CHAPTER IV.
SILENCE REIGNS.
Was it indeed a grave, and were the phantom shapes thrown upon thewalls and ceiling by the flickering light the phantoms of the deadthat were buried there? How easy to imagine this--how easy to imaginethat, animated by a spirit of revenge for past wrongs and injuries,they moved and shifted, and glided hither and thither, and tookfantastic and monstrous form, for the purpose of striking terror intothe heart of the enemy who had filled their lives with suffering andbrought them to an untimely end!
Silence reigned.
Were those shapes and forms the only phantoms in the lonely house? Or,in the spaces that were unlighted--say in the passages and on thestairs leading to the room in which its owner transacted his business,and into another room in which he slept--were other phantoms moving,as dumb as they, as silent as they, with thoughts as murderous andwith power more sure? This phantom, now, unseen by reason of thedarkness, pausing with finger at its lips, all its senses merged inthe sense of hearing as it listened for a sound to warn it that thetime was not yet ripe? Had this phantom escaped from the lighted roomin fear lest, were it visible to mortal eyes, its dread purpose wouldbe frustrated, and that a frenzied cry ringing out upon the air, mightreach some chance and aimless wanderer, and thus mar the murderousdesign lurking in its breast? Even of this the risk was small, forrarely indeed did any such wanderer find himself in Catchpole Square,or any man, who, being there without design, did not gladly andquickly grope his way out of it. The very guardians of the nightavoided it, and contented themselves with the slightest and swiftestscrutiny, as of a place which bore an evil reputation and had best beleft alone. It happened at odd times that some houseless and homelessvagrant, slinking in, curled himself up in a dark corner and dozedtill daylight came, creeping away then with no feeling of gratitudefor the shelter it had afforded him. Once a hapless child, sleepingthere during a fierce snowstorm, had been found dead in the morning,covered with a white shroud. But that was long ago.
But this one phantom was in the house--now pausing, now creepingslowly along, now pausing again, now crouching with its head against apanel, and so remaining for many dumb minutes. And another phantom wasat its heels.
And when the lights were out, and the rooms, like the stairs andpassages, were in darkness and the master in his bed, they were stillthere. So stealthy were their movements that no sound proceeded fromthem; their breathing was so faint that it would scarcely havedisturbed a wintry leaf.
Silence reigned.
The sobbing and the moaning of the wind continued. Could it havecarried the news to the wider thoroughfares, trodden by men and womenwhose business or pleasure kept them out so late, what message wouldit have conveyed? In its whispering voices would the word MURDER havefound a place?
At no great distance from the Square stood Saint Michael's Church, itsclock proclaiming the hour.
Ten!
Eleven!
Twelve!
How long these hours took to strike! A measured pause between eachstroke, and in that pause the passing away of a life in the life ofthe great city, or the ushering in of one. This life at an end, thiswith a feeble cry at the journey before it.
One o'clock!
Samuel Boyd was asleep. No prayer on his lips, no prayer in his heart,before he retired to rest. He slept in peace, undisturbed by fear orremorse.
Suddenly he awoke. His heart beat wildly, a cold perspiration brokeout on his forehead.
With a powerful hand pressed upon his mouth, and another at histhroat, no man can cry aloud. But while strength remains he can gasp,and moan, and fight for dear life--and may struggle out of bed, stillwith the hand upon his mouth, and another at his throat--and maysummon to his aid all the despairing forces of his body--nay, evenwhile thus imprisoned, succeed in dragging his adversaries this wayand that--and may in his agony prolong the execution of the ruthlesspurpose. Though not avert it.
The door between the two rooms is open while this muffled struggle isgoing on. Furniture is overturned and displaced, tapestry torn fromthe walls, and smaller articles tossed in all directions. On the partof one of the men there is displayed a cold, cruel, relentless methodin the execution of his design; on the part of the other a wild,despairing effort to obtain possession of a weapon. He succeeds. Apistol is in his hand.
A shot rings out! Another!--and the wax figure of the Chinamancollapses into a chair with a bullet in its heart.
Again Saint Michael's Church proclaims the hour.
Two o'clock!
Silence reigns.
Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery Page 5
