Till the Clock Stops Part 17

And now it was midnight. The southerly gale which had broken out late in the afternoon was booming up the loch, bombarding the house, and gusts of bitter rain were thras.h.i.+ng the exposed windows.

Marjorie flung a couple of logs on the study fire and returned to her book. She had prepared sundry comforts for her father and was awaiting, not without anxiety, his arrival. She was thankful he had Caw with him. A large portion of the journey was being made in the very teeth of the tempest.

A tap on the door brought her round with a start. It was only Mrs.

b.u.t.ters, the housekeeper, or, to be precise, the head and shoulders of that estimable but slow-witted female, heavily swathed in a couple of grey shawls.

"What on earth is the matter?" exclaimed Marjorie. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"Please, miss, do you think I might do something to stop the alarum clock of that Mr. Caw?" Mrs. b.u.t.ters was not yet at all sure of Caw. "It's been ringin' for close on an hour, and I can't--"

The girl was up like a shot--her face set, her hands clenched. What was she to do? It would take an age to explain to the housekeeper, who, when she did understand, would in all probability simply howl helplessly.

"Close on an hour," she said to herself. "Oh, Heavens, the thing must have been done long ago!" Still, she could not be absolutely sure. She glanced at the clock. No, her father and Caw were not even due yet....

"Mrs. b.u.t.ters," she managed to say in a fairly steady voice, "please go back to bed. I--I'll attend to the alarum immediately. Go at once or you'll catch your death of cold."

Left alone, she grew pale, but within the moment she had crossed to a bureau--her own--and was taking out a purchase made in Glasgow the previous day. "Oh, why didn't I practise in the wood this morning, as I said I would?" she sighed, fumbling with a little ivory-handled revolver. She shuddered. "Oh, I can't ... I daren't ... I _must_!" And ran from the room.

Marjorie will never forget that journey through the pa.s.sage, her light a flickering taper, for the electric illumination was no longer in operation. At the end of it she had literally to force her limbs to mount the narrow stairs. At the top, with her ear to the closed door, she could hear nothing save her pounding heart. There was no keyhole, no crevice whereby she might know whether it was light or dark on the other side.

Caw had spoken that morning of making a peep-hole in the door. She would have given much for one now. And the taper was burning fast.

"They must have gone," she thought, "yet how can I be sure? On such a night they might be tempted to stay awhile from the storm." Hand with revolver pressed to breast, she listened again. Not a sound. But the silence might be explained by the presence of a solitary man, she told herself, not necessarily one of the two she had seen that other night. A rough brute, perhaps, who would stick at nothing in that empty house. Yet the very thought p.r.i.c.ked her courage even at the moment when the descending flame stung her finger. Unlike Caw she was under no obligation to his late master. If a thief was there, she would shoot before she would let the Green Box go.

She dropped the taper, trod on it, and gasped to find herself in utter darkness. Once more she laid her ear against the panel, and this time, surely, a sound reached the straining nerves--a faint noise of something solid though not ponderous falling upon something less resonant than wood, less dulling than carpet. She felt like collapsing. But her will, her pride, came to the rescue. "If I don't open that door," she said to herself, "I'll be ashamed of myself for the rest of my days."

Her finger fluttered on the spring-b.u.t.ton and pressed; her hand pushed.

As the door gave she perceived that the room _was_ lighted, though not brilliantly; she heard nothing but a howling of wind and a rattling of rain. A whiff of smoky coal met her nostrils. The silent moving door was now half open. She took a couple of steps inwards and halted, her left hand clinging to the door's edge, her right clutching the pretty weapon.

And she all but screamed....

Under the lights of two candles on the mantel, in an easy-chair drawn up to the recently kindled fire, reclined a man, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. His legs were outstretched, his boots on the hearth, steaming, one of them in dangerous proximity to a large coal evidently newly fallen. On another chair lay a drenched greatcoat and cap.

The man was young, somewhat slight of build, of fresh and pleasing countenance, clean shaven, of indeterminate colouring. His crisp hair was so trim in spite of its dampness as to suggest the attentions of a barber within the last twelve hours. His hands were rough and bore traces of scars; the fingers, though slender for a man, might have belonged to a labourer's; the first and second of the left hand resting on the chair-arm held a cigarette--unlighted. The expression of his countenance was happy--contentedly so.

"Oh!" thought Marjorie, "he _couldn't_ steal!" and in the same breath perceived that he was not asleep. He moved slightly, with a lazy grunt.

His hand wandered to a pocket, felt within, came out empty, and wandered to another, with like result. "Hang it!" he muttered, and opening his eyes, tried, absurdly enough, to see what might be on the mantel without the trouble of rising.

Neither bold nor fearful now, simply fascinated and wondering whether he would get up or do without matches, Marjorie watched him. And the next thing she knew was that his eyes were staring into hers. Then fear, suspicion and sense of duty returned with a rush. The men who had already attempted to steal the Green Box had been just as well dressed--better, indeed. She was taking no chances. With firm determination, but also with a wavering hand, she raised the revolver.

"Great Heaven!" shouted the young man, "be carefull or you'll hurt yourself!" He wriggled up and sprang to his feet.

"Who--who are you?" Marjorie demanded with a regrettable quaver. "Have you come after the Green Box? Because, if so--"

"Would you mind," he said very gently, "putting down your pistol? Those things are so apt to go off unexpectedly, and at the moment you appear to be aiming at my uncle's best beloved Bone--"

The revolver fell softly on the thick carpet. Marjorie felt like falling after it.

"Thank you," he said gratefully. "You have mentioned a Green Box, but having brought no luggage, I don't seem to grasp--"

"Your uncle!" she whispered.

"Mr. Christopher Craig." He regarded her for a moment and his expression changed. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that he is no longer tenant of the house? You see, I arrived late, and deciding not to disturb any one, just proceeded to make myself comfortable for the night, and--"

Marjorie pulled herself together. "You are not--"

At that instant Caw, breathing hard, sprang from the darkness, then stopped as if shot.

"Well, Caw," said the young man, "I'm jolly glad to see you."

"Oh, my good G.o.d!" gasped Caw, "it's Mr. Alan!" He began to shake where he stood.

"Confound me!" said the young man under his breath, "I clean forgot I was supposed to be dead a year." He strode over to the servant. "Shake hands, Caw, just to make sure I'm of ordinary flesh and blood. I'm sorry to have upset you like this," He turned to the girl. "And to you I make my apology for having alarmed--"

"You didn't!"

"--for imagining I had alarmed you," he corrected himself with a bow and twinkling eyes.

The latter drew her smile despite her still jangling nerves. "I suppose I have to apologise, too," she said, "for taking you for a--a burglar."

"Not at all, because--I may as well confess it at once--no burglar can be more anxious to avoid discovery than I am--or was."

Caw found his speech. "Mr. Alan, sir, I--I haven't words to express my feelings at seeing you alive and well--I really haven't." He turned away with a heave of his shoulders as Dr. Handyside, limping painfully, appeared in the doorway.

It was his turn to be astounded, but his welcome when it came was of the heartiest. "I take it," he went on, "that Marjorie, my daughter, and you have already made each other's acquaintance."

"If Miss Handyside will have it so," said Alan, repressing a smile as Marjorie, with a decided return of colour, stooped and secured the revolver which had escaped her parent's eye. "Naturally Miss Handyside was a little surprised to find me here until I explained who I was." His gaze travelled to the servant who stood apart in meditative regard of the clock. "Caw, how is my uncle?"

Handyside prevented a pause. "There is so much to tell you, Mr. Craig, that I propose an adjournment to my study where we shall find some refreshment which I fancy you can do with. You are not aware, I believe, that your uncle had a private pa.s.sage built between our two houses, which not only explains our appearance here, but provides a short route to food and warmth."

"Then my uncle--" began Alan, evidently a little puzzled.

"Your pardon, Mr. Alan," said Caw, coming forward, "but it is necessary to ask you one question. How did you get into the house?"

The young man laughed. "I suppose you don't think it worth while locking doors in these unsophisticated parts. After I had rung twice, and was wondering what was going to happen to me, I found that the outer door was unfastened and that the inner door was not locked. So I came in and made myself at home, unwilling to disturb--What's the matter. Caw? And you, doctor? Why, Miss Handyside, what have I said?"

But none of the gravely concerned faces was looking in his direction.

With a heavy sigh Caw went over to the writing table, stopped and drew out the deep drawer on the right.

For a moment or two there was no sound save that of the storm. Then, with a gesture of hopelessness, Caw slowly raised himself.

"Yes," he said, in a small, bitter voice, "it is gone!"

CHAPTER XII