Chapter II: Part TWO (1)

_Which consists of a letter written by Sir Arthur Paradown to his friend, Mr. Weldon, the Coroner._

My dear Weldon,

Seven months ago you held an inquest on my first wife. It will now
be your dubious pleasure to perform that office on me, and I am
sending you with this letter an account of the events leading up to
that first inquest; this will reveal the incidents leading up to the
second. And I am doing so because I have a favour to ask of you.
Can you forget for a few hours the fact that I was a murderer, and
remember that I was a fairly conscientious landowner and did my best
for the County and helped a few people to be a little happier? If
you can, do you think you can be a little unprofessional and tell
the Jury that I have written you a private letter which explains my
suicide, and that it has persuaded you that I was not insane, and
then treat these documents as secret? What harm can it do! And it
can do good, for my present wife is expecting to have a child in six
months’ time, and I do not want the stigma of my insanity to rest on
Margaret’s baby. Will you do this for me? Read what follows, and then
decide----

Murderer’s sob-stuff is a peculiarly repellent brand, so I will merely state that when, six months later, I married Margaret, I knew for the first time utter cloudless happiness--for just six weeks, and then one evening after dinner, when we were sitting in my study, the telephone bell rang. Margaret took off the receiver and listened for a moment.

“It’s making such a weird noise,” she said.

“Give it to me,” I replied, and put it to my ear.

“You thought you were rid of me, didn’t you, you murderer! But as you killed me, I shall kill you!”

I knew the voice.

I made a casual remark, lest Margaret should suspect something was wrong, and went out into the garden to recover from what had been a terrific shock, and to regain my balance.

“Subjective or objective?” That is the old, old question on these occasions. In the first case I was mad, subject to hallucinations, in the second--well, then, a mystery of a different sort. There was little to choose between the alternatives. I certainly felt as sane as ever, but perhaps murder itself is a symptom of deep-rooted mental disease which could break out in other ways. My whole being rejected this hypothesis. But I had a dreadful certainty that in either case my doom had been spoken. This certainly must have branded itself upon my face, for Margaret was only half persuaded there was nothing wrong when I went in again.

I had three days’ respite.

Margaret tolerated broadcasting, and our set was in use on most evenings. I used to stop work and come in to hear the news. On this occasion, after the usual ponderous catalogue of minutiæ, listeners, as usual, were promised a “Little Piano Music” as a reward for their patience. Instead--as far as I was concerned, a voice suddenly cried out, “Sir Arthur Paradown murdered me, his wife, on March 9th.”

I gripped my chair and glanced at Margaret, but she was placidly reading. “It’s very clear to-night,” she said.

It was ridiculous and yet dreadful. I felt a deep horror of myself, an awful sense of isolation and distress. The question was--could I face this persecution? But then, I might be mad! I’d see a specialist the next day. In any case I was involved in something foul. My loathing for Ethel was such that, had she been with me, I would have strangled her in cold blood.

The specialist found nothing the matter, and was obviously puzzled at my visit. I told him I fancied I heard sounds which were imperceptible to others. It sounded vague and lame. He made a few obvious remarks about possible over-work, which were so nauseatingly inadequate to my trouble that I hurried away. Of course I’d only gone to him in panic, it was a witch-doctor I needed.

Margaret, as arranged, rang me up at the club at lunch-time. Just as she had finished reciting a list of things she wanted me to do for her, her voice went blurred, and through it came another: “Are you beginning to be sorry you murdered me? You can tell me when I come to you at Paradown.”

In the agonised daze which from then on always ensued on these occasions, I drove back home. “When I come to you.” What had she meant by that?

When Margaret came out to greet me, I took her in my arms and kissed her, and let the small, clean fraction of my soul sink into her.

“What’s the matter, my darling?” she asked, looking anxiously into my eyes.

“Sweetest,” I replied, “if I should die, think only this of me. I adored you. There might have been a time for such a word.” I felt unstrung, diseased, clinging to her, yet forced from her by that deadly secret she never could nor should share.

“What is it, Arthur, my dearest? You’ve suddenly changed. Something has happened. Tell me! Tell me! Whatever it is you can tell _me_.”

A surging, clanging fury of despair and self-pity raced through me and then suddenly left me, left me limp and lying with a certain despair and subtlety about over-work and liver and moodiness, rounded off with a desperate sort of “Soon be all right again” coda.

Margaret forced some sort of reassurance on herself and went to bed. I stayed up with my thoughts.

The bitterest knowledge which flays the brain of those who are at once vile and highly sensitive is that of the misery they inflict on those who love them. I know some who with a hardy egoism declare that the simple must suffer and the complex must cause them to suffer, that that is an inexorable law of life, and that the sufferings of the simple are simple, tolerable little pangs, those of the complex insufferable agonies, and that the only judge of a complex temperament should be another equally complex. Alas, when murder is the symptom of complexity that flattering unction fails of its purpose. Ethel had timed her re-entry well. She just gave me time to realise the full extent of the happiness of which she would deprive me, and she doubled my misery by reflecting it back again from Margaret. How I longed to get my hands on her!

Just before going up to bed I went out into the garden. As I came through the door I saw her standing there on the top step with her back to me, just as at that other time. And then it seemed as though I was rent and torn apart, and that a shadow leapt from me, a furtive poised thing, which took her by the shoulders and hurled her--hurled her----

Margaret found me lying there, and, poor darling, sent for dear old Fritaker, who tried to pretend his feet were scientifically pacing the bottom when he was hopelessly out of his depth.

“Nervous strain,” he diagnosed. “Bed, and feeding up,” he prescribed. I felt like quoting _Macbeth_ to him.

Yet bed and feeding up and an aching determination to spare Margaret contrived to patch me up, and for fleeting moments I felt some little reassurance. The “symptoms” of my disorder were not renewed, still I felt that Ethel knew her business, and would torture me with finesse. In that case could I train myself to nerve myself against her? Could I face the worst she could do, leading otherwise a normal, sufficiently tolerable existence? Could I deceive and so protect Margaret? I must fight for her. My rotting brain might merely be breeding these phantoms in its corruption, though relatively there seemed to me little difference between being haunted by Ethel objectively and haunting myself with her subjectively. In any case I would fight. I sent for my lawyer and had my affairs put finally in order, and a week later got up and resumed my normal life. And for some days nothing happened, and I began to wonder if, perhaps, I had had some obscure nervous disorder--a lesion which had healed itself.

And then one evening, just before dusk, when Margaret was in the garden, I had occasion to go up to my dressing-room for some papers. I opened the door. There was a coffin almost at my feet, housing a shrouded figure. There was a dark patch where the head of this figure should have been, and from it came something which slithered writhing down the shroud, and then the figure began slowly to rise.

I shut the door and cowered shuddering in the passage. When I felt I had strength to move I went down, drank a glass of brandy, and kept out of Margaret’s way till dinner. But by that time she was seriously frightened about me and watching me closely, so she knew at once I had had a “relapse.” I assured her that such ups and downs were to be expected, but agreed to go up to London with her for a change. Anything to make her happy, and one place was as good as another to one in my case. We went up the next day.

I was out alone seeing my publisher the next morning, and when I got back to the hotel I asked the lift-attendant if my wife was in. He said she was, as he’d seen a lady entering our suite. She was not there, however, so I asked him if he was quite certain, and he said that he was. Just then his bell rang, and a moment later he came up again with Margaret. His face was a study in astonishment. I tipped him and told him it was all right. I imagine he suspected that Salt Lake City was my spiritual home.

I only mention this little incident, Weldon, as evidence that these appearances were, up to a point at least, perceived by others, and therefore some evidence of my sanity.

What undermined and pierced me was that as my life grew more shadowed Margaret and I were being prised apart. She was still my darling, and the fact that she loved me the sole justification for my living, but I felt I was living in an extra dimension, as it were, that the shadow of what I had done and what I was suffering was erecting a barrier between us, and soon I should be alone with my secret, isolated and yet in some deadly way still Ethel’s husband. I could see that Margaret felt this vaguely, too, and that she knew something was sweeping us apart. I used to wonder miserably how I seemed to her, and what torturing, confused, despairing realisation must have come to her. If only I could have told her! But her belief in me was all I had to cling to, and I could not tell her that I had flung Ethel down those steps! And yet, if I could have got my hands on Ethel’s throat, I’d have been a murderer again. That obscene, meagre, despicable, mercenary, murdered fool! The best thing I ever did was to crack that evil little skull. She may have had her revenge, but if there are steps in Hell--melodrama! and likely to make a bad impression on you, my dear Weldon.

My poor darling Margaret thought a little amusement would be good for me, so we went to see some picture by Charlie Chaplin that evening. It would have done me more good if Ethel hadn’t come in and sat down next to me and begun to produce the picture, for something went snap in my head and there were the steps at Paradown, and Ethel came out, and I behind her, and down she went, and then her crushed and bleeding face grew and grew and thrust itself into mine. And I found myself back at Paradown in bed in my room and Margaret, white and wretched, and with a certain dread and despair on her face, bending over me. And then I remembered, and could not face her eyes. That was yesterday morning.

In the evening old Fritaker doped me, and Margaret went to bed in another room. Eventually I dozed off, and woke again, and then, as I turned sleepily, someone slipped into my arms. For a moment I had the ecstasy of feeling Margaret’s heart beating against mine. And then I doubted, shook, and turned on the reading lamp beside the bed, and there was Ethel. For a moment she was warm and whole, and then she glazed, swelled and burst asunder, and became a seething bladder of corruption.

That, my dear Weldon, was five hours ago. It is now 6.30. This dirty little tale is ready for its envelope addressed to you. One bullet stands between me and release--for I can’t fight _that_--and, I hope, between my hands and Ethel’s throat. I’m not mad, I’m not mad, I swear it!

OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

Mr. James Ponders rubbed his nose, and then read again his brother’s letter:--

“Dear Jim,

“I’ve just got back from Madeira, and am so sorry to hear about poor
old Reynolds. How you must miss him! Have you got anyone else yet?
If not, I have someone I can recommend with perfect confidence. He
is a man of the name of Millin, who was my valet for a time many
years ago; I don’t suppose you remember him. He left me to take up
‘butling,’ and was with Harry Roper till his death. He then went to
Sir Roger Wallington, a very curious cove. You may remember that
there was a mighty mystery about his passing. Well, Millin was
suspected of having murdered him, not that there was any motive
brought forward, but simply because he was sleeping in a room near
by, and there was no other man in the house. Superficially it looked
fishy. However, there was no real evidence against him, and he was
never arrested. Now when I read the case I _knew_ quite positively
that Millin was innocent. He is one of the best fellows in the world,
kind, thoughtful, a gentleman if ever there was one, besides being as
efficient and hard-working as they’re made. So I asked him to come to
see me. When he came, looking weary and worn, he suddenly blurted out
the very curious story which I hope you’ll permit him to tell to you.

“Now you know what an arrant old sceptic I am, nevertheless I
believed every word of this very curious story, though it tends
to drive a hole clean through all my scandalous and antediluvian
materialism.

“Now there are many more things in _your_ heaven and earth than in
mine, so if I can believe it, you should have no difficulty in doing
likewise. If you can, that act of faith will give you the finest
servant in Europe, and a charming companion. His past has made it
impossible for him to get a decent job, so I have been looking after
him for the last two years. This seems a heaven-sent opportunity to
do you and him a very good turn. At any rate see him. He is 46 and a
bachelor. I hope you’re flourishing; I should like to pay you a visit
in June some time, if you’d like to have me.
“LEONARD.
“P.S.--His address is 38, Mustard Row, Clapham.”

Certainly Mr. Ponders missed Reynolds, his devoted companion for 25 years. To middle-aged bachelors with large Tudor houses, dwarfed social senses and a great appreciation of personal comfort, to perhaps a little bit selfish gentry of this sort, their butlers are, next to themselves, the most important people in the world. Mrs. Dupine did her best, Mr. Ponders conceded, but he had noted several little unpleasant omissions during the last three weeks. He had interviewed several highly recommended and rotund individuals since Reynolds’ death, but none of them had really appealed to him.

But was there anything less appealing than to have always near one somebody who had been seriously suspected of having cut his master’s throat! for that was how Sir Roger had come to his end, as he remembered. Might not such an one, encouraged by the success of his first--if it were his first--butchery, proceed with careful and cunning planning to commit another!

Had these questions been raised by anyone but his brother Leonard, Mr. Ponders would have scorned to put himself to the trouble of answering them. But his brother Leonard was without exception the finest judge of character he knew. He was _inspired_, his instinct flawless. He _could_ not disregard his opinion in this case. Mr. Ponders was rather a timid, and perhaps a little old-fashioned and prejudiced person, but he prided himself on his courage and open-mindedness. Would he have a claim to either if he refused to see this Mr. Millin? He would not. Besides, it sounded as though his story might be of interest to an earnest student of psychic phenomena. And he _did_ want a butler. So he straightway sat down at his bureau in that glorious study, the pride of that famous show-place, Ponders Manor, in the County of Bucks, the ancestral seat of the Ponders line, and wrote a note to Mr. Millin in his flowing yet staccato script, asking him, were it convenient to him, to come down the following Thursday. He suggested the 11.30 train from Marylebone. A car would meet him at Great Missenden. All this would be, of course, at his, Mr. Ponders’ expense.

He also wrote to his brother Leonard. Then he looked at his watch and found it was 4.30. Chess time for a man of habit, so out came the ivory pieces, the chequered board, and the book of the New York Tourney, and he began studiously analysing that mighty tilt, “Capablanca _v._ Alechin, Round I.”

On the next evening he received a note from Mr. Millin respectfully announcing his intention of catching the 11.30 next Thursday.

Mr. Ponders looked forward to this interview with controlled trepidation. Fancy meeting someone--all alone in his study--who but for the lack of a little evidence might have been hanged--might have been “jerked,” they called it, didn’t they?

Certainly, but for Leonard, he would not have put himself in such a position.

However, when 12.40 saw Mr. Millin entering the study his trepidation wavered and died. He saw an erect and rather lean figure appropriately garbed in black with a gold watch-chain. But it was Mr. Millin’s face that almost persuaded Mr. Ponders forthwith to engage him without further ado. His features were nondescript, but there was something in his expression, so candid, benign, if a little dejected, the expression of one who had known terror and danger, which encountering, he had conquered--at a cost, that went straight to Mr. Ponders’ really kind little heart.

He opened the conversation with a conventional gambit, describing the circumstances--already well-known to Mr. Millin--by which the latter found himself there.

Mr. Millin paid murmured thanks to the kindness of all concerned.

“And now, Mr. Millin,” said Mr. Ponders, “I will be frank with you. My brother has told me about your connection with Sir Roger Wallington, the difficult position in which you were placed, and your explanation. The latter, I understand, takes the form of a rather remarkable story which my brother believed implicitly. In some way, I take it, it explains the mystery of Sir Roger’s death?”

“In some way, I suppose it does, sir,” replied Mr. Millin, “but it is so unlikely a tale that I wouldn’t have had the courage to tell it to anyone but Sir Leonard. But he’s always been so good to me that I dared to tell it to him. You can imagine my relief, sir, when he believed it. I quite understand that you, sir, wouldn’t dream of taking me into your service unless you believed it too, and thought it freed me from all suspicion concerning Sir Roger’s death.”

“That is so,” said Mr. Ponders. “Let me hear it.”

“Well, sir, after Mr. Roper’s death I was out of a position, and seeing Sir Roger’s advertisement in the _Morning Post_ I answered it, and received a request from Sir Roger to go down to see him.

“Sir Roger was a remarkable-looking gentleman, sir--very tall and strong, with very hard blue eyes, and a contemptuous, nervous, fighting look about him; yet somehow I took a fancy to him.

“‘Well, Millin,’ he said, ‘so you think you’d like to be my butler. Five strong men have thought that in the last eighteen months, and then--they have decided otherwise. The fellow who’s here now, for example, Mr. Peters, well--_he’s_ decided otherwise. He spent some time in America, Millin. The United States have much to be said for them, but they’re not good for British butlers. Have you been abroad?’

“‘Only for one day, sir,’ I said, ‘from Brighton to Boulogne and back.’

“‘I shan’t hold that up against you. I rather like the look of you--you look _soothing_. I want someone soothing. Would you like to try it?’

“I said I would, sir (for one thing, the wages Sir Roger offered were much above the average).

“‘Very well,’ he said, ‘come next Wednesday and stay as long as you can stick it.’

“I had some dinner with the servants before leaving, and what I heard made me realise I was taking something on. Apparently Sir Roger had always been famous for his tempers; during the War he had been wounded in the head, and still had a good deal of pain, and his rages had become very hot indeed, sir.

“‘Well, old man, I wish you luck,’ said Peters, ‘take out some All-Risk insurance, and when you see his chin go kind of down and back and his mouth open, and his left hand begin to twitch, and his eyes begin to spit blood, you’ll know you were the wise guy, isn’t that so, Mary?’ (Mary was one of the housemaids, sir, with whom, I found, this Peters had been too free.)

“‘How often does he get that way?’ I asked.

“‘Ordinary times about once a month. Depends how things are. But when this poacher bird Black Jack gets busy--well, I won’t pump the breeze up you, one of these sunny days you’ll know what I haven’t said! Anyway, I’m through, thank Theodore! Last Monday he threw a four-pound vase at my head, and I only side-stepped it by a millimetre. I’m not as young as I was. I’m off to Philadelphia next Thursday morning, so I should worry! Anyway, just remember when Black Jack is working his nets you watch his Lordship’s eyes when you take in his early morning brandy and soda, and _keep on your toes_!’

“Well, sir, I didn’t like this chap’s way of carrying on, though his obvious relief at leaving his job made me think twice, but I am easy to get on with as a rule, I wanted work badly, and the pay was very tempting. Also I thought this Peters was the wrong sort of person for Sir Roger, with all his American slang and loud ways. There was another thing which helped to persuade me to accept. Elm Court is a very beautiful place, and I’m very partial to good surroundings.”

“It is!” said Mr. Ponders. “The finest medium-sized Tudor House in Great Britain, and the grounds are perfection.”

“Yes, sir. After I had been in Sir Roger’s service for a week or so, I found out, sir, that he was subject to fits of heavy drinking. He was fairly moderate most of the time, sir, but about once a week he’d drink nearly a bottle of whisky besides other things. The housekeeper, Mrs. Miles, who had been with him many years, told me the habit was growing upon him. I was glad to find, sir, he seemed to take a liking to me; in fact, he quite made a friend of me. He saw very few people; it seemed he had got the wrong side of many of the gentry in the neighbourhood through rubbing them up the wrong way; it was as if he enjoyed doing it.

“Now and again he’d have some friends down from London, but he only entertained the local people, sir, when the Judge came down for the Assizes at Lewes. Otherwise he kept to himself, spending his time riding, looking after the farms on the estate, and, in the season, shooting. Peters had been right about the poachers. Sir Roger had the finest shoot in that part of the world, and the poachers were always at it. It was partly because he was so badly liked, for I found out that a lot of the local chaps were on the poachers’ side and helped them. This Black Jack was the worst. The local people seemed to be very much afraid of him, and didn’t like to talk about him. They were superstitious about him and very careful to keep on his right side. They told some funny tales. The first time I saw him was in the village about three weeks after I arrived. He was tall and slim and very dark, a good bit of the gipsy in him, I should say, sir. His face was like a hawk’s, and he had a very piercing look, a nasty customer to get up against, he seemed to me. He had his dog, Scottie, with him, a big mongrel, a mixture of collie and lurcher he looked, who’d got the name of being the cleverest at his job in the county, a savage, cunning looking brute. Well, Black Jack came up to me with a cheeky contemptuous look on his face. ‘You’re the new bottle-washer at the Hall, aren’t you,’ he said. He had almost a gentleman’s voice, sir. ‘Well, I don’t suppose you’ll stay any longer than the other bottle-washers. You haven’t met Scottie, have you?’ The dog bared its teeth and snarled and growled. ‘Doesn’t seem to like you, never does seem to like Hall folk, somehow; can’t think where he learnt to hate ’em. Well, tell that old ---- of yours I shall be working the East Side for the next week or so,’ and he sauntered off.

“I gave Wilkins, the head-keeper, the tip. ‘That’s like his blasted sauce,’ he said. ‘I’ll get that fine gentleman one of these days! I’ve had enough of him. It’ll mean a new job for me if I miss him this time. I sometimes think he’s got the Devil on his side. Say nothing to the master if you like a quiet life.’

“Well, Black Jack started his business as he said he would. He and his gang cleaned up the coverts on the East Side, but none of them was caught. Directly the poaching began the master began to drink. He was out every night, and his temper was something I’d never seen before, but he never actually went for me--Wilkins got it, though, sir. He and three other keepers got the sack, and a new lot came in. Wilkins didn’t seem sorry to go. He told me he’d had enough of it, and that the master’s cursing was too bad to put up with.

“It was a difficult time for me, sir. Sir Roger was drinking hard and up most of the night, chasing after Black Jack, and he’d come in at four and five in the morning, and I had to wait up for him. The servants were a great trouble. Sir Roger hated to see any of the maids about the house, and when he sacked one of the girls he found dusting his study at seven one morning all of them gave notice. However, I calmed them down and got Sir Roger to raise their wages. After a time Black Jack took his gang elsewhere, and things were a bit more peaceful for a few days.

“One day, early in February, Sir Roger drove up to town, taking Godson, the chauffeur, with him. He had said he’d be back about five, but it was a quarter past eight when they arrived--on foot. When I opened the door I knew that something had happened and that he’d had one of his rages. His face was always white and heavily lined after them, and his eyes looked swollen and red. He pushed past me without saying a word and began drinking whisky in his study. Presently he rang and said he would not dine, but that I was to bring him some sandwiches. When I got down to the servants’ hall I found Godson, sitting at the table, his head in his hands. He looked up at me, and his face was haggard.

“‘I’m through!’ he said. ‘The ----’s mad, bloody mad’--he was never one to swear as a rule, sir.

“‘What’s up?’ I asked, ‘where’s the car?’

“‘What’s up!’ he cried; ‘that ----’s up the pole! I tell you I’m through. I’ll tell you what sort of a blasted, bloody lunatic he is! When I met him at the Club I could see he’d been drinking, but he _would_ drive coming home. I’ve never seen him wilder, we ought to have been killed ten times. I was just beginning to think we’d get through when we reached that switchback in the woods near Ollen. I should think we touched 90 on the way down. As we reached the bottom I saw there was someone standing at the side of the road half-way up the hill. Suddenly he began braking hard and peering ahead. It was then I could see the chap in the road was Black Jack. Just as we were drawing up to him that dog of his bounded out into the road behind him. Then I felt the car swing. He drove her straight at Black Jack, missed him by a foot, and then swung back and caught the dog fair and square. The next thing I knew was that I was lying on my ear in a field. Both front tyres had gone, and we’d bust clean through a gate, bounced on the plough, and then turned half over in a dew-pond.’

“‘Well, His Highness was out in a flash, and I followed him back to the road. When we got there Black Jack was bending over the dog. When he saw us he picked it up and walked towards us. Sir Ruddy Roger went to meet him. Black Jack lifted his cap, and then held up the dog by the back of his neck. Its face was all bloody and dusty and smashed up.

“‘Good evening, Sir Roger,’ said Black Jack. ‘Scottie’s dead all right, you got him at last, you got him!’

“‘Get to hell from here, you poaching blackguard!’ cried the Guv’nor. ‘Certainly I’ve got one of you, and if ever you come on my land again I’ll get you, too!’

“‘I was rather fond of Scottie,’ said Black Jack, ‘and knew all his tricks. He’d got some funny tricks, too; don’t be too sure you’ve done with him!’ Then suddenly his face went hard and fierce, and there were tears in his eyes. He shoved the dog’s muzzle right into the Guv’nor’s face and gave a funny little sharp whistle which seemed to scream in one’s head, and he muttered something in some foreign language, gipsy, I guess, and I got the idea that the dog was listening as if it was alive again, and in a twinkling Jack and the dog had disappeared--into the woods I suppose, but it was quick work.

“‘The Guv’nor never said a word, but started off to walk home, and here we are, and the ruddy car can drown for all I care! I leave to-morrow. He can get some other stiff to be killed with him. I’m through. Christ, I’ve got a head!’

“‘You go to bed,’ I said, ‘I’ll get the car brought in in the morning.’

“He was as good as his word, sir; he left before lunch and I never saw him again.

“The next afternoon I had to go down to the village, and at once I noticed a change. Nobody from the Hall was ever much welcomed there, but I had always been treated with civility, and some of them were quite friendly. That day they looked at me out of the corners of their eyes, and were short and abrupt in their manner. It made me feel very uncomfortable, sir.”

“What had Sir Roger done to make himself so unpopular with the local people?” asked Mr. Ponders.

“Well, sir, he was a harsh landlord, and never put himself out to please. In this way he was very unlike his father. I think that’s what they hated most about him.”

“I remember Fred Wallington,” said Mr. Ponders. “A genial, easy-going old fox-hunter. Well, go on.”

“Of course I couldn’t get anything out of them, but they were behaving so queerly that I sent one of the maids, who had a sweetheart working in the local public-house, the Bee and Clover, to see if she could pick up anything. When she got back she said that Joe had ‘been funny,’ and that she’d had to make a bit of a scene before she could get anything out of him, and that he’d only mutter that Black Jack had said something the night before. He’d come in for a drink and left almost at once. When she asked what he’d said, he wouldn’t answer, but had left her and gone home. She’d never seen him like that, she’d said. So putting two and two together, sir, I made out that Black Jack had made some sort of threat against the master which the local people believed he would carry out, and so they wanted to have as little to do with the Hall as possible. I thought the master seemed a bit uneasy at dinner that night. Sometimes he’d seem to be listening to something, and several times I noticed him giving sudden quick looks into a dark corner there was between the door and the serving table. After dinner he went out on to the lawn and walked in a stealthy sort of way over towards the clump of big cedars.

“Well, my pantry window looked out that way, and I saw the master suddenly come running back, and then I heard him slam the window of the morning-room. When I took in the whisky and soda he was looking a little queer, I thought. His face was flushed and his eyes were sort of screwed up, sir, as if he wasn’t sure if he could see something or not.

“The next morning when I went to call him I found him wide awake--which I never remembered him being before.

“‘Whose dog is that?’ he asked, as soon as I came in.

“‘What dog, sir?’ I asked.

“‘I don’t know,’ he answered shortly. ‘I was restless during the night, and got up, and I saw it on the lawn. Find out whose it is and keep it away. Tell whoever owns it I shall have it shot if I see it again.’

“‘Very good, sir,’ I said.

“I made some enquiries, but no one knew anything about it, and the new keeper told me both his dogs had been sleeping in his kitchen from eight o’clock on.

“The master was all right through the day, but as soon as dusk came on he seemed worried and not himself. We were all a bit on edge, sir, for it was then the Noise began.

“It was quite faint at first. Now, sir, I know I shall never be able to explain what it was like, because the strange thing was that we couldn’t really say we heard it, not through one’s ears, that is to say. It was as if it was going on inside one’s head. Also it was as much a shake as a noise; when it got worse it made everything in the house--how would you call it, sir?”

“Vibrate?” suggested Mr. Ponders.

“Yes, sir, as for what sort of sound it was, it reminded one of what Godson had said about Black Jack’s whistle, it seemed to scream in one’s head. You know that high noise bats make, piercing, but so high one can only just hear it. Well, sir, it was like that a thousand times louder, and it never stopped from dusk till dawn for a second. It seemed to cut us at the Hall from the rest of the world, close us in, as it were. I can’t tell you, sir, how horrible it was at its worst, but at first it was quite soft, though all the servants noticed it, and kept going to the windows to look out, and wondering what it was.

“At dinner that night Sir Roger was very queer. He had just started on the soup when I saw his eyes go to the dark corner I mentioned before, sir. He never touched another mouthful of anything, but all the time his eyes travelled round the room as if he was following something about. Once or twice when he seemed to follow it right up to his side, he half started from his chair, but he always had great self-control of a sort, that is to say, he hated to make any kind of exhibition of himself before other people, sir, and he held himself in, though I could see his knuckles go white as he hung on to the chair. He got up half-way through dinner and went back to the morning-room. When I took in his coffee he was peeping through the blind on to the lawn.

“When I came in he turned round rather slowly and said, ‘You know that dog I spoke to you about. It’s here again. Take the rook-rifle and see if you can find it. I thought I heard it barking just now in Grey Fallow.’ (Grey Fallow, sir, is a big copse in the Park, up the hill a bit, about three hundred yards from the wild-rose hedge which cuts the Park off from the lawn.)

“‘There,’ he said, ‘can’t you hear it?’

“‘I’ll see if I can find it, sir,’ I said, and got the rifle out, for I thought it would upset the master if I said I couldn’t hear anything. By the time I’d reached the rose-hedge I felt I wanted to turn back, but I went through the gate up towards Grey Fallow. There was just a little moon coming through the clouds. Suddenly I felt I couldn’t go any further. It was cowardice, I expect, sir, but there were two shadows which seemed to be coming from something standing, and another one crouching just inside the wood, which were more than I could face up to, sir. And then I found myself walking through the open window into the morning-room.

“‘Well?’ asked the master.

“‘I couldn’t see anything, sir.’

“‘Damn you,’ he said, ‘I can hear it now; give me the rifle and pour me out a whisky and soda!’

“Some time later I was working in the pantry when I heard a shot. I looked out, but at first I couldn’t see anything. Then the moon came through, and I picked out the master crouching down beside the big cedar. ‘What’s he up to?’ I wondered, and it was then for the first time I felt a sinking, creepy feeling, sir, as if I’d give anything to be up in London with people and lights. But I was fond of the master, sir, and I felt it was up to me to look after him, and I made up my mind to stick it out.

“When I went back to the morning-room to ask about orders for the next day he was on his knees peering through the blind. I went out and knocked loudly, and he was sitting in his chair when I came in again, but his left hand was twitching quickly. I was going to take the rifle out to be cleaned, but he told me to leave it there till the morning.

“It was from then, sir, that the bad time really began. It was all right till dusk came, and the master was quite boisterous and good-humoured during the day, but as soon as the sun was down, and that sound began, and the master started to be funny, and all the maids got agitated and hysterical, it was as much as I could stand.

“When I say the master started to be funny, I mean that he got silent and watchful and absorbed in something. From then on he ate nothing at dinner, though he usually went in and sat down for a time. On the third night, after he had been staring at the dark corner and round the room for a time, he suddenly jumped to his feet and seemed to fling something from him. His face was working, sir, and he pointed his hand to the door. ‘Turn that dog out! Turn that dog out!’ he shouted.

“I was badly taken aback, but I pretended to drive something out of the door. This finished the footman, who ran away the next morning. I wasn’t sorry, as I thought I’d better have the master to myself. It was from then on I had to pretend all the time when I was with him at night, for there was no doubt by now, sir, that he was seeing some dog most of the time, and he was scared of it. I had to sit with him in the evening with a whip in my hand and let fly in the direction he pointed to. Then he made me come and sleep in the room next to his. The sound got steadily worse and became something shocking, sir, and the maids went one by one. It seemed to drive them crazy, and they’d sit with their hands to their ears crying. I replaced them at first and offered every kind of high wages, but it was no good, they wouldn’t stay, and very soon Mrs. Miles and I were left alone. She was a brave woman, sir, she said she’d stick till she died, if necessary.”

“Did Sir Roger hear this sound?” asked Mr. Ponders.

“Not as we did, sir, but he was always hearing barking and snarling and something scratching at the door. He hated _that_ worst of all. Time after time he’d tell me through the tube from his room to mine that there was a dog at his door. I always got up, but, of course, there was nothing there.

“I expect you wonder, sir, why I didn’t take it for granted it was D.T.s--delirium tremens I should have said, sir, and fetched a doctor, and I often thought of it, but the master was not drinking so heavily now as before the trouble began. Then again the doctor would have probably come during the day, and found the master almost himself. Besides, I don’t believe he would have seen a doctor, he always hated and despised them.”

“You didn’t think it _was_ drink, then?” he asked.

“I didn’t know what to think. You see, sir, there was that Sound.”

“I wonder you could stick it.”

“Well, sir, I did long to go, but if Mrs. Miles could put up with it I could, and I felt I had to stand by the master in the bad time. I was quite attached to him, sir, and I shouldn’t have felt right about leaving him in the lurch. I tried to get him to go up to London and stay at the club, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“There began to be a lot of talk in the neighbourhood, for the maids said things before they left, and all the villagers and local people round were certain it had something to do with Black Jack. He had never been seen since that night his dog was killed, but he was believed to be somewhere about. It was a funny thing the local people had a curious knowledge when he was about, and they were always right.

“The master got worse and worse. He couldn’t seem to stay in the house after dark unless I was with him. He’d be out all night in the grounds, and I’d sometimes catch a sight of him crouching and hiding, and sometimes he’d come running back as if something was after him. He took to sleeping heavily during the day, but he had bad dreams then, and he said some funny things in his sleep.

“I felt he must be getting near the end of his tether.

“When the Judge came down I never for a moment believed he would attempt to entertain him, but, to my dismay, sir, he insisted, and asked thirty people to meet him. Of course, I had to get a lot of help down from London. The only good thing about it was, I felt, that some of the gentlemen might see what a state he was in and help me to do something for it.

“It was a terrible evening. The Sound was wicked that night. The hired chaps got the wind up, sir, as soon as it began, and kept asking what the hell it was, and several of them tried to slip away. It made all the guests nervous and uneasy.

“The master made an effort for a time; it was a very brave effort, sir, but after a time his eyes went to the corner by the door, and suddenly he gave a sharp movement and then his eyes flitted about as if he was following something. Twice he half rose from his chair as if something was getting at him. Of course, the guests noticed it and, although they made a pretence of talking, I could see them watching the master. The hired men lost their heads and were dropping plates and waiting shockingly. The Noise got so bad that everything was quivering and shaking, and I could see the guests were beginning to get horrified and very uneasy. I felt something was going to happen. Suddenly the master jumped to his feet and began flinging all his glasses and anything he could pick up from the table into the dark corner, shouting, ‘Go! go! go! Drive it out, I tell you! Drive it out!’ and then he fell in a heap on the floor. Some of the gentlemen helped me to carry him up to his room, and then they left, and glad to go they were. One of them, Sir Marcus O’Reilly, took me aside, and asked if this sort of thing had been going on long. I said for just three weeks. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s delirium tremens, and a bad case. I’ll do something about it in the morning. He can’t go on like this.’

“Would you believe it, sir, the master pulled round about midnight and spent the rest of the night out in the Park!”

“Did _you_ ever see anything unnatural, except those shadows, I mean?” asked Mr. Ponders.

Mr. Millin paused. “There was just something I did see--marks very like those made by the muddy paws of some animals outside the master’s bedroom door several times, and one time, when Sir Roger woke me up and told me the dog was on his bed, there were some marks on the blanket.

“There was one funny little thing. The master was fond of cats, and kept six of them. Well, as soon as the Sound began, they all disappeared and were never seen again, and the keeper told me his dog wouldn’t go near the hall after dusk. But I don’t _think_ I ever saw anything, though the master made it all seem so real that it was enough to make anyone see things.

“Well, sir, the next night it happened--I had managed to get to sleep about two o’clock--the master was out as usual. Suddenly I was awakened by hearing him rushing down the passage. I heard his door slam and then he began shouting, ‘Get down! Down, you brute! Down! Down! Down!’ and then I heard everything in the room begin crashing about. Just as I reached my door there was a terrible screaming and choking kind of cry--the most awful sound I ever heard, sir.

“I rushed to his room and turned on the light. He was lying across the bed, his throat torn open and the blood pouring out. He was dead already. As I lifted him and tried to staunch the blood I noticed something about his eyes. There was something sort of photographed in them.”

“What?” asked Mr. Ponders sharply.

“Well, sir, it might have been the head of a dog smashed up and bleeding.”

“When I went to pull down the blinds, my eye was caught by a shadow coming out from the big cedar. It was like the one I had seen in Grey Fallow. And it almost seemed as if I saw another shadow, which was leaping and bounding towards it--and then they both disappeared. And then I noticed the Sound had stopped.

“I got the doctor and the police as soon as I could. The doctor was very puzzled. He said he’d never seen a wound like it, and couldn’t imagine how it had been caused.

“Next day the London police came down, and, of course, it began to be a bit unpleasant for me, being so near in the next room like that, and no one else about. They cross-examined me for a long time. All I could say was that the master had been queer for a long time and taken to roaming in the grounds at night, that I had been woken up by hearing him scream and had rushed in to find what I have described, sir. But it sounded weak and fishy. The Inspector heard something in the village about Black Jack, and tried his best to find him, but he was never seen again. The inquest was adjourned several times, and I think everyone expected me to be arrested, but when the doctor had given his evidence it seemed to me that everyone in the Court felt there was something that couldn’t be explained about the business, and the verdict was ‘Murder by a person or persons unknown.’ After that the police left me alone, but I suppose most people still believe I did it. And then I came up to London and saw Sir Leonard. I’ve never been able to get another place. As soon as they hear I was with Sir Roger they turn me down.

“Well, that’s my story, sir, and it’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth, though I know how it must sound.”

“Did you ever think of telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth to the police?” asked Mr. Ponders.

“They wouldn’t have stood for it, sir. I’m sure they wouldn’t.”

“Well, Mr. Millin,” said Mr. Ponders smiling, “my brother has praised you more than I have known him praise many people, but even he never suggested you had the imagination to invent _that_ story. Do you know why--amongst other reasons--I believe every word of it? It’s because I’ve heard it before.”

“Heard it before, sir!”

“Well, almost. Do you see that black and red book on the shelf just behind you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that contains an account of a very, very similar happening in the year 1795 in this county, not ten miles away. It is called ‘A True Account of the Curious Events connected with the death of Mr. Arthur Pitts.’ You shall read it when you are installed here. By the way, how soon can you come?”

Mr. Millin’s eyes were very bright as he answered, “Any time which will suit you, sir.”

“HE COMETH AND HE PASSETH BY!”

“HE COMETH AND HE PASSETH BY!”

Edward Bellamy sat down at his desk, untied the ribbon round a formidable bundle of papers, yawned and looked out of the window.

On that glistening evening the prospect from Stone Buildings, Lincoln’s Inn, was restful and soothing. Just below the motor mowing-machine placidly “chug-chugged” as it clipped the finest turf in London. The muted murmurs from Kingsway and Holborn roamed in placidly. One sleepy pigeon was scratching its poll and ruffling its feathers in a tree opposite, two others--one coyly fleeing, the other doggedly in pursuit--strutted the greensward. “A curious rite of courtship,” thought Bellamy, “but they seem to enjoy it; more than I enjoy the job of reading this brief!”

Had these infatuated fowls gazed back at Mr. Bellamy they would have seen a pair of resolute and trustworthy eyes dominating a resolute, nondescript face, one that gave an indisputable impression of kindliness, candour and mental alacrity. No woman had etched lines upon it, nor were those deepening furrows ploughed by the higher exercise of the imagination marked thereon.