“I must have been day-dreaming, I suppose. But that yarn of yours has rather got me, Jack; though in the course of a long and evil career I’ve never heard one told worse. I was thinking of that meeting—all of them sitting here. And then suddenly that door bursting open.” He was staring fixedly at the door, and again a silence fell on us all.
“The thunder of the butts of their muskets on the woodwork.” He swung round and faced the door leading to the garden. “And on that one, too. Can’t you hear them? No escape—none. Caught like rats in a trap.” His voice died away to a whisper, and Joan Neilson gave a little nervous laugh.
“You’re the most realistic person, Mr. Sibton. I think I prefer hearing about the dance.”
I glanced at my hostess—and it seemed to me that there was fear in her eyes as she looked at Bill. Sometimes now I wonder if she had some vague premonition of impending disaster: something too intangible to take hold of—something the more terrifying on that very account.
It was after dinner that Jack Drage switched on the solitary electric light of which the room boasted. It was so placed as to show up the painting of Sir James Wrothley, and in silence we all gathered round to look at it. A pair of piercing eyes set in a stern aquiline face stared down at us from under the brim of a hat adorned with sweeping plumes; his hand rested on the jewelled hilt of his sword. It was a fine picture in a splendid state of preservation, well worthy of its place of honour on the walls of such a room, and we joined in a general chorus of admiration. Only Bill Sibton was silent, and he seemed fascinated—unable to tear his eyes away from the painting.
“As a matter of fact, Bill,” said Dick Armytage, studying the portrait critically, “he might well be an ancestor of yours. Wash out your moustache, and give you a fancy-dress hat, and you’d look very much like the old bean.”
He was quite right: there was a distinct resemblance, and it rather surprised me that I had not noticed it myself. There were the same deep-set piercing eyes, the same strong, slightly hatchet face, the same broad forehead. Even the colouring was similar: a mere coincidence that, probably—but one which increased the likeness. In fact, the longer I looked the more pronounced did the resemblance become, till it was almost uncanny.
“Well, he can’t be, anyway,” said Bill abruptly. “I’ve never heard of any Wrothley in the family.” He looked away from the picture almost with an effort and lit a cigarette. “It’s a most extraordinary thing, Jack,” he went on after a moment, “but ever since we came into this room I’ve had a feeling that I’ve been here before.”
“Good Lord, man, that’s common enough in all conscience. One often gets that idea.”
“I know one does,” answered Bill. “I’ve had it before myself; but never one-tenth as strongly as I feel it here. Besides, that feeling generally dies—after a few minutes: it’s growing stronger and stronger with me every moment I stop in here.”