The Broken Thread

by William Le Queux

On such a night sleep would be heavier than usual. By general consent the potations that followed dinner were not excessive, but a little more liberal, as became the occasion.

One by one the household, in its many varying branches, retired, each in his or her direction up one of the many winding staircases, and along corridors to their respective rooms, with stifling yawns, and walking with a respectful silence until the last of the doors opened and closed.

The guests also lingered longer than usual in billiard-room or library, and they, in turn, having received the ministrations of the servants allotted to them, retired up the wide oak staircase, over the soft, deep carpet.

The most astute criminal, even burglars, will choose sometimes a wrongly-timed occasion for his offence against society.

It was a few nights after the “First,” when Sir Raife and the rest of the household had sought the sleep that follows sweetly on a long day’s shooting. Lazily knocking the contents of his pipe into the fire, he climbed into the four-posted bed with its pale-blue curtains hanging around. The old-fashioned, and even the mediaeval, survived in many directions at Aldborough Park, and this bed was one of the survivals.

Although fatigued beyond the ordinary point, even after a long tramp over stubble and turnips, up hill and down dale, Raife did not sleep. His mind was too active, and his thoughts trended in directions which left him sleepless and troubled.

The recollection of his father’s murder, and the dying words which, in spite of the intervening months and the exciting events that had transpired, still, on such an occasion as this, caused him anxiety.

Insomnia may not be a disease, but it is a very serious complaint at the moment of suffering. There are some people who possess mentality of a calibre that permits them to lie awake during long and dark nights. Others, of a higher-strung fibre, cast bedclothes and resolution to the corners of the room, and rise to smoke, to read—or do anything rather than endure the torture of wakefulness caused by a troubled mind. Raife rose from the high, old-fashioned bed and proceeded for a light and his dressing-gown, when he heard sounds that arrested his movement and attention. Premonition of danger displays a very high sense in animals. The later stages of civilisation have made matters so safe for human beings, that the premonitive sense is becoming rare. Environment undoubtedly affects such a sense, and the proximity of the library to Raife’s bedroom may have affected his alertness, and kept him awake. Certainly there was something, somebody moving, and the noise was in the direction of the library—the room of sad, tragic association. “Nerves” do not imply timidity, and Raife of the Reymingtounes was hardly likely to be a timid man. At the moment he was possessed of a strong spirit of revenge. His father had been cruelly shot by a burglar in that very library, where those stealthy sounds were proceeding from. He did not wait to don a dressing-gown. Hastily snatching his Browning revolver from under his pillow, he proceeded along the dark, oak-panelled corridor. Gloomy old helmets, empty shells of armour that had protected his ancestors in many a fray, frowned upon him. As he crept quietly, but quickly, over the familiar soft carpets, he thought also of the baroness’s jewels, those gems that attracted trouble in their train. They were in the iron safe embedded in the wall of the library. If there was to be a vendetta, he—Raife Remington—would see to it that the feud was well sustained on his side. The last few yards he covered on tip-toe, gripping his Browning in his hand. At last, he was peeping through the door, determined to have the first shot in the contest that had been forced on him. All such contests are cowardly. The midnight marauder carries long odds in his favour—the greatest being the unwillingness of the man, who is protecting his own property, to fire first. In this aggravated case his father’s spirit, through the memory of his dying words, impelled Raife to fire first and shoot straight. Justice was on his side and Raife brought the revolver to a level for aim, as he peered into the room. The sight that met him was so staggering that he involuntarily gasped.

Holding an electric torch in one hand, a case of the baroness’s jewels in the other, and kneeling before the open door of the safe, he saw the outline of the figure of a woman. Raife’s involuntary gasp was sufficient, for the woman, who had displayed wonderful craftsmanship in achieving her purpose, switched off the lamp. It was too late. With a bound Raife had seized her by the throat and dragged her to the wall, switching on a powerful electrolier.

His horror and consternation reached the highest human point when he recognised Gilda Tempest, the woman he loved—the woman of mystery—the woman he had trusted! She had asked him to trust her—to be her friend. He had responded with the whole of his heart and enthusiasm, and this—this hideous nightmare was his reward.