Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

by B. L. Farjeon

He kissed gladness into her, and they parted at Samuel Boyd's street door.

CHAPTER XL.

[THE SPECTRE IN THE FLASH-LIGHT.]

At ten o'clock on this night, Dr. Pye was employed looking over a number of manuscripts, setting some aside and burning others, keeping a jealous eye upon the fire as he watched them moulder to ashes. Upon the table were a bottle of wine and two glass goblets of ancient manufacture and design. There were quaint stems to these goblets, one representing a serpent, the other a satyr, whose upraised face seemed to be trying to reach the rim. Priceless treasures of the antique. That the wine was precious, and that Dr. Pye so considered it, was evidenced by the disposition of the bottle, which lay in a basket lined with thick blue felt; the glasses were Venetian. These and the wine were in harmony with the taste displayed in the gathering together the costly and unique collection of articles which adorned the room. One might have expected to see such an apartment in an old palace, for the beautifying of which centuries of treasure had been collected through many generations, but scarcely in a street in Islington where wealth was not abundant, and where the residents, for the most part, were toilers of the humblest kind. Secluded as was the room--its door closed, its one window so closely shuttered that not a chink of light could be discerned from without--the hum of crowded life from the outer street penetrated it and droned like an exhausted bee. Dr. Pye listened, smiled contemptuously, and gazed around upon the precious bronzes and ivories, the rare bric-à-brac, the exquisite enamels, the books with jewelled bindings, which were so arranged that their beauties were seen at a glance. Not one of these examples was of the new school of art; all belonged to times when form and colour were either better understood and valued than now, or received from the artist that whole-souled and loving labour which in this age of hurry-scurry no artist dreams of bestowing upon his work--and thus misses perfection and immortality. In the world of art to-day it is the merchant-author who displays his wares and touts for patronage.

His task completed, Dr. Pye put into a drawer the papers he had set aside, and with extreme care poured out a glass of wine and held it up to the light. His anticipated enjoyment of the precious draught was heightened by the deep ruby colour which shone through the delicate glass, and he gazed long at it, and at its almost living reflection in a jewel on his white hand. He drank it slowly, and drank a second and a third in the same leisurely manner. Then he rose and went to the window, in the closed shutter of which was a small revolving panel. On a bracket within reach of his right hand was the box containing the flashlight, of which he had spoken in his evidence at the Coroner's Court, and within reach of his left was a tap which controlled the gas. This tap he turned, and the room was in darkness. Then he turned the revolving panel, and through the exposed circle of glass looked out upon the night. All was dark in Catchpole Square. Its silence, its gloom, the utter absence of movement, were in keeping with the tragedy which had made its name a household word.

Lifting the box from the bracket he opened it, and, pressing a spring which ignited the magnesium wire, threw a flashlight on the house of Samuel Boyd. For one brief moment the walls and windows were illuminated, as though lightning had struck them. Then all was darkness again.

With thoughtful brows Dr. Pye closed the revolving panel and turned up the gas. Placing the box on the table, he took from it a film which he laid flat on a square of sensitised paper, and poured a liquid over it. Holding it up to the light a photograph of the walls and windows of the house he had illuminated appeared. No living face or form was visible in the picture, nothing but lifeless stone and wood and glass.

As he was replacing the box on the bracket, the sound of footsteps on the stairs caused him to look towards the door, which presently opened and admitted Dr. Vinsen.

"According to my promise, my friend," said the visitor; "always faithful, always a man of my word." His eyes fell upon the bottle of wine, and without invitation he filled a glass, and was about to drink when he paused, as if a sudden suspicion had crossed his mind. Dr. Pye smiled, and refilling his own glass, drank, his example being followed by Dr. Vinsen.

"A rare wine," he said, smacking his lips, "but too seductive----altogether too seductive. Am I mistaken in supposing that you have been testing the flashlight?"