The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Goddess: A Demon, by Richard Marsh This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The Goddess: A Demon Author: Richard Marsh Release Date: March 26, 2021 [eBook #64930] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GODDESS: A DEMON *** The Goddess A Demon By Richard Marsh Author of “In Full Cry,” “The Beetle: A Mystery,” “Marvels and Mysteries,” “Ada Vernham, Actress,” &c. London: F. V. White & Co. 14, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C. 1900 CONTENTS I. A Vision of the Night II. The Woman who came through the Window III. The Conquest of Mrs. Peddar IV. Dr. Hume V. A Curious Case VI. The Doctor accuses VII. The Suspicions of Mr. Morley VIII. The Recognition of the Photograph IX. The Revelations of “Mr. George Withers” X. Where Miss Moore was going XI. In the one Room—and the other XII. What was on the Bed XIII. She and I XIV. He and I XV. The Letter XVI. My Persuasive Manner XVII. My Unpersuasive Manner XVIII. I am called XIX. I leave the Court XX. A Journey to Nowhere XXI. A Check at the Start XXII. A Miracle XXIII. In the Passage XXIV. In the Room XXV. The Goddess XXVI. The Legacy of the Scarlet Hands The Goddess CHAPTER I. A VISION OF THE NIGHT I was sure that I had seen Edwin Lawrence juggle with the pack. As I lay there wide awake in bed it all came back to me. I wondered how I could have been such an unspeakable idiot. We had dined together at the Trocadero; then we had gone on to the Empire. The big music hall was packed with people, the heat was insufferable. “Let’s get out of this,” suggested Lawrence, almost as soon as we were in. “This crush, in this atmosphere, is not to be borne.” I agreed with him. We left. “Come into my place for an hour,” he said. We both lived in Imperial Mansions, on the same floor. His number was 64, mine was 79. You went out of his door, along the passage, round the corner to the right—the second door on the right was mine. I went in with him. “What do you say to a little gamble?” he asked. “It will be better than nothing.” I agreed. We had a little gamble—at first for trivial stakes. I am an abstemious man. I had already drunk more than I was accustomed to. At his invitation I drank still more. We increased the stakes. I really do not know from whom the suggestion came, I know that I did not object. I had lost all my ready money. I kept on losing. He was dotting down, on a piece of paper, the extent of my indebtedness. Presently, when he announced the sum total, I was amazed to learn that it was very much more than I imagined— actually nearly a thousand pounds. On the instant I was wide awake. “Nine hundred and forty pounds, Lawrence! It can’t be as much as that!” “My dear chap, here are the figures; look for yourself.” He handed me the piece of paper. His manner of arranging the several amounts I found more than a little vague, but as I had been so foolish as not to have kept count of them myself, I was hardly in a position to dispute their accuracy; and, added together, they certainly did come to the sum he stated. Still I felt persuaded that there was a mistake somewhere, though in what it consisted I was unable at the moment to perceive. “Look here,” he said. “Be a sportsman for once in your life! I’ll give you a chance—I’ll cut you double or quits.” I did not want to. I would have very much rather not. Gambling on such a scale was altogether out of my way. But he urged me, and I yielded; I don’t know why. I must have been very much more under the influence of drink than I imagined. We cut. I cut first— the knave of diamonds. As it was to be highest, not a bad card. I watched him as he cut, and saw that he dropped at least one card from the lot which he picked up; and that after he had had an opportunity of getting a shrewd guess at its value. The card which he faced was the queen of diamonds, exclaiming as he did so: “That does you!” “But that was not the card which you originally cut—you dropped one.” “I dropped one! What do you mean? I have not the slightest notion of having done anything of the kind, and, anyhow, it must have been by the sheerest accident. What are you looking at me like that for? Don’t lose your temper because you happen to have lost.” The insinuation was as gratuitous as it was uncalled for. There was not the slightest danger of my losing my temper; but that I was right in what I had said I felt assured. But then the card might have been dropped by accident, and he might not have noticed what had happened. And, anyhow, in face of the fact that I had been with the man on terms of intimacy, and had never before had cause to suspect him of anything in the least dishonourable, having regard to his explicit denial, it was a delicate position to persist in. I got up from my chair, conceding the point. “That makes eighteen hundred and eighty pounds you owe me. My sympathy, Ferguson; better luck next time.” I mentally resolved that I would not play cards again with Edwin Lawrence—at any rate, when we two were alone. I was in a curious state of mind when I returned to my own chambers. The events of the evening buzzed in my head. It was not the money merely. Though I am very far from being a millionaire, and two thousand pounds, less one hundred and twenty, is not a sum to be lightly thrown away. The inquiry kept knocking at my brain—was the man whom already I was beginning to regard as a friend such a very poor creature after all? Was it possible that he had wilfully manipulated those figures to his own advantage, and, with intention, dropped that card? The more closely I followed the events of the evening, the less I liked the conclusion to which they led me. When I went to bed my thoughts went with me. I could not shake them off. I tossed and tumbled in pursuit of sleep. And when, at last, slumber did come, my sleeping experiences were even more disturbing than my waking ones had been. My repose is generally untroubled. I seldom am visited by dreams. But that night I had a most extraordinary dream; so extraordinary that I am haunted by it to this day, even in my waking hours. In appearance of reality it was little less than supernatural. Indeed, I do not mind admitting that I have been, and still am, at a loss to determine whether I was not—at least in part—an actual, sentient spectator, and not merely the subject of a vision of the night. Of course, I am unable to say how long I had been to sleep, but it seemed to me that I had only just closed my eyes, when something, I knew not what, caused me to sit up in bed; and not only to sit up, but to get out of bed. I have no recollection of putting anything on in the shape of clothes; I am certain that I did not switch on the electric light, I had a clear consciousness of the prevailing darkness. And, in the darkness, I had an uncontrollable impulse to go to Lawrence. I left the room, to the best of my belief, clad only in my pyjamas. In the passage was a light—it is kept burning all night,—and I distinctly remember noticing that it was burning as I passed along. Reaching Lawrence’s door, I tapped at the panel. There was no answer. I hesitated before knocking again; and, as I did so, immediately became aware of a strange noise which proceeded from within. A stranger noise I never heard. I experience a difficulty in describing it. It was as if some wild beast was inside the room, and was beside itself with fury. Yelling, snarling, screeching—a horrid, gasping noise—these sounds seemed to follow hard upon each other. And, mingled with them, were faint cries as of some one in extremity of both pain and terror. At that sound I ceased to hesitate. I turned the handle. I stepped inside. The sight I saw I am not likely to forget. Lawrence was struggling frantically with some strange creature whose character I was not able to distinguish. From this creature proceeded those hideous sounds. It was a mass of whirling movement. I had never seen a being so instinct with frenzied action. Every part seemed to be in motion at once; and with its whole force it was assailing Lawrence. He seemed to be offering a feeble resistance, as, hauled this way and that, he staggered to and fro. But, against such an attack, his efforts were vain. Presently he fell headlong to the floor. The creature, stooping, rained on to his motionless body a hail of blows, making all the time that horrid, gasping noise, and then was still. I had been conscious all the time that there was something about the creature which was terribly human. It appeared to be covered with a flowing robe of some shining, silken stuff, whose voluminous skirts whirled hither and thither as it writhed and twisted. Now that it became motionless there broke on my ears the sound of a woman’s laughter. I am not a nervous subject. Nor am I, I believe, a physical coward. But I am compelled to own that, instead of attempting to interfere, or offering the assistance which I had only too good reason to suppose was urgently needed, at the sound of the laughter, like some frightened cur, I turned and fled. And not the least strange part of the whole business was that, as it seemed, immediately after, I woke up. Woke to find that, however it might appear to the contrary, I certainly had been asleep, for I was sitting up in bed covered with sweat and trembling in every limb. I looked about me. The blind was up before the long French window. I remember drawing it up, as was my usual habit, before I got into bed. The moon was shining through. All at once a sound caught my anxious ear. I started forward to learn from whence it came. From the window! I stared with all my eyes. I was wide awake now, of that there could be no sort of doubt whatever. In the moonlight I could see that some one was standing on the other side of the pane—a faint, mysterious figure. The latch was raised; it was a little rusty, I could hear it creaking. The window was pushed open, as by an unaccustomed hand, with something of a jerk. Out of the moonbeams, like some spectral visitant, a woman stepped into the room. CHAPTER II. THE WOMAN WHO CAME THROUGH THE WINDOW I held my breath, staring in amazement. The figure was real, that was obvious. And yet, how could a woman have gained my window from without? Where had she come from at that hour of the night? What did she want, now that she was here? A vague wonder passed through my mind as to whether her object might not be felony. She had left the window open—I could feel the cool night-air—and stood inside it, as if listening. Was she endeavouring to discover if her entrance had been discovered? She had but to use her eyes, and look straight in front of her, to see me sitting up in bed, staring. I was as visible as she was. So far as I could judge she remained motionless, looking neither to right nor left. Presently she sighed, as some tired child might do, a long-drawn sigh, as if the action brought relief to her breast. Then I was persuaded that she was at any rate no thief—there was something in the sound of that sustained respiration which was incompatible with the notion of a feminine burglar. She came a little forward into the room, doubtfully, as if uncertain of her surroundings. She stumbled against a chair, the contact seeming to startle her. I saw her put her hand up to her head, with the gesture of one who was trying to collect her thoughts. “I can’t think where I am.” The words broke the silence in the oddest manner. The voice was sweet, soft, clear—unmistakably a lady’s. It thrilled me strangely. Nothing which had gone before had disconcerted me so much—it was an utterance of such extreme simplicity. Was it possible that the lady was a somnambulist, who, held in the thraldom of that curious disease, had woke to find herself in a stranger’s bedroom? If that was the case, what was I to do? How could I explain the situation, without unduly startling her? The question was answered for me. I must unconsciously have fidgeted. All at once her face was turned towards me. She exclaimed: “Who’s that?” I arrived at an instant resolution—replying with the most matter-of-fact air of which I was capable. “Do not be alarmed—it is I, John Ferguson. If you will allow me, I will turn on the light, so that we may see each other better.” I switched on the electric light. What it revealed again amazed me into speechlessness. At the foot of my bed stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen; I thought so in that first astounded moment—I think so still. She was tall and she was slight. She looked at me out of the biggest and the sweetest pair of eyes I ever saw. But there was something in them which I did not understand. It was not only bewilderment, it was as if she was looking at the world out of a dream. She regarded me, as I sat, with my touzled head of hair, not, as I had feared, with signs of agitation and alarm, but rather with a curious sort of wonderment. “I don’t know who you are. Where am I? Have I ever seen you before?” It was spoken as a child might speak, with a little tremulous intonation, as if she were on the verge of tears. “I don’t think you have. But don’t be alarmed—you are quite safe. I think you have been walking in your sleep.” “Walking in my sleep?” “I fancy you must have been.” “But—do I walk in my sleep?” In spite of myself, I smiled at the simplicity of the inquiry. “That is a matter on which you should know more than I do.” “But—where can I have walked from?” “That also is a question to which you should be able to supply an answer. Do you live in the Mansions?” “The Mansions?” “These are the Imperial Mansions. Is your home here?” “My home?” She shook her head solemnly. “I don’t know where my home is.” “Not know? But you must know where your home is. Who are you? What is your name?” “I don’t know who I am or what is my name.” Was she an imbecile? She did not look it. I never saw intellect more clearly marked upon a woman’s face. But the more attentively I regarded her the more distinctly I began to realise that there was something peculiar in her expression. She seemed mazed, as if she had recently been roused from sleep and had not yet had time to acquire consciousness of her surroundings. My original surmise was correct; she had been walking in her sleep, and had not yet recovered sufficient consciousness to enable her to recognise the actualities of existence, and comprehend what it was she had been doing. While I told myself this I had never removed my glance from off her. And now my gaze fastened on something which had for me a dreadful fascination. She was covered from head to foot in a voluminous garment, which set off her face and figure to perfection. I took it to be some sort of opera-cloak, though, more than anything else, it resembled a domino buttoned down the front. It was made of some bright plum-coloured material, which I afterwards learned was alpaca. A hood, which was attached to the garment, was half off, half on, her dainty head. The whole affair, cloak and hood, was lined with green silk. The front of the cloak was decorated with voluminous green ribbons; one of these caught my eye. It was a broad sash-ribbon, some six or eight inches wide, reaching from her neck almost to her toes. For quite half its length the vivid green was obscured by what seemed to be a stain of another colour. The stain was apparently of such recent occurrence that the ribbon was still sopping wet. But it was not the broad ribbon only which was stained; I perceived that, here and there, the bright hues of the knots of narrower ribbon were also dimmed. More, there were splashes on the cloak itself. She had her hand up to her head. I glanced at it. How could the fact have previously escaped my notice? There were stains upon her uplifted hand, and upon the other hand which dangled loosely at her side. They were half covered with something red—and wet. All at once there came back to me the extraordinary vision I had had of the strange happening in Lawrence’s room. I recalled the frenzied figure, clad in the woman’s robe, with the whirling skirts. Woman’s robe? Why, here it was in front of me, upon this woman, the very robe which I had seen. And here, too, now sufficiently quiescent, were the whirling skirts. I put my hand up to my eyes to shut out the horrid thought which seemed to rush at me; and I cried— “Tell me who you are, and from where you come!” There was silence. I repeated my inquiry. She answered with another. “Why do you speak so strangely? And why do you put your hand before your eyes?” The mere sound of her speaking soothed me. To my mind, one of the greatest charms of a woman should be her voice. Never did I hear a more comfortable voice than hers. It was impossible to imagine that a voice in which, to my ears, rang so unmistakably the accents of truth, could belong to one who was false. Removing my hands, I looked at her again. She had smeared her countenance with her fingers; all down one side of her face was a crimson stain. “Look,” I cried, “at what you’ve done!” “What have I done?” “What’s on your hands?” “My hands? What is on my hands?” She held out her hands in front of her, staring at them with the most innocent air in the world. “It’s blood.” “Blood? Where has it come from?” She asked the question as a child might do. In spite of her blood-stained face, the ring of truth which was in her voice, the unspoken appeal which was in her eyes, went to my heart. “Try to think where you’ve come from, and what you have been doing?” “Think? I can’t think.” “But you must! Don’t you see you’re all covered with blood?” “All covered with blood? Why, so I am! Oh!” She gave a little cry which was more than half a sob. She swayed to and fro. Before I could reach her she had fallen to the ground. I found her lying as if she were dead. She had swooned. This was a pretty plight which I was in. I have had but little experience of feminine society. My life, for the most part, has been lived in places where women are not. I knew as little of them as of the cuneiform character—perhaps less. I, of course, had heard of women fainting, but never before had I seen one in such a pitiful predicament. What was I to do? I thought of Mrs. Peddar. She was the housekeeper at the Mansions—an excellent woman. Everything under her rule went by clockwork: she had been of more assistance to me in various matters than I had supposed that a person in her position could have been. But I scarcely felt that this was a case in which her interference might be altogether desirable. As I looked at the lovely creature lying there so still, I felt this more and more. Her utter helplessness filled me with a curious sense of pity. A resolve was growing up within me to constitute myself her champion, if she would only avail herself of my services, in whatever circumstances of doubt and danger she might find herself. If she had something to conceal, by no action of mine should it be blazed to the world. Without her express sanction, neither Mrs. Peddar nor any one else, should be informed of her presence there. Yet how was I to restore her to consciousness? While I hesitated I perceived that something was lying beside her on the floor. Where it had come from I could not tell; it was hardly the kind of thing to have fallen from a woman’s pocket. I picked it up. It was a photograph of Edwin Lawrence; I could not help but recognise the likeness directly I raised it. Back and front it was smeared with blood. Actuated by an impulse for which I did not attempt to account, rising, I thrust it between the leaves of a book which was on the mantelshelf. She moved. Turning, I found that she had raised herself a little, and was looking at me with her eyes wide open. “What is the matter with me? Have I been asleep?” Her frank, fearless gaze, with, in it, that strange look of bewilderment, filled me with a sudden sense of confusion. I stammered a reply. “You have not been very well. But you are better now. Let me help you to get up.” I held out my hand. Putting hers into it, she rose to her feet with a little spring. When she took her hand away, on mine there was a ruddy smirch. The condition of her plum-coloured garment, and of the bright green ribbons, seemed to have become more conspicuous even than before. “Hadn’t you better take off your cloak?” She looked at me as if amazed. “Take off my cloak? Why should I?” “You will be more comfortable without it.” “Do you think so? Then of course I’ll take it off.” She removed her cloak, with my assistance. I flung it over the back of a chair. “You will find water there with which to wash your hands and face.” Again she eyed me with that suggestion of surprise. “Why should I wash my hands and face?” “There is blood upon them.” “Blood?” She held out her hands with her former gesture. “So there is. I had forgotten. I cannot think how it came there.” Her cheeks assumed an added tinge of pallor. “Will it come off if I wash them?” It seemed impossible to doubt that it was seriously asked; yet the apparent puerility of the question stung me to a brusque response. “We will hope that soap and water will at least, remove the outward and visible stain.” Turning, I went into my dressing-room, she following me with her eyes. There I hastily donned some more conventional attire. Thence, passing into the dining-room, I called to her through the bedroom door. “When you are ready, may I ask you to come in here. We shall be more at our ease.” She did not keep me waiting, but appeared upon the instant, coming towards me holding out her hands as a child might do. “I’m clean now. Aren’t I clean?” Her close propinquity filled with me wholly unreasonable agitation. I drew back. The removal of the cloak had disclosed a dark blue silk dress which fitted her, to my thinking, with the most marvellous perfection. There was a touch of white about her neck and wrists. Her beauty struck me more even than at first—it awed me. Yet at the back of my mind was born a dim fancy that somewhere in the flesh I had seen this enchanting vision before. I was at a loss as to the words with which I ought to address her, speaking at last, blunderingly enough. “Have you any reason why you should wish to conceal your name?” She shook her head. “Then tell me what it is.” “But I don’t know. Have I a name?” “I presume that, with the rest of the world, you have. Pray do not suppose, however, that I wish to force myself into your confidence. I would only suggest that I think it might be better, for both our sakes, if you could give me some idea of where you came from before you entered my room.” “Did I enter your room? Oh yes, I remember; but—I don’t remember anything more.” She put her hand up to her head with the gesture which had previously struck me. “Where did I come from?” “I don’t know if you are intentionally trifling, but if you are unable to supply the information, I certainly cannot.” Something in my manner seemed to occasion her distress. She moved towards me anxiously, like a timid child who stands in fear of admonition. “Why do you look like that? Are you angry?” I knew not what to think or what to feel; but, at least, I was not angry. If she was playing a part, which I for one was disposed to doubt, she acted with such plausibility that I was conscious of my incapacity to discover in what the trick consisted. I perceived that, after all, this was a case for Mrs. Peddar. “The housekeeper is a most superior person—a Mrs. Peddar. She will be of more assistance to you than I can be. Will you allow me to tell her that you are here?” “Why not? Of course you can tell her—if you like.” This was said with such an air of innocence, and with such an entire absence of suspicion that there could be anything dubious in her position, that I myself was conscious of a sense of shame at the thoughts which filled my mind. I moved towards the door. She stopped me. “Who are you going to tell?” “The housekeeper—Mrs. Peddar.” “Oh.” This was with a little touch of doubt. “She’s a woman. You’re a man. I’m a woman.” She said this with the utmost gravity, as if she were giving utterance to portentous facts which she had just discovered. She seemed to shiver. “Is she—nice? Will she—be kind to me?” I registered a mental vow that she should be kind to her, or I would know the reason why; I said as much, though with less emphasis of language. Then I left the room. But, before I actually went in search of Mrs. Peddar I returned into the bedroom, through the door which opened out of the passage. Using that plum-coloured cloak with scant ceremony, I rolled it up into a bundle and thrust it into a wardrobe behind a heap of clothes. Then, opening the window, I stood on the balcony and threw the water in which my visitor had washed her hands and face, as far as I could out into the street. I heard it fall with a splash on to the road below. CHAPTER III. THE CONQUEST OF MRS. PEDDAR Mrs. Peddar has her rooms at the top of the building—on the seventh floor. The lift runs all night. It had been my intention, rather than summon it and attract the attention of the porter, to have climbed the endless flights of stairs; but, as luck had it, when I reached the staircase the lift was setting some one down. Since it was there I thought I might as well use it, to save time, and also my legs. I stepped inside. “Up or down, sir?” “I am going up to Mrs. Peddar.” The porter favoured me with a doubtful glance. “Mrs. Peddar lives at the top of the building. She’s in bed long ago.” “So I suppose. I’m afraid, however, that I shall have to wake her up again, as I am in urgent need of her assistance.” “Anything wrong, sir?” “No. At least nothing in which you could be of service.” As we mounted I could see that Turner—the night porter’s name is Turner—was wondering what possible business I could have with Mrs. Peddar that I should rouse her out of her warm bed at that hour of the night. It occurred to me to ask him a question or two. “Has a lady come up lately?” “Up where?” “Up to the first floor—or anywhere?” He shook his head. “You’re sure?” “Certain. No lady’s come into this building for a good two hours, at any rate. The last was Mrs. Sabin; she and her husband’s on the fourth floor. They’ve been to the Gaiety Theatre: I took ’em up in the lift. She was the last lady as came in, and that was just after eleven.” His words set me thinking. If my visitor had not come in through the doorway, how then had she gained access to my balcony, which is on the first floor, and between twenty and thirty feet above the ground. Turner volunteered a statement on his own account. “And the last man who went out was Mr. Lawrence’s brother.” I pricked up my ears at this. “Mr. Lawrence’s brother? Oh.” “Yes—Mr. Philip, I think his name is. He came down not three minutes before I saw you, just as I was going to take up Mr. Maynard—that was Mr. Maynard who got out as you got in. He seemed to be in a big hurry. I said good night as he went past, but he said nothing. He had a big parcel in his arms, almost as much as he could carry.” “You are sure it was Mr. Lawrence’s brother?” “It was him right enough. My cousin’s his coachman—I ought to know him.” “You say he came down three minutes ago?” “Not three minutes ago, I said.” Then, in that case, he must have been with his brother some time after my visitor had come to me. The knowledge occasioned me distinct relief. Turner continued: “He went up about an hour ago: perhaps a little more. He’d got no parcel then. I stared when I saw he’d got one when he came back. I shouldn’t have thought he was the kind to carry a parcel, and especially such a one. I’d have called him a cab if he’d given me a chance, but I was just starting with Mr. Maynard, and he was off like a shot. Shall I wait for you, sir? The first door round the corner is Mrs. Peddar’s.” I told him not to wait, feeling conscious that it might take me some time to explain to Mrs. Peddar what I desired of her. The lady must have been a light sleeper. Hardly had I saluted the panel of the door with my knuckles than a voice inquired who was there. When I informed her she made a prompt appearance in her dressing-gown. “You, Mr. Ferguson! What do you want at this hour of the night?” I immediately became conscious that it might be even more difficult to explain than I had supposed. “I have a visitor downstairs, Mrs. Peddar.” “A visitor? Well? What has that to do with me? You can’t have anything to eat at this time of night.” She said that, I take it, because in the Mansions meals are provided for residents, and she supposed that I had dragged her out of bed at that unholy hour in search of food. “The visitor is a lady, and I wanted to know if you could give her a bed somewhere to-night.” “A bed? Who is the lady?” “Well—the fact is, Mrs. Peddar, something very remarkable has taken place. I’ve come up to tell you all about it, and to ask your advice.” “You had better come in.” I went into her sitting-room, she, with an eye for the proprieties, leaving the door discreetly open. There was that in her bearing which made me wonder if she suspected me of having been guilty of some act of rakish impropriety, unworthy of my age and character. I was conscious that the course in front of me was not all smooth sailing. “A young lady, Mrs. Peddar, has just entered my room through the window.” “Through the window! Mr. Ferguson! At this hour!” “I’m afraid the poor thing is not quite right in her mind.” “I should think not. That is the best thing you can hope of her.” “She is quite a lady.” “Lady!” Mrs. Peddar tightened her lips. “Mr. Ferguson, are you laughing at me, sir?” “I assure you I am perfectly serious; and I give you my word she is a lady. You have only to see her for yourself to find that. Wait a minute—let me finish! I thought at first that she was a somnambulist; that she had been walking in her sleep; and I am still of opinion that something strange has happened to her. She is unable to tell me her name, who she is, whence she comes, or anything about herself; she seemed as if she were mazed.” “Has she been drinking?” “Come downstairs and speak to her; you will perceive for yourself that to connect her with such a notion would be worse than impertinence.” “No offence, sir, but when you tell me that a strange young woman comes through your window in the middle of the night, I can’t help having my own thoughts.” “And I tell you, Mrs. Peddar, that the ‘strange young woman,’ as you call her, is a lady in every sense of the word, to whom, I am persuaded, something very serious has recently happened.” “Very good, Mr. Ferguson. I’m afraid that you’re too soft-hearted, sir. Where is this young lady now?” “She is in my dining-room.” “Alone?” “Certainly she is alone.” “Then I should not be surprised if, by now, she’s gone back through the window, taking something with her to help keep you in mind. You must excuse my saying that I don’t think I ever did know quite so simple-minded a gentleman as you are, sir. One thing’s sure—if we do want to find her we’d better hurry for all we’re worth.” Urged by Mrs. Peddar I hastened with her down the stairs. But her forecast was not realised. My visitor had not gone. She was still in the dining-room, fast asleep in an armchair. The first thing which saluted our ears, as we entered the room, was the sound of her gentle breathing; she slept softly as a child. The sight which she presented touched the housekeeper’s womanly heart. “She does look a picture, that’s certain! And quite the lady! And isn’t she prettily dressed! My word, what lovely rings!” The girl’s hands were extended on her lap. I saw that on her fingers were what seemed to be two or three valuable rings. Now that Mrs. Peddar had started, her enthusiasm almost equalled mine. “How pale she is—and how beautiful! It’s plain that the poor thing’s tired out and out. And you say that she came through the window! But however did she get there? and who is she? and where did she come from?” “As I have told you, I have put those questions to her already, without success. As you can see for yourself, she appears to be worn out by fatigue. I think that if you could give her a bed for to-night—I, of course, will be responsible for all expenses—in the morning we may be able to obtain from her all the information we require.” “She shall have the bed all right, sir; I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right for once. She looks a lady; and, anyhow, I never could be hard to any one so beautiful. But who’s to wake her? She is so sound asleep, poor dear!” “I will wake her.” I did—by laying my hand gently on her shoulder. She moved, turned, opened her eyes, and, when she saw who it was, sat upright in her chair. “I’ve been asleep again; it seems as if my eyes would not keep open. Where have you been? I thought you never would come back. It was so quiet here, and this is such an easy chair, I had to go to sleep.” “I’ve been in search of Mrs. Peddar, of whom I told you. This is Mrs. Peddar.” The girl turned to her with a radiant smile; my conviction is that that smile won Mrs. Peddar’s heart right off. “Oh, Mrs. Peddar, I am so sleepy. I feel as if I wanted to sleep, sleep, sleep. I can’t think what’s the matter.” Mrs. Peddar was regarding her with inquisitive looks, in which, however, there was sympathy as well. “You’re tired, miss; that’s what the matter is with you. A good night’s rest will do you good; you shall have it if you’ll come with me, and as comfortable a bed as you ever slept in.” “You’ll be all right with Mrs. Peddar,” I said; for the girl seemed to hesitate. “You could not be in safer keeping, or in kinder hands.” “Cannot I stay here?” I looked at Mrs. Peddar; Mrs. Peddar looked at me. It was she who answered. “I think, miss, you will be more comfortable if you come with me. You see, Mr. Ferguson lives alone.” “But where shall you be?” The anxious tone in which the girl put the question, and the appealing gesture with which it was accompanied, afforded me an unreasonable amount of pleasure. “I shall be here, not so very far away from you; and, the first thing in the morning, I will come to learn how you have slept.” “You promise?” “I promise.” Never did I promise anything more willingly. She was still reluctant to go. To appease her I accompanied her upstairs. When she reached Mrs. Peddar’s own apartment she was still unwilling to suffer me to leave her, her unwillingness making me absurdly happy. As I descended those interminable stairs it was as if I trod on air. It was ridiculous. Why should I be affected, one way or the other, by the whims, and airs, and fancies of an apparently half-witted woman, who had forced her way into my room at dead of night in a cloak all wet with blood. CHAPTER IV. DR. HUME I was awoke next morning by Atkins bringing in my cup of coffee. He asked me a question as he arranged it on the small table beside my bed. “Do you know, sir, if Mr. Lawrence slept in his rooms last night?” He had aroused me from a dreamless slumber, and I was not yet sufficiently awake to catch the full drift of his inquiry. “Slept in his rooms? What do you mean?” “Because, sir, when I took him his coffee just now, as usual, I knocked four times and got no answer. And his door’s locked; it’s not his habit to lock his door when he’s at home.” Atkins is one of the staff of servants attached to the Mansions, whose particular office it is to wait on the occupants of chambers on the first floor: a discreet man, who has a pretty intimate knowledge of the manners and customs of those on whom he attends. “Mr. Lawrence was in his rooms last night. I was with him till rather late, and I believe he had a visitor after I had left.” This I said remembering what Turner had told me about his brother coming down the stairs, with the parcel in his arms. “I think he must be out now—at least, I can’t make him hear. And the door’s locked; I never knew him have the door locked when he was in.” “Perhaps he’s ill,” I suggested. “I’ll slip along the balcony and see. You wait here till I come back.” I do not know what induced me to make such a proposition, except that I was struck by the man’s words, and impelled by a sudden impulse. On every floor a balcony runs right round the building. Lawrence and I had often made use of it to reach each other’s rooms—his are the first set round the corner. I put on a pair of slippers and a dressing-gown, and started. It was a chilly morning, with a touch of fog in the air, and it had been raining. I made what haste I could. The window of Lawrence’s dining-room opened directly I turned the handle. I went inside, and I saw what I then instantly and clearly realised I had all along felt sure that I should see. I sprang back upon the balcony. Atkins was looking out of my window. I called to him. “Come here! Quick! There’s something wrong!” He came running to me. “What is it, sir?” “I don’t know what it is, but—it’s something.” Atkins followed me into the room. Edwin Lawrence lay face foremost on the floor. All about him the carpet was stained with blood. His clothes were soaked. Had it not been for his clothes I should not have certainly known that it was Lawrence, because, when we turned him over, we found that his face and head had been cut and hacked to pieces. In my time I have seen men who have come to their death by violence, but never had I seen such an extraordinary sight as he presented. It was as if some savage thing, fastening upon him, had torn him to pieces with tooth and nail. His flesh had been ripped and rent so that not one recognisable feature was left. Indeed, it might not have been a man we were looking upon, but some thing of horror. I spoke to Atkins. “Run and fetch Dr. Hume. I am afraid he will be of little use, but he must come. And the police!” Off he sped to tell the ghastly tidings. So soon as he was gone I looked about me. On a chair close by was a pair of white kid gloves—a woman’s. I picked them up and put them in my pocket. Among the portraits on the mantelshelf was the face of one I knew. I put that in my pocket also with the gloves. The room was in some disarray, but not in such disorder as to suggest that a desperate struggle had taken place. A chair or two and a table were not in the places in which I knew they generally stood; the table on which we had played that game of cards last night was pushed up against another, on which were some copper vases. A revolving bookcase had been driven up against the fireplace. On the woodwork were gouts of blood. There was a blotch on the back of one of the books—a volume of Rudyard Kipling’s “Many Inventions.” On the edge of the white stone mantelpiece was the mark of where a hand had rested—a blood-stained hand. Something lay on the carpet, perhaps two yards away from the dead man’s feet. I took it up. It was a collar—a man’s collar—shapeless and twisted and stiff with coagulated blood. As I stared at it a wild wonder began to take shape and to grow in my brain. “Ferguson, what’s the matter? What’s this Atkins tells me about? Good God! is that Lawrence?” It was Dr. Hume who spoke. He had come into the room while I was staring at the collar. Graham Hume is a man who has taken high medical honours; but, having ample private means, he does not pretend to have anything in the shape of a regular practice. He has a hobby—madness. He is a student of what he calls obscure diseases of the brain; insisting that we have all of us a screw loose somewhere, and that out of every countenance insanity peeps—even though, as a rule, thank goodness, it is only the shadow of a shade. Some strange stories are told of experiments which he has made. His chambers are on the ground floor; and, though he has a plate on his door, his patients are few and far between—nor are they by any means always welcome even when they do appear. Probably the larger number of them are residents in the Mansions, and because that was so, any one living in the buildings being in sudden need of medical help used to rush at once to him. Lawrence used to chaffingly speak of him as “the Imperial Doctor.” Hume was still in the prime of life—perhaps forty, of medium height, sparely built, with clean-shaven face, high forehead, and coal-black hair. A good fellow, in his fashion; but with rather a too professional outlook on to the world. I always felt that he regarded every one with whom he came in contact—man, woman, or child—as a possible subject for experiment. Personally, I was conscious of feeling no dislike for him; but I had a sort of suspicion that he did not like me. “Yes,” I replied; “that’s Lawrence—what’s left of him.” He was kneeling by the dead man on the floor, his usually impassive face all alert and eager. “How has this happened—and when?” “That is what has to be discovered.” “Who found him?” “Atkins and I.” “Was he lying in this position?” “No; he was on his face. We turned him over.” “The man’s been cut to pieces.” “It almost looks to me as if he had been scratched to pieces.” “I fancy these wounds are too deep for scratches—in the ordinary sense. It looks as if several narrow blades had been used, set in some kind of frame, or a row of spikes. The flesh has been torn open in regular layers. This is interesting—very.” This was the kind of remark which I should have expected he would make; it came from him sotto voce. “He’s been dead some time, he’s quite cold. Very curious indeed.” While he spoke he had been unfastening, with deft fingers, the dead man’s clothes, laying bare his neck and chest. Now he called to me, with an accent of suspicion. “Look at that!” I looked. I saw that the body was almost as much disfigured as the head and face; that it was covered with gaping wounds. “I see; enough violence has been used to kill the poor fellow a dozen times over.” “Is that all you see?” Hume spoke with more than a touch of impatience. “Don’t you see that some sharp-pointed instrument has been thrust right through the man’s body, from the back to the front, and from the front to the back, because he has been attacked from both back and front? If, then, a knife, or something of the kind, has been driven clean through him, as it has been, over and over again, how came it to miss his shirt, his coat, the whole of his clothes?” “I don’t quite see what you mean.” “Then, in that case, my dear Ferguson, I am afraid that you are even more dense than you usually are—which is unfortunate. If I were to stab you where you stand, the stabbing instrument would have to pass through your clothing, and, in doing so, would leave a mark of its passage. One would expect to find this man’s clothing cut to pieces; but you can see for yourself that, with the exception of bloodstains, there is not a mark upon them; they are intact, without rent or tear. Are we to infer that the attacking weapon did not pass through them? In that case, was the man naked when he was attacked, and were his clothes put on him after he was dead?” “I see, now, what you mean.” “I am glad of that; perhaps your mental faculties are beginning to move. I suppose these clothes are Lawrence’s?” “I can prove that; he was wearing them when I saw him last.” “Oh, he was, was he. When did you see him last?” “Last night.” Hume glanced quickly up at me. “Last night? At what time?” I considered for a moment. “I don’t remember particularly noticing, but I should say that it was about half-past eleven when I left him, or perhaps a little after.” “Half-past eleven? Then I should say that within an hour of that time he was dead; perhaps within less than an hour. That’s very odd.” “Why is it odd?” “Was he alone when you left him?” “He was.” “Did you part on friendly terms?” The question took me somewhat aback; it was not one which it was easy to answer. “May I ask why you inquire?” “My dear Ferguson, it is a question which some one will put to you. You should be prepared with an answer. It seems rather unfortunate that you should have quarrelled with him within an hour of his being done to death.” “I did not quarrel with him.” “No? What did you do then? Your unwillingness to reply shows that it was not on the best of terms you parted.” “I shall be ready to give all necessary information to any one entitled to ask for it.” “So you are in a position to give information? I see? And you think I am not entitled to ask? Oh! What, to your mind, would constitute a title?—a magistrate’s warrant? You don’t happen to know if any one saw him after you did?” “I believe that some one did.” Again he gave that quick glance upwards. “Who was it?” “I believe that his brother saw him.” “You believe! What makes you believe?” “I was told by Turner, the night-porter.” “When?” “Last night; or, rather, early this morning. I had occasion to use the lift. Turner told me that he had seen Mr. Lawrence’s brother go up, and that he had just come down again.” “What time was that?” “Between two and three.” “I fancy that before the clock struck two, or even one, this man was dead.” “I found this on the floor just before you came in.” I handed Hume the blood-grimed collar. “What is it? A collar?” As he turned it over he saw what I had seen. “Here’s a name—‘Philip Lawrence.’” “I believe that Philip is his brother’s name.” He looked at me with an unfriendly something in his glance. “What do you infer from that?” “I do not attempt to draw an inference.” “But your tone suggests. Do you suggest that when Philip Lawrence came to see his brother he took off his collar and left it behind him on the floor? Why?” “It must have been soaked with blood.” “Then you do suggest that Philip Lawrence left his collar behind because it was soaked with blood.” “I suggest nothing. I say that I saw it on the floor and picked it up; that’s all.” Hume stood up. “What else have you found?” I fenced with the question. I did not propose to speak of the gloves or the photograph, being conscious that Hume was prepared to make himself extremely disagreeable if occasion offered. “I have not looked. The collar lay staring at me on the floor; I could not help but see it.” “Then we will look together. In such a case as this, one never knows what ‘trifles light as air’ may prove ‘confirmation strong as Holy Writ.’ Here’s a waste-paper basket; let’s see what’s in it. More than one man has been sent to the gallows by a scrap of waste- paper. Here’s what appears to be a letter—not too carefully written. Let’s see what we can make of it. Hullo! what’s this?” He read from the scrap of paper he was holding: “‘Such men as you ought not to be allowed to live.’ That’s a strong assertion. And written by a woman, too, in a good, bold hand. I think I should recognise that caligraphy if I saw it again; wouldn’t you?” He handed me the fragment. The clear, characteristic writing was certainly a woman’s. I felt that I should know it again if I saw it. The words were as he had stated them. He went on. “If the intention of the person who tore up this letter was to conceal its purport, he did his work with very little skill. Here’s another fragment which is plain enough. ‘To-night I will give you a last chance.’ To-night! I wonder if that was yesternight? If so he had his last chance—his very last. Here, on still another piece, is part of a signature. ‘Bessie.’ It certainly is Bessie. I know a Bessie.” He smiled, not too pleasantly. “I wonder if—it’s scarcely likely, though I shouldn’t be surprised if this turns out to be the work of feminine fingers. I seem to scent a woman in it somewhere.” “It’s incredible!” I cried. “How could such violence have been used by any woman?” “How do you know that much violence has been used?—though there are women who are capable of as much violence as men. But, in this case, so far, there is nothing to show that much strength has been exerted. It is a question of what instrument has been employed. Obviously it is one of a most extraordinary and most deadly kind, and one which I should imagine would be as likely to be found in a woman’s possession as a man’s; indeed, I should say more likely, because I should expect to find a man preferring to trust to his own right hand. Let me tell you this, Ferguson. You are making a serious mistake in endeavouring to associate Philip Lawrence with this matter. I know him well. He is a man of high position and noble character; as incapable of such a deed as you. Indeed, I know him well enough to be aware that he is incapable; I have not sufficient knowledge of you to say, with certainty, of what you may be capable.” “Your language is quite unwarranted. I have made no endeavour of the kind.” “Are you perfectly candid? Are you sure that there is nothing at the back of your mind? My position here is quasi-official. It is my duty to ascertain how this man came to his death. Yet, while you refuse to answer my inquiries, questioning my right to make them, you volunteer some tittle-tattle about Philip Lawrence, and produce, with something very like a flourish of triumph, a collar with his name on, which, you say, you found upon the floor. I warn you again that, if you attempt to drag in Philip Lawrence’s name, you will be guilty of a serious injustice, the consequences of which will inevitably recoil on your own head.” “Listen to me, Hume, in your turn. In the first place...