IN THE LION'S DEN
It was already dusk when Laurence Carrington stepped briskly out of the gate of the Manse, and turned into the dark drive that led to the neighbouring house.
He had been unable to wish Lena "good-bye," for both the Squire and Mrs. Knox had adjourned with her to the drawing-room at the conclusion of dinner. He had muttered something about "having a smoke" when he left them, and looking to his loaded pistol, which was something more than a mere plaything, he had set out on his important errand, wearing an ulster which covered his dress suit.
On this occasion he was not left waiting long in the porch, for his pull at the rusty bell was almost immediately answered by a repetition of the incidents of the morning. The same shuffling footsteps sounded along the passage, the same grating noise of bolts being drawn followed, and the door was opened ajar in order that the janitor might satisfy himself as to the identity of his late visitor.
The scrutiny through the chink of the door was apparently satisfactory, for the man inside proceeded to release the chain, after which Laurence was invited in a surly, gruff tone to "come in."
Pitch darkness reigned supreme within, and the young man found his hand grasping the small fire-arm in his overcoat pocket as he took one step into the house, and the door banged upon him.
What little light there had been from the outside world was now shut out. With a shudder, Laurence realised how completely he had placed himself in the power of the unknown inhabitants of Durley Dene. In the gross darkness, what was to prevent this sour-faced porter, who had, when disguised, encountered him on the previous evening, from plunging a knife into his back as he stood there unable even to catch a glimpse of the man's outline?
Even as he thought thus a hand clutched his arm. The young man's fingers closed simultaneously round the pistol in his pocket, but his companion only requested him to follow upstairs, and guided him by the arm with an accuracy that denoted familiarity with the ins and outs of the house, up several short flights of uncarpeted stairs, until, presumably halfway down a narrow passage, which must have been on the highest floor in the house, he stopped short suddenly.
Then he fumbled about for what was evidently a door handle, and a moment later a flood of pale light burst out from a room on the threshold of which the two had been standing. The door had been flung wide open, and with the janitor still holding his arm, Laurence moved forward into the room, which appeared well furnished, and in the centre of which sat a man in an arm-chair.
Half-blinded by the glare, Carrington stood for a moment motionless. Then the door closed behind him, and, turning, he saw that his late guide had withdrawn. He was in the presence of Major Jones-Farnell.
"A very good evening to you, sir!"
The man in the chair rose as he uttered these words. He was of more than middle age and height, was clad in a light-coloured shooting suit, and wore glasses and a grey moustache.
"Well, and so you have bearded the lion in his den?"
The words were those that Lena herself had used earlier in the day! Could it be that the Major had overheard them, or was it a case of mere coincidence?
"Come and sit down and let us have a chat," the stranger went on, beckoning Laurence to a vacant arm-chair.
"Major Jones-Farnell, I suppose?" was Carrington's first remark.
"Yes and no," replied the other; "but that is neither here nor there."
"Indeed! And I believe you wished to see me," said Laurence coldly.
"I do," said the Major, "but pray make yourself at home, as far as it is possible, in such 'diggings' as mine. Here are some cigars that I think you will find palatable. Perhaps you will join me in a smoke. There's nothing so conducive to pleasant conversation as nicotine." And the master of Durley Dene pushed forward a small box of long cigars, each wrapped in embossed silver paper.
Now, had Laurence been ushered into the presence of some typical scoundrel who held a revolver in his hand while conversing, and offered to murder the young visitor if he actually carried out his threat of consulting the police, he would not have been in the least surprised, but he had little expected what he now found.
The room in which he sat was elegantly furnished in decidedly Oriental style. A magnificent Indian carpet, into which one's feet sank an inch or so, occupied the best part of the floor, while mats covered the bare corners of the room. Indian tapestry of fine workmanship hung from the walls, and many of the small chairs and bric-à-brac ornaments were of Oriental manufacture. A hookah, with ivory mouthpiece, and brilliantly worked coiling pipe, stood upon a table at Major Farnell's right hand. That gentleman's feet were encased in Persian bed slippers. In fact, little of the furniture but the arm-chairs was of a kind one would expect to find in England. Even the prevailing odour of the room was that of incense such as one reads of as pervading Eastern bazaars and temples. Certainly the Major had a good idea of comfort.
And as Laurence noted these points in connection with the room he realised how they agreed with the supposition of his that the Squire's enemy was a "black" man or woman. But the Major gave him little time for thought.
"Oh, you must take a weed," said Farnell, when Laurence had at first refused the other's hospitality.
Fearing to displease, Carrington did so, carefully selecting one of the cigars from the bottom of the box. Why he did this will be quite evident. He considered it possible that some of them might be drugged. However, as the owner himself carelessly chose one of the top layer, it seemed probable that Laurence was over-suspicious. That, however, was no fault. The circumstances under which he had been brought face to face with the Major were remarkable enough to raise suspicion.
"And so," said Jones-Farnell, when the two had lighted up, "and so you thought of sending the police here! May I ask why?"
"I hardly think it necessary to explain to you what I am under the impression you already know," was the answer.
The Major looked surprised.
"I fear," he said, "that your impression is a mere misapprehension. Truthfully, I have no idea why you should object to my retiring habits in a house which is my own in every respect. I am inclined to think myself a peculiarly desirable kind of neighbour. I am sure no noise caused by me or my servant has ever disturbed you. I keep no fowls to wake you up by their crowing at daybreak. Never has either my servant or myself trespassed upon your grounds. I don't keep a dog——"
"Pardon me, but why, then, did your servant purchase a dog-whip only last night?"
And when Laurence made this quiet and apparently ordinary remark, he noticed a sudden flush rise to his host's brow. For a moment the Major did not reply. Then, affecting an off-hand manner, he said—
"Oh, that was for my Persian cat, Teddy."
But Laurence knew that he lied!