternoon, partly because there was so much to do, but partly from the
pleasure that he derived from his secretary's society. He was more free
with her than he had been with any of her sex for years. It was
satisfactory, too, to learn that Littimer regarded Henson as a smug and
oily hypocrite, and that the latter was only going to be left Littimer
Castle to spite the owner's other relations.

"Now you run into the garden and get a blow." Littimer said at length. "I
am telling you a lot too much. I am afraid you are a most insinuating
young person."

Chris ran out into the garden gaily. Despite the crushing burden on her
shoulders she felt an elation and a flow of spirits she had not been
conscious of for years. The invigorating air of the place seemed to have
got into her veins, the cruel depression of the House of the Silent
Sorrow was passing away. Again, she had hope and youth on her side, and
everything was falling out beautifully. It was a pleasanter world than
Chris had anticipated.

She went along more quietly after a time. There was a tiny arbour on a
terrace overlooking the sea to which Chris had taken a particular fancy.
She picked her way daintily along the grass paths between the roses until
she suddenly emerged upon the terrace. She had popped out of the roses
swiftly as a squirrel peeps from a tree.

Somebody was in the arbour, two people talking earnestly. One man
stood up with his back to Chris, one hand gripping the outside ragged
bark of the arbour frame with a peculiarly nervous, restless force.
Chris could see the hand turned back distinctly. A piece of bark was
being crumbled under a strong thumb. Such a thumb! Chris had seen
nothing like it before.

It was as if at some time it had been smashed flat with a hammer, a
broad, strong, cruel-looking thumb, flat and sinister-looking as the head
of a snake. In the centre, like a pink pearl dropped in a filthy gutter,
was one tiny, perfectly-formed nail.

The owner of the thumb stepped back the better to give way to a fit of
hoarse laughter. He turned slightly aside and his eyes met those of
Chris. They were small eyes set in a coarse, brutal face, the face of a
criminal, Chris thought, if she were a judge of such matters. It came
quite as a shock to see that the stranger was in clerical garb.

"I--I beg your pardon," Chris stammered. "But I--"

Henson emerged from the arbour. For once in a way he appeared confused,
there was a flush on his face that told of annoyance ill suppressed.

"Please don't go away," he said. "Mr. Merritt will think that he has
alarmed you. Miss Lee, this is my very good friend and co-worker in the
field, the Reverend James Merritt."

"Is Mr. Merritt a friend of Lord Littimer's?" Chris asked, demurely.

"Littimer hates the cloth," Henson replied "Indeed, he has no sympathy
whatever with my work. I met my good friend quite by accident in the
village just now, and I brought him here for a chat. Mr. Merritt is
taking a well-earned holiday."

Chris replied graciously that she didn't doubt it. She did not deem it
necessary to add that she knew that one of Mr. Henson's mystic telegrams
had been addressed to one James Merritt at an address in Moreton Wells, a
town some fifteen miles away. That the scoundrel was up to no good she
knew perfectly well.

"Your work must be very interesting," she said. "Have you been in the
Church long, Mr. Merritt?"

Merritt said hoarsely that he had not been in the Church very long. His
dreadful grin and fog voice suggested that he was a brand plucked from
the burning, and that he had only recently come over to the side of the
angels. The whole time he spoke he never met Chris's glance once. The
chaplain of a convict prison would have turned from him in disgust.
Henson was obviously ill at ease. In his suave, diplomatic way he
contrived to manoeuvre Merritt off the ground at length.

"An excellent fellow," he said, with exaggerated enthusiasm. "It was a
great day for us when we won over James Merritt. He can reach a class
which hitherto we have not touched."

"He looks as if he had been in gaol," Chris said.

"Oh, he has," Henson admitted, candidly. "Many a time."

Chris deemed it just possible that the unpleasant experience might be
endured again, but she only smiled and expressed herself to be deeply
interested. The uneasiness in Henson's manner gradually disappeared.

Evidently the girl suspected nothing. She would have liked to have asked
a question or two about Mr. Merritt's thumb, but she deemed it prudent
not to do so.

Dinner came at length, dinner served in the great hall in honour of the
recently arrived guest, and set up in all the panoply and splendour that
Littimer affected at times. The best plate was laid out on the long
table. There were banks and coppices of flowers at either corner, a huge
palm nodded over silver and glass and priceless china. The softly shaded
electric lights made pools of amber flame on fruit and flowers and
gleaming crystal. Half-a-dozen big footmen went about their work with
noiseless tread.

Henson shook his head playfully at all this show and splendour. His good
humour was of the elephantine order, and belied the drawn anxiety of his
eyes. Luxurious and peaceful as the scene was, there seemed to Chris to
be a touch of electricity in the air, the suggestion of something about
to happen. Littimer glanced at her admiringly. She was dressed in white
satin, and she had in her hair a single diamond star of price.

"Of course Henson pretends to condemn all this kind of thing," Littimer
said. "He would have you believe that when he comes into his own the
plate and wine will be sold for the benefit of the poor, and the seats of
the mighty filled with decayed governesses and antiquated shop-walkers."

"I hope that time may long be deferred," Henson murmured.

"And so do I," Littimer said, drily, "which is one of the disadvantages
of being conservative. By the way, who was that truculent-looking
scoundrel I saw with you this afternoon?"

Henson hastened to explain. Littimer was emphatically of opinion that
such visitors were better kept at a distance for the present. When all
the rare plate and treasures of Littimer Castle had been disposed of for
philanthropic purposes it would not matter.

"There was a time when the enterprising burglar got his knowledge of the
domestic and physical geography of a house from the servants. Now he
reforms, with the great advantage that he can lay his plan of campaign
from personal observation. It is a much more admirable method, and tends
to avert suspicion from the actual criminal."

"You would not speak thus if you knew Merritt," said Henson.

"All the same, I don't want the privilege," Littimer smiled. "A man with
a face like that couldn't reform; nature would resent such an enormity.
And yet you can never tell. Physically speaking, my quondam friend
Hatherly Bell has a perfect face."

"I confess I am anxious to see him," Chris said. "I--I heard him lecture
in America. He had the most interesting theory about dogs. Mr. Henson
hates dogs."

"Yes," Henson said, shortly, "I do, and they hate me, but that does not
prevent my being interested in the coming of Dr. Bell. And nobody hopes
more sincerely than myself that he will succeed in clearly vindicating
his character."

Littimer smiled sarcastically as he trifled with his claret glass. In his
cynical way he was looking forward to the interview with a certain sense
of amusement. And there was a time when he had enjoyed Bell's society
immensely.

"Well, you will not have long to wait now," he said. "It is long past
ten, and Bell is due at any moment after eleven. Coffee in the
balcony, please."

It was a gloriously warm night, with just a faint suspicion of a breeze
on the air. Down below the sea beat with a gentle sway against the
cliffs; on the grassy slopes a belated lamb was bleating for its dam.
Chris strolled quietly down the garden with her mind at peace for a time.
She had almost forgotten her mission for the moment. A figure slipped
gently past her on the grass, but she utterly failed to notice it.

"An exceedingly nice girl, that," Littimer was saying, "and distinctly
amusing. Excuse me if I leave you here--a tendency to ague and English
night air don't blend together."

CHAPTER XXX

GONE!

It was the very moment that Henson had been waiting for. All his
listlessness had vanished. He sprang to his feet and made his way
hurriedly across the lawn. Dark as it was, he slipped along with the ease
of one who is familiar with every inch of the ground. A man half his
weight and half his age could have been no more active.

He advanced to what seemed to be the very edge of the cliff and
disappeared. There were rocks and grassy knolls which served as landmarks
to him. A slip of the foot might have resulted in a serious accident.
Above the gloom a head appeared.

"That you, Merritt?" Henson asked, hoarsely.

"Oh, it's me right enough," came the muttered reply. "Good job as I'm
used to a seafaring life, or I should never have got up those cliffs.
Where's the girl?"

"Oh, the girl's right enough. She's standing exactly where she can hear
the cry of the suffering in distress. You can leave that part of the
drama to me. She's a smart girl with plenty of pluck, but all the same I
am going to make use of her. Have you got the things?"

"Got everything, pardner. Got a proper wipe over the skull, too."

"How on earth did you manage to do that?"

"Meddling with Bell, of course. Why didn't you let him come and produce
his picture in peace? We should have been all ready to flabbergaster him
when he did come."

"My good Merritt, I have not the slightest doubt about it. My plans are
too carefully laid for them to go astray. But, at the same time, I firmly
believe in having more than one plan of attack and more than two ways of
escape. If we could have despoiled Bell of his picture it would have been
utterly useless for him to have come here. He would have gone back
preferring to accept defeat to arriving with a cock-and-bull story to the
effect that he had been robbed of his treasure on the way. And so he got
the best of you, eh?"

"Rather! I fancied that I was pretty strong, but--well, it doesn't
matter. Here I am with the tools, and I ain't going to fail this time.
Before Bell comes the little trap will be ready and you will be able to
prove an alibi."

Henson chuckled hoarsely. He loved dramatic effect, and here was one to
hand. He almost fancied that he could see the white outline of Chris's
figure from where he stood.

"Get along," he said. "There is no time to lose."

Merritt nodded and began to make his way upward. Some way above him
Chris was looking down. Her quick ear had detected some suspicious
sound. She watched eagerly. Just below her the big electric light on the
castle tower cast a band of flame athwart the cliff. Chris looked down
steadily at this. Presently she saw a hand uplifted into the belt of
flame, a hand grasping for a ledge of rock, and a quickly stifled cry
rose to her lips. The thumb on the hand was smashed flat, there was a
tiny pink nail in the centre.

Chris's heart gave one quick leap, then her senses came back to her. She
needed nobody to tell her that the owner of the hand was James Merritt.
Nor did she require any fine discrimination to perceive that he was up to
no good. That it had something to do with the plot against Bell she felt
certain. But the man was coming now, he could only reach the top of the
cliffs just under the wall where she was standing. Chris peered eagerly
down into the path of light until the intruder looked up. Then she jerked
back, forgetting that she was in the darkness and absolutely invisible.
The action was disastrous, however, for it shook Chris's diamond star
from her head, and it fell gently almost at the feet of the climber. An
instant later and his eyes had fallen upon it.

"What bloomin' luck," he said, hoarsely. "I suppose that girl yonder must
have dropped it over. Well, it is as good as a couple of hundred pound to
me, anyway. Little missie, you'd better take a tearful farewell of your
lumps of sugar, as you'll never see them again."

To Chris's quivering indignation he slipped the star into his
breast-pocket. Just for the moment the girl was on the point of crying
out. She was glad she had refrained a second after, for a really
brilliant thought occurred to her. She had never evolved anything more
clever in her life, but she did not quite realise that as yet.

Nearer and nearer the man with the maimed thumb came. Chris stepped back
into the shadow. She waited till the intruder had slipped past her in the
direction of the castle, and prepared to follow at a discreet distance.
Whatever he was after, she felt sure he was being ordered and abetted by
Reginald Henson. Two minutes, five minutes, elapsed before she moved.

What was that? Surely a voice somewhere near her moaning for help. Chris
stood perfectly still, listening for the next cry. Her sense of humanity
had been touched, she had forgotten Merritt entirely. Again the stifled
cry for help came.

"Who are you?" Chris shouted. "And where are you?"

"Henson," came the totally unexpected reply. "I'm down below on a ledge
of rock. No, I'm not particularly badly hurt, but I dare not move."

Chris paused for a moment, utterly bewildered. Henson must have been on
the look-out for his accomplice, she thought, and had missed his footing
and fallen. Pity he had not fallen a little farther, she murmured
bitterly, and broken his neck. But this was only for a moment, and her
sense of justice and humanity speedily returned.

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