Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  III

  With that abruptness characteristic of the coast and season, a high wind had sprung up since the party had separated. Now a continuous booming filled the night, telling how the wrath of the North Atlantic spent itself upon the western rocks.

  To a town-dweller, more used to the vaguely soothing hum of the metropolis, this grander music of the elements was a poor sedative. Sleep evaded me, tired though I was, and I presently found myself drifting into that uncomfortable frame of mind between dreaming and waking, wherein one’s brain becomes a torturing parrot-house, filled with some meaningless reiteration.

  “The riddle of the ragged staff — the riddle of the ragged staff,” was the phrase that danced maddeningly through my brain. It got to that pass with me, familiar enough to victims of insomnia, when the words began to go to a sort of monotonous melody.

  Thereupon, I determined to light a candle and read for a while, in the hope of inducing slumber.

  The old clock down in the hall proclaimed the half-hour. I glanced at my watch. It was half-past one. The moaning of the wind and the wild song of the sea continued unceasingly.

  Then I dropped my paper — and listened.

  Amid the mighty sounds which raged about Ragstaff Park it was one slight enough which had attracted my attention. But in the elemental music there was a sameness which rendered it, after a time, negligible. Indeed, I think sleep was not far off when this new sound detached itself from the old — like the solo from its accompaniment.

  Something had fallen, crashingly, within the house.

  It might be some object insecurely fastened which had been detached in the breeze from an open window. And, realising this, I waited and listened.

  For some minutes the wind and the waves alone represented sound. Then my ears, attuned to this stormy conflict, and sensitive to anything apart from it, detected a faint scratching and tapping.

  My room was the first along the corridor leading to the west wing, and therefore the nearest to the landing immediately above the hall. I determined that this mysterious disturbance proceeded from downstairs. At another time, perhaps, I might have neglected it, but to-night, and so recently following upon Lorian’s story of the attempt upon his father’s studio, I found myself keenly alive to the burglarious possibilities of Ragstaff.

  I got out of bed, put on my slippers, and, having extinguished the candle, was about to open the door when I observed a singular thing.

  A strong light — which could not be that of the moon, for ordinarily the corridor beyond was dark — shone under the door!

  Even as I looked in amazement it was gone.

  Very softly I turned the knob.

  Careful as I was, it slipped from my grasp with a faint click. To this, I think, I owed my failure to see more than I did see. But what I saw was sufficiently remarkable.

  Cloud-banks raced across the sky tempestuously, and, as I peered over the oaken balustrade down into the hall, one of these impinged upon the moon’s disc and, within the space of two seconds or less, had wholly obscured it. Upon where a long, rectangular patch of light, splashed with lozenge-shaped shadows spread from a mullioned window across the polished floor, crept a band of blackness — widened — claimed half — claimed the whole — and left the hall in darkness.

  Yet, in the half-second before the coming of the cloud, and as I first looked down, I had seen something — something indefinable. All but immediately it was lost in the quick gliding shadow — yet I could be sure that I had seen — what?

  A gleaming, metallic streak — almost I had said a sword — which leapt from my view into the bank of gloom!

  Passing the cloud, and the moon anew cutting a line of light through the darkness of the hall, nothing, no one, remained to be seen. I might have imagined the presence of the shining blade, rod, or whatever had seemed to glitter in the moon-rays; and I should have felt assured that such was the case but for the suspicion (and it was nearly a certainty) that a part of the shadow which had enwrapped the mysterious appearance had been of greater depth than the rest — more tangible; in short, had been no shadow, but a substance — the form of one who lurked there.

  Doubtful how to act, and unwilling to disturb the house without good reason, I stood hesitating at the head of the stairs.

  A grating sound, like that of a rusty lock, and clearly distinguishable above the noise occasioned by the wind, came to my ears. I began slowly and silently to descend the stairs.

  At the foot I paused, looking warily about me. There was no one in the hall.

  A new cloud swept across the face of the moon, and utter darkness surrounded me again. I listened intently, but nothing stirred.

  Briefly I searched all those odd nooks and corners in which the rambling place abounded, but without discovering anything to account for the phenomena which had brought me there at that hour of the night. The big doors were securely bolted, as were all the windows. Extremely puzzled, I returned to my room and to bed.

  In the morning I said nothing to our host respecting the mysterious traffic of the night, since nothing appeared to be disturbed in any way.

  “Did you hear it blowing?” asked Colonel Reynor during breakfast. “The booming of the waves sounded slap under the house. Good job the wind has dropped this morning.”

  It was, indeed, a warm and still morning, when on the moorland strip beyond the long cornfield, where the thick fir-tufts marked the warren honeycomb, partridges might be met with in many coveys, basking in the sandy patches.

  There were tunnels through the dense bushes to the west, too, which led one with alarming suddenness to the very brink of the cliff. And here went scurrying many a hare before the armed intruder.

  Lorian and I worked around by lunch-time to the spinneys east of the cornfield, and, nothing loath to partake of the substantial hospitalities of Ragstaff, made our way up to the house. There is a kind of rock-garden from which you must approach from that side. It affords an uninterrupted view of the lower part of the grounds from the lawn up to the terrace.

  Only two figures were in sight; and they must have been invisible from any other point, as we, undoubtedly, were invisible to them.

  They were those of a man and a girl. They stood upon the steps leading down from the lawn to the rose-garden. It was impossible to misunderstand the nature of the words which the man was speaking. But I saw the girl turn aside and shake her head. The man sought to take her hand and received a further and more decided rebuff.

  We hurried on. Lorian, though I avoided looking directly at him, was biting his lip. He was very pale, too. And I knew that he had recognized, as I had recognized, Sybil Reynor and Felix Hulme.

  IV

  During lunch, a Mr. Findon, who had driven over with one of the Colonel’s neighbours, asked Sybil Reynor whether the peculiar and far from beautiful ring which she invariably wore was Oriental. From his conversation I gathered that he was something of an expert.

  “It is generally supposed to be Phœnician, Mr. Findon,” she answered; and slipping it from her finger she passed it to him. “It is my lot in life to wear it always, hideous though it is!”

  “Indeed! An heirloom, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” replied the girl; “and an ugly one.”

  In point of fact, the history of the ring was as curious as that of the Riddle. For generations it had been worn by the heir of Ragstaff from the day of his majority to that of his eldest son’s. Colonel Reynor had no son. Hence, following the tradition as closely as circumstances allowed, he had invested Sybil with the ring upon the day that she came of age — some three months prior to the time of which I write.

  As Mr. Findon was about to return the ring, Lorian said:

  “Excuse me. May I examine it for a moment?”

  “Of course,” replied Sybil.

  He took it in his hand and bent over it curiously. I cannot pretend to explain what impelled me to glance towards Hulme at that moment; but I did do so. And the expression which rested upon his dark
and usually handsome face positively alarmed me.

  I concluded that, beneath the cool surface, he was a man of hot passions, and I would have ascribed the fixed glare to the jealousy of a rejected suitor in presence of a more favoured rival, had it centred upon Lorian. But it appeared to be focused, particularly, upon the ring.

  The incident impressed me very unfavourably. A sense of mystery was growing up around me — pervading the atmosphere of Ragstaff Park.

  After lunch Lorian and I again set out in company, but my friend appeared to be in anything but sporting humour. We bore off at a sharp angle from the Colonel and some others who were set upon the rough shooting on the western rim of the moors and made for the honeycombed ground which led one upward to the cliff edge.

  Abruptly, we found ourselves upon the sheer brink, with the floor of the ocean at our feet and all the great Atlantic before us.

  “Let us relent of our murderous purpose,” said Lorian, dropping comfortably on to a patch of velvety turf and producing his pipe. “I have dragged you up here with the malicious intention of talking to you.”

  I was not sorry to hear it. There was much that I wished to discuss with him.

  “I should have stayed to say something to some one,” he added, carefully stuffing his briar, “but first I wanted to say something to you.” He paused, fumbling for matches. “What,” he continued, finding some and striking one, “is Felix Hulme’s little game?”

  “He wants to marry Miss Reynor.”

  “I know; but he needn’t get so infernally savage because she won’t accept him. He looked at me in a positively murderous way at lunch to-day.”

  “So you noticed that?”

  “Yes — and I saw that you noticed it, too.”

  “Listen,” I said. “Leaving Hulme out of the question, there is an altogether more mysterious business afoot.” And I told him of the episode of the previous night.

  He smoked stolidly whilst I spoke, frowning the while; then:

  “Old chap,” he said, “I begin to have a sort of glimmering of intelligence. I believe I am threatened with an idea! But it’s such an utterly fantastic hybrid that I dare not name it — yet.”

  He asked me several questions respecting what I had seen, and my replies appeared to confirm whatever suspicion was gathering in his mind. We saw little enough sport, but came in later than anyone.

  During dinner there was an odd incident. Lorian said:

  “Colonel, d’you mind my taking a picture of the Riddle?”

  “Eh!” said the Colonel. “What for? Your father made a drawing of it.”

  “Yes, I know,” replied Lorian. “I mean a photograph.”

  “Well,” mused the Colonel, “I don’t know that there can be much objection, since it has been copied once. But have you got a camera here?”

  “Ah — no,” said my friend thoughtfully, “I haven’t. Can anybody lend me one?”

  Apparently no one could.

  “If you care to drive over to Dr. Mason’s after dinner,” said our host, “he will lend you one. He has several.”

  Lorian said he would, and I volunteered to accompany him. Accordingly the Colonel’s high dogcart was prepared; and beneath a perfect moon, swimming in a fleckless sky which gave no hint of the storm to come, we set off for the doctor’s.

  My friend’s manœuvres were a constant source of surprise to me. However, I allowed him to know his own business best, and employed my mind with speculations respecting this mystery, what time the Colonel’s spirited grey whisked us along the dusty roads.

  We had just wheeled around Dr. Mason’s drive, when the fact broke in upon my musings that a Stygian darkness had descended upon the night, as though the moon had been snuffed, candle-wise.

  “Devil of a storm brewing,” said Lorian. “Funny how the weather changes at night.”

  Two minutes after entering the doctor’s cosy study, down came the rain.

  “Now we’re in for it!” said Mason. “I’ll send Wilkins to run the dogcart into the stable until it blows over.”

  The storm proved to be a severe one; and long past midnight, despite the doctor’s hospitable attempts to detain us, we set off for Ragstaff Park.

  “We can put up the grey ourselves,” said Lorian. “I love grooming horses! And by going around into the yard and throwing gravel up at his window, we can awaken Peters without arousing the house. This plan almost startles me by its daring originality. I fear that I detect within myself the symptoms of genius.”

  So, with one of Dr. Mason’s cameras under the seat, we started back through the sweet-smelling lanes; and, at about twenty minutes past one, swung past the gate lodge and up the long avenue, the wheels grinding crisply upon the newly wetted gravel. There was but little moon, now, and the house stood up, an irregular black mass, before us.

  Then, from three of the windows, there suddenly leapt out a dazzling white light!

  Lorian pulled up the grey with a jerk.

  “Good God!” he said. “What’s that! An explosion!”

  But no sound reached us. Only, for some seconds, the hard, white glare streamed out upon the steps and down on to the drive. Suddenly as it had come — it was gone, and the whole of Ragstaff was in darkness as before!

  The horse started nervously, but my friend held him with a firm hand, turning and looking at me queerly.

  “That’s what shone under your door last night!” he said. “That light was in the hall!”

  V

  Peters was awakened, the horse stabled and ourselves admitted without arousing another soul. As we came around from the back of the house (we had not entered by the main door), and, candles in hand, passed through the hall, nothing showed as having been disturbed.

  “Don’t breathe a word of our suspicions to anyone,” counselled Lorian.

  “What are our suspicions?” said I.

  “At present,” he replied, “indefinable.”

  To-night the distant murmur of the sea proved very soothing, and I slept soundly. I was early afoot, however, but not so early as Lorian. As I passed around the gallery above the hall, on my way to the bathroom, I saw him folding up the tripod of the camera which he had borrowed from Dr. Mason. The morning sun was streaming through the windows.

  “Hullo!” Lorian called to me. “I’ve got a splendid negative, I think. Peters is rigging up a dark-room in the wine-cellar — delightful site for the purpose! Will you join me in developing?”

  Although I was unable to conjecture what my friend hoped to gain by his photographic experiments, I agreed, prompted as much by curiosity as anything else. So, after my tub, I descended to the cellar and splashed about in Hypo., until Lorian declared himself satisfied.

  “The second is the best,” he pronounced critically, holding the negative up to the red lamp. “I made three exposures in all; but the reflection from the polished wood has rather spoiled the first and also the third.”

  “Whatever do you want with this photograph, anyway,” I said, “when the original is available?”

  “My dear chap,” he replied, “one cannot squat in the hall fixedly regarding a section of panel like some fakir staring at a palm leaf!”

  “Then you intend to study it?”

  “Closely!”

  As a matter of fact, he did not join us during the whole of the day; but since he spent the greater part of the time in his own room, I did not proffer my aid. From a remark dropped by the Colonel, I gathered that Sybil had volunteered to assist, during the afternoon, in preparing prints.

  I was one of the first in to tea, and Lorian came racing out to meet me.

  “Not a word yet,” he said, “but if the Colonel is agreeable, I shall tell them all at dinner!”

  “Tell them what?” I began ——

  Then I saw Sybil Reynor standing in the shadow of the porch, and, even from that distance, saw her rosy blushes.

  I understood.

  “Lucky man!” I cried, and wrung his hand warmly. “The very best of good wish
es, old chap. I am delighted!”

  “So am I!” replied Lorian. “But come and see the print.”

  We went into the house together; and Sybil blushed more furiously than ever when I told her how I envied Lorian — and added that he deserved the most beautiful girl in England, and had won her.

  Lorian had a very clear print of the photograph pinned up to dry on the side of his window.

  “We shall be busy to-night!” he said mysteriously.

  He had planned to preserve his great secret until dinner-time; but, of course, it came out whilst we sat over tea on the balcony. The Colonel was unfeignedly delighted, and there is nothing secretive about Colonel Reynor. Consequently, five minutes after he had been informed how matters were between his daughter and Lorian, all the house knew.

  I studied the face of Hulme, to see how he would take the news. But he retained a perfect mastery of himself, though his large dark eyes gleamed at discord with the smile which he wore.

  Our photographic experiments were forgotten; and throughout dinner, whereat Sybil looked exquisitely lovely and very shy, and Lorian preserved an unruffled countenance, other topics ruled.

  It was late before we found ourselves alone in Lorian’s room, with the print spread upon the table beneath the light of the shaded lamp.

  We bent over it.

  “Now,” said Lorian, “I assume that this is some kind of cipher!”

  I stared at him surprisedly.

  “And,” he continued, “you and I are going to solve it if we sit up all night!”

  “How do you propose to begin?”

  “Well, as it appears to mean nothing in particular, as it stands, I thought of beginning by assuming that the letters have other values altogether. Therefore, upon the basis that e is the letter which most frequently occurs in English, with a, o, i, d, h, n, r, afterwards, I had thought of resolving it into its component letters.”