 CHAPTER I. THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR A brilliant light streamed from the open doorway of No. 1 Lytton Avenue making a lane of flame across the pavement, touching pinched gaunt faces that formed a striking contrast to the dazzling scene within. Outside it was cold and wet and sodden, inside was warmth, the glitter of electrics on palms and statuary and flowers, a sliding kaleidoscope of beautiful dresses. A touch of this grateful warmth came soft and perfumed down the steps, and a drawn Lazarus huddled in his rags and shivered. What's all this mean, he growled, to an equally indigent neighbor. There was a clatter and clash of harnesses carriage after carriage drove up. This ain't quite park-laying, Governor. Anyway, it's the fashion, the other growled hoarsely. I ought to know because I used to be one of them before the accursed drink, but that is another story. Ever heard of the Countess Lalage? Oh, that's it, lovely woman with a romantic history, rich as thingamy, been proposed to by all the dukes what ain't married already, read it in one of the evening papers. Poverty and want were jostling with well-dressed content on the pavement. It was one of the strangest and most painful contrasts that can be seen in the richest city in the world, and the contrast was heightened by the meanness of the corner-house. Black, dark, deserted, grimy, shuttered windows, a suggestion of creeping mystery about it. Time ago the corner-house was the center of what might have been a thrilling tragedy. Some of the older neighbors could tell of a cry in the night, of the tramping of feet, of a beautiful woman with the poison still in her hand, of the stern, dark husband who never said a word, though the shadow of the scaffold lay heavily upon him. Since then the corner-house looked down with blank, shuttered eyes on the street. None had ever penetrated its mystery. Nobody had crossed its threshold from that day to this. The stern, dark man had disappeared. He had locked up his house and gone, leaving not so much as a caretaker behind. Strange that this dark, forbidding house should stand cheek by jowl with all that was modern and frivolous and fashionable. Even in the garden behind Lytton House the corner-house frowned with sightless eyes out of its side windows, eerie and creeping in the daytime. But the heedless throng of fashionables wrecked nothing of this. The Countess Lollage was their latest craze. Who she was or where she came from nobody knew nor cared. She was young and wonderfully beautiful in a dashing southern way. Her echipage were an amazement to the park. She must have been immensely rich or she would never have entertained as she did. There must have been a Count Lollage at one time, for generally a pretty little girl rode with the Countess and this child was her daughter. The Countess spoke casually of large South American concessions and silver mines so that Oxford Street and Regent Street bowed down and worshiped her. She had purchased, number one, Lytton Avenue just as it stood from an American millionaire who had suddenly tired of society. Paragraphs in the cheap society papers stated with awe that the sale had been settled in five minutes so that on the spot this wonderful Countess Lollage had signed a check for more than two hundred thousand pounds. She stood now at the head of the marble staircase, a screen of palms behind her, receiving her guests. If she were an adventurous, as some of the critics hinted, she carried it off wonderfully well. If so, she was one of the finest actresses in the world. A black silk dress, perfectly plain, showed off her dark flashing beauty to perfection. She wore a diamond spray and tiara, a deep red rose at her breast, looked like a splash of blood. Truly a magnificent woman! She had an easy word and a graceful speech for everyone. An old diplomatist, watching her earnestly, went away muttering that she must be to the manor born. Her smile was so real and caressing, but it deepened now, and the red lips quivered slightly as a bright-eyed, square-headed young man came up the steps and bowed over her hand. So you came after all, Dr. Bruce, she said playfully. She pressed his hand gently, her eyes were soft and luminous on his face. Any man whose affections had not been pledged elsewhere would have felt his pulses leaping. Why? Need you ask, Gordon Bruce said gallantly, You are my patroness, you know. Your word is final in everything, and since you declared at a fashionable gathering that Dr. Gordon Bruce was the man for nerve troubles, I have found it necessary to hire a second horse. The dark eyes grew more caressing. A more vain man would have been flattered, to be the husband of Countess Lalage meant much, to be master of all this wealth and splendor meant more. But the quiet elation in Bruce's tones was not for the Countess, if only she knew it. The flowing tide of satin and silks and lace, sweeping up the staircase, swept young Gordon Bruce along. He passed through the glittering rooms faint with the perfume of roses. There was a dim corridor full of flowers and shaded lights. Gordon Bruce looked anxiously about him. A glad light came into his eyes. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Hetty The figure of a girl rose out of a bower of palms and ferns, and stood before Gordon Bruce with a shy welcome in her violet eyes. Just for a moment Bruce found himself contrasting this fresh English beauty with the Lalage Southern loveliness to the detriment of the latter. There was a purity and sweetness, a wonderful tenderness of expression about Hetty Lawrence that had always appealed to Bruce. He had known the Countess Lalage's governess for years. He admired her independence of character too, though on the whole he would have preferred her taking the home that her uncle Gilbert Lawrence, the great novelist, was ever urging upon her. But she would have a home of her own soon. Gordon, I'm so glad you have come, she whispered. I've stolen away for half an hour, as Mamie is better. If she wants me, I have told the nurse. She can't want you half so badly as I do, Gordon laughed, as he bent down and kissed the shy lips. And that queer little creature will have to learn to do without you all together before long. Four new patients today, Hetty, and I have taken the house in Green Street. Can we really afford it, Hetty asked anxiously? Bruce kissed her again. He loved that little pathetic anxious look of hers. He spoke confidently of the time when Harley Street should be theirs. There was a strength and reliance about her lover that always comforted Hetty. I shall be glad she whispered after a thoughtful pause, glad to get away from here. That's flattering to me, but I thought you liked the Countess. Hetty glanced fearfully around her. Nobody was near. Only the palms and the scented roses could hear her confidences. I have tried, she confessed, and I have failed. She fascinates and yet repels me. There's some strange mystery about her. Gordon, I feel sure that there is the shadow of some great crime on her house. It sounds weak, hysterical perhaps, but I can't get it out of my mind. But darling, the Countess has been a good friend to me. I know you are strong and ambitious, and she is helping to make you the fashion. But has it ever struck you why? Perhaps it is because she has the good taste to like me, Gordon laughed. Because she loves you, said Hetty, in a thrilling whisper, because her whole heart and soul is given over to a consuming passion for you. There is a woman who would go any length to win a man's love. If a husband stood in the way she would poison him. If a woman she would be destroyed. Gordon, I am frightened. I wake up in the middle of the night trembling. I wish you had never come here. I don't know what I wish. Gordon looked down into the troubled violet eyes with amazement. Surely he would wake up presently and find that he had been dreaming. Countess Lalage, with all the world at her feet, and he a struggling doctor? Oh, it was preposterous, and yet little words and signs and hints unnoticed at the time were coming to his mind now. I wish you hadn't told me this, he murmured uneasily. It would have been far— He paused. From overhead somewhere came the sound of a frightened wailing cry, the pitiful call of a child in terror. Hetty was on her feet in a moment, all her fears had gone to the winds. Mamie, she exclaimed. Of course nurses crept off to the rest of the servants. Poor little wee frightened soul. Hetty flashed off down the corridor and was gone, leaving Bruce to his troubled thoughts. Just before going Hetty stood on her toes and kissed her lover lightly on the lips. It was perhaps a good night caress, for there was a chance that she might not return. There was a sound at the top of the corridor, just the suggestion of a swish of silk and drapery, and Gordon Bruce half turned. Under a cluster of electric lights stood Leona Lalage. She must have seen everything. It might have been fancy, it might have been a guilty conscience, but just for the moment Countess Lalage themed transformed into a white fury, with two murderous demons gleaming in her dark restless eyes. Then her silk and ivory fan fell from her hands and Gordon hastened to recover it. When he looked up again the mask of evil passions was gone, the Countess was smiling in her most fascinating manner. Gordon could not know that the long, filbert nails had cut through the woman's glove and were making red sores on the pink flesh. He did not know that he would have stood in peril of his life had there been a weapon near at hand. You must not flirt with my governess, Dr. Bruce, she said. I would have given a great deal not to have seen what I saw just now. The rebuke sounded in the best of taste, Gordon bowed. I have good excuse, he said, in fact the very best. As I told you some months ago I have known Miss Lawrence for years. We have always understood one another, but because I was in no position to marry nothing has been said. Won't you be the first to congratulate me on my engagement? Then fetch me an ice. By the time you return I shall have thought of something pretty to say. I have pricked my finger. The ice, my dear boy, the ice. The finger will not hurt till you return. Her hand had shot out grasping for something to steady herself on. The whole world spun around her. She had given her whole, passionate, tempestuous soul to this man. She had never dreamt that she could fail to gain his love. She had never failed before. She had only required to hold up her hand. She clasped the stem of a rose passionately. The cruel thorns cut into the soft white flesh, but there was pleasure in the very pain. Another moment and she would have flashed out her secret and despair to the world. For the moment she was crushed and beaten to the earth. Yet she spoke very quietly and evenly, though the effort brought the blood thrilling to her temples. She was alone now. She could give vent to her passionate anger. She smashed her fan across her knee. She tore her long gloves into fragments. Dimly, in a mirror opposite, she saw her white ghastly face, and the stain of blood where she had caught her lips between her teeth. So I have to sit down and submit to that tamely, she murmured. You little white-faced cat, you pink doll, so you are going to get the best of me? We shall see. Oh yes, we shall see. If I could be somewhere where I could tear myself to pieces, where I could scream aloud and nobody could hear, if I could only face him now and smile and say honeyed words. Tomorrow, perhaps, but not to-night, even I have my limits. He's coming back. One glance at the dim mirror and Lyona Lalage flew down the corridor. The music of the band was like the sound of mocking demons in her ears, as she flew up the stairs she could see the blank windows of the corner-house staring dreadfully in. Then she locked the door behind her and flung herself headlong down on the bed. Only for a minute, a brief respite, then she must go down to her guests again. End of Chapter 2 End of Section 1 Section 2, chapters 3 and 4 of the corner-house. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Corner-House by Fred M. White. Chapter 3 The Face at the Window Hetty darted up the secondary staircase intent only on her little charge. The child was unusually nervous and imaginative as if she had been frightened by the ghost stories of a foolish nurse. Alternatively, her mother's pet and encumbrance Mamie had been driven back upon herself, and she had given up all the love of her heart to Hetty. It was quite silent upstairs, there was no sign of a maid anywhere, as Hetty reached the landing the frightened, bleeding cry broke out again. There was only a nightlight in the nursery, a little white figure sat moaning in bed. You poor little mite, Hetty said tenderly, There, there, I shall stay here and not leave you any more until you go to sleep. Where is Richards? She said she wouldn't be a minute, Mamie sobbed. I had one of my headaches, and I couldn't go to sleep. Then I began to get frightened, and I wanted somebody to talk to me. I could hear the people and the music downstairs, so I just got out of bed and went into the corridor. Ah, that is why your feet are so cold. Well? I stood in the corridor for some time, Mamie continued, with her head on Hetty's shoulder. The blinds were up, and I could see those two wide windows in the corner house. Richards' father was a footman there, and she told me all about the poor dead lady and the dark husband who never said anything. Richards shall tell you no more stories, Hetty murmured. Go on, Pet. And then I began to think about it and wonder, and when I was wondering and wondering and looking into those dark windows, I saw a light. You saw a light in one of those windows? Nonsense. Dearest, it was not nonsense at all. The shadow of the light was all across my nightdress. I was so frightened that I could not call out because the corner house is empty, and it must have been a ghost. But that was not all. You fancied that you saw something besides the light? I am certain, said Mamie, with a resolute nod. There was a face, a face looking out of the window. Oh, such a terrible face! It was dirty and grimy, and one eye was all discolored, and both eyes were wild and fierce and hungry, just like that new tiger at the zoo. Then the face went away, and I screamed, and that's all, dearest, and oh, I am so dreadfully tired. The little dark head fell back, and the troubles were forgotten for the moment. The child was breathing regularly and peacefully now. More disturbed and uneasy than she cared to admit, had he crept out into the corridor. A certain amount of light from the house and the street fell on the blank side of the corner house. There were two blank windows, that one of which Mamie had seen the face. It must have been imagination, seeing that the corner house had been deserted for years, had he knew its story as well as anybody else. Was it possible that some crime or tragedy was being enacted behind those grimy walls, all unknown to the police? The house was reported to be luxuriously furnished, the front of the place was all shuttered. Stranger things are happening in this London of ours every day in the week. She could certainly mention the matter, too. Heddy stopped suddenly and caught her breath. A faint light had commenced to glow in the corner house, gradually the blank window shaped to a luminous outline. The light grew stronger and stronger till Heddy could see the balustrade of the staircase, and then, surely enough, there came a face to the window. A dreadful face, a face dull and dissipated with horrible watery red eyes, yet full of malice and cunning and passion. There was a bristle of whiskers and a mustache, as if chin and razor had for days been strangers. As suddenly as the face had come it turned, a hand shot out from somewhere, as if seeking for the throat of the strange apparition. A fist was uplifted and the figure disappeared, evidently going down before a cruel and crushing blow. The light vanished, it had probably been overturned and gone out. Good heavens, Heddy cried! Did you see that? She was conscious that somebody was by her side. She looked and found that her companion was the Countess. No answer came. Heddy touched the other's arm. She was shaking from head to foot like a reed in the gale. Did you see that, Heddy demanded again. The woman by her side was slowly recovering herself, a minute later and she was her cold, calm self again. I saw nothing, she said between her teeth, and you saw nothing. It was some trick of the imagination. There is nobody in Yonder House. When I took this place a year ago so that I could be near— What am I talking about? I have been working too hard at my pleasures lately. I shall have to take a rest. I am not suffering from any delusions, Heddy said coldly. All the same you will say nothing, Leona Lalage hissed. What you have seen or what you imagine you have seen tonight is to remain a secret between us for all time. Do you understand me? There is no better friend than I in all the world, and there is no more dangerous enemy, see? She gripped the girl's arm with fearful force. A strong man would have had no more firm a clasp. Heddy winced under the pain, but no cry escaped her lips. There was some dark mystery here, some evil connection between the desolation of the corner house and the brilliant establishment in Lytton Avenue. Else why would Countess Lalage have been so far from the centre of the small world called society? It is nothing to me, Heddy said coldly. If you desire to avoid a scandal for the sake of the house, my lips are sealed. If you have nothing further to say to me, I will go and see if Mamie is still asleep. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Weaving the Net Heddy rubbed her eyes with the feeling that it had all been a dream. It was not yet very late, only a little after midnight, and the brilliant saloons were still crowded with guests. Down below in the dining rooms people were supping. There was the dreamy music of a band somewhere. As if nothing in the world had happened, Countess Lalage sat smiling brilliantly and chatting with not the least distinguished of her guests, Mr. Gilbert Lawrence, the famous novelist. Heddy's uncle was evidently flattered. He liked talking of his own work, for his heart was in it, and he had for audience one of the most brilliant and beautiful women in London. His voice was something high-pitched, and it carried easily to Heddy's ears. Apparently Bruce was gone, for the girl could see nothing of him anywhere. She was only too glad for a chance to sit down quietly and ponder over the disturbing events of the evening. Nobody was likely to be particularly interested in Lionel Lalage's governess. The little man with the keen, restless eyes and the pence-née did not suggest the popular idea of the novelist. He chattered on with frank egotism. The world made much of him, and he took it for granted that all the world was interested in his work, and he was talking eagerly to Lionel Lalage about the corner-house. Heddy caught her breath eagerly, that dark and evil place seemed to have suddenly become part and parcel of her life. Instinctively she half hid herself behind a great dragon vase full of palms. Fact is, I used to know the man who lived there, Gilbert Lawrence was saying, in his quick staccato way, and I was once in the house. No, I never met the wife, a depressing gloomy house like Tom Hood's Haunted Mansion, just the place to plan a murder in and never be found out. After the scandal I worked out a novel on the subject. Lionel Lalage's eyes gleamed like points of fire. They seemed to be burnt into her face. Heddy could see the restless play of the jeweled hands. Did you ever publish it, she asked eagerly. Never had the chance to write it, Lawrence cried, but I worked it all out. Wicked woman, revenge, plot to bring hero within the grip of the law. It's pigeon-holed in my writing desk and labeled the corner-house, but I don't suppose it will ever be written. Worth stealing, a society journalist lounging by remarked, I could write a novel, only I can never think of a plot. Your old housekeeper is asleep long ago. Where do you carry your latch-key? Ticket pocket of my overcoat, laughed Lawrence, but you'll be found outstead. Being a critic, the public will never take you seriously. The Countess's eyes flamed again suddenly. Heddy, watching, was utterly puzzled. What was there in this trivial conversation that held this woman almost breathless? She had the air of one who has taken a great resolution. She seemed like a man, face to face with death, who sees a way out. A great many of the guests had by this time departed. It was growing very quiet in the streets now. The jingle of harness and the impatient pawing of horses had almost ceased. A soldierly-looking man came up to Lyona Lalage and held out his hand. But you are not going to alder shot tonight, Captain Gifford, Lyona asked. A cap? How extravagant! Motor-car, the stolid dragoon replied, I've got a fifteen-horse-powered Daimler that I can knock seventy miles an hour out of at a pinch, and no danger of being picked up for scorching on a dark night like this. The Countess put her hand to her throat as if she had found some trouble with her breathing. Those wonderful eyes of hers were gleaming like electric flashes. Her face was white, but her lips were drawn narrow with resolution. She rose and sauntered carelessly to the door. I doubt on motors, she said. Nothing pleases me better than to go out in my own alone. I'm coming to see your steed, Captain. The rooms are so hot here that I have a great mind to run away with it. Gifford murmured something about the honour and pleasure. There was no vehicle to be seen in the dark street besides the gleaming mass of brass and steel that quietly simmered by the pavement. A beauty, the Countess exclaimed, and the same action as my own. I believe I know as much about it as my chauffeur. Captain Gifford, let me try it alone, do. Harris, give me a coat. No, one of the gentlemen's overcoats, that grey one will do. Do let me go round the square alone. Gifford consented with outward urbanity. Few men could say no when Lyonna Lalage asked for a favour. With a man's coat over her gleaming black dress and ivory shoulders she sprang into the car and the next moment she was flying round the corner. She laughed recklessly as she passed out of sight. I'll laugh with a ring of insolent triumph in it. Ten minutes, twenty minutes passed whilst Gifford fidgeted with a half-chewed cigarette in his teeth. Then there was a distant whir, two flaming eyes and the gleam of brass and steel. An adventure, the Countess cried gaily. I have been dodging a couple of policemen or I should have been back before. Beware of the high road. Goodbye, Captain, and if you ever wish to dispose of your Mercedes, give me the first offer. She passed up the steps with a face white but smiling, a queer, lingering smile that boated ill to someone. A few guests of the higher Bohemian type still lingered but with easy tact the hostess contrived to get rid of them. Her absence had not been noticed. The little escapade on the motor was not mentioned. The look of triumph faded from her eyes. She had grown worn and weary. The roses were wilting on the walls. The lights were mostly down now. Hethie, looking in to see if anything was wanted, found herself driven away almost fiercely. I am tired, weary, worn out, the Countess cried. I am sick of it all, sick of the world, and sick to death of myself. Go to bed. The house was quiet at last. There was a passing cab or two, the heavy tramp of a policeman. Up in the nursery little Mamie was still sleeping. She was flushed and uneasy and murmuring as she slept. The recreant nurse lay on her back, snoring loudly. Well, Hethie was a light sleeper, and her room was just opposite the nursery. Nurse would have slept through an earthquake. Hethie returned to her room, but not to sleep. The vague shadow of some coming trouble lay upon her. She was young and healthy, and she was engaged to one of the best men on earth, and they were going to be married soon. She ought to have been superlatively happy. Yet she was restless and uneasy. She had never known what it was to be nervous before. There was a dull booming noise somewhere, a knocking that seemed to proceed from the corner house. Hethie heard something fall with a thud. She could have sworn to a stifled cry. A door opened and closed somewhere. There was a strong draft as if the basement had been opened. Hethie's heart was beating in some strange, unaccountable way. A little cry brought her to her feet, but it was only Mamie whimpering and crying for her. The child was awake and sitting up in bed whilst the nurse still slept. Mamie was hot and feverish. I'm so sorry, she said, but my throat is all parched up. Dearest, do please get me some soda water. All right, darling, Hethie whispered, lie down and be quiet, and I will see what I can do for you. I shan't be long. There was everything that Hethie required in the dining room. She crept softly down the marble staircase in her stockinged feet. Down below in the hall a solitary point of flame in the electric corona made fitful shadows everywhere. There was one light also in the big dark dining room which was always left there, so that Hethie had no difficulty in finding a siphon of soda water. She crept out into the hall again and paused. Cigarette smoke. Smoke of a pungent, acrid kind that might have been smoked in the house, but never beyond the kitchens. And it was fresh, too, for a trailing wreath of it hung heavy on the air. Without a doubt somebody was in the morning room. Yes, Hethie could hear the chink of a glass, the fizz of something aerated. Her heart was beating painfully, but she was not afraid. Dimly, in a mirror opposite, she could see a hand reflected, but she could not see the face. The girl deflected the mirror slightly, so that the head and shoulders of the intruder were dimly focused upon it. A cry rose to her lips, but she stifled it. In a sudden, blind and reasoning fear she fled noiselessly up the stairs. She had seen that man's features. It was the face of the man from the corner house. End of Chapter 4 End of Section 2 Section 3, chapters 5 and 6 of the Corner House This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Corner House by Fred M. White Chapter 5 In the Morning Room The house seemed suddenly to have developed into a place of horrors, Hethie had never been quite happy there. She had always distrusted and been a little afraid of Countess Lalage. There was something inscrutable about her face, a satanic suggestion behind her brilliant beauty. There were little signs, too, that only a woman notices. It was as if the girl had found herself in a house of criminals. It was all wonderfully refined and luxurious, a perfectly appointed house. But after a year there, Hethie knew absolutely nothing as to the past of her employer. She flew up the stairs headlong with that blind and reasoning terror upon her. A big clock suddenly striking, too, went off in her ears like a rifle shot. She caught a glimpse of her own face in a mirror. Was that white-scared visage her own sunny, happy face? Without ceremony she darted into Countess Lalage's bedroom. The lights were still up and the mistress of the house was brushing out her long black hair. She was cool and collected enough now. What is the meaning of this, she demanded? A man in the morning-room, gasped Hethie, a man with a horrid crooked nose and hands all over queer orange spots. Shall I alarm the house? Come with me, Leona Lalage replied. You're dreaming. Of course there is no man in the house. Come along. There was no sign of fear or dismay or anything else about the woman in white with the long black hair streaming over her shoulders. Yet she was annoyed and her brains were working quickly. It was quiet in the corridor, save the little fretful wine from the child for something to drink. Ah! you have been down for Mamie, the Countess exclaimed. She had one of her turns again. Give the poor child some of that soda water and then follow me. Be quick. Mamie drank greedily and thirstily. Then her head dropped and her eyes closed. With her heart still beating furiously, Hethie ran down the stairs. There was nobody in the morning-room but Countess Lalage. She was smiling in a contemptuous manner. I have been in every room, she said. There is positively nobody there. I shall have to send you away for a change of air. If you have no further dreams to tell me, we had better go to bed. Hethie had nothing to say. She was tired and worn out and the cool contempt of her employer was galling. The Countess came into her bedroom presently. All her coldness had gone. She was the winning gracious woman now as the world knew her. She had a little medicine-glass in her hand. I am sorry I spoke harshly to you just now, she said. Drink this. It is my own pet mixture of sol volatile and a spirit of my own. It will act like a charm on those frayed nerves of yours. Hethie drank the mixture gratefully. The few kind words were soothing. If there was anything really wrong the Countess could not have behaved like that. Her head touched the pillow. Something delicious and warm seemed to float over her. And she was sound asleep. Leona closed the door behind her with a snap. She was alert and vigorous as a general in action now. She passed downstairs swiftly but firmly and into the morning-room. One by one she snapped up the electric lights till the whole room was bathed in a golden glow. Now you scoundrel, come out, she cried. The heavy curtains parted and the figure of a man emerged. He was short yet powerfully made, with a curious twist from the hip as if he were deformed in some way. Ragged hair fringed his chin and lips. His long nose was crooked on one side. His equally long hands were covered with great orange freckles, an object of mistrust and suspicion everywhere. The man's eyes were perhaps the worst part of him. Dull, red and bloated, full of a certain ferocious cowardliness. They were the eyes of a man who drank to excess. The red rims twitched. None of that with me, he growled. Do you know who I am, Countess Lalage? I am Leon Lalage, Count of the Holy Roman Empire and your husband. Incomparable woman, you cannot alter that fact. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, till death do us part. Death was near-parting them now if the gleam in Leona Lalage's eyes meant anything. She would have given half her splendor years of her life to see that man lying dead at her feet. If she could have slain him and safely disposed of his body, she would have done so. How did you get here, she asked curtly. How did you find me out? The man laughed silently, horribly, his body twisting as if set on wires. Never mind that, he said hoarsely, I did find you out, and here I am. Oh, it was a cunning plot of yours, so near and yet so far away, and as much brandy as I could drink so that I might drink myself to death, and after that perhaps a handsome monument testifying to my virtues. But I'm not going to stand it any more, I'm not going back there. No reply for a moment, nothing but a quick heaving of the broad bosom, a livid play like summer lightning in the dark eyes. The man lighted a cigarette and puffed it noisily. I've got you, my lady, he said hoarsely. Last time we parted you were not so comfortable as you are now, a choisier and a few francs per day out of the cards when the police were complacent. Here you have everything. There are a score of things that I could pawn for enough to keep me going for months. Muffois, but you must be very rich. I have not twenty pounds of ready money in the world. Give me carte blanche, and I will put that right for you. I bear no malice. Reverse the positions, and I shall do my best to put you out of the way, but I am not going back there any more. What do you propose to do, then? Retire to the Continent. Tomorrow you let me have five hundred pounds as a guarantee of good faith, then I leave you for the present. After that you can marry the young doctor who has won your affections and be happy, for, say, a week. Lyona Lalage's white teeth came together with a click. It was good for the man that she had no weapon in her hand. It was hard work to keep down the tornado of passion that filled her, it seemed hard to imagine that she had once loved this man. Heaven, what a fool she once was! You know too much, she said quietly. If that fool Giuseppe had done his duty, you would have gone down to your drunkard's grave in ignorance. But you are not going on the Continent tomorrow or the next day. Fool! Fool! Have you not lived long enough to know that all that glitters is not gold? For the moment I am living on my reputation and the splendour of this house, not one penny have I paid for it. People hold documents and title deeds of mine that are forgeries. I have a grand coup that may come off, and again it may fail. For the moment I am penniless. The man nodded. The woman was speaking the truth, and he knew it. And in the meantime, what do you propose to do, she asked swiftly. There is but one thing for it, the man responded. There is ever before my eyes the fear of the police. Therefore I go back to my prison-house till you are ready. But I have escaped once, and I shall escape again. Play me false, and I will come out and denounce you before a whole crowd of your painted butterflies. I could say to your medical Adonis, Be silent, Lionelalajist. Take heed lest you go too far. Be gone, get back to your kennel, anywhere out of my sight. Do you think I want to keep you near me an hour longer than is necessary? He was gone at last. The hall door closed behind him. His footsteps echoed on the pavement a few yards and then stopped. After that the whole world seemed to be wrapped in silence. It was nearly dawn before Lionelalaj crept into bed. She carefully locked away some papers that she had almost committed to heart. There was triumph in her sleepy eyes. Freedom and revenge, she murmured. What good words they are! Tomorrow—well, tomorrow shall be my destruction or my waterloo. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 A Visitor On the whole Gordon Bruce was persuaded that the world was a pleasant place to live in. He had youth and intellect and ambition that looked likely to be satisfied. Two years before he had recklessly ventured his small capital on a suite of ground floor rooms in Duke Street, and for some little time he had had a hard struggle to keep up appearances and pay the instalments as they came due on his somewhat showy furniture. But it had all come right in the end. He had had a little luck, but his great good fortune, or so it seemed, was when he had been called in to attend little Mamie Lalaj. The Countess was just beginning to swim then upon the high tide of popularity, that the woman in her passionate headstrong way had fallen in love with him, Bruce never dreamt—it was only Hetty's woman's eyes and woman's instinct that had found the truth. But the Countess was the fashion, and her doctor looked like being the fashion too. A Duchess had taken him up. She had firmly persuaded herself that Bruce had saved the life of one of her children. From a hundred or two Bruce suddenly found his income expanded to as many thousands. No wonder that his dreams were pleasant as he lay back smoking a cigarette after dinner. There was only one drawback. Most of those two thousand pounds were on his books. Well, his credit was good. If he could lay his hands upon a hundred or two now, he would begin to furnish the house in Green Street at once. Then when the season was over he and Hetty could be married. Yes, on the whole Gordon Bruce's cigarette just then was an enchanting one. There was a ring at the hall and a servant came in. Gordon hoped that it was not a patient. He was dressed for a party where he hoped to meet Hetty. Not a grand affair, but a few friends in Gilbert Lawrence's luxurious chambers. Bruce looked at the card in his hand. I wonder who Hermax Cronin is, he muttered. Ask the gentleman in. He came, a mild-looking elderly German, heavy grey mustache and eyes hidden behind a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. He was slow of speech and gasped a great deal, as if he had some trouble at his heart. You wish to speak to me, said Gordon. Praise it down. The elderly stranger did so, and immediately the atmosphere was impregnated with an odor of strong tobacco. It is not as a patient I came, he said. I take the liberty to occupy some of your valuable time. If you are in one hurry. Not in the least, Bruce replied, I have half an hour at your disposal. Your case? Ach, but I have no case. I am not what you call a patient. It is another matter, a matter of sentiment. Gordon bowed again, evidently a lunatic of the harmless type. Some days ago you bought a picture, Herr Cronin proceeded. It was a small picture of the early Dutch school, signed J. Halben, a woman nursing a sick child and the father looking on. Not a valuable picture. Certainly not, Bruce agreed. I happened to know an expert who told me so. It took my fancy and I gave ten pounds for it, which I understand is about a tenth of its full value. Herr Max Cronin nodded approvingly. That is so, otherwise I should not be here tonight. As pictures go one hundred pounds is not much, but that picture belonged to my mother's family, in fact she is descended from the J. Halben who painted it. It was sold some years ago at a time of great distress. We were sorry. Sentimental you say, but it would be a bad world without sentiment. My sister she never ceased to mourn over that picture. When the good time comes she tried to get him back, but he has disappeared. Picture my delight when I see him in a little time ago, in a shop window. I go home for my check-book, for I am not a poor man, Herr Bruce, now, and I hurry back to the shop. On my way I send a telegram to my sister to say the picture is found. When I reach the shop you have beaten me by ten minutes. Herr Cronin paused overcome by deep distress. His eyes behind the big glasses looked appealingly at Bruce. So you want to buy it from me, he suggested encouragingly. Oh, that is it, Herr Bruce, beyond doubt that is it. It will be easier for me, I shall not be so distressed, if you let me make a bargain with you. Herr Bruce, I will give you two hundred pounds for the picture. Bruce hesitated for a moment, but why not? The man was wealthy and the picture was worth half what he asked, perhaps more, for experts are not always correct. And two hundred pounds would mean the beginning of the furnishing of the new house. Dim visions of a happy honeymoon rose before him. Very well, he said, you shall have the picture. It is there on the sideboard wrapped up as my expert friend returned it. Where shall I have the pleasure of sending it for you? I will take him with me, Cronin said eagerly. It will be good to feel that I have got him, that there will be no more cups slipped from ze lip. Sentiment again. But there is no sentiment about these banknotes, my friend. He counted out forty-five pound Bank of England notes on the table with a hand that trembled strangely. He seemed restless and eager to be away now as if fearful that Bruce might change his mind. The whole thing might have been a dream, save for the crisp, crackling notes on the table. Never rains but it pours, Bruce smiled, as he thrust the notes in his breast pocket. Tomorrow every penny goes for that wonderful lot of old furniture in Tottenham Court Road. What a pleasant surprise for Hetty. It required some strength of mind to keep the secret from the girl, but Bruce managed it. It seemed to him that Hetty looked a little white and drawn, but as the evening went on the happy look came back to her eyes again. There was a small furnary at the back of the dining-room into which Gordon hurried Hetty presently. My dearest girl, what is the matter, he asked? It was good to be with him there, to feel the pressure of his hand and to look into his keen, resolute face. With Gordon by her side Hetty felt equal to meeting any terrors. Yet after the lapse of a few hours the whole thing seemed so vague and intangible that she hesitated to speak. Is it the corner-house again, Bruce suggested playfully? Don't laugh, dear Hetty whispered. The place haunts me. I never seemed to be able to get away from the horrors of it, and last night—go on, darling, I promise you not to laugh again. By degrees Hetty told her story. It was real enough to her, but to Bruce's practical mind it sounded unsubstantial and shadowy. After all she might easily have imagined the face at the window, and as to the man in the morning-room he had only been mistily reflected in a dim old mirror. But I should recognise him anywhere, Hetty protested. Bruce thought that she would probably never have the chance, but he did not say so. Did Countess Lalage allude to it this morning, he asked? Not a word, Hetty admitted. She was glad to see me better. She breakfasted with Mamie and myself, and she was altogether charming, but—but there is much behind that word. You don't like her, Hetty? I'm afraid of her. I mistrust her. She frightens me. Call it prejudice, if you like, but there is something wrong about that woman. Did she find out anything about us last night, Gordon? I had to tell her, of course, Gordon replied. She accused me of flirting with you, and I had to speak for your sake. And what happened after that? Upon my word I forget. Oh yes, she sent me out at once for a nice, saying that she would think of something pretty by the time I returned. She must have forgotten all about it for when I came back she had vanished. It was Hetty's turn to hold her peace now. Leona Lalage had not felt equal to facing Gordon at that moment. Even her iron will and resolution were not quite equal to the strain. If I was only out of that house, she said, if I was only out of that house. Gordon bent and kissed the quivering lips. His little secret was on the tip of his tongue, but he repressed it. It will not be for long, dearest, he whispered. Courage, darling! If he had only told her, if he had only spoken then. End of Chapter 6 End of Section 3 Section 4, chapters 7 and 8 of The Corner House This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Corner House by Fred M. White Chapter 7 At The Corner House Bruce walked home slowly and thoughtfully. The sound of a church clock striking the hour of one came vaguely to his ears. As a matter of fact he was more disturbed by Hetty's disclosures than he cared to admit. Hetty was not in the least given to hallucinations, and, after all, there was something mysterious about Countess Lowlage. Still, she was so rich, and she was a favourite guest in some of the best houses. Bruce put his latchkey in the door and let himself in. As he did so, a motor came up and pulled to the pavement. The whole concern was a dull black, like silk. It was absolutely the most noiseless machine Gordon Bruce had ever seen. It came like a ghost out of the darkness, like a black phantom it stood to command. The driver was clad in goggles and leather coat, thereby proclaiming the fact that he was used to a high rate of speed. He placed a note in Bruce's hand. There was an interrogative gleam in his eyes. For me, Bruce asked, the man merely made a gesture with his hands, then followed a sign by which Bruce knew that he was speaking to a dumb man, a startling affliction for a smart chauffeur. Not that it mattered much, seeing that the letter was addressed to Bruce, the note inside was evidently dashed off in a violent hurry. It was an agitated request to the recipient to come in the motor at once. There was no address, nothing more than this agitated plea. Under the circumstances there was nothing startling in the presence of the automobile. Bruce started off only staying long enough to get his professional black bag. He might have satisfied a little of his curiosity on the way, only his companion's affliction prevented that. He was on familiar ground presently as the car flew along smoothly as a boat sails downstream, until at length it pulled up with a jerk at the end of Lytton Avenue. The car had stopped just before the corner house. Evidently it was going to be a night of surprises. If Bruce had any astonishment he concealed it behind his professional manner, for the corner house was dark and deserted no longer, a brilliant light burnt in the hall. The door was opened presently by a woman who had a Spanish mantilla over her head. Her hair was down, and in the gleam of the lamp-light Bruce could see that it was wonderfully long and fair and beautiful. Bruce spoke to her, but she only replied in what he deemed to be Spanish. So far as he could see there were no signs of dust or desolation about the corner house. The hall was clean and bright. There was a thick carpet on the stairs. Every door was shut, save one on the first floor into which the fair beauty with the lovely hair led the way. Four or five gas jets were flaring away with a hissing roar. A draft from somewhere made them flicker restlessly on a large room, absolutely devoid of furniture, save for an old-fashioned four-post bedstead in the middle. The air was close and stuffy as if the window had not been opened for months. There were barred shutters before them. The Spanish beauty said something and pointed to the bed. A man in a deep sleep lay there, so deep a sleep that at first Bruce took him to be dead. But there was just the slightest flicker of a pulse, a quiver of the eyelids. On a table close by was a glass containing, from the odour of it, ladenum. A half-empty file of it was clenched in the patient's hand. A small twisted man with a nose all crooked on one side and fingers covered with huge orange-coloured freckles. Bruce choked down a cry of amazement. It was indeed proving a night of surprises. Here was the very man whom Hetty had seen at the window of the corner house, the very man whose features, as seen from the morning-room, had been reflected in the mirror. It was impossible that there could be any coincidence here. Once seen the man could never be forgotten. It looked as if the new mystery of the corner house was going to be explained. Just for a moment Bruce almost lost his self-possession. The beauty with the fair hair was regarding him curiously. He felt half annoyed that he had been so near betraying himself. The medical man was uppermost now. Evidently the patient was in a state of almost collapse from alcoholic poisoning. As is usual in such instances, sleep had forsaken the wretched man and he had had recourse to drugs. He had taken an overdose and medical aid had been summoned just in the nick of time. The corner house, the mystery, everything was now forgotten. Bruce called for hot water. He made a sign for it. He simulated the mixing of mustard in a pot. Fortunately his companion's native intelligence was equal to the strain, she vanished with a quick nod of her head. The house was wonderfully quiet, not a sound came from anywhere. The repulsive figure of the man lay there like some new and hideous form of death. Who he was and why he came there Bruce did not dare to think for the present. Perhaps the dark owner of the house had returned. Perhaps this was the very man himself. Certainly there was no foul play here, no audacious criminal invasion of the house, seeing that the light in the hall could be seen from the street. Surely there were a long time getting that hot water. In such a case as this hurry was everything, Bruce crept from the room and looked over the banisters. The whole place was in darkness. Bruce caught his breath sharply. He had scarcely time to consider what it all meant when the light flared up again and the fair woman returned with a kettle and basin and a tin of mustard. The doctor slipped off his dress-coat and turned up his sleeves. In a prim sort of way his fair attendant took the coat away and hung it up carefully in the dim recesses of a big cupboard at the far side of the room. With great care and patience Bruce contrived to coax a quantity of the hideous mixture of mustard and water down the unconscious man's throat. For the next hour the struggle between life and death was a severe one. Once the strong emetic had done its work something like consciousness returned. The patient staggered backwards and forwards across the room on Bruce's arm until the latter was fagged and weary and the moisture dripped from his forehead. The first faint streaks of dawn were breaking as Bruce donned his coat and deemed it safe to proceed home. He made the woman with the golden hair understand that he would come again. She shook her head and smiled as she held out three pounds and three shillings. Evidently this kind of thing had happened before and this was the fee usually paid. Bruce slipped the money in his pocket, feeling that he had earned it. The guide picked up a bradshaw from the table and indicated dover therein. Two strapped portmanteaus were on the floor. The meaning of this was all plain enough. Bruce had had his fee and was dismissed because these strange people were leaving for the continent at once, provided the patient was well enough to travel. Suddenly the hall light went out again and once more the house was in darkness. There was a sound of a heavy footfall outside. Bruce put his back to the wall prepared for eventualities. A scraping of a match, a flood of light again, a queer half-amused smile on the Spaniard's face as she noted Bruce's expression. Then the front door was opened and he was bowed out politely. Before he had time to cross the road the light was out again and the whole house in darkness. The cool morning air was grateful after the stuffy atmosphere of the corner house. Here was an adventure to think about and ponder over. Strange coincidence that he of all men should have been called there. It never occurred to Bruce that the thing could be anything but coincidence. Should he keep the whole matter to himself, he wondered? At any rate he'd need not tell anybody but Hetty. Perhaps that drunken lunatic was some relation to the master of the corner house. He might have found his way into Lytton Square in a state of semi-insanity by favour of a careless servant. The thing was capable of a very practical solution. Bruce put the thing out of his mind for the time being. The next morning was a busy one. When the back of it was broken he drove to Tottenham Court Road, where he managed to secure the old-fashioned furniture which had so taken his fancy. He felt pleased with his bargain, but as he repaired to the Lotus Club to lunch with Gilbert Lawrence, nothing remained of the old Dutchman's bank notes. Lawrence was deep in the early addition of the star. He nodded to Bruce and looked up from his paper eagerly. By Jove listen to this he exclaimed. Here's a strange thing for you. Some houses seem famed for tragedy like some men are. Something in your line, Bruce asked? Well, I should say so. Listen. The tragedy of the corner house. The corner house keeps up its reputation, a mysterious murder in Raven Street where an undiscovered crime happened years ago. At a little past twelve today a policeman on duty in Raven Street saw that the door of an unoccupied furnished house was open and proceeded to investigate the premises. In a room upstairs he found the body of a man with his throat cut and a horrible wound at the back of his head. Robbery appears to be the motive. The matter is all the more mysterious as the place called the corner house has been supposed to be shut up for years. It was here that the famous corner house poisoning mystery took place. Later the murdered man is described as being of misshapen appearance, a nose very much hooked on one side and long hands covered with orange-colored warts. What? Bruce cried? Read that over again. Do you mean to say you know anything about it, Lawrence asked? He was my patient, Bruce said hoarsely. I was with him at daybreak. Lawrence dropped the star and gazed at the speaker with absolute amazement. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Paul Prout There was something about the corner house mystery that gripped the public imagination. There was about it both the realism and the romance that always go to make up a popular sensation. In the first place the corner house was already marked as the scene of one unsolved tragedy. For years it had been shut up. For years the boys of the locality had challenged one another to go down the area steps after dark. For years nobody had crossed the threshold. Then the door had been left open for the public eye to look on another tragedy. The victim was no ordinary man either. People flocked to view the body as morbid folks will do on such occasions. The victim of the crime was no more attractive in death than he had been in life. There were the crooked limbs, the hideous hooked nose, the claws with the orange splashes on them. But nobody identified the dead man. The police had not expected anything of the kind. The inquest had been formally opened at the corner house and at the suggestion of Sergeant Prout, who had the case in hand, was adjourned for a fortnight. It was hard to get the people out of the house afterwards. They were gone out at last and Sergeant Prout was left to make his investigations in peace. Up to now he had hardly as much as examined the body, an attempt had been made to find the owner of the house or the agents, but without success. It's a queer thing, said Prout, scratching his sneaky little head reflectively, a very queer thing. Now here's a house for you, given a man of energy and pluck who has learnt its story, and what is to prevent his taking possession and living here as if the place was his own. He comes and picks the lock, he has his servants in, and he gives out that he is Jones or Robinson, and there's an end of it so long as he holds his head high and pays his creditors. Of course there is the risk of the real man turning up, but criminals must always take chances. In a way that's what happened. The poor fellow was lured here to be murdered by someone who pretended that the house was his. It's a very pretty case. It was a puzzling one too. Every policeman who had been on night duty in Litton Avenue for months was closely examined. Once or twice a night the doors of the house had been tried without effect. Nobody had ever been seen to come away or enter. No suspicious characters had been seen loafing about. Not one of the officers had ever seen a light in the place. I'll go and look at the gas meter, said Prout. He was an efficient officer in his way, only like most members of the force he lacked imagination. Give him something to work on, and there was not a more efficient detective in New Scotland Yard, but there was no clue here, so he had to fall back on the old familiar methods. Here was the gas meter under the stairs as usual. Behind it was the grimy, dirty card which showed no entry for years. It was marked Taken Five Feb. In other words, the meter had been read the day the owner had disappeared. By reading the index Prout saw that a hundred odd cubic feet of gas had been used since. Here was something to go upon. Beyond doubt that gas had been used lately. Prout made a careful examination of the burners, sniffing and blowing at all of them. He found out one thing. Only the burners in the hall and the bedroom where the murdered man had been found had been used for a long time. In a bedroom at the top of the house was a paraffin lamp with quite a new wick in it. With a stump of pencil Prout made a rapid calculation on the wallpaper. Lamp used by murderer waiting for his victim, he deduced, did not want any more light than was necessary so probably lay low in a back room. When the hour for the victim came, light at the hall gas so as not to look suspicious. Then why the Dickens didn't the officer on duty notice it? Because it wasn't there when he passed Prout said a quick voice that caused the detective to turn with a start. There was a confederate, of course. Nothing easier than for the confederate to listen for the officer's footsteps and put out the gas till he had gone by. Other people didn't matter. Right as usual Mr. Lawrence said Prout, beaming approvingly on the great novelist, why don't you come and join the force? Lawrence modestly disclaimed the compliment as a strong romantic writer he found a fascination in crime of this kind. Indeed he boasted that practically all his living dramas were founded on life. He had a wonderful faculty for tracing the motive of a crime. Many a useful hint he had given to Scotland Yard. What's the theory here, sir? Prout asked respectfully. A vulgar one said Lawrence, robbery either from the person or indirectly. I don't see how anybody could possibly be jealous of a poor misshapen creature like that. We can put the socialistic element out of the case. Have you found anything? Prout had found nothing. He had not had time yet to examine the deceased's coat and clothing. He was just about to do so. The first examination disclosed a pocket-book containing some score of more or less recent pawn-tickets made out in various names, and a letter in an envelope. This looks like business Prout exclaimed. The letter is not sealed. Anyway it was written here, with the pen on the mantle-piece and that penny-bottle of ink. See how pale it is, and what shabby paper, evidently a aporth purchased from some huckster's shop. Isn't that right, sir? Prout scrawled in his notebook with the pen. The ink was just the same pallet hue. The pen was a J, and the letter had evidently been written with a J, too. Prout had every reason to be satisfied. What do you think of the letter, sir, Prout asked? There was no date and no address. There was a deal of flourish about the letter as if the writer had learned his craft abroad. It ran as follows. Dear friend and partner, at last the luck of the deuce has departed, and my virtue has its own reward. I have found my man, had first my man blustered, but logic, mon cher, logic gets the best of temper always. I parted with him, and he parted with four hundred pounds, in sovereigns. Mark the cunning of the man, no notes or checks for him, but money and cash I dare not send to you. Therefore I have changed my gold for notes, and two hundred pounds in forty lovely crisp bits of paper I forward herewith. They are numbered from one nine zero seven five three to one nine zero seven nine two. This I tell you for precaution's sake. I'm waiting for the cipher from K, and this I will enclose. Next Saturday I propose to salute you, till then with my most distinguished admiration. Number one. What do you think of that, Prout asked? Proves robbery, Lawrence said crisply. The murderer got away with the notes, but knew nothing of the letter. You go your way, and I'll go mine. I am greatly mistaken if I don't throw a strong light on the mystery yet. You mean that you have a clue, sir? Certainly I do. This is a most amazing case, why it is copied from the plot of one of my own novels, and, stranger still, that novel has not yet been written. End of Chapter 8 End of Section 4 Section 5, chapters 9 and 10 of The Corner House This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Corner House by Fred M. White Chapter 9 The Missing Notes It was late in the afternoon before Prout hit upon the trail he was looking for. He had been keeping the telegraph and telephone busy. The scent was still hot, and it was just possible that he might come upon some trace of the Missing Notes before they left the country. At any rate it could only have been hours since they found their way into the hands of the murdered man. According to his letter he had received four hundred pounds in gold, probably the result of some blackmailing transaction, after which he had hastened to turn them into bank notes for transmission, probably abroad. Now there is only one place of business where a man can turn so large a sum of money into notes, and that place must be a bank. There are great many banks in London, and the difficulty in finding the right one was enhanced by the fact that nobody besides Prout knew that there was anything wrong about these particular notes. On the face of it the transaction was a very casual one. It was nearly four o'clock before Prout raised the trail. On the previous daybut one a cashier at the National Credit Bank had changed four hundred pounds in gold into notes for a stranger who answered to the description of the murdered man. Prout dashed down to Leddenhall Street in a fast handsome. The cashier was a little nervous, but quite willing to speak freely. I remember the transaction perfectly well, he said. We do a lot of money changing in that kind of thing, as our foreign connection is a large one. I should not have heeded the matter but for noticing the curious disfigurement of the man's hands. Covered all over with orange blotches, eh? asked Prout. Quite so. The man was all twisted from his hip and he had a crooked nose. You needn't say any more, Prout said crisply. That's the man. You changed the gold for the victim of the corner-house tragedy. Got the numbers? The numbers were forthcoming, of course. One nine zero seven five three to one nine zero eight three two. The first half of which eighty-five pound notes had been alluded to in the murdered man's letter. So far so good, Prout remarked. It's not a very pleasant experience, but I am sorry I have not finished yet. I shall have to trouble you to come as far as Raven Street with me and identify the body. It was well over at length, but the mild little cashier had nothing to say except that he really must go over to Raven's arms and have a little brandy. Abstemious man as he was, he felt it was necessary. Presently the blood came back to his face again and his dilated pupils contracted. That's the man, Sergeant, he said, and I hope I've seen the last of him. Are you going to advertise these notes? Prout replied for the present he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. The thief knew nothing about the letter or he assuredly would have destroyed it. He would imagine that he had got off scot-free with his booty and thus might walk into the trap prepared for him. We shall lie low for the present, Prout said, and I will ask you to do the same. You may mention this matter to your manager, but not to another soul. I'll try and get down before five and see your manager myself. It was not a bad day's work, and it spurred on Prout to fresh endeavors. He carefully examined the fireplace, he tested the windows, but nothing rewarded his endeavors beyond a black-lead brush thrown into the corner of the scullery, together with a cake of black lead recently opened. Now where does this come in, he asked himself. There isn't a grate in the house that has been touched for years, and this cake is not quite dry yet. And a bit of yellow soap in the tray over the sink that would be as hard as a chip if it had been here since the people left. But it hasn't. Murderer may have washed his hands, which is exceedingly likely, but what did he want black lead for? Prout looked keenly around him, he opened the back door into a yard that gave on to a lane at the back of the house. The bricks were damp and mossy, and on them was something that looked like the print of wheels. The door leading to the lane was wide, and on the edge on both sides something patchy glistened. Prout touched it with his fingers. Now what does it mean, he asked himself. What game were they playing? The black edging of the gate-posts was fresh black lead. The little discovery gave a new twist to Prout's thoughts as he drove down to the National Credit Bank. He had no particular object saved to see the manager and impress upon him that in the interests of justice the whole thing must be kept a profound secret. There was no difficulty about that, the cashier was indignant, for he had already given his promise on the matter. Not that you will ever see those notes again, Sir Prout said. By this time they are probably on their way to the continent, once they may begin to dribble back one by one in the course of months. Still one can never tell. The manager was sympathetic. At the same time he looked at the clock, which was drawing very near to closing time. There was a lull outside in the traffic. Prout took up his hat and prepared to depart. But at the same moment his friend the cashier came rushing in. His eyes were gleaming behind his spectacles. A most extraordinary thing, Sir, he stammered. Those notes that Sergeant Prout came about just now are— Get on, the manager said impatiently, get on. Have been paid in to the credit of a customer, or part of them. Numbers, Prout snapped, which part of them? One nine zero seven five three, to one nine zero seven nine two, the cashier replied. Every note, Prout cried. Every blessed note mentioned in the dead man's letter. CHAPTER X A POLICY OF SILENCE Gilbert Lawrence lighted a cigarette and waited for Bruce to speak. It wanted some little time to luncheon. The doctor's statement was likely to add pecancy to the meal. Well, one hears some queer things, the novelist said at length. I've been fascinated with that corner house for years. As I told you before, I built up a romance round it. Some day I mean to take the papers out of my pigeonhole and work it up. Did you ever put me in it, Bruce asked gravely? Well, upon my word I fancy it was something like it, said Lawrence. There was a hero like yourself, only he wasn't a doctor, and a girl like Hetty. Also there was a mysterious assignation in the corner house after midnight, and as a matter of course, a body. None of these stories are complete without a body. Bruce chafed under the flippancy. He was quite undecided what to do. Beyond all question, the patient whom he had attended under such a mysterious circumstances was the murdered man. Was it his duty at once to go to the police and tell them all he knew? On the other hand he had no desire to violate professional confidence. Certainly the lovely Spaniard and the people of the house could have nothing to do with the murder. If they had they would never have called in a doctor's aid and paid him a handsome fee to save the life of that poor dissipated wretch. It must have happened after they had gone. Tell us all about it, Lawrence asked eagerly. Bruce related his story without going into details. Rarely had a raconteur a more flattering audience. Most men would have laughed the whole thing to scorn, but the novelist knows the vast possibilities of life, and Lawrence paid his companion the compliment of believing every word that he said. Upon my word a most remarkable thing he exclaimed. You have said that before, Bruce replied irritably. What I am thinking about at present is my own awkward position. Shall I go to the police and tell them everything, or shall I respect confidence? Pursue a policy of masterly inactivity, Lawrence suggested after thoughtful pause. Say nothing for the present. The matter has not been brought before you officially yet. There will be an inquest which will only last a few minutes for the simple reason that the police will ask for an adjournment. Meanwhile I will go and have a chat with the man who has the case in hand. If the time comes when you must speak, why speak of course? Bruce fell in with this suggestion and sat down to lunch with what appetite he could. He was terribly disturbed and uneasy. He was dining that night with Countess Lalage, who was giving one of her brilliant little parties. There would be a chance of a cozy little chat with Heady afterwards, but all the same as Bruce dressed, he wished that he was not going. Even the great beauty and the refinement of his surroundings failed to soothe him this evening. Usually this kind of thing pleased him. He noticed vaguely that the Countess was dressed in some cloudy lace, all like seafoam, and that the dark eyes were unusually brilliant and glittering. There was a score of guests in the dining room, all laughing and chatting together. Heady was there also, looking to Bruce's eyes, the sweetest and prettiest of them all. She owed nothing to artificial beauty. I owe you a deep apology, the Countess whispered as she held Bruce's hand. I was exceedingly rude to you the other night. I ought to have waited for your ice, and more especially, I ought to have waited to congratulate you. I am very glad for Heady's sake. She is a good girl, and I shall miss her. The voice rang true and clear. There was deep sincerity in the eyes of the speaker. Bruce was melting, despite himself. Heady must be wrong. A brilliant woman like that would never throw herself at the feet of a mere doctor. Nobody could look in her eyes and doubt her goodness and truth. It is very good of you to say so, Bruce murmured feebly. The Countess pushed him from her with a merry smile. You are distant tonight, she said. Go and talk to Heady. Not that I am going to let her monopolise you all the evening. I am too jealous of your reputation for that. Now go and make the most of your time. Heady looked up shyly. There was a faint little smile on her face. She wore a single stone diamond heart on her breast. But for this Bruce would not have known how quickly she was breathing. What is it, he asked? What's the matter, sweetheart? Heady smiled up into her lover's face. From under her long lashes she could see that Leona Lalage was regarding her intently. Talk in an ordinary manner, she whispered. Say anything foolish, the sort of bald nonsense young men chatter in drawing-rooms, and don't forget that the Countess is watching every gesture intently. She struck me as being rather nice, Bruce replied, and I am quite sure that she was sincere in her congratulations. Heady said nothing further on that head. The Countess was a wonderful actress. She would have deceived the strongest, coolest head in the world. But even that magnificent actress could not blind a woman's instinct. Perhaps, Heady said after a long pause. Perhaps. And yet something tells me that you're in great danger. Smile and say something foolish. I feel those eyes going through me. That woman loved you and you never gave her a thought. You passed her by for me. And who would look at me when she was about? I would, for one, Bruce laughed. I am not fond of your tempestuous woman. Have there been any other signs and manifestations? Don't laugh at me, Gordon, Heady whispered. I knew there was something wrong with that dreadful corner-house. You have heard of the tragedy? Bruce nodded. He would keep a secret for the present, even from Heady. In any case, this was not the place to discuss the great adventure. Well, I fancy I can tell you more about it, Heady went on. Only you must not look so interested. Try and assume the idiotic expression of a lover on the stage. Last night I could not sleep. I've been terribly restless lately. I got up to fetch a book from the school room, which is in the front at the top of the house. The blind was up. The window was not closed. So I looked out. The air was so cool that it did my head good. I was there about a quarter of an hour. I heard the noise of a door being closed and whispers on the pavement. Those people had come out of the corner-house, two of them, a man and a woman. What time would that be? Bruce asked as casually as possible. About half past four. It must have been about that time, because just after I got back to my room the clocks struck five. A motor-car came up, one of the quietest I've ever heard. As the woman got in she stumbled and the man swore at her. Then there was the strangest thing. The dull side of the motor-car gleamed in places like silver, as if something had been rubbed off it by the woman as she fell. What do I think it was? Well, so far as I could make out the car was all hung with black crepe. End of chapter 10 End of section 5 Section 6 chapters 11 and 12 of the corner-house. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The corner-house by Fred M. White. Chapter 11 The notes are traced. The best part of two days had passed, but there was no abatement in the sensation caused by the fresh tragedy of the corner-house. An enterprising newspaper had made a determined effort to trace the whereabouts of the real owner of the premises and drag his pitiful story afresh into the daylight, but he was not to be found. No relative came forward with the hope of gain, and it looked as if the new tragedy was going to be as deep a mystery as the old one. Of course the police knew nothing. Sarcastic remarks were made at their expense. Other papers hinted at startling disclosures to be made at the adjourned inquest. There were many startling rumours contradicted as soon as they were made. Even your puzzle-dunkle, Hetty said to Lawrence, she was off for the afternoon. She had called at the novelist's chambers to meet Bruce there with an eye to a little shopping and a visit to the new house in Green Street. I know you are interested. Can't you make anything out of it? Well, I can and I can't, Lawrence said thoughtfully. I'm puzzled, of course, and I am very much interested in this kind of thing. But really I am puzzled over one of the most remarkable coincidences that ever happened in the experience of a man who has made a pretty penny out of coincidences. In this instance the long arm has taken a form that is positively uncanny. Perhaps I can help you, Hetty suggested. So you shall later on, Lawrence replied, for the present I have my hands full. I've had some hard problems to solve in the way of plots, but never one like this. Here's Bruce coming along the street. Run away and leave me to my puzzle. Hetty determined to think no more about it for the present. It was a lovely afternoon. She was conscious of the fact that her dress suited her to perfection, and was she not going to spend a long afternoon with the man of her choice in the fascinating occupation of house furnishing? It was the first half day Bruce had taken off for a long time. All his patience this morning had behaved in a perfectly satisfactory manner. The sun was shining out of a cloudless sky. Everything seemed fair and prosperous. It was one of the days when everything seems well, the kind of day that often precedes disaster. Hetty chatted along by the side of her lover happy enough. She would have made light of the fears had they occurred to her now. After all what could the Countess do? That love and revenge business was all very well in books. Gordon was a resolute man perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and the Countess was not likely to do anything to prejudice her position in society. Thus Hetty out of doors and in the sunshine. She and Bruce had a thousand plans to make, a score of shops to look into. Their tastes were the same, and principally lay in the direction of the old and antique. We won't bother about the drawing room, Hetty said gaily, that can take care of itself for the present, two fans and a bull rush, as somebody says. And the other room, so long as they are light, won't matter. But the dining room must be quite the thing. Oh, if you could only afford to get the lovely oak we saw at Cappers, we must think of you alone just at first, Gordon. She looked up with such a sunny smile that Bruce regretted the presence of others. There was not a happier pair in London. They turned into Cappers presently, and for the first time that day Hetty was conscious of a little pang of envy. I'm not going to look at another thing, she said, but it does seem hard that we have not got another hundred pounds, Gordon. Bruce kissed her behind the demure corner of a Japanese screen. His eyes were dancing with mischief and pleasure. You can spend the hundred pounds as you please, dearestie said. I'm going to tell you a secret. I have had a lovely slice of luck. Forty five-pound bank notes that I never for one moment expected came my way. Then you can buy the old oak, Hetty said rapturously. Always thinking of others, Gordon smiled. To tell you the truth I have bought and paid for the old oak. Consequently the money set aside for that goes to your side of the house. No, I have no choice in the matter. I'm going to let you do exactly as you please. The sedate head of the firm in personal attendance smiled. The lovers were not sorry to be rid of him when he was called away for a moment, and official-looking person was standing by the desk with a package in his hand. These bank notes were paid to your firm, he asked. Mr. Capper admitted the fact as he glanced at them. They had been paid to him two days ago, and by him passed on to a wholesale firm of upholsterers. In fact, he said, the customer who gave them me is now in the shop. The official-looking man stepped forward as he came into the light Bruce recognized him for Sergeant Prout. A sense of uneasiness came over him. Prout touched his cap and then indicated the notes. A word with you, Dr. Bruce, he said. These notes—190753-190792—were in the possession of the man found murdered at the corner house in Ravenstreet. We know they were stolen from him. The next day they were paid here in purchase of some furniture. Some mistake, said Bruce. I certainly paid forty-five pound notes here the day after the murder, but they came into my possession the night before. If those are the notes you say they are, I never touched them. Prout turned the notes over and opened them out like a pack of cards. Is not that your signature on every one, he asked? Good heavens, Bruce cried hoarsely! It is! It would be futile to deny it. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Prout is puzzled. Had he moved instinctively to her lover's side, his face was ghastly pale, but he held his head high and looked Prout proudly in the eyes. The latter waited. He had made no accusation. It was not his cue to express an opinion one way or another, had he looked at him approvingly. If there is anything wrong about the notes-capper began, I can only—from your point of view there is nothing wrong, said Prout, a mere coincidence, sir, if I could only have a few minutes' private conversation with you, doctor. Bruce led the way outside. He was utterly bewildered. Those notes had passed into his possession quite honestly. They were for value received, and they never left his possession until he parted with them to capper. Why, they were in his possession hours before he was called into the corner-house. The strangely assorted trio turned into a tea-room close by. They had a table to themselves where they could talk freely. Now say it all over again, Bruce asked. I am perfectly dazed. Let me know what I am accused of doing. Prout replied that for the present there was no accusation. It's like this, he said, laying the fateful notes on the table. A man who has got to be identified is found dead, murdered beyond a doubt in an unoccupied house in Ravenstreet. All the circumstances of the case point to robbery. On searching the body we find a letter written by the deceased to a friend saying that he is forwarding some banknotes. He gives the number of those banknotes amongst others, numbers 190753 to 190793. All this is set out clearly in the letter. Now will you please to examine those notes, doctor, and tell me the numbers? Bruce turned them over one by one. There was no mistake about the matter at all. They were the same numbers as those given in the handwriting of the dead man. The whole thing seemed impossible, but there it was. One moment, Heddy asked deagerly, how do you know that the letter in your possession really was written by the murdered man? Prout glanced admiringly into the pretty flushed face. That's a clever question, Miss, he said, but I have a reply to it. We have found a woman near the docks where the unknown stayed for a day or two. As she cannot read or write, she got him to write her a line or two to her landlord's agent, sending some arrears of rent and promising the balance shortly. That scrap of paper has come into my possession. And, of course, it tallies, Bruce said moodily, those things always do. It does, sir, Prout went on. The question of handwriting is established. How those notes came into your possession we have yet to find out. They never came into my possession, Bruce cried. There is some mistake. Prout tapped the pile of papers significantly. Here they are with your signature on the back of every one of them, he said. There is nothing singular about that, seeing that so many tradesmen insist upon having bank notes endorsed. Question is, what's the explanation? For the life of him, Bruce could not say. It was absurd to suppose that by some mistake the Bank of England had issued two sets of notes with the same series of numbers. There was no mistake about the murdered man's letter, either. Perhaps you'd like to tell your story, sir Prout suggested. My story is quite simple, Bruce replied. Some little time ago I bought a picture by Jay Holbin. I gave a few pounds for it. Early in the evening of the day preceding the corner-house murder I had a visitor. He was an elderly Dutchman who gave his name as Max Cronin. He had heard of my purchase and wanted the picture for family reasons. He offered me two hundred pounds for it and paid me in notes, the notes that are on the table there. Which identical notes must have been in the possession of the murdered man for many hours after you say they passed into your possession? Take it or leave it, Bruce said desperately. It's like some horrid nightmare. From the time I received the notes from the elderly Dutchman, till I parted with them to Kapper, they were never out of my possession. Of course you know where the Dutchman is to be found. Bruce shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He took the picture away, he said, and I thought no more of the matter. He said something about going to Antwerp. In the face of the damning evidence you have piled up against me my story sounds hysterical and foolish. Prout was not so sure of that. He had seen too many startling developments in his time to be surprised at anything. Of course it wants a bit of explaining away, he said. Still supposing for argument's sake you were the thief, how could we possibly connect you with the corner house and the poor fellow who was murdered there? It had come at last. Bruce braced himself for the ordeal. Just for the moment there was a terrible temptation to hold his tongue. The story of his visit to the corner house was known to those only who would not dare to speak. Once he told the truth, he realized that he was putting a noose around his neck. And yet as an honorable man he was bound to speak. Indeed he had already spoken, for Gilbert Lawrence had been made privy to part of the story. You couldn't prove it, he said moodily, but I can. I must. Prout, I am the sport of either a most amazing piece of misfortune, or else the victim of the most cunning and diabolical scheme that man ever dreamed of. I was actually in the corner house within an hour or so of the murder. A queer little cry broke from Hetty. Her face was deadly pale, her eyes dilated with horror. It was only for a moment. Then she slipped her hand into that of her lover and pressed it warmly. Even Prout seemed uneasy. You are not bound to say anything further, sir, he muttered meaningly. Ah, I know what you mean, Bruce went on recklessly. Don't you see that as an honest man I am bound to speak out? Just as I reached my rooms that night a motor drove up to my house with a note for me. Ah, I should like to have a look at that note, said Prout. I destroyed it. There was no object in keeping it. I tore it up then and there, and pitched it on the pavement. The motor was driven by a dumb man who conveyed me to the corner house. It struck me as strange, but then the owner might have returned. When I got there I found the man subsequently murdered, suffering from a combination of alcoholic poisoning and laudanum. It was hard work, but I managed to save him. A Spanish woman, the only creature besides my patient I saw, paid me a fee of three guineas, and there ends the matter. Prout's expression was that of a man who by no means shared this opinion, but he said nothing on that head. Did you speak to the Spanish woman, he asked? I couldn't, for the simple reason that she knew no English, said Bruce. I know I am putting a terrible weapon in your hands, but I have no alternative. If there is anything else that I can tell you, Prout rose and bowed to Hetty. It is not fair, he said. It's giving me too great an advantage. If you take my advice you'll go at once and explain the position to some smart solicitor, Eli placed for choice. Hetty clung to Bruce's arm as if fearful for her safety. Of course he was absolutely innocent, but how far the world would believe it was quite another matter. For the girl was quick and clear-sighted, and it needed no explanation to show her Bruce's terrible position. Her nimble wit pointed to conspiracy, but it was only a vague idea at present. She forced a brave smile to her lips. We won't discuss it, dearest, she said. The mere idea of your guilt is absurd to anyone who knows you. I cannot realize it, yet the whole thing is so terribly mixed up and involved. The one man to get to the bottom of things is Gilbert Lawrence. The police will see nothing here beyond a mere vulgar crime. My Uncle Gilbert will bring a novelist's imagination to work on it, and whatever happens there will be one person who believes implicitly in you. Bruce pressed the little hand under his arm silently. He did not feel equal to speaking just for the moment. Despite the pain and trouble at her heart, Heddy spoke bravely. She forced a smile to her face. Bruce felt that he had never loved the girl by his side so much as he did at that moment. Lawrence was fortunately at home. He had just finished a story so that his frame of mind was complacent, but as he listened to the dramatic events of the afternoon he grew deeply interested. We thought you would help us, Heddy said. I am probably the only man in the world who can help you, Lawrence replied. To a certain extent I seem to have got you into this mess, and I must get you out of it. My dear young people, I am going to astonish you presently. Now all I know up to now is that these notes have been traced to Bruce, and that by a dreadful coincidence he actually was one of the last people to see the murdered man before the tragedy. His little part Bruce has already told me, but I purposely asked no details. He has not yet informed me how the notes really reached his pocket, because the assumption that he stole them is ridiculous. Thank you for that, Bruce said gratefully. Nonsense, my dear fellow. Now let me open your eyes. Behold the great force of a man who is gifted with second sight. Where did you get those notes? Was it not on the same evening as the murder? Bruce nodded. He was beginning to have some feeling of hope. Score one to me. Recently you bought some article of value. Say it was a piece of batter-seat china or a Chippendale chair, an engraving after Reynolds or a picture. On the whole I am inclined to suggest a picture of the Dutch school with a history. Lawrence's eyes fairly beamed as he spoke. Another one to you, said Bruce. I did buy an old Dutch picture recently. But how on earth you managed? Never mind that yet. I didn't get this information from you. Behold the picture. You are sitting in your room on the night previous to the murder, a few hours before it, in fact. Enter to you a more or less picturesque individual who tells you a story of a picture. It is an heirloom in his family. The family have had to part with it in their dark days. Now the same picturesque individual has become rich. Imagine his delight when he sees this family treasure in a shop window. Amazing, Bruce cried. That is exactly what did happen. But how could you possibly have known that considering that until an hour ago not a soul knew of it, not even Hetty? Lawrence puffed his cigarette in huge enjoyment. So far the oracle has spoken correctly, he went on. The picture was in the shop window, the old man had no checkbook, he hurried home to get it, and by the time he returned the picture was gone. There's a pathetic little incident for you, quite in the fashion of a lady's novelette. The picture-esque old man wants the picture and he offers you two hundred pounds for it, which you accept. He pays you in banknotes and you place these notes in your inner coat pocket. I shall wake up presently and find it a dream, said Bruce. If you had been present at the interview you could not have described it better. End of the first act, Lawrence said with pardonable triumph. You are just going into your rooms when a motor comes up. It looks like a coincidence, but the driver has been lurking about waiting for you. Do you suppose it was chance that you were picked out of all the doctors in London? I thought perhaps Bruce began that my name. Fiddlesticks, you're the victim of a vile conspiracy, my dear fellow, if ever there was one. Now let me go on with my visions. The motor is an unusually silent one, and it was painted a dull, lusterless black. Correct to a fault, Bruce cried. Well, we shall hear more of that lusterless black motor later on when I come to go closely into the mystery and show the police what asses they are. You address a question to the driver, and he turns out to be dumb. He takes you to the corner-house, where you are received by a fair woman with a mantilla over her head, so that you have the very vaguest idea of her features. If you were asked to swear to her identity you couldn't do it, I suppose. At the present moment I could not swear to my own, Bruce said helplessly. Well, you can leave other people to do that. You find your patient half-dead between drink and drugs, and after a time you pull him round. As you go away you sign to the Spanish woman that you are coming again. She says no, and by means of a Bradshaw and some labeled luggage, say to Dover, leads you to believe that the people of the house are going abroad at once. Marvelous, Bruce cried. It is exactly as you have said. Of course it is, Lawrence replied. One question more. How many times did the haul gas go out when you were there? Bruce looked at the speaker absolutely too astounded to say a word. CHAPTER XIV Crowners' Quest Hetty was conscious of a sea of curious eyes and white eager faces. As the days went on public interest in the corner-house mystery had not abated. All sorts of vague stories had got about, and in some mysterious way the name of Dr. Gordon Bruce was mixed up in it. Why he had not been arrested, Bruce could not imagine, the tale he had volunteered to Prout and his signature on the back of the notes were almost in themselves enough to hang a man. Perhaps a little private conversation between Prout and Lawrence had had the effect of postponing matters. Bruce was not in the least likely to run away. On the contrary he had volunteered to give evidence at the adjourned inquest. Hetty also would have something to say that would be in favour of her lover. After all they can't definitely say that those notes were ever in the possession of the murdered man she whispered to Bruce. He wrote the letter, of course, but they don't know he really possessed the notes. I'm afraid they do, Bruce replied. They're going to call a cashier from the National Credit Bank, who positively identified the deceased as the man who changed four hundred pounds in gold for notes, part of which notes were numbers one nine zero seven five three to one nine zero seven nine two, or the notes I paid to capper. That piece of evidence cannot possibly be shaken. Hetty admitted the fact with a sigh. She had no illusions as to the future unless something like a miracle happened Gordon was certain to stand in the dock charged with the murder of a man unknown. Examined in the cold light of day Gordon Bruce's story was an extraordinary one. Hetty was forced to admit that from the lips of a stranger she would not have believed a word of it. And Gilbert Lawrence now refused to say anything. He was the one person who seemed to be thoroughly satisfied. There was some comfort to be derived from this, but not much as Hetty told herself miserably. The inquest was sensational from the very start after the dead man's landlady of the house by the docks and her landlord's agent proved the handwriting of the deceased. Sergeant Prout told the story of the missing bank notes. A good view of the packed audience knew Bruce by sight, and as the evidence proceeded he found the scrutiny of so many eyes quite trying. Even the most guilty when brought to book are not without some feeling of shame however defiant they may appear, but it is a horrible thing when the innocent has to stand and answer to a criminal charge. A wave of indignation passed over Bruce to be followed by utter helplessness. Courage dear old boy Hetty whispered, it will all come right in the end. Good will come out of this evil. Bruce shut his teeth tightly and nodded. Still in Prout's evidence he seemed to hear the voice of his judge passing sentence. Prout concluded his evidence at length, every word of which told dead against the one man seated there. Not half a dozen people in the room would have acquitted him on the criminal charge. Do you propose to go any further today, the coroner asked? Prout was understood to say no, when Bruce rose. His face was deadly pale, a tiny red spot burning on either cheek, but he had his voice under proper control. There was no look of guilt about him. If you have no objections, sir, I should like to give evidence, he said. The presiding official was decidedly taken aback. He looked at Prout who made no sign. He was not so prejudiced as most of the people there. Really if you will be guided by my opinion you will do nothing of the kind, he said, much as the magistrate might address a prisoner in the dock. If you were called it would be a different matter. On the whole the best plan would be for you to be represented by a solicitor, who would put questions likely to or tell in your favour. Bruce smiled grimly. He knew perfectly well what a terrible significance lay behind these formal words. At the same time he had no desire to take any advantage. There was an electric thrill in the audience as he was sworn. They thrilled with a deeper intensity as he proceeded. If ever a man stood up and committed moral and social suicide, Dr. Gordon Bruce was that man at this moment. There was scarcely a sound to be heard till he had finished. People thrust forward, eager that no word should be missed. A sudden sneeze caused the whole court to start violently. It was a strange weird story that only one listener believed in and that was heady. The coroner had nothing to say. The thing was bad enough and he did not wish to be too hard on a medical colleague. A curious juryman had a lot of questions to ask, especially about the mysterious Spanish woman in the motor-car. You left that lady behind you, he said. Who is to testify to that? If you can prove such to be the case, why the curious one shrugged his shoulders, then a loud, clear voice rang to the roof, the voice of a woman who declared that she could prove it. A ripple of amazement followed. Before it died away, Heddy became conscious of the fact that the voice was hers and that she had spoken. In a dreary kind of way she found herself answering questions, somebody had placed a book in her hands and had told her to kiss it. I lived next door to the corner house, she said. I could not sleep on the night in question. At a little before five. How do you fix the time, came from the inquisitive juryman? Because my bedroom clock struck the hour as I got back. I heard somebody leave the corner house. I looked out of the window and saw a motor-car that appeared to be draped in black. As a woman from the house got on to it she seemed to push some of the drapery aside, for I saw the gleam of the rail. She was a fair woman with a mantilla over her head. The car went off without the faintest noise, and that is all I know. Are you a friend of the prison—I mean of Dr. Bruce, asked the inquisitive one? Had he was bound to admit that she was more than that? The interrogative juryman sniffed and suggested that Dr. Bruce might have been in the house then. Impossible, Bruce cried. At a quarter to five I was at home. The hall porter and two of the maids were down, and we'll testify to the fact. A ripple of excitement followed. A reporter rose and held up his hand. I desire to be sworn, sir, he said. It so happens that I can throw a little light on this matter. I did not leave the office of my paper till four in the morning of the day to which this young lady eludes. The clock on Gregory's door struck five as I reached Garrett Street, which, as you know, runs into Raven Street. A few seconds later a fast motor passed me without the slightest noise. Perhaps you had better describe this motor, said the coroner. It was draped or someway disguised in black. A woman sat by the driver with a cloud of lace over her head. I could just catch a glimpse of a brass rail where the drapery was disturbed. Prout snapped his notebook together and put it in his pocket. After that he muttered, I give it up, it's beyond me. End of Chapter 14. End of Section 7