Georg Manville Fenn

"The Dark House"

Chapter One.

Number 9A, Albemarle Square.

“Don’t drink our sherry, Charles?”

Mr Preenham, the butler, stood by the table in the gloomy servants’ hall, as if he had received a shock.

“No, sir; I took ’em up the beer at first, and they shook their heads and asked for wine, and when I took ’em the sherry they shook their heads again, and the one who speaks English said they want key-aunty.”

“Well, all I have got to say,” exclaimed the portly cook, “is, that if I had known what was going to take place, I wouldn’t have stopped an hour after the old man died. It’s wicked! And something awful will happen, as sure as my name’s Thompson.”

“Don’t say that, Mrs Thompson,” said the mild-looking butler. “It is very dreadful, though.”

“Dreadful isn’t the word. Are we ancient Egyptians? I declare, ever since them Hightalians have been in the house, going about like three dark conspirators in a play, I’ve had the creeps. I say, it didn’t ought to be allowed.”

“What am I to say to them, sir?” said the footman, a strongly built man, with shifty eyes and quickly twitching lips.

“Well, look here, Charles,” said the butler, slowly wiping his mouth with his hand, “We have no Chianti wine. You must take them a bottle of Chambertin.”

“My!” ejaculated cook.

“Chambertin, sir?”

“It’s Mr Girtle’s orders. They’ve come here straight from Paris on purpose, and they are to have everything they want.”

The butler left the gloomy room, and Mrs Thompson, a stout lady, who moved only when she was obliged, turned to the thin, elderly housemaid.

“Mark my words, Ann,” she said. “It’s contr’y to nature, and it’ll bring a curse.”

“Well,” said the woman, “it can’t make the house more dull than it has been.”

“I don’t know,” said the cook.

“I never see a house before where there was no need to shut the shutters and pull down the blinds because some one’s dead.”

“Well, it is a gloomy place, Ann, but we’ve done all these years most as we liked. One meal a day and the rest at his club, and never any company. There ain’t many places like that.”

“No,” sighed Ann. “I suppose we shall all have to go.”

“Oh, I don’t know, my dear. Mr Ramo says he thinks master’s left all his money to his great nephew, Mr Capel, and may be he’ll have the house painted up and the rooms cleaned, and keep lots of company. An’ he may marry this Miss Dungeon—ain’t her name?”

“D’E-n-g-h-i-e-n,” said the housemaid, spelling it slowly. “I don’t know what you call it. She’s very handsome, but so orty. I like Miss Lawrence. Only to think, master never seeing a soul, and living all these years in this great shut-up house, and then, as soon as the breath’s out of his body, all these relatives turning up.”

“Where the carcase is, there the eagles are gathered together,” said cook, solemnly.

“Oh, don’t talk like that, cook.”

“You’re not obliged to listen, my dear,” said cook, rubbing her knees gently.

“I declare, it’s been grievous to me,” continued the housemaid, “all those beautiful rooms, full of splendid furniture, and one not allowed to do more than keep ’em just clean. Not a blind drawn up, or a window opened. It’s always been as if there was a funeral in the house. Think master was crossed in love?”

“No. Not he. Mr Ramo said that master was twice over married to great Indian princesses, abroad. I s’pose they left him all their money. Oh, here is Mr Ramo!”

The door had opened, and a tall, thin old Hindoo, with piercing dark eyes and wrinkled brown face, came softly in. He was dressed in a long, dark, red silken cassock, that seemed as if woven in one piece, and fitted his spare form rather closely from neck to heel; a white cloth girdle was tied round his waist, and for sole ornament there were a couple of plain gold rings in his ears.

As he entered he raised his thin, largely-veined brown hands to his closely-cropped head, half making the native salaam, and then, said in good English:

“Mr Preenham not here?”

“He’ll be back directly, Mr Ramo,” said the cook. “There, there, do sit down, you look worn out.”

The Hindoo shook his head and walked to the window, which looked out into an inner area.

At that moment the butler entered, and the Hindoo turned to him quickly, and laid his hand upon his arm.

“There, there, don’t fret about it, Mr Ramo,” said the butler. “It’s what we must all come to—some day.”

“Yes, but this, this,” said the Hindoo, in a low, excited voice. “Is—is it right?”

The butler was silent for a few moments.

“Well,” he said at last, “it’s right, and its wrong, as you may say. It’s master’s own orders, for there it was in his own handwriting in his desk. ‘Instructions for my solicitor.’ Mr Girtle showed it me, being an old family servant.”

“Yes, yes—he showed it to me.”

“Oh, it was all there,” continued the butler. “Well, as I was saying, it’s right so far; but it’s wrong, because it’s not like a Christian burial.”

“No, no,” cried the Hindoo, excitedly. “Those men—they make me mad. I cannot bear it. Look!” he cried, “he should have died out in my country, where we would have laid him on sweet scented woods, and baskets of spices and gums, and there, where the sun shines and the palm trees wave, I, his old servant, would have fired the pile, and he would have risen up in the clouds of smoke, and among the pure clear flames of fire, till nothing but the ashes was left. Yes, yes, that would have been his end,” he cried, with flashing eyes, as he seemed to mentally picture the scene; “and then thy servant could have died with thee. Oh, Sahib, Sahib, Sahib!”

He clasped his hands together, the fire died from his eyes, which became suffused with tears, and as he uttered the last word thrice in a low moaning voice, he stood rocking himself to and fro.

The two women looked horrified and shuddered, but the piteous grief was magnetic, and in the deep silence that fell they began to sob; while the butler blew his nose softly, coughed, and at last laid his hand upon the old servant’s shoulder.

“Shake hands, Mr Ramo,” he said huskily. “Fifteen years you and me’s been together, and if we haven’t hit it as we might, well, it was only natural, me being an Englishman and you almost a black; but it’s this as brings us all together, natives and furreners, and all. He was a good master, God bless him! and I’m sorry he’s gone.”

The old Indian looked up at him half wonderingly for a few moments. Then, taking the extended hand in both of his, he held it for a time, and pressed it to his heart, dropped it, and turned to go.

“Won’t you take something, Mr Ramo?”

“No—no!” said the Indian, shaking his head, and he glided softly out of the servants’ hall, went silently, in his soft yellow leather slippers, down a long passage and up a flight of stone stairs, to pass through a glass door, and stand in the large gloomy hall, in the middle of one of the marble squares that turned the floor into a vast chess-board, round which the giant pieces seemed to be waiting to commence the game.

For the faint light that came through the thick ground-glass fanlight over the great double doors was diffused among black bronze statues and white marble figures of Greek and Roman knights. In one place, seated meditatively, with hands resting upon the knees, there was an Indian god, seeming to watch the floor. In another, a great Japanese warrior, while towards the bottom of the great winding staircase, whose stone steps were covered with heavy dark carpet, was a marble, that imagination might easily have taken for a queen.

Here and there the panelled walls were ornamented with stands of Indian arms and armour, conical helmets, once worn by Eastern chiefs, with pendent curtains, and suits of chain mail. Bloodthirsty daggers, curved scimitars, spears, clumsy matchlocks, and long straight swords, whose hilt was an iron gauntlet, in which the warrior’s fingers were laced as they grasped a handle placed at right angles to the blade, after the fashion of a spade. There were shields, too, and bows and arrows, and tulwars and kukris, any number of warlike implements from the East, while beside the statues, the West had to show some curious chairs, and a full-length portrait of an Englishman in the prime of life—a handsome, bold-faced man, in the uniform of one of John Company’s regiments, his helmet in his hand, and his breast adorned with orders and jewels of foreign make.

The old Indian servant stood there like one of the statues, as the dining-room door opened and three dark, closely-shaven and moustached men, in black, came out softly, and went silently up the stairs.

There was something singularly furtive and strange about them as they followed one another in silence, all three alike in their dress coats and turned-down white collars, beneath which was a narrow strip of ribbon, knotted in front.

They passed on and on up the great winding stairs, past the drawing-room, from whence came the low buzz of voices, to a door at the back of the house, beside a great stained-glass window, whose weird lights shone down upon a lion-skin rug.

Here the first man stopped for his companions, to reach his side. Then, whispering a few words to them, he took a key from his pocket, opened the door, withdrew the key, and entered the darkened room, closing and locking the door, as the old Indian crept softly up, sank upon his knees upon the skin rug, his hands clasped, his head bent down, and resting against the panels of the door.

Chapter Two.

The Dead Man’s Relatives.

“I can tell you very little, Mr Capel. I have been your great uncle’s confidential solicitor ever since he returned from India. I was a mere boy when he went away. He knew me then, and when he came back he sought me out.”

“And that is twenty-five years ago, Mr Girtle?”

“Yes. The year you were born.”

“And he made you his confidant?”

“Yes; he gave me his confidence, as far as I think he gave it to any man.”

“And did he always live in this way?”

“Always. He filled up the house with the vast collection of curiosities and things that he had been sending home for years, and I expected that he would entertain, and lead the life of an English gentleman; but no, the house has been closed for twenty-five years.”

Mr Girtle, a clean-shaven old gentleman, with yellow face, dark, restless eyes and bright grey hair, took a pinch of snuff from a handsome gold box, flicked a few grains from his white shirt-front, and said “Hah.”

“Had my uncle met with any great disappointment?” said the first speaker, a frank-looking man with closely curling brown hair, and a high, white forehead.

“What, to make him take to this strange life? Oh, no. He was peculiar, but not unhappy. He liked to be alone, but he was always bright and cheerful at his club.”

“You met him there, then?” said a fresh voice, and a handsome, dark young fellow, who had been leaning back in an easy chair in the dim drawing-room, sat up quickly, playing with his little black moustache.

“Oh, yes! I used to dine with Colonel Capel when we had business to transact.”

“But, here you say he led the life of a miser!” continued the young man, crossing his legs, and examining the toe of his patent leather boot.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Gerard Artis, I did not say that. Your great uncle was no miser. He spent money freely, sometimes, in charities. Yes,” he continued, turning to where two ladies were seated. “Colonel Capel was often very charitable.”

“I never saw his name in any charitable list,” said the darker of the two ladies, speaking in a sweet, silvery voice; and her beautiful regular features seemed to attract both the previous speakers.

“No, Miss D’Enghien, I suppose not,” said the old man, nodding his head and rising to begin walking up and down, snuff-box in hand. “Neither did I. But he was very charitable in his own particular way, and he was very kind.”

“Yes,” said the young man who had first spoken; “very kind. I have him to thank for my school and college education.”

“Well—yes,” said the old lawyer; “I suppose it is no breach of confidence to say that it is so.”

“And I have to thank him for mine, and the pleasant life I have led, Mr Girtle, have I not?” said the second of the ladies; and, but for the gloom, the flush that came into her sweet face would have been plainly visible.

At that moment the footman entered with a letter upon a massive salver, and as he walked straight to the old lawyer, he cast quick, furtive glances at the other occupants of the room.

“A note, eh?” said the old solicitor, balancing his gold-rimmed glasses upon his nose; “um—um—yes, exactly—very delicate of them to write. Tell them I will see them shortly, Charles.”

The footman bowed, and was retiring as silently as he came over the soft carpet, when he was checked by the old solicitor.

“You will tell Mr Preenham to see that these gentlemen have every attention.”

“Yes sir.”

The footman left the room almost without a sound, for the door was opened and closed noiselessly. The only thing that broke the terrible silence that seemed to reign was the faint clink of the silver tray against one of the metal buttons of the man’s coat. As for the magnificently furnished room, with its heavy curtains and drawn-down blinds, it seemed to have grown darker, so that the faint gleams of light that had hung in a dull way on the faces of the great mirrors and the gilded carving of console and cheffonier, had died out. It required no great effort of the imagination to believe that the influence of the dead man who had passed so many solitary years in that shut-up house was still among them, making itself felt with a weight from which they could not free themselves.

Paul Capel looked across at the beautiful face of Katrine D’Enghien, thinking of her creole extraction, and the half French, half American father who had married his relative. He expected to see her looking agitated as her cousin, Lydia Lawrence, but she sat back with one arm gracefully hanging over the side of the chair, her lustrous eyes half closed; and a pang strongly akin to jealousy shot through him as it seemed that those eyes were resting on the young elegant at his side.

“Yes,” said the old solicitor, suddenly, and his voice made all start but Miss D’Enghien, who did not even move her eyelids; “as I was saying,” he went on, tapping his snuff-box, “I can tell you very little, Mr Capel, until the will is read.”

“Then there is a will?” said Miss D’Enghien.

The old lawyer’s brows wrinkled, as he glanced at her in surprise.

“Yes, my dear young lady, there is a will.”

“And it will be read, of course, directly after the funeral?” said the dark young man.

The lawyer did not reply.

“I suppose you think it’s bad form of a man asking such questions now; but really, Mr Girtle, it would be worse form for a fellow to be pulling a long face about one he never saw.”

“But he was your father’s friend.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Hence you, sir, are here,” continued the lawyer. “My instructions were clear enough. I was to invite you here at this painful time, and take my old friend’s place as your host.”

“You have been most kind, Mr Girtle,” said Miss D’Enghien.

“I thank you, madam, and I grieve that you should have to be present at so painful a time. My next instructions were to send for the Italian professor, who is here to carry out the wishes of the deceased.”

“Horrible idea for a man to wish to be embalmed,” said Artis, brutally.

Lydia Lawrence shuddered, and turned away her face. Paul Capel glanced indignantly at the speaker, and then turned to gaze at Katrine D’Enghien, who sat perfectly unmoved, her hand still hanging from the side of the chair, as if to show the graceful contour of her arm.

“Colonel Capel had been a great part of his life in the East, Mr Artis,” said the old lawyer, coldly. “He had had the matter in his mind for some time.”

“How do you know that?”

“By the date on my instructions, which also contained the Italian professor’s card.”

“And I suppose we shall have a very eccentric will, sir.”

“Yes,” said the lawyer quietly, “a very eccentric will.”

“Come, that’s refreshing,” said the young man with a fidgetty movement. “Well, you are not very communicative, Mr Girtle. You family solicitors are as close as your deed boxes.”

“Yes,” said the old lawyer, closing his gold snuff-box with a loud snap.

“Well, come, it can be no breach of confidence to tell us when the funeral is to be?”

The old lawyer took a turn or two up and down the room, snuff-box in hand, the bright metal glistening as he swung his hand to and fro. Then he stopped short, and said slowly:

“The successor to Colonel Capel’s enormous property will inherit under extremely peculiar conditions, duly set forth in the will it will be my duty to read to you.”

“After the funeral?” said Gerard Artis.

“No, sir; there will be no funeral.”

“No funeral!” exclaimed Artis and Paul Capel in a breath, and then they rose to their feet, startled more than they would have cared to own, for at that moment a strange wild cry seemed to come from the staircase, followed by a heavy crash.

“Good Heavens!” cried the old lawyer, dropping his snuff-box.

Katrine D’Enghien alone remained unmoved, with her head turned towards the door.

Chapter Three.

One Guardian of the Treasure.

Paul Capel was the first to recover from the surprise, and to hurry from the darkened room, followed by Artis and the late Colonel’s solicitor, though it was into no blaze of light, for the staircase was equally gloomy.

The source of the strange noise was not far to seek, for, as they reached the landing, they became aware that a fierce struggle was going on in the direction of the room occupied by the late Colonel, and hurrying there, it was to find two men locked together, one of whom was succeeding in holding the other down, and wresting his neck from the sinewy hands which had torn off his white cravat.

“Why, Charles! Ramo!” exclaimed Mr Girtle, in the midst of the hoarse, panting sounds uttered by the contending men.

“He’s mad!” cried the former, in a high-pitched tone, in which a man’s rage was mingled with a schoolboy’s whimpering fear. “He’s mad, sir. He tried to strangle me.”

“Thief! dog!” panted the old Hindoo, with his dark features convulsed with passion. “Wanted—rob—his master!”

The two young men had separated the combatants, who now stood up, the footman, his vest and shirt torn open, and his coat dragged half off—the old man with one sleeve of his dark silk robe gone, and the back rent to the waist, while there was a fierce, vindictive look in his working features, as he had to be held to keep him from closing with the footman again.

“What does this mean, Charles?” cried Mr Girtle, as the butler and the other servants came hurrying up, while the three Italians also stood upon the landing, looking wonderingly on.

“If you please, sir, I don’t know,” said the footman, in an ill-used tone. “I was just going by the Colonel’s door, and I thought, as was very natural, that I should like to see what these gentlemen had done, when Mr Ramo sprang at me like a wild cat.”

“No, no!” cried the old Indian, whose English in his rage and excitement was less distinct, “a thief—come to rob—my dear lord—a thief!”

“I hope, sir,” said the footman, growing calmer and looking in an injured way at Mr Girtle, “you know me better than that, sir. Mr Preenham here will tell you I’ve cleaned the plate regular all the ten years I’ve been here.”

The old solicitor turned to the butler.

“Yes, sir; Charles’s duty has been to clean the plate, but it is in my charge, and I have kept the strictest account of it. A little disposed to show temper, sometimes, sir, but strictly honest and very clean.”

“This is a very sad and unseemly business at such a time,” said Mr Girtle. “Ramo, you have made a mistake.”

“No, no!” cried the old Indian, wrathfully.

“Come, come,” said Mr Girtle; “be reasonable.”

“The police,” panted the old Indian. “Send for the police.”

“All right,” cried Charles, defiantly; “send for the police and let ’em search me.”

“Silence!” cried Mr Girtle. “Go down and arrange your dress, sir. Mr Capel, young ladies, will you return to the drawing-room? Signori, will you retire? That will do, Preenham. Leave Ramo to me.”

In another minute the old solicitor was left with Ramo, who stood beneath the dim stained-glass window, with his arms folded and his brow knit.

“You do not trust and believe me, sir?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Ramo. You know I trust you as the most faithful fellow in the world.”

He held out his hand as he spoke, but the old Indian remained motionless for the moment; then, seizing the hand extended to him, he bent over it, holding it to his breast.

“My dear lord’s old friend,” he said.

“That’s better, Ramo,” said Mr Girtle. “Now, go and change your dress.”

“No, no!” cried the old man. “I must watch.”

“Nonsense, man. Don’t think that every one who comes means to rob.”

“But I do,” cried the old Indian, in a whisper. “They think of what we know—you and I only. Those foreign men—the servants.”

“You must not be so suspicious, Ramo. It will be all right.”

“It will not be all right, Sahib,” cried the old Indian. “Think of what there is in yonder.”

“But we have the secret, Ramo.”

“Yes—yes; but suppose there were others who knew the secret—who had heard of it. Sahib, I will be faithful to the dead.”

The old Indian drew himself up with dignity, and took his place once more before the door.

“It has been shocking,” whispered the Indian. “I have been driven away, while those foreign men did what they pleased in there. It was maddening. Ah!”

He clapped his hands to his head.

“What now, Ramo?”

“Those three men! Suppose—”

He caught at his companion’s arm, whispered a few words, and they entered the darkened room, from which, as the door opened and closed, a peculiar aromatic odour floated out.

As the door was closed the sound of a bolt being shot inside was heard, and directly after the face of Charles, the footman, appeared from the gloom below. He came up the stairs rapidly, glanced round and stepped softly to the closed door, where he bent down, listening.

As he stood in the recess the gloom was so great that he was almost invisible, save his face, while just beyond him a large group in bronze, of a club-armed centaur, seemed to have the crouching man as part of the artist’s design, the centaur being, apparently, about to strike him down, while, to give realism to the scene, a dull red glow from the stained-glass window fell across his forehead.

As he listened there, his ear to the key-hole and his eyes watchfully wandering up and down the staircase, a dull and smothered clang was heard as if in the distance, like the closing of some heavy iron door. Then there was a louder sound, with a quick, short report, as if a powerful spring had been set in motion and shot home. Then a door seemed to be closed and locked, and the man glided quickly over the soft, thick carpet—melting away, as it were, in the gloom.

The door opened and, from the darkness within, Mr Girtle and the old Indian stepped slowly out, bringing with them a soft, warm puff of the aromatic odour, and, as they grew more distinct in the faint light of the stained-glass window, everything was so still in the great house that there was a strange unreality about them, fostered by the silence of their tread.

“There, now you are satisfied,” said the old lawyer, gently. “Go and change your robe.”

The Indian shook his head.

“I will stay till your return inside the room.”

“Inside?” said the Indian.

“Yes—why not? You and I have reached the time of life when death has ceased to have terrors. He is only taking the sleep that comes to all.”

There was a gentle sadness in the lawyer’s voice, and then, turning the handle of the door, he opened it and stood looking back.

“You will not be long,” he said. “They are waiting for me in the drawing-room.”

The door closed just as the old Indian made a step forward to follow. Then he stood with his hands clenched and eyes starting listening intently, while the centaur’s club seemed to be quivering in the gloom, ready to crush him down.

The old man raised his hand to the door—let it fall—raised it again—let it fall—turned to go—started back—and then, as if fighting hard with himself, he turned once more, and with an activity not to be expected in one of his years, bounded up the staircase and disappeared.

Ten minutes had not elapsed before he seemed to come silently out of the gloom again, and was half-way to the door, when there was a faint creak from below, as if from a rusty hinge.

The old man stopped short, crouching down by the balustrade, listening, his eyes shining in the dim twilight; but no other sound was heard, and he rose quickly, ran softly down, and with trembling hands opened the door.

Mr Girtle came slowly out, looking sad and depressed, and laid his hand upon the Indian’s shoulder.

“You mean to watch, then,” he said.

The Indian nodded quickly, his eyes gazing searchingly at the lawyer the while.

“Are you going in, or here?”

“My place was at the Sahib’s door.”

“Good!” said the solicitor, bowing his head; and he returned to the drawing-room, Ramo watching him suspiciously till the door closed.

As he stood there, the dusky tint of the robe he now wore seemed to lend itself to the surrounding gloom, being almost invisible against the portal, as he remained there with his fingers nervously quivering, and his face drawn by the agitation of his breast.

He shook his head violently the next moment, clasped his hands together, and sank down once more upon the lion-skin mat, bent to the very floor, more like some rounded mass than a human being: while the great centaur was indistinctly seen, with his raised club, as if about to repeat the blow that had crushed the old Indian into a motionless heap.

Chapter Four.

The Lawyer’s Tin Box.

“This has been a terrible week, Katrine,” said Lydia Lawrence, taking her cousin’s hand.

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, yes. I have not your sang froid. I would give anything to go back to the country.”

“I have been curious to know all about the will. That old man has been maddening. He might have spoken.”

“But his instructions, clear. The will was to be read after he had lain there a week.”

“Lain in state,” said Katrine, with a curl of her lip. “With a savage crouching on a lion-skin at his door like some dog. Pah! It is absurd. More like a scent in a French play than a bit of nineteenth century life.”

Lydia sighed.

“I felt greatly relieved when those dreadful men had gone.”

“What, the Italian professors? Pooh! what a child you are. I did not mind.”

Lydia gazed at her with a feeling of shrinking wonder, and there was something almost fierce in the beautiful eyes, as Katrine sat there by one of the tables of the ill-lit drawing-room, the two pairs of wax candles in old-fashioned silver sticks seeming to emit but a feeble light, and but for the warm glow of the fire, the great room would have been sombre in the extreme.

“What time is it, Lydia? There, don’t start like that. What a kitten you are.”

“You spoke so suddenly, dear. It is half-past ten.”

“Only half-past ten. Nearly an hour and a half before the play begins. I wish we had kept the tea things.”

“Pray don’t speak so lightly, Katrine.”

“I can’t help it. It is so absurd for the old man to have left instructions for all this meretricious romance to surround his end. As for old Girtle, he seems to delight in it, and goes about the house rubbing his hands like an undertaker.”

“Katrine!”

“Well, he does. Will read at half-past eleven at night on the tenth day after the old man’s death. It is absurd. Ah, well, I suppose a millionaire has a right to be eccentric, if he likes.”

“Dear Katrine, he was always so good.”

“Good! Bah! What did he ever do for me? He hated my branch of the family, and our Creole blood. As if the D’Enghiens were not a fine old French family before the Capels were heard of.”

“But Katrine—”

“I will speak. I was dragged here to be present at this mummery, to have for my share a hundred pounds to buy mourning, and I vow I’ll spend it in Chinese mourning, and wear yellow instead of black. Why don’t those men come up instead of sitting smoking in that dining-room and leaving us alone in this mausoleum of a place? Here, ring, and send for them; I’m getting nervous, too. I’m catching it from you—weak little baby that you are.”

At that moment the door opened, and the two young men entered to go up to them, both speaking to Lydia, and then drawing their chairs nearer to Katrine.

“Are you nearly ready for the play, Mr Capel?” she said, after a time.

“The play!” he exclaimed.

“Yes; the curtain will rise directly. How do you feel, Gerard?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I want to hear how many chips the old boy has left me. Deuced glad to get out of this tomb. I say, would you mind me lighting a cigar?”

“I don’t mind,” said Katrine, lightly.

“Would you mind, Miss Lawrence?”

“Mind—your smoking—here?” said Lydia hastily. “I—I don’t think I should, but—”

“No, no,” said Capel; “it is impossible. For heaven’s sake, pay a little respect to the ladies, if you cannot to the dead.”

Artis started to his feet.

“Look here, Paul Capel,” he cried angrily; “you have taken upon yourself several times since I have been locked-up here with you to use confoundedly offensive language to me. How dare you speak to me like that?”

“Dare?” cried Capel, rising. “Pooh!” he ejaculated, throwing himself back, and glancing at Katrine, whose eyes seemed to flash with eager pleasure, while Lydia half rose, with extended hands; “I am forgetting myself.”

Lydia sank back with a sigh, while Katrine’s eyes flashed, and her lip curled.

“Forgetting yourself!” cried Artis. “By Jove, sir, you’ve done nothing else! I suppose you expect to have all the old man’s money, but we shall see.”

“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Lawrence,” said Capel, smiling. “I am not going to quarrel. Ah, here is Mr Girtle.”

The door opened, and Charles entered, with two more lighted candles, one in each hand, preceding Mr Girtle, who came in bearing a large tin deed box. This he slowly proceeded to place upon the carpet beside a small table, on which Charles deposited the candlesticks.

“I think I am punctual,” said the lawyer, taking his old gold watch from his fob, and replacing it with a nod. “Yes, nearly half-past eleven. Charles, will you summon all the servants. I think everyone is mentioned in the will,” he added, as Charles left the room. “You will excuse all formalities. I am strictly obeying instructions as to time and place.”

The old gentleman took a jingling bunch of keys from his pocket, bent down and opened the tin box, from which he took out a square folded parchment, crossed with broad green ribbons, and bearing a great seal.

This he laid upon the table before him, and sinking back in his chair, proceeded to deliberately take snuff. A dead silence reigned, and, in spite of himself, Paul Capel felt agitated, and sought from time to time to catch Katrine’s eye; while Lydia looked from one to the other sadly, and Gerard Artis lay back in his chair.

The door once more opened, and the servants filed in, led by Preenham, the butler, Ramo coming last, to stand with his arms folded and his head bent down upon his chest.

“Be seated,” said Mr Girtle; and his voice sounded solemn and strange.

There was a rustling as the servants sat down in a row near the door, Ramo doubling his legs beneath him, and crouching on the floor.

“The last will and testament of John Arthur Capel, late Colonel in the Honourable East India Company’s Service, Special Commissioner with her Highness the Ranee of Illahad; Resident at the court of her Highness the Begum of Rahahbad!”

So read the confidential solicitor and friend of the deceased, in a husky voice, his gold-rimmed glasses helping him to decipher the brown writing or endorsement of the yellow parchment. Then he continued:—

“I have followed out the instructions of the deceased to the letter, so far; and now, in continuance of these instructions, in your presence, I proceed to break this seal.”

Chapter Five.

The Reading of the Will.

There was a peculiar rustle in the gloomy room, a faint sound as of catching of the breath, and above all the sharp crackle of the broken wax as the seal was demolished, and the green ribbon thrown aside.

Then after a prefatory Hem! the old lawyer proceeded to read the will, which was in the customary form, and began with a series of bequests to the old and faithful servants of the house, in respect of whose services, and so that there should be no jealous feeling as to amounts, he left each the sum of five hundred pounds free of duty, and ten pounds to each to buy mourning.

“To my old and faithful servant, companion, and friend,”—read on the solicitor—“Ramo Ali Jee, two hundred and fifty pounds per annum for the rest of his natural life; the same to be secured in Three-per-cent Consols, reverting at his death as hereinafter stated.”

Ramo did not move or utter a word.

“To my old friend and adviser, Joshua Girtle, of the Inner Temple, the plain gold signet ring on the fourth finger of my left hand.”

Then followed a few more minor bequests, and instructions of a very simple nature, ending one long paragraph in the will; and as Mr Girtle removed his glasses, and proceeded deliberately to wipe them, the servants took advantage of the gloom where they sat to give each other a congratulatory shake of the hand.

“I now come to the important bequests,” said Mr Girtle, rebalancing his glasses in his calm deliberate way.

“To Katrine Leveillée D’Enghien, daughter of my niece, Harriet D’Enghien, formerly Capel, the gold bangle presented to me by the Ranee, and one hundred pounds, free of duty, to buy mourning.”

“There, what did I tell you?” said Katrine, in a low, sweet voice, as she smiled at her companions.

“To Gerard Artis, son of my cousin, William Artis,” read on Mr Girtle, in the same monotonous, unmoved way; and then he stopped to draw one of the candles forward in front of the parchment.

The young man shifted his position uneasily, and drew in his breath quickly as he thought of the testator’s immense wealth, and glanced at Katrine.

“I shall not get all,” he thought, “for he will leave something to Paul Capel.”

Then, after what seemed an age of suspense, the old solicitor went on:

“The sum of one hundred pounds, free of duty, to buy mourning.”

There was a death-like stillness as the lawyer paused.

“Go on, sir, go on,” cried Artis, in a harsh voice.

“To Lydia Alicia—”

“No, no, finish the bequest to me.”

“I did, sir. One hundred pounds to buy mourning.”

“What? Treat me worse than his servants?”

“I believe, Mr Artis, if you will excuse me, that a testator has a perfect right to do what he likes with his own.”

“Then you influenced him,” cried Artis furiously. “I shall dispute the will.”

The old gentleman smiled.

“Influenced my old friend to leave me his signet ring, eh, Mr Artis? No, sir, the will was written by Colonel Capel himself, and afterwards transferred to parchment. If you will allow me. I will proceed.”

“I shall dispute the will. I say so at once,” cried Artis, “that there may be no mistake. One hundred pounds each to Miss D’Enghien and myself! It is absurd, paltry, pitiful.”

“You never saw the testator, Mr Artis?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither did you, Miss D’Enghien?”

“I? Oh no.”

“He told me himself,” continued the old lawyer, “that he had never seen either Miss Lawrence or Mr Paul Capel.”

Lydia murmured an assent.

“No,” said Capel, who felt a curious oppression at the chest, “I never saw my great uncle. I never even heard from or wrote to him.”

“May I ask why?”

“I knew he was reported to be immensely rich, and—well, I felt that he might think I was trying to curry favour.”

“Let me see, Mr Artis, I think the deceased did pay your debts?”

“Is this meant for an insult, sir?”

“No, sir; it was a business-like defence of my old friend’s memory. To proceed:—

“To Lydia Alicia Lawrence, my grand-niece, twenty-five thousand pounds, free of duty, the same to be invested in Consols, and if she marries, to be secured by marriage settlements to herself and children.”

There was a buzz of congratulation here, as the old solicitor once more wiped his glasses and arranged them and the candles, while, in spite of his endeavours to preserve his calmness, Paul Capel, the only one present yet unmentioned, felt the oppression increasing, and the air in the great gloomy room seemed to have become thick and hard to breathe.

He was as if in a dream as the lawyer went on:

“To Paul Capel, son of my nephew, Paul Capel, I leave my freehold house and furniture, library, plate, pictures, statues, bronzes, and curios, conditionally that the house be kept during his lifetime in the same state as it is in now.

“Conditionally, also, that my body, after embalming, according to my instructions, be carried into the room leading out of my bedroom, and placed in the iron receptacle I had specially constructed, without religious rite or ceremony of any kind. I have tried to make my peace with my Creator; to Him I leave the rest. This done, the iron chamber to be locked in the presence of the said Paul Capel, who shall take the key. The doorway shall then be built-up with blocks of stone similar to those of which I had the room built, a sufficiency of which are stored up in cellar Number 4, sealed with my seal.

“And I here solemnly bind my heir and successor to observe exactly these my commands, that my body may rest undisturbed in my old home, under penalty of forfeiture of the said freehold as above named.”

“He must have been mad,” said Artis, in an audible voice.

“And as I, being now in full possession of my senses,” continued Mr Girtle, slightly raising his voice, “know that this is a strange and arduous burden to lay upon my heir in chief, though I have taken such precautions that in a short time my presence in the house may entirely be forgotten, I give and bequeath to him for his sole use and enjoyment—and in the hope that with the help and advice of my old friend, Joshua Girtle, he will sensibly invest, and sell and invest—the Russian leather case containing Bank of England notes amounting to five hundred thousand pounds.”

Artis drew a long breath through his teeth; Katrine D’Enghien leaned forward, with her beautiful eyes fixed on Paul Capel; Lydia sank back in her seat with a feeling of misery she could not have explained seeming to crush her; while Paul Capel sat now unmoved.

“And,” continued the old lawyer, “the flat silver case containing the diamonds, pearls, rubies, and emeralds, bequeathed to me by my mistresses, the Ranee of Illahad and Begum of Rahahbad, valued at one million sterling, more or less. These cases are in the steel chest in the iron chamber in which my coffin is to be placed when the cases are taken out, the keys of which, and the secret of the lock, being known only to my old friend, Joshua Girtle, whom I constitute my sole executor, and my old friend and servant, Ramo, whom I commend to the care of my grand-nephew, the said Paul Capel.

“Furthermore, the remainder of the sum of fifty thousand pounds in Consols, after providing for the payments hereinbefore stated as legacies, I desire my executor to distribute in twenty equal sums to as many deserving charities as he may select.”

The reading of the rest of the document occupied scarcely a couple of minutes, and then the old solicitor rose. The servants slowly left the room, making a détour so as to bow and courtesy to the Colonel’s heir, Ramo last—furtively watching Charles—to go slowly to the young man’s side, bow reverently, take his hand, and kiss it, saying softly the one word:

“Sahib.”

“Don’t go, Ramo,” said Mr Girtle; and the old Indian slowly backed into the corner by the door, where he stood nearly invisible, waiting until such time as he should be called upon to give up his share of the secret of the chamber beyond the dead man’s room.

Chapter Six.

A Fit of Generosity.

“Mr Paul Capel,” said the old solicitor, “allow me to add my congratulations, and my hope that your fortune may prove a blessing.”

“But it is like a dream—a romance,” cried Paul Capel. “All that wealth here—in this house! I wonder that he was not robbed.”

“My old friend took great precautions against that,” said Mr Girtle. “As you will see, it was impossible for any one to have stolen the valuables and notes.”

“But ought not this money to have been banked?”

“Of course—or invested. I have told him so, often; but he used to say he preferred to keep it as it was. He had plenty for his wants and charities. Your uncle was an eccentric man, Mr Capel; there is no denying that.”

“Eccentric!” cried Artis. “Mad. Well, I give you all warning. I shall take action, and throw it into chancery.”

He walked to the end of the room, and Paul Capel looked after him uneasily as he saw Katrine follow.

“You foolish boy!” she whispered; “am not I as badly used as you? Be patient. Wait.”

“What do you mean?” he whispered, hastily.

She looked full in his eyes, and he tried to read the mystery in their depths, but without avail.

“Why don’t you speak?” he cried.

“Some things are better left unspoken,” she replied. “Don’t be rash.”