“Look here,” he said firmly, “you can do nothing further. You have done your part and done it well. Stay where you are and wait. The rest belongs to me.”
“But what can you do?” she demanded, her voice shaking with fear. “Meekins will come with him, and Doctor Sarson, unless he is here already. What can you do against them? Meekins can break any ordinary man’s back, and Mr. Fentolin will have a revolver.”
Hamel threw another log on to the fire and drew her chair closer to it.
“Never mind about,” he declared cheerfully. “Mr. Fentolin is too clever to attempt violence, except as a last resource. He knows that I have friends in London who would need some explanation of my disappearance. Stay here and wait.”
She recognised the note of authority in his tone, and she bowed her head. Then she looked up at him; she was a changed woman.
“Perhaps I have done ill to drag you into our troubles, Mr. Hamel,” she said, “and yet, I believe in you. I believe that you really care for Esther. If you can help us now, it will be for your happiness, too. You are a man. God bless you!”
Hamel groped his way round the side of the Tower and took up a position at the extreme corner of the landward side of the building, within a yard of the closed doors. The light far out upon the left was still gleaming brightly, but two of the others in a line with it had disappeared. He flattened himself against the wall and waited, listening intently, his eyes straining through the darkness. Yet they were almost upon him before he had the slightest indication of their presence. A single gleam of light in the path, come and gone like a flash, the gleam of an electric torch directed momentarily towards the road, was his first indication that they were near. A moment or two later he heard the strange click, click of the little engine attached to Mr. Fentolin’s chair. Hamel set his teeth and stepped a few inches further back. The darkness was so intense that they were actually within a yard or so of him before he could even dimly discern their shapes. There were three of them—Mr. Fentolin in his chair, Doctor Sarson, and Meekins. They paused for a moment while the latter produced a key. Hamel distinctly heard a slow, soft whisper from Doctor Sarson.
“Shall I go round to the front and see that he is in bed?”
“No need,” Mr. Fentolin replied calmly. “It is nearly four o’clock. Better not to risk the sound of your footsteps upon the pebbles. Now!”
The door swung noiselessly open. The darkness was so complete that even though Hamel could have touched them with an outstretched hand, their shapes were invisible. Hamel, who had formed no definite plans, had no time to hesitate. As the last one disappeared through the door, he, too, slipped in. He turned abruptly to the left and, holding his breath, stood against the wall. The door closed behind them. The gleam of the electric light flashed across the stone floor and rested for a moment upon a trap-door, which Meekins had already stooped to lift. It fell back noiselessly upon rubber studs, and Meekins immediately slipped through it a ladder, on either side of which was a grooved stretch of board, evidently fashioned to allow Mr. Fentolin’s carriage to pass down. Hamel held his breath. The moment for him was critical. If the light flashed once in his direction, he must be discovered. Both Meekins and Doctor Sarson, however, were intent upon the task of steering Mr. Fentolin’s little carriage down below. They placed the wheels in the two grooves, and Meekins secured the carriage with a rope which he let run through his fingers. As soon as the little vehicle had apparently reached the bottom, he turned, thrust the electric torch in his pocket, and stepped lightly down the ladder. Doctor Sarson followed his example. They disappeared in perfect silence and left the door open. Presently a gleam of light came travelling up, from which Hamel knew that they had lit a lamp below. Very softly he crept across the floor, threw himself upon his stomach and peered down. Below him was a room, or rather a cellar, parts of which seemed to have been cut out of the solid rock. Immediately underneath was a plain iron bedstead, on which was lying stretched the figure of a man. In those first few moments Hamel failed altogether to recognise Mr. Dunster. He was thin and white, and he seemed to have shrunken; his face, with its coarse growth of beard, seemed like the face of an old man. Yet the eyes were open, eyes dull and heavy as though with pain. So far no word had been spoken, but at that moment Mr. Fentolin broke the silence.
“My dear guest,” he said, “I bring you our most sincere apologies. It has gone very much against the grain, I can assure you, to have neglected you for so long a time. It is entirely the fault of the very troublesome young man who occupies the other portion of this building. In the daytime his presence makes it exceedingly difficult for us to offer you those little attentions which you might naturally expect.”
The man upon the bed neither moved nor changed his position in any way. Nor did he speak. All power of initiative seemed to have deserted him. He lay quite still, his eyes fixed upon Mr. Fentolin.
“There comes a time,” the latter continued, “when every one of us is confronted with what might be described as the crisis of our lives. Yours has come, my guest, at precisely this moment. It is, if my watch tells me the truth, five and twenty minutes to four. It is the last day of April. The year you know. You have exactly one minute to decide whether you will live a short time longer, or whether you will on this last day of April, and before—say, a quarter to four, make that little journey the nature of which you and I have discussed more than once.”
Still the man upon the bed made no movement nor any reply. Mr. Fentolin sighed and beckoned to Doctor Sarson.
“I am afraid,” he whispered, “that that wonderful drug of yours, Doctor, has been even a little too far-reaching in its results. It has kept our friend so quiet that he has lost even the power of speech, perhaps even the desire to speak. A little restorative, I think—just a few drops.”
Doctor Sarson nodded silently. He drew from his pocket a little phial and poured into a wine-glass which stood on a table by the side of the bed, half a dozen drops of some ruby-coloured liquid, to which he added a tablespoonful of water. Then he leaned once more over the bed and poured the contents of the glass between the lips of the semi-conscious man.
“Give him two minutes,” he said calmly. “He will be able to speak then.”
Mr. Fentolin nodded and leaned back in his chair. He glanced around the room a little critically. There was a thick carpet upon the floor, a sofa piled with cushions in one corner, and several other articles of furniture. The walls, however, were uncovered and were stained with damp. A great pink fungus stood out within a few inches of the bed, a grim mixture of exquisite colouring and loathsome imperfections. The atmosphere was fetid. Meekins suddenly struck a match and lit some grains of powder in a saucer. A curious odour of incense stole through the place. Mr. Fentolin nodded appreciatively.
“That is better,” he declared. “Really, the atmosphere here is positively unpleasant. I am ashamed to think that our guest has had to put up with it so long. And yet,” he went on, “I think we must call it his own fault. I trust that he will no longer be obstinate.”
The effect of the restorative began to show itself. The man on the bed moved restlessly. His eyes were no longer altogether expressionless. He was staring at Mr. Fentolin as one looks at some horrible vision. Mr. Fentolin smiled pleasantly.
“Now you are looking more like your old self, my dear Mr. Dunster,” he remarked. “I don’t think that I need repeat what I said when I first came, need I? You have just to utter that one word, and your little visit to us will be at an end.”
The man looked around at all of them. He raised himself a little on his elbow. For the first time, Hamel, crouching above, recognised any likeness to Mr. John P. Dunster.
“I’ll see you in hell first!”
Mr. Fentolin’s face momentarily darkened. He moved a little nearer to the man upon the bed.
“Dunster,” he said, “I am in grim earnest. Never mind arguments. Never mind why I am on the other side. They are restless about you in America. Unless I can cable tha
t word to-morrow morning, they’ll communicate direct with The Hague, and I shall have had my trouble for nothing. It is not my custom to put up with failure. Therefore, let me tell you that no single one of my threats has been exaggerated. My patience has reached its breaking point. Give me that word, or before four o’clock strikes, you will find yourself in a new chamber, among the corpses of those misguided fishermen, mariners of ancient days, and a few others. It’s only a matter of fifty yards out to the great sea pit below the Dagger Rocks—I’ve spoken to you about it before, haven’t I? So surely as I speak to you of it at this moment.”
Mr. Fentolin’s speech came to an abrupt termination. A convulsive movement of Meekins’, an expression of blank amazement on the part of Doctor Sarson, had suddenly checked the words upon his lips. He turned his head quickly in the direction towards which they had been gazing, towards which in fact, at that moment, Meekins, with a low cry, had made a fruitless spring. The ladder down which they had descended was slowly disappearing. Meekins, with a jump, missed the last rung by only a few inches. Some unseen hand was drawing it up. Already the last few feet were vanishing in mid-air. Mr. Fentolin sat quite quiet and still. He looked through the trap-door and saw Hamel.
“Most ingenious and, I must confess, most successful, my young friend!” he exclaimed pleasantly. “When you have made the ladder quite secure, perhaps you will be so good as to discuss this little matter with us?”
There was no immediate reply. The eyes of all four men were turned now upon that empty space through which the ladder had finally disappeared. Mr. Fentolin’s fingers disappeared within the pocket of his coat. Something very bright was glistening in his hand when he withdrew it.
“Come and parley with us, Mr. Hamel,” he begged. “You will not find us unreasonable.”
Hamel’s voice came back in reply, but Hamel himself kept well away from the opening.
“The conditions,” he said, “are unpropitious. A little time for reflection will do you no harm.”
The trap-doors were suddenly closed. Mr. Fentolin’s face, as he looked up, became diabolic.
“We are trapped!” he muttered; “caught like rats in a hole!”
CHAPTER XXXIII
Table of Contents
A gleam of day was in the sky as Hamel, with Mrs. Fentolin by his side, passed along the path which led from the Tower to St. David’s Hall. Lights were still burning from its windows; the outline of the building itself was faintly defined against the sky. Behind him, across the sea, was that one straight line of grey merging into silver. The rain had ceased and the wind had dropped. On either side of them stretched the brimming creeks.
“Can we get into the house without waking any one?” he asked.
“Quite easily,” she assured him. “The front door is never barred.”
She walked by his side, swiftly and with surprising vigour. In the still, grey light, her face was more ghastly than ever, but there was a new firmness about her mouth, a new decision in her tone. They reached the Hall without further speech, and she led the way to a small door on the eastern side, through which they entered noiselessly and passed along a little passage out into the hall. A couple of lights were still burning. The place seemed full of shadows.
“What are you going to do now?” she whispered.
“I want to ring up London on the telephone,” he replied. “I know that there is a detective either in the neighbourhood or on his way here, but I shall tell my friend that he had better come down himself.”
She nodded.
“I am going to release Esther,” she said. “She is locked in her room. The telephone is in the study. I will come down there to you.”
She passed silently up the broad staircase. Hamel groped his way across the hail into the library. He turned on the small electric reading-lamp and drew up a chair to the side of the telephone. Even as he lifted the receiver to his ear, he looked around him half apprehensively. It seemed as though every moment he would hear the click of Mr. Fentolin’s chair.
He got the exchange at Norwich without difficulty, and a few minutes later a sleepy reply came from the number he had rung up in London. It was Kinsley’s servant who answered.
“I want to speak to Mr. Kinsley at once upon most important business,” Hamel announced.
“Very sorry, sir,” the man repelled. “Mr. Kinsley left town last night for the country.”
“Where has he gone?” Hamel demanded quickly. “You can tell me. You know who I am; I am Mr. Hamel.”
“Into Norfolk somewhere, sir. He went with several other gentlemen.”
“Is that Bullen?” Hamel asked.
The man admitted the fact.
“Can you tell me if any of the people with whom Mr. Kinsley left London were connected with the police?” he inquired.
The man hesitated.
“I believe so, sir,” he admitted. “The gentlemen started in a motor-car and were going to drive all night.”
Hamel laid down the receiver. At any rate, he would not be left long with this responsibility upon him. He walked out into the hall. The house was still wrapped in deep silence. Then, from somewhere above him, coming down the stairs, he heard the rustle of a woman’s gown. He looked up, and saw Miss Price, fully dressed, coming slowly towards him. She held up her finger and led the way back into the library. She was dressed as neatly as ever, but there was a queer light in her eyes.
“I have seen Mrs. Seymour Fentolin,” she said. “She tells me that you have left Mr. Fentolin and the others in the subterranean room of the Tower.”
Hamel nodded.
“They have Dunster down there,” he told her. “I followed them in; it seemed the best thing to do. I have a friend from London who is on his way down here now with some detective officers, to enquire into the matter of Dunster’s disappearance.”
“Are you going to leave them where they are until these people arrive?” she asked.
“I think so,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t seem to have had time to consider even what to do. The opportunity came, and I embraced it. There they are, and they won’t dare to do any further harm to Dunster now. Mrs. Fentolin was down in my room, and I thought it best to bring her back first before I even parleyed with them again.”
“You must be careful,” she advised slowly. “The man Dunster has been drugged, he has lost some of his will; he may have lost some of his mental balance. Mr. Fentolin is clever. He will find a dozen ways to wriggle out of any charge that can be brought against him. You know what he has really done?”
“I can guess.”
“He has kept back a document signed by the twelve men in America who control the whole of Wall Street, who control practically the money markets of the world. That document is a warning to Germany that they will have no war against England. Owing to Mr. Fentolin, it has not been delivered, and the Conference is sitting now. War may be declared at any moment.”
“But as a matter of common sense,” Hamel asked, “why does Mr. Fentolin desire war?”
“You do not understand Mr. Fentolin,” she told him quietly. “He is not like other men. There are some who live almost entirely for the sake of making others happy, who find joy in seeing people content and satisfied. Mr. Fentolin is the reverse of this. He has but one craving in life: to see pain in others. To see a human being suffer is to him a debauch of happiness. A war which laid this country waste would fill him with a delight which you could never understand. There are no normal human beings like this. It is a disease in the man, a disease which came upon him after his accident.”
“Yet you have all been his slaves,” Hamel said curiously.
“We have all been his slaves,” she admitted, “for different reasons. Before his accident came, Mr. Fentolin was my master and the only man in the world for me. After his accident, I think my feelings for him, if anything, grew stronger. I became his slave. I sold my conscience, my self-respect, everything in life worth having, to bring a smile to his lips,
to help him through a single moment of his misery. And just lately the reaction has come. He has played with me just as he would sit and pull the legs out of a spider to watch its agony. I have been one of his favourite amusements. And even now, if he came into this room I think that I should be helpless. I should probably fall at his feet and pray for forgiveness.”
Hamel looked at her wonderingly.
“I have come down to warn you,” she went on. “It is possible that this is the beginning of the end, that his wonderful fortune will desert him, that his star has gone down. But remember that he has the brains and courage of genius. You think that you have him in a trap. Don’t be surprised, when you go back, to find that he has turned the tables upon you.”
“Impossible!” Hamel declared. “I looked all round the place. There isn’t a window or opening anywhere. The trap-door is in the middle of the ceiling and it is fifteen feet from the floor. It shuts with a spring.”
“It may be as you say,” she observed. “It may be that he is safe. Remember, though, if you go near him, that he is desperate.”
“Do you know where Miss Fentolin is?” he interrupted.
“She is with her mother,” the woman replied, impatiently. “She is coming down. Tell me, what are you going to do with Mr. Fentolin? Nothing else matters.”
“I have a friend,” Hamel answered, “who will see to that.”
“If you are relying upon the law,” she said, “I think you will find that the law cannot touch him. Mr. Dunster was brought to the house in a perfectly natural manner. He was certainly injured, and injured in a railway accident. Doctor Sarson is a fully qualified surgeon, and he will declare that Mr. Dunster was unfit to travel. If necessary, they will have destroyed the man’s intelligence. If you think that you have him broken, let me warn you that you may be disappointed. Let me, if I may, give you one word of advice.”
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