The woman's way

by Charles Garvice

The faint noises of a big household retiring to rest grew less by degrees and then ceased; and presently all was perfectly still. He sat motionless, still listening, for another hour, two; then he rose and, opening the outer door stealthily, stopped, with craned head, still listening. The silence was unbroken, and with noiseless tread, he passed along the corridor to his father's door and, with his ear to the keyhole, listened again. He could hear his father's steady, long-drawn breathing, the breathing of a man in a deep sleep.

With a gesture, as if he were controlling his nervousness, Heyton tried the handle of the door; the door was not locked and he opened it and went in. The house was lit by electricity, and a small lamp was burning beside the Marquess's bed. Heyton stole across the room, in his felt slippers, and looked down at the sleeping man for a moment; then his furtive, bloodshot eyes went towards the small table beside the bed. There was a carafe of water and a glass, the Marquess's ring and his watch and chain on the table. The chain was an old-fashioned affair, with an extra ring, and on this ring were two keys, the key of the safe and a smaller one. Heyton knew that it was the key to the jewel-case.

His hand shook so much that, for a moment or two, he was afraid to touch the chain, lest it should jingle and wake the Marquess; with an effort, Heyton controlled the shaking hand, and, after some fumbling, took the keys from the ring; as he did so, his eyes wandered apprehensively from the things he was purloining to the face on the pillow; but in reality his movements had been noiseless, and the Marquess had not awakened.

With the keys in his hand, Heyton stole into the dressing-room adjoining, and closing the door softly, turned up the electric light. At sight of the safe, his courage rose, his nerves grew more steady; he had been careful to drink very little that night, and his brain was clear. He unlocked the safe and looked inside it. There were bundles of papers tied with tape and, at the back of them, a box covered with morocco leather. Heyton's breath came fast and his eyes glistened; he had seen that box once before, and knew that it contained the Sutcombe jewels. He took it out of the safe, closed the door and had got half-way across the room when he stopped suddenly; for it had occurred to him that, if he took the box, the Marquis, if he chanced to go to the safe, would miss it: it would be safer to empty the box of its precious contents and replace it in the safe. As he had guessed, the smaller key fitted the lock of the box; he opened it and, at sight of the diamonds and the other gems, he caught his breath, his eyes dilated.

There is a mystic fascination in precious stones and, gazing at them, Heyton yielded to that fascination and forgot for a moment, as his eyes dwelt on their flashing beauty, the need which had compelled him to steal them; but presently he released himself from the spell, thrust the jewels into the capacious pockets of his dressing-gown, locked the box and replaced it in the safe. As the safe door clanged softly to, he heard, or fancied he heard, a slight noise in the adjoining bedroom; the sound, actual or only fancied, struck a sudden terror to his craven heart and he sprang towards the door leading on to the corridor. The handle turned, but the door did not open: it was locked, and the key was not in it.

The noise in the Marquess's bedroom grew more distinct, and it had now resolved itself into the sound of footsteps. Livid with terror, with the perspiration standing out on his forehead, Heyton leant against the door as if powerless to move, powerless to stand upright. The door between the dressing-room and the bedroom opened; instinctively, Heyton stretched out his hand, found the switch, and extinguished the light.

"Who is there?" came the Marquess's voice. "What is it? Who is there?"

The voice came nearer; the Marquess was now in the dressing-room. Heyton knew that his father was standing still; that, in another instant, he would be calling for assistance. But the Marquess did not speak; he made a movement, and Heyton guessed that his father was returning to the bedroom to turn up all the lights there.

With a smothered oath, the wretched man stole forward, felt for the fireplace with his foot, caught up the poker and, feeling his way round the wall, reached the bedroom door. As he did so, the Marquess reached it also and actually touched his son. Heyton drew back a pace, swung up the poker and struck at the figure he could not see; there was a cry, a choked groan, the sound of a body falling to the floor; then a death-like silence.

Shaking in every limb, the poker still grasped in his hand, Heyton leant against the wall, his other hand clinging to it, as if for support. The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick a thousand times as he crouched there, staring, with protruding eyes, into the horrible darkness; then, with a gasp, as if he were suffocating, he felt his way round to the switch, and turned it on. The light fell on the figure of the Marquess, lying on its back, where he had fallen; his arms were stretched out, he was quite motionless, and a thin stream of blood was trickling from his forehead; it had already reddened his face and made a small pool on the carpet.