The Crimson Blind

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Meanwhile, with no suspicion of the path he was treading, Bell had gone
upstairs. He came at length to the door of the room where the sick girl
lay. There was a subdued light inside and the faint suggestion of illness
that clings to the chamber of the sufferer. Bell caught a glimpse of a
white figure lying motionless in bed. It was years now since he had acted
thus in a professional capacity, but the old quietness and caution came
back by instinct. As he would have entered Margaret Henson came out and
closed the door.

"You are not going in there," she said. "No, no. Everything of mine
you touch you blight and wither. If the girl is to die, let her die
in peace."

She would have raised her voice high, but a lightning glance from Bell
quieted her. It was not exactly madness that he had to deal with, and he
knew it. The woman required firm, quiet treatment. Dr. Walker stood
alongside, anxious and nervous. The man with the quiet practice of the
well-to-do doctor was not used to scenes of this kind.

"You have something to conceal," Bell said, sternly. "Open the door."

"Really, my dear sir," Walker said, fussily. "Really, I fancy that under
the circumstances--"

"You don't understand this kind of case," Bell interrupted. "I do."

Walker dropped aside with a muttered apology. Bell approached the figure
in the doorway and whispered a few words rapidly in her ear. The effect
was electrical. The figure seemed to wilt and shrivel up, all the power
and resistance had gone. She stepped aside, moaning and wringing her
hands. She babbled of strange things; the old, far-away look came into
her eyes again.

Without a word of comment or sign of triumph Bell entered the sick room.
Then he raised his head and sniffed the heavy atmosphere as an eager
hound might have done. A quick, sharp question rose to his lips, only to
be instantly suppressed as he noted the vacant glance of his colleague.

The white figure on the bed lay perfectly motionless. It was the figure
of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, a beauty heightened and
accentuated by the dead-white pallor of her features. Still the face
looked resolute and the exquisitely chiselled lips were firm.

"Albumen," Bell muttered. "What fiend's game is this? I wonder if that
scoundrel--but, no. In that case there would be no object in concealing
my presence here. I wonder--"

He paused and touched the pure white brow with his fingers. At the
same moment Enid came into the room. She panted like one who has run
fast and far.

"Well," she whispered, "is she better, better or--Hatherly, read this."

The last words were so low that Bell hardly heard them. He shot a swift
glance at his colleague before he opened the paper. One look and he had
mastered the contents. Then the swift glance was directed from Walker to
the girl standing there looking at Bell with a world of passionate
entreaty and longing in her eyes.

"It is _your_ sister who lies there," Bell whispered, meaningly, "and
yet you--"

He paused, and Enid nodded. There was evidently a great struggle going on
in Bell's mind. He was grappling with something that he only partially
understood, but he did know perfectly well that he was being asked to do
something absolutely wrong and that he was going to yield for the sake of
the girl he loved.

He rose abruptly from the bedside and crossed over to Walker.

"You are perfectly correct," he said. "At this rate--at this rate the
patient cannot possibly last till the morning. It is quite hopeless."

Walker smiled feebly.

"It is a melancholy satisfaction to have my opinion confirmed," he said.
"Miss Henson, if you will get Williams to see me as far as the
lodge-gates ... it is so late that--er--"

Williams came at length, and the little doctor departed. Enid fairly
cowered before the blazing, searching look that Bell turned upon her. She
fell to plucking the bedclothes nervously.

"What does it mean?" he asked, hoarsely. "What fiend's plaything are you
meddling with? Don't you know that if that girl dies it will be murder?
It was only for your sake that I didn't speak my mind before the fool who
has just gone. He has seen murder done under his eyes for days, and he is
ready to give a certificate of the cause of death. And the strange thing
is that in the ordinary way he would be quite justified in doing so."

"Chris is not going to die; at least, not in that way," Enid
whispered, hoarsely.

"Then leave her alone. No more drugs; no medicine even. Give Nature a
chance. Thank Heaven, the girl has a perfect constitution."

"Chris is not going to die," Enid repeated, doggedly, "but the
certificate will be given, all the same. Oh, Hatherly, you must trust
me--trust me as you have never done before. Look at me, study me. Did you
ever know me to do a mean or dishonourable thing?"

They were down in the drawing-room again; David waiting, with a strange
sense of embarrassment under Margaret Henson's distant eyes; indeed, it
was probable that she had never noticed him at all. All the same she
turned eagerly to Bell.

"Tell me the worst," she cried. "Tell me all there is to know."

"Your niece's sufferings are over," Bell said, gravely; "I have no more
to tell you."

A profound silence followed, broken presently by angry voices outside.
Then Williams looked in at the door and beckoned Enid to him. His face
was wreathed in an uneasy grin.

"Mr. Henson has got away," he said. "Blest if I can say how. And they
dogs have rolled him about, and tore his clothes, and made such a picture
of him as you never saw. And a sweet temper he's in!"

"Where is he now?" Enid asked. "There are people here he must not see."

"Well, he came back in through the study window, swearing dreadful for so
respectable a gentleman. And he went right up to his room, after ordering
whisky and soda-water."

Enid flew back to the drawing-room. Not a moment was to be lost. At any
hazard Reginald Henson must be kept in ignorance of the presence of
strangers. A minute later, and the darkness of the night had swallowed
them up. Williams fastened the lodge-gates behind them, and they turned
their faces in the direction of Rottingdean Road.

"A strange night's work," David said, presently.

"Aye, but pregnant with result," Bell answered. There was a stern,
exulting ring in his voice. "There is much to do and much danger to be
faced, but we are on the right track at last. But why did you send me
that note just now?"

David smiled as he lighted a cigarette.

"It is part of the scheme," he said. "Part of my scheme, you understand.
But, principally, I sent you the note because Miss Enid asked me to."

CHAPTER XVI

MARGARET SEES A GHOST

With a sigh of unutterable relief Enid heard Williams returning. Reginald
Henson had not come down yet, and the rest of the servants had retired
some time. Williams came up with a request as to whether he could do
anything more before he went to bed.

"Just one thing," said Enid. "The good dogs have done their work well
to-night, but they have not quite finished. Find Rollo for me, and bring
him here quick. Then you can shut up the house, and I will see that Mr.
Henson is made comfortable after his fright."

The big dog came presently and followed Enid timidly upstairs. Apparently
the great black-muzzled brute had been there before, as evidently he knew
he was doing wrong. He crawled along the corridor till he came to the
room where the sick girl lay, and here he followed Enid. The lamp was
turned down low as Enid glanced at the bed. Then she smiled faintly, yet
hopefully.

There was nobody in the room. The patient's bed was empty!

"It works well," Enid murmured. "May it go on as it has been started.
Lie down, Rollo; lie there, good dog. And if anybody comes in tear him
to pieces."

The great brute crouched down obediently, thumping his tail on the floor
as an indication that he understood. As if a load had been taken from her
mind Enid crept down the stairs. She had hardly reached the hall before
Henson followed her. His big face was white with passion; he was
trembling from head to foot from fright and pain. There was a red rash on
his forehead that by no means tended to improve his appearance.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, hoarsely.

Enid looked at him coolly. She could afford to do so now. All the danger
was past, and she felt certain that the events of the evening were
unknown to him.

"I might ask you the same question," she said. "You look white and
shaken; you might have been thrown violently into a heap of stones. But
please don't make a noise. It is not fitting now. Chris--"

Enid hesitated; the prevarication did not come so easily as she
had expected.

"Chris has gone," she said. "She passed away an hour ago."

Henson muttered something that sounded like consolation. He could be
polite and suave enough on occasions, but not to-night. Even
philanthropists are selfish at times. Moreover, his nerves were badly
shaken and he wanted a stimulant badly.

"I am going to bed," Enid said, wearily. "Goodnight."

She went noiselessly upstairs, and Henson passed into the library. He was
puzzled over this sudden end of Christiana Henson. He was half inclined
to believe that she was not dead at all; he belonged to the class of men
who believe nothing without proof. Well, he could easily ascertain that
for himself. There would be quite time enough in the morning.

For a long time Henson sat there thinking and smoking, as was his usual
custom. Like other great men, he had his worries and troubles, and that
they were mainly of his own making did not render them any lighter. So
long as Margaret Henson was under the pressure of his thumb, money was no
great object. But there were other situations where money was utterly
powerless.

Henson was about to give it up as a bad job, for tonight at any rate. He
wondered bitterly what his admirers would say if they knew everything. He
wondered--what was that?

Somebody creeping about the house, somebody talking in soft, though
distinct, whispers. His quick ears detected that sound instantly. He
slipped into the hall; Margaret Henson was there, with the remains of
what had once been a magnificent opera-cloak over her shoulders.

"How you startled me!" Henson said, irritably. "Why don't you go to bed?"

Enid, looking over the balustrade from the landing, wondered so also, but
she kept herself prudently hidden. The first words that she heard drove
all the blood from her heart.

"I cannot," the feeble, moaning voice said. "The house is full of ghosts;
they haunt and follow me everywhere. And Chris is dead, and I have seen
her spirit."

"So I'm told," Henson said, with brutal callousness. "What was the
ghost like?"

"Like Chris. All pale and white, with a frightened look on her face. And
she was all dressed in white, too, with a cloak about her shoulders. And
just when I was going to speak to her she turned and disappeared into
Enid's bedroom. And there are other ghosts--"

"One at a time, please," Henson said, grimly. "So Christiana's ghost
passed into her sister's bedroom. You come and sit quietly in the library
whilst I investigate matters."

Margaret Henson complied in her dull, mechanical way, and Enid flew like
a flash of light to her room. Another girl was there--a girl exceedingly
like her, but looking wonderfully pale and drawn.

"That fiend suspects," Enid said. "How unfortunate it was that you
should meet aunt like that. Chris, you must go back again. Fly to your
own room and compose yourself. Only let him see you lying white and still
there, and he must be satisfied."

Chris rose with a shudder.

"And if the wretch offers to touch me," she moaned, "If he does--"

"He will not. He dare not. Heaven help him if he tries any experiment of
that kind. If he does, Rollo will kill him to a certainty."

"Ah, I had forgotten the faithful dog. Those dogs are more useful to us
than a score of men. I will step by the back way and through my
dressing-room. Oh, Enid, how glad I shall be to find myself outside the
walls of this dreadful house!"

She flew along the corridor and gained her room in safety. It was an
instant's work to throw off her cloak and compose herself rigidly under
the single white sheet. But though she lay still her heart was beating
to suffocation as she heard the creak and thud of a heavy step coming up
the stairs. Then the door was opened in a stealthy way and Henson came
in. He could see the outline of the white figure, and a sigh of
satisfaction escaped him. A less suspicious man would have retired at
once; a man less engaged upon his task would have seen two great amber
eyes close to the floor.

"An old woman's fancy," he muttered. "Still, as I am here, I'll make
sure that--"

He stretched out his hand to touch the marble forehead, there was a snarl
and a gurgle, and Henson came to the ground with a hideous crash that
carried him staggering beyond the door into the corridor. Rollo had the
intruder by the throat; a thousand crimson and blue stars danced before
the wretched man's eyes; he grappled with his foe with one last
despairing effort, and then there came over him a vague, warm
unconsciousness. When he came to himself he was lying on his bed, with
Williams and Enid bending over him.

"How did it happen?" Enid asked, with simulated anxiety.

"I--I was walking along the corridor," Henson gasped, "going--going to
bed, you see; and one of those diabolical dogs must have got into the
house. Before I knew what I was doing the creature flew at my throat and
dragged me to the floor. Telephone for Walker at once. I am dying,
Williams."

He fell back once more utterly lost to his surroundings. There was a
great, gaping, raw wound at the side of the throat that caused Enid
to shudder.

"Do you think he is--dead, Williams?" she asked.

"No such luck as that," Williams said, with the air of a confirmed
pessimist. "I hope you locked that there bedroom door and put the key in
your pocket, miss. I suppose we'd better send for the doctor, unless you
and me puts him out of his misery. There's one comfort, however, Mr.
Henson will be in bed for the next fortnight, at any rate, so he'll be
powerless to do any prying about the house. The funeral will be over long
before he's about again."

* * * * *

The first grey streaks of dawn were in the air as Enid stood outside the
lodge-gates. She was not alone, for a neat figure in grey, marvellously
like her, was by her side. The figure in grey was dressed for travelling
and she carried a bag in her hand.

"Good-bye, dear, and good luck to you," she said. "It is dangerous
to delay."

"You have absolutely everything that you require?" Enid asked.

"Everything. By the time you are at breakfast I shall be in London. And
once I am there the search for the secret will begin in earnest."

"You are sure that Reginald Henson suspected nothing?"

"I am perfectly certain that he was satisfied; indeed, I heard him say
so. Still, if it had not been for the dogs! We are going to succeed,
Enid, something at my heart tells me so. See how the sun shines on
your face and in your dear eyes. Au revoir, an omen--an omen of a
glorious future."

CHAPTER XVII

THE PACE SLACKENS

Steel lay sleepily back in the cab, not quite sure whether his
cigarette was alight or not. They were well into the main road again
before Bell spoke.

"It is pretty evident that you and I are on the same track," he said.

"I am certain that I am on the right one," David replied; "but, when I
come to consider the thing calmly, it seems more by good luck than
anything else. I came out with you to-night seeking adventure, and I am
bound to admit that I found it. Also, I found the lady who interviewed me
in the darkness, which is more to the point."

"As a matter of fact, you did nothing of the kind," said Bell, with the
suggestion of a laugh.

"Oh! Case of the wrong room over again. I was ready to swear it. Whom did
I speak to? Whose voice was it that was so very much like hers?"

"The lady's sister. Enid Henson was not at 218, Brunswick Square, on
the night in question. Of that you may be certain. But it's a queer
business altogether. Rascality I can understand. I am beginning to
comprehend the plot of which I am the victim. But I don't mind
admitting that up to the present I fail to comprehend why those girls
evolved the grotesque scheme for getting assistance at your hands. The
whole thing savours of madness."

"I don't think so," David said, thoughtfully. "The girls are romantic as
well as clever. They are bound together by the common ties of a common
enmity towards a cunning and utterly unscrupulous scoundrel. By the
merest accident in the world they discovered that I am in a position to
afford them valuable advice and assistance. At the same time they don't
want me to be brought into the business, for two reasons--the first,
because the family secret is a sacred one; the second, because any
disclosures would land me in great physical danger. Therefore they put
their heads together and evolve this scheme. Call it a mad venture if you
like, but if you consider the history of your own country you can find
wilder schemes evolved and carried out by men who have had brains enough
to be trusted with the fortunes of the nation. If these girls had been
less considerate for my safety--"

"But," Bell broke in eagerly, "they failed in that respect at the very
outset. You must have been spotted instantly by the foe, who has
cunningly placed you in a dangerous position, perhaps as a warning to
mind your own business in future. And if those girls come forward to save
you--and to do so they must appear in public, mind you--they are bound to
give away the whole thing. Mark the beautiful cunning of it. My word, we
have a foe worthy of our steel to meet."

"_We_? Do you mean to say that your enemy and mine is a common one?"

"Certainly. When I found my foe I found yours."

"And who may he be, by the same token?"

"Reginald Henson. Mind you, I had no more idea of it than the dead when I
went to Longdean Grange to-night. I went there because I had begun to
suspect who occupied the place and to try and ascertain how the Rembrandt
engraving got into 218, Brunswick Square. Miss Gates must have heard us
talking over the matter, and that was why she went to Longdean Grange
to-night."

"I hope she got home safe," said David. "The cab man says he put her down
opposite the Lawns."

"I hope so. Well, I found out who the foe was. And I have a pretty good
idea why he played that trick upon me. He knew that Enid Henson and
myself were engaged; he could see what a danger to his schemes it would
be to have a man like myself in the family. Then the second Rembrandt
turned up, and there was his chance for wiping me off the slate. After
that came the terrible family scandal between Lord Littimer and his wife.
I cannot tell you anything of that, because I cannot speak with definite
authority. But you could judge of the effect of it on Lady Littimer
to-night."

"I haven't the faintest recollection of seeing Lady Littimer to-night."

"My dear fellow, the poor lady whom you met as Mrs. Henson is really Lady
Littimer. Henson is her maiden name, and those girls are her nieces.
Trouble has turned the poor woman's brain. And at the bottom of the whole
mystery is Reginald Henson, who is not only nephew on his mother's side,
but is also next heir but one to the Littimer title. At the present
moment he is blackmailing that unhappy creature, and is manoeuvring to
get the whole of her large fortune in his hands. Reginald Henson is the
man those girls want to circumvent, and for that reason they came to you.
And Henson has found it out to a certain extent and placed you in an
awkward position."

"Witness my involuntary guest and the notes and the cigar-case," David
said. "But does he know what I advised one of the girls--my princess of
the dark room--to do?"

"I don't fancy he does. You see, that advice was conveyed by word of
mouth. The girls dared not trust themselves to correspondence, otherwise
they might have approached you in a more prosaic manner. But I confess
you startled me to-night."

"What do you mean by that?"

"When you sent me that note. What you virtually asked me to do was to
countenance murder. When I went into the sick room I saw that Christiana
Henson was dying. The first idea that flashed across my mind was that
Reginald Henson was getting the girl out of the way for his own purposes.
My dear fellow, the whole atmosphere literally spoke of albumen. Walker
must have been blind not to see how he was being deceived. I was about to
give him my opinion pretty plainly when your note came up to me. And
there was Enid, with her whole soul in her large eyes, pleading for my
silence. If the girl died I was accessory after and before the fact. You
will admit that that was a pretty tight place to put a doctor in."

"That's because you didn't know the facts of the case, my dear Bell."

"Then perhaps you'll be so good as to enlighten me," Bell said, drily.

"Certainly. That was part of my scheme. In that synopsis of the story
obtained by the girls by some more or less mechanical means, the reputed
death of a patient forms the crux of the tale. The idea occurred to me
after reading a charge against a medical student some time ago in the
_Standard_. The man wanted to get himself out of the way; he wanted to
be considered as dead, in fact. By the artful use of albumen in certain
doses he produced symptoms of disease which will be quite familiar to
you. He made himself so ill that his doctor naturally concluded that he
was dying. As a matter of fact, he was dying. Had he gone on in the same
way another day he would have been dead. Instead of this he drops the
dosing and, going to his doctor in disguise, says that he _is_ dead. He
gets a certificate of his own demise, and there you are. I am not
telling you fiction, but hard fact recorded in a high-class paper. The
doctor gave the certificate without viewing the body. Well, it struck me
that we had here the making of a good story, and I vaguely outlined it
for a certain editor. In my synopsis I suggested that it was a woman who
proposed to pretend to die thus so as to lull the suspicions of a
villain to sleep, and thus possess herself of certain vital documents.
My synopsis falls into certain hands. The owner of those hands asks me
how the thing was done. I tell her. In other words, the so-called murder
that you imagined you had discovered to-night was the result of design.
Walker will give his certificate, Reginald Henson will regard Miss
Christiana as dead and buried, and she will be free to act for the
honour of the family."

"But they might have employed somebody else."

"Who would have had to be told the history of the family dishonour. So
far I fancy I have made the ground quite clear. But the mystery of the
cigar-case and the notes and the poor fellow in the hospital is still as
much a mystery as ever. We are like two allied forces working together,
but at the same time under the disadvantage of working in the dark. You
can see, of course, that the awful danger I stand in is as terrible for
those poor girls."

"Of course I do. Still, we have a key to your trouble. It is a
dreadfully rusty one and will want a deal of oiling before it's used,
but there it is."

"Where, my dear fellow, where?" David asked.

"Why, in the Sussex County Hospital, of course. The man may die, in
which case everything must be sacrificed in order to save your good
name. On the other hand, he may get better, and then he will tell us all
about it."

"He might. On the other hand, he might plead ignorance. It is possible
for him to suggest that the whole affair was merely a coincidence, so far
as he was concerned."

"Yes, but he would have to explain how he burgled your house, and what
business he had to get himself half murdered in your conservatory. Let us
get out here and walk the rest of the way to your house. Our cabby knows
quite enough about us without having definite views as to your address."

The cabman was dismissed with a handsome _douceur_, and the twain turned
off the front at the corner of Eastern Terrace. Late as it was, there
were a few people lounging under the hospital wall, where there was a
suggestion of activity about the building unusual at that time of the
night. A rough-looking fellow, who seemed to have followed Bell and Steel
from the front, dropped into a seat by the hospital gates and laid his
head back as if utterly worn out. Just inside the gates a man was smoking
a cigarette.

"Halloa, Cross," David cried, "you are out late tonight!"

"Heavy night," Cross responded, sleepily, "with half a score of accidents
to finish with. Some of Palmer of Lingfield's private patients thrown off
a coach and brought here in the ambulance. Unless I am greatly mistaken,
that is Hatherly Bell with you."

"The same," Bell said, cheerfully. "I recollect you in Edinburgh. So some
of Palmer's patients have come to grief. Most of his special cases used
to pass through my hands."

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