The Luck of the Vails: A Novel

by E. F. Benson

Then another difficulty occurred. Since Mr. Francis had by his own account locked the front door when he came in, it would be locked now. But he intended to leave the house before the servants were up, and would unlock it then, leaving it unlocked when he left. On the other hand, supposing that Geoffrey's suspicions were correct, and he had not come in by the front door, nor intended to leave the house that way, he would certainly unlock it before any one was about in the morning. This, then, was the first point: Would Mr. Francis unlock the front door before morning, and would he leave the house that way? If not, how had he got in, and how would he get out? It was likely also, more than likely, that if Geoffrey's darker suspicions were well founded, Mr. Francis would pay a visit to the gun room, for there was no question that "the little circumstance" which he had hinted at had been of more than common interest to the other.

At this moment, in his soft pacings and thoughts, there came a little gentle tap at his door. He stood exactly where he was, frozen to immobility, a step half taken, in his hand the towel with which he had been mopping his hair. A second or two later the tap was repeated, very softly.

Geoffrey was in two minds what to do. It was possible that this small-hour intruder was Harry, some nameless terror at his heart; it was possible, again, that Mr. Francis was outside, ascertaining whether he was asleep, with some specious excuse on his lips in case he was awake. But if it was Harry, whatever he needed, some louder and more urgent summons was sure to follow—a rattling of his door handle, his own name called. But after the second tap there was silence.

Geoffrey knew how long a waiting minute seems to the watcher, and deliberately he looked at the hands of the clock on his mantelpiece till two full minutes had passed. Then he slipped on his coat again, little runnels of water still streaming from the short hair above the neck, put the matches in his pocket, blew out his candle, and with one turn of each hand held his door unlatched and unlocked. The wards were well oiled, the noise less than a scratching mouse, and he stood on the rug of the threshold warm and curly to his bare feet. Next moment he had closed the door behind him, though without latching it, and was in the long, dark corridor running from the top of the main stairs by the hall to the far end of the house where were Mr. Francis's two rooms.

Geoffrey's bedroom was close to the head of the stairs, and the faint glimmer of the starry night filtering through the skylight by which they were lit made it easily possible to find his way down. These stairs lay in short flights, with many angles sufficiently luminous, but on getting to the first corner he stopped suddenly, for on the wall in front of him was a pattern of strong light and shade: the many-knobbed banister was imprinted there, cast by a candle. But in a moment the shadow began to march from left to right; the light therefore was moving from right to left; some one else, and well he knew who, was also going downstairs at this dead hour, three turns of the staircase ahead of him. Silently moved the shadow; no sound of the candle-bearer reached him, and he might reasonably hope that his own barefooted step was as inaudible to the night-walker as the night-walker to him. Then the shadow of the banister was suddenly turned off, another corner had been passed by the other stealthy tread, and Geoffrey moved on again and down.

This staircase at its lower end gave on to a corridor parallel and similar to the one upstairs from which the row of bedrooms opened. Immediately on the right was the door into the hall, round which, but an hour ago, Mr. Francis's face had peered; to the left were drawing-room and dining room, and at the far end the baize door leading into the flagged passage to the gun room. Two panes of glass formed the upper panels of this door, and Geoffrey, having reached the bottom of the stairs, saw two squares of light cast through these on to the ceiling of the corridor. They lengthened to oblongs, diminished again to vanishing point, and disappeared, leaving him once more in the dim filter of starlight. Mr. Francis, it was clear, had gone to the gun room. Here was the first point.

Opposite the foot of the stairs, but on the other side of this corridor, stood a tall verd-antique pedestal, on the top of which was a bust of Harry's father. A dark curtain hung behind this, setting off the whiteness of the Carrara bust, and Geoffrey was just considering the value of this curtain as a hiding place in case Mr. Francis (the other point) went through the hall for any purpose of juggling with the front door, when the square of light through the glass panels again reappeared, silent as a dream, but growing very rapidly brighter. In two steps he was across the corridor, but he had not yet got behind the curtain when the baize door opened again, and Mr. Francis reappeared. But now his step was quick and careless of noise, and Geoffrey, casting one glance at him before he stepped behind the curtain, saw rage and hunted fear in his face. And at that the thrill of the tracker awoke in him, and he hugged himself to think of the little piece of cotton in his cigarette case; its value, to judge by the baffled hate that came up the passage, was immeasurably increased. Then he slid behind the curtain.

The steps came nearer very quickly, muffled but audible, and paused opposite Geoffrey's hiding place. Then for a moment his heart stood still, for they turned not toward the hall, but pattered swiftly upstairs. He had thought Harry safe for the night, at any rate, but what could be safe from that mask of rage and hatred he had just seen?

In another moment he would have followed at all costs, when light again shone round the corner of his curtain, and the unseen steps passed where he stood and into the hall. Instantly Geoffrey slipped from his hiding place, stepped silently across the corridor, and mounted a few stairs. From there he could see Mr. Francis's movements in the hall; from there also he had a good start of him to the upper floor again. The snap of a lock, the grating jar of a bolt, drawn or withdrawn, followed, and having heard that he waited no more, but went swiftly up again to his room and closed the door behind him quickly but with elaborate noiselessness. Soon light footsteps came along the passage outside; they went by his door, by Harry's, and grew fainter. The closing of a distant latch was just audible, then all was darkness and silence. The first part of the night's work was over.