‘They say it’s unlucky to sleep in a room where a suicide slept the last night of his life.’
‘Then Mr. Featherstone killed himself the day he left here?’
‘Sure he did so. And I thought I’d warn you.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Richard, ‘it’s no matter. I dare say it won’t affect my repose. Goodnight. Thanks.’
‘I’d like ye to sleep in another room—I’d like ye to,’ urged Mike in a persuasive whisper.
‘No, thanks,’ said Richard firmly; ‘I’m settled now, and will take the risk.’
Micky sighed and departed. As soon as he was gone Richard rose out of bed, pulled the curtains aside, and made a minute examination of the room. But he could discover nothing whatever beyond the customary appurtenances of an ordinary middle-class bedchamber. There was a chest of drawers, of which every drawer was locked. He tried to push the chest away from the wall in order to look behind it, but the thing was so heavy that he could not even move it. He returned to bed. At the same time his ear caught the regular chink of coins, such a sound as might be made by a man monotonously counting money. It continued without interruption. At first Richard imagined it to proceed from under the bed, but he knew that this was impossible. Then he thought it came from the room to the left, then from the room to the right. Chink—chink—chink; the periodic noise had no cessation.
‘What coins can they be?’ Richard asked himself; and decided that such a full, rich chink could only be made by half-crowns or crowns.
He endeavoured to sleep, but in vain; for the sound continued with an exasperating regularity. Then he seemed uneasily to doze, and woke up with a start; the sound was still going on. The hall clock struck five. He jumped out of bed, washed and dressed himself, and went quietly downstairs. The sound had mysteriously ceased. With a little difficulty he opened the hall door and passed out into the garden.
It was a lovely morning; the birds sang ravishingly, and a gentle breeze stirred the cypress-trees which lined the drive. The house was absolutely plain as regards its exterior—a square, solid, British farmhouse. A meadow that was half orchard separated it from the high-road. Away from the house, on the other side of it, and at the end of a large garden, was a long range of low buildings, in the form of a quadrangle, which had, presumably, once been the farmstead; they presented, now, a decayed and forlorn look. Richard walked past the front of the house, under its shuttered windows, across the garden, towards these farm buildings. As he opened a gate in the garden wall he saw Mike issuing cautiously from one of the sheds.