The Crimson Blind

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"I've got one here to-night who recollects you perfectly well," said
Cross. "He's got a dislocated shoulder, but otherwise he is doing well.
Got a mania that he's a doctor who murdered a patient."

"Electric light anything to do with the story?" Bell asked, eagerly.

"That's the man. Seems to have a wonderfully brilliant intellect if you
can only keep him off that topic. He spotted you in North Street
yesterday, and seemed wonderfully disappointed to find you had nothing
whatever to do with this institution."

"If he is not asleep," Bell suggested, "and you have no objection--"

Cross nodded and opened the gate. Before passing inside Bell took the
rolled-up Rembrandt from his deep breast-pocket and handed it to David.

"Take care of this for me," he whispered. "I'm going inside. I've dropped
upon an old case that interested me very much years ago, and I'd like to
see my patient again. See you in the morning, I expect. Good-night."

David nodded in reply and went his way. It was intensely quiet and still
now; the weary loafer at the outside hospital seat had disappeared.
There was nobody to be seen anywhere as David placed his key in the
latch and opened the door. Inside the hall-light was burning, and so was
the shaded electric lamp in the conservatory. The study leading to the
conservatory was in darkness. The effect of the light behind was
artistic and pleasing.

It was with a sense of comfort and relief that David fastened the door
behind him. Without putting up the light in the study David laid the
Rembrandt on his table, which was immediately below the window in his
work-room. The night was hot; he pushed the top sash down liberally.

"I must get that transparency removed," he murmured, "and have the window
filled with stained glass. The stuff is artistic, but it is so frankly
what it assumes to be."

CHAPTER XVIII

A COMMON ENEMY

David idly mixed himself some whisky and soda water in the dining-room,
where he finished his cigarette. He was tired and ready for bed now, so
tired that he could hardly find energy enough to remove his boots and get
into the big carpet slippers that were so old and worn. He put down the
dining-room lights and strolled into the study. Just for a moment he sat
there contemplating with pleased, tired eyes the wilderness of bloom
before him.

Then he fell into a reverie, as he frequently did. An idea for a
fascinating story crept unbidden into his mind. He gazed vaguely around
him. Some little noise outside attracted his attention, the kind of noise
made by a sweep's brushes up a chimney. David turned idly towards the
open window. The top of it was but faintly illuminated by the light of
the conservatory gleaming dully on the transparency over the glass. But
David's eyes were keen, and he could see distinctly a man's thumb crooked
downwards over the frame of the ash. Somebody had swarmed up the
telephone holdfasts and was getting in through the window. Steel slipped
well into the shadow, but not before an idea had come to him. He removed
the rolled-up Rembrandt from the table and slipped it behind a row of
books in the book-case. Then he looked up again at the crooked thumb.

He would recognise that thumb again anywhere. It was flat like the head
of a snake, and the nail was no larger than a pea--a thumb that had
evidently been cruelly smashed at one time. The owner of the thumb might
have been a common burglar, but in the light of recent events David was
not inclined to think so. At any rate he felt disposed to give his theory
every chance. He saw a long, fustian-clad arm follow the scarred thumb,
and a hand grope all over the table.

"Curse me," a foggy voice whispered, hoarsely. "It ain't here. And the
bloke told me--"

The voice said no more, for David grabbed at the arm and caught the wrist
in a vice-like grip. Instantly another arm shot over the window and an
ugly piece of iron piping was swung perilously near Steel's head.
Unfortunately, he could see no face. As he jumped back to avoid a blow
his grasp relaxed, there was a dull thud outside, followed by the tearing
scratch of boots against a wall and the hollow clatter of flying feet.
All David could do was to close the window and regret that his
impetuosity had not been more judiciously restrained.

"Now, what particular thing was he after?" he asked himself. "But I had
better defer any further speculations on the matter till the morning.
After the fright he had my friend won't come back again. And I'm just as
tired as a dog."

But there were other things the next day to occupy David's attention
besides the visit of his nocturnal friend. He had found out enough the
previous evening to encourage him to go farther. And surely Miss Ruth
Gates could not refuse to give him further information.

He started out to call at 219, Brunswick Square, as soon as he deemed it
excusable to do so. Miss Gates was out, the solemn butler said, but she
might be found in the square gardens. David came upon her presently with
a book in her lap and herself under a shady tree. She was not reading,
her eyes were far away. As she gave David a warm greeting there was a
tender bloom on her lovely face.

"Oh, yes, I got home quite right," she said. "No suspicion was aroused at
all. And you?"

"I had a night thrilling enough for yellow covers, as Artemus Ward says.
I came here this morning to throw myself on your mercy, Miss Gates. Were
I disposed to do so, I have information enough to force your hand. But I
prefer to hear everything from your lips."

"Did Enid tell you anything?" Ruth faltered.

"Well, she allowed me to know a great deal. In the first place, I know
that you had a great hand in bringing me to 218 the other night. I know
that it was you who suggested that idea, and it was you who facilitated
the use of Mr. Gates's telephone. How the thing was stage-managed matters
very little at present. It turns out now that your friend and Dr. Bell
and myself have a common enemy."

Ruth looked up swiftly. There was something like fear in her eyes.

"Have--have you discovered the name of that enemy?" she asked.

"Yes, I know now that our foe is Mr. Reginald Henson."

"A man who is highly respected. A man who stands wonderfully high in
public estimation. There are thousands and thousands of people who look
upon him as a great and estimable creature. He gives largely in
charities, he devotes a good deal of his time to the poor. My uncle, who
_is_ a good man, if you like, declares that Reginald Henson is absolutely
indispensable to him. At the next election that man is certain to be
returned to Parliament to represent an important northern constituency.
If you told my uncle anything about him, he would laugh at you."

"I have not the slightest intention of approaching your uncle on this
matter at present."

"Because you could prove nothing. Nobody can prove anything."

"But Christiana Henson may in time."

Once more Ruth flashed a startled look at her companion.

"So you have discovered something about that?" she whispered.

"I have discovered everything about it. Legally speaking, the young lady
is dead. She died last night, as Dr. Walker will testify. She passed away
in the formula presented by me the night that I met her in the darkness
at 218, Brunswick Square. Now, will you be so good as to tell me how
those girls got hold of my synopsis?"

"That came about quite naturally. Your synopsis and proof in an open
envelope were accidentally slipped into a large circular envelope used by
a firm of seed merchants and addressed to Longdean Grange, sent out no
doubt amongst thousands of others. Chris saw it, and, prompted by
curiosity, read it. Out of that our little plot was gradually evolved.
You see, I was at school with those two girls, and they have few secrets
from me. Naturally, I suggested the scheme because I see a great deal of
Reginald Henson. He comes here; he also comes very frequently to our
house in Prince's Gate. And yet I am sorry, from the bottom of my heart,
that I ever touched the thing, for your sake."

The last words were spoken with a glance that set David's pulses beating.
He took Ruth's half-extended hand in his, and it was not withdrawn.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I shall come out all right in the end.
Still, I shall look eagerly forward to any assistance that you can afford
me. For instance, what hold has Henson got on his relatives?"

"That I cannot tell you," Ruth cried. "You must not ask me. But we were
acting for the best; our great object was to keep you out of danger."

"There is no danger to me if I can only clear myself," Steel replied. "If
you could only tell me where those bank-notes came from! When I think of
that part of the business I am filled with shame. And yet if you only
knew how fond I am of my home.... At the same time, when I found that I
was called upon to help ladies in distress I should have refused all
offers of reward. If I had done so I should have had no need of your
pity. And yet--and yet it is very sweet to me."

He pressed the hand in his, and the pressure was returned. David forget
all about his troubles for the time; and it was very cool and pleasant
and quiet there.

"I am afraid that those notes were forced upon us," she said. "Though I
frankly believe that the enemy does not know what we have learnt to do
from you. And as to the cigar-case: would it not be easy to settle that
matter by asking a few questions?"

"My dear young lady, I have done so. And the more questions I ask the
worse it is for me. The cigar-case I claimed came from Walen's, beyond
all question, and was purchased by the mysterious individual now in the
hospital. I understood that the cigar-case was the very one I admired at
Lockhart's some time ago, and--"

"If you inquire at Lockhart's you will find such to be the case."

David looked up with a puzzled expression. Ruth spoke so seriously, and
with such an air of firm conviction, that he was absolutely staggered.

"So I did," he said. "And was informed in the most positive way by the
junior partner that the case I admired had been purchased by an American
called Smith and sent to the Metropole after he had forwarded
dollar-notes for it. Surely you don't suppose that a firm like Lockhart's
would be guilty of anything--"

Ruth rose to her feet, her face pale and resolute.

"This must be looked to," she said. "The cigar-case sent to you on that
particular night was purchased at Lockhart's by myself and paid for with
my own money!"

CHAPTER XIX

ROLLO SHOWS HIS TEETH

The blinds were all down at Longdean Grange, a new desolation seemed to
be added to the gloom of the place. Out in the village it had by some
means become known that there was somebody dead in the house, either
madam herself or one of those beautiful young ladies whom nobody had ever
seen. Children loitering about the great lodge-gates regarded Williams
with respectful awe and Dr. Walker with curiosity. The doctor was the
link connecting the Grange with the outside world.

To add to the gloom of it all the bell over the stables clanged
mournfully. The noise made Walker quite nervous as he walked up the drive
by Williams's side. Not for a pension would he have dared approach the
house alone. Williams, in the seediest and most dilapidated rusty black,
had a face of deepest melancholy.

"But why that confound--Why do they ring that bell?" Walker asked,
irritably.

"Madam ordered it, sir," Williams replied. "She's queerer than ever, is
mistress. She don't say much, but Miss Christiana's death is a great
shock to her. She ordered the bell to be tolled, and she carried on awful
when Miss Enid tried to stop it."

Walker murmured vaguely something doubtless representing sympathy.

"And my other patient, Williams?" he asked. "How is he getting along?
Really, you ought to keep those dogs under better control. It's a
dreadful business altogether. Fancy a man of Mr. Henson's high character
and gentle disposition being attacked by a savage dog in the very house!
I hope the hound is securely kennelled."

"Well, he isn't, sir," Williams said, with just the glint of a grin on
his dry features. "And it wasn't altogether Rollo's fault. That dog was
so devoted to Miss Christiana as you never see. And he got to know as
the poor young lady was dying. So he creeps into the house and lies
before her bedroom door, and when Mr. Henson comes along the dog takes
it in his 'ead as he wants to go in there. And now Rollo's got inside,
and nobody except Miss Enid dare go near. I pity that there undertaker
when he comes."

Walker shuddered slightly. Longdean Grange was a fearful place for the
nerves. Nothing of the routine or the decorous ever happened there. The
fees were high and the remuneration prompt, or Walker would have handed
over his patient cheerfully to somebody else. Not for a moment did he
imagine that Williams was laughing at him. Well, he need not see the
body, which was a comfort. With a perfectly easy conscience he could give
a certificate of death. And if only somebody would stop that hideous
bell! Someone was singing quietly in the drawing-room, and the music
seemed to be strangely bizarre and out of place.

Inside it seemed like a veritable house of the dead--the shadow of
tragedy loomed everywhere. The dust rose in clouds from the floor as the
servants passed to and fro. They were all clad in black, and shuffled
uneasily, as if conscious that their clothes did not belong to them. Enid
came out into the hall to meet the doctor. Her face seemed terribly white
and drawn; there was something in her eyes that suggested anxiety more
than grief.

"I suppose you have come principally to see Mr. Henson?" she said. "But
my sister--"

"No occasion to intrude upon your grief for a moment, Miss Henson,"
Walker said, quietly. "As I have told you before, there was very little
hope for your sister from the first. It was a melancholy satisfaction to
me to find my diagnosis confirmed in every detail by so eminent an
authority as Dr. Hatherly Bell. I will give you a certificate with
pleasure--at once."

"You would like to see my sister?" Enid suggested.

The quivering anxiety was in her eyes again, the strained look on her
face. Walker was discreetly silent as to what he had heard about that
bloodhound, but he had by no means forgotten it.

"Not the least occasion, I assure you," he said, fervently. "Your sister
had practically passed away when I last saw her. There are times
when--er--you see--but really there is no necessity."

"Mr. Henson is terribly fastidious about these things."

"Then he shall be satisfied. I shall tell him that I have--er--seen the
body. And I have, you know. In these matters a medical man cannot be too
careful. If you will provide me with pen and ink--"

"Thank you very much. Will you come this way, please?"

Walker followed into the drawing-room. Mrs. Henson, wearing something
faded and dishevelled in the way of a mourning dress, was crooning some
dirge at the piano. Her white hair was streaming loosely over her
shoulders, there was a vacant stare in her eyes. The intruders might have
been statues for all the heed she took of them. Presently the discordant
music ceased, and she began to pace noiselessly up and down the room.

"Another one gone," she murmured; "the best-beloved. It is always the
best-beloved that dies, and the one we hate that is left. Take all those
coaches away, send the guests back home. Why do they come chattering and
feasting here? She shall be drawn by four black horses to Churchfield in
the dead of the night, and there laid in the family vault."

"Mrs. Henson's residence," Enid explained, in a whisper. "It is some
fifteen miles away. She has made up her mind that my sister shall be
taken away as she says--to-morrow night. Is this paper all that is
necessary for the--you understand? I have telephoned to the undertaker in
Brighton."

Walker hastened to assure the girl that what little further formality was
required he would see to himself. All he desired now was to visit Henson
and get out of the house as soon as possible. As he hurried from the
drawing-room he heard Mrs. Henson crooning and muttering, he saw the
vacant glare in her eyes, and vaguely wondered how soon he should have
another patient here.

Reginald Henson sat propped up in his bed, white and exhausted. Beyond
doubt he had had a terrible shock and fright, and the droop of his
eyelids told of shattered nerves. There was a thick white bandage round
his throat, his left shoulder was strapped tightly. He spoke with
difficulty.

"Do we feel any better this morning?" Walker asked, cheerfully.

"No, we don't," said Henson, with a total absence of his usual
graciousness of manner. "We feel confoundedly weak, and sick, and dizzy.
Every time I drop off to sleep I wake with a start and a feeling that
that infernal dog is smothering me. Has the brute been shot yet?"

"I don't fancy so; in fact, he is still at his post upstairs, and
therefore--"

"Therefore you have not seen the body of my poor dear cousin?"

"Otherwise I could have given no certificate," Walker said, with dignity.
"If I have satisfied myself, sir, and the requirements of the law, why,
then, everybody is satisfied. I _have_ seen the body."

Technically the little doctor spoke the truth. Henson muttered
something that sounded like an apology. Walker smiled graciously and
suggested that rest and a plain diet were all that his patient needed.
Rest was the great thing. The bandages need not be removed for a day or
two, at the expiration of which time he would look in again. Once the
road was reached in safety Walker took off his hat and wiped the beads
from his forehead.

"What a house," he muttered. "What a life to lead. Thank goodness I need
not go there again before Saturday. If anybody were to offer me a small
glass of brandy with a little soda now, I should feel tempted to break
through my rule and drink it."

Meanwhile the long terror of the day dragged on inside the house. The
servants crept about the place on tiptoe, the hideous bell clanged out,
Mrs. Henson paced wearily up and down the drawing-room, singing and
muttering to herself, until Enid was fain to fly or break down and yell
hysterically. It was one of Margaret Henson's worst days.

The death of Christiana seemed to affect her terribly. Enid watched her
in terror. More than once she was fearful that the frail thread would
snap--the last faint glimmer of reason go out for ever. And yet it would
be madness to tell Margaret Henson the truth. In the first place she
would not have understood, and on the other hand she might have
comprehended enough to betray to Reginald Henson. As it was, her grief
was obvious and sincere enough. The whole thing was refinedly cruel, but
really there was no help for it. And things had gone on splendidly.

Henson was powerless to interfere, and the doctor was satisfied. Once she
had put her hand to the plough Enid's quick brain saw her through. But
she would have been hard put to it to deceive Henson under his very nose
without the help of the bloodhound. Now she could see her way still
farther. She waited nervously for a ring from the lodge-gates to the
house, and about four o'clock it came. The undertaker was at the gates
waiting for an escort to the Grange.

Enid passed her tongue out over a pair of dry lips. The critical moment
was at hand. If she could get through the next hour she was safe. If
not--but there must be no "if not," she told herself. The undertaker
came, suave, quiet, respectful, but he dropped back from the bedroom door
as he saw two gleaming, amber eyes regarding him menacingly.

"The dog loved my sister," Enid explained, quietly. "But he has found
his way to her room, and he refuses to move. He fancies that we have
done something her.... Oh, no, I couldn't poison him! And it would be a
dreadful thing if there were to be anything like a struggle _here_.
Come, Rollo."

Evidently the dog had learned his lesson well. He wagged his great tail,
but refused to move. The undertaker took a couple of steps forward and
Rollo's crest rose. There was a flash of white teeth and a growl. At the
end of half an hour no progress had been made.

"There's only one thing for it," suggested Williams, in his rusty voice.
"We can get the dog away for ten minutes at midnight. He likes a run
then, and I'll bring the other dogs to fetch him, like."

"My time is very valuable just now," the undertaker suggested, humbly.

"Then you had better measure me," said Enid, turning a face absolutely
flaming red and deadly white to the speaker. "It is a dreadful, ghastly
business altogether, but I cannot possibly think of any other way. The
idea of anything like a struggle here is abhorrent.... And the dog's
fidelity is so touching. My sister and I were exactly alike, except that
she was fairer than me."

The undertaker was understood to demur slightly on professional grounds.
It was very irregular and not in the least likely to give satisfaction.

"What does it matter?" Enid cried, passionately. She was acting none the
less magnificently because her nerves were quivering like harpstrings.
"When I am dead you can fling me in a ditch, for all I care. We are a
strange family and do strange things. The question of satisfaction need
not bother you. Take my measure and send the coffin home to-morrow, and
we will manage to do the rest. Then to-morrow night you will have a
four-horse hearse here at eleven o'clock, and drive the coffin to
Churchfield Church, where you will be expected. After that your work will
be finished."

The bewildered young man responded that things should be exactly as the
young lady required. He had seen many strange and wild things in his
time, but none so strange and weird as this. It was all utterly
irregular, of course, but people after all had a right to demand what
they paid for. Enid watched the demure young man in black down the
corridor, and then everything seemed to be enveloped in a dense purple
mist, the world was spinning under her feet, there was a great noise like
the rush of mighty waters in her brain. With a great effort she threw off
the weakness and came to herself, trembling from head to foot.

"Courage," she murmured, "courage. This life has told on me more than I
thought. With Chris's example before me I must not break down now."

CHAPTER XX

FRANK LITTIMER

The lamps gleamed upon the dusty statuary and pictures and faded flowers
in the hall, they glinted upon a long polished oak casket there reposing
upon trestles. Ever and anon a servant would peep in and vanish again as
if ashamed of something. The house was deadly quiet now, for Mrs. Henson
had fallen asleep worn out with exhaustion, and Enid had instantly
stopped the dreadful clamour of the bell. The silence that followed was
almost as painful as the noise had been.

On the coffin were wreaths of flowers. Enid sat in the drawing-room with
the door open, where she could see everything, but was herself unseen.
She was getting terribly anxious and nervous again; the hour was near
eleven, and the hearse might arrive at any time. She would know no kind
of peace until she could get that hideous mockery out of the house.

She sat listening thus, straining her ears to catch the slightest sound.
Suddenly there came a loud clamour at the front door, an imperative
knocking that caused Enid's heart to come into her mouth. Who could it
be? What stranger had passed the dogs in that way?

She heard crabbed, sour, but courageous old Williams go to the door. She
heard the clang of bolts and the rattle of chains, and then a weird cry
from Williams. A voice responded that brought Enid, trembling and livid,
into the hall. A young man with a dark, exceedingly handsome face and
somewhat effeminate mouth stood there, with eyes for nothing but the
shining flower-decked casket on the trestles. He seemed beside himself
with rage and grief; he might have been a falsely imprisoned convict face
to face with the real culprit.

"Why didn't you let me know?" he cried. "Why didn't you let me know?"

His voice rang in the roof. Enid flew to his side and placed her hand
upon his lips.

"Your mother is asleep, Frank," she said. "She has had no sleep for three
nights. A long rest may be the means of preserving her sanity. Why did
you come here?"

The young man laughed silently. It was ghastly mirth to see, and it
brought the tears into Enid's eyes. She had forgotten the danger of the
young man's presence.

"I heard that Chris was ill," he said. "They told me that she was
dying. And I could not keep away. And now I have come too late. Oh,
Chris, Chris!"

He fell on his knees by the side of the coffin, his frame shaken by
tearless sobs. Enid bit her lips to keep back the words that rose to
them. She would have given much to have spoken the truth. But at any
hazard she must remain silent. She waited till the paroxysm of grief had
passed away, then she touched the intruder gently on the shoulder.

"There is great danger for you in this house," she said.

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