Part 39 (1/2)

”It's hardly quite dry, even now,” he remarked. ”It's soaked right in-- through the boards, probably.”

I stood appalled at the sight of that gruesome evidence of a crime. I was not familiar with such revolting sights, as were my companions.

How, I wondered, had Eric been struck down? What motive had Sybil's friend in reporting that he was alive and in Paris, when he was not?

Pickering, in the meanwhile, made a tour of the room. From a chair that had recently been broken he concluded that the person attacked had defended himself with it desperately, while there was a great rent in one of the dirty lace curtains that hung at the window, and it was slightly blood-stained, as though it had got caught in the struggle.

The last room we examined, which lay at the rear of the house, presented another peculiar feature, inasmuch as it was entirely bare save a table, a chair and a meagre bed, and it showed signs of rather recent occupation. Beside the grate was a cooking-pot, while on the table a dirty plate, a jug and a knife showed that its occupant had cooked his own food.

Pickering made a tour of the place, throwing the light of his lantern into every corner, examining the plate and taking up some articles of man's clothing that lay in confusion upon the bed. Then suddenly he stopped, exclaiming,--

”Why, somebody's been kept a prisoner here! Look at the bars before the window, and see, the door is covered with sheet-iron and strengthened.

The bolts, too, show that whoever was put in here couldn't escape. This place is a prison, that's evident,” and taking up a piece of hard, stale bread from the table he added, ”and this is the remains of the prisoner's last meal. Where is he now, I wonder?”

”Down below,” suggested the detective Edwards.

”I fear so,” the inspector said, and taking me to the window showed me how it only looked out upon the roof of the next house and in such a position that the shouts of anyone confined there would never be heard.

”They probably kept their victims here to extort money, and then when they had drained them dry they gave them their liberty. They went downstairs,” he added grimly, ”but they never gained the street.”

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

BRINGS US FACE TO FACE.

Pickering was essentially a man of action.

”We must go down that hole and explore,” he said determinedly. ”We must know the whole of the secrets of this place before we go further.

Edwards, just slip round to the station and get that rope-ladder we used in the Charlotte Street affair. Bring more rope, as it may be too short. And bring P.C. Horton with you. Tell him to take his revolver.

Look sharp.”

”Very well, sir,” replied the man, who clambered over the settle and down the stairs, leaving us there to await his return.

Time pa.s.sed slowly in that dark, gruesome house, and at each noise we halted breathlessly in expectation of the return of Parham or one of his friends.

Returning to the room wherein Eric Domville had so gallantly defied his enemies, we resumed our search, and from beneath the couch the constable drew forth the square brown-paper parcel which Winsloe had obtained from the house called Keymer, and handed over to Parham.

Pickering, in a trice, cut the string with his pocket-knife, and within found a small square wooden box nailed down. The jemmy soon forced it open, when there was revealed a large packet of papers neatly tied with pink tape, which on being opened showed that they were a quant.i.ty of negotiable foreign securities--mostly French.

”The proceeds of some robbery, most certainly,” declared Pickering, examining one after the other and inquiring of me their true character, he being ignorant of French.

”I expect the intention is to negotiate them in the City,” I remarked after I had been through them and roughly calculated that their value was about twenty thousand pounds.

”Yes. We'll put them back and see who returns to fetch them. There's evidently a widespread conspiracy here, and it is fortunate, Mr Hughes, that you've been able at last to fix the house. By Jove!” the inspector added with a smile, ”we ourselves couldn't have done better--indeed, we couldn't have done as well as you did.”

”I only hope that we shall discover what has become of my friend Domville,” I said. ”I intend that his death shall not go unavenged. He was in this room, I'll swear to that. I'd know his voice among ten thousand.”

”We shall see,” remarked the officer, confidently. ”First let us explore and discover how they got rid of their victims. I only hope n.o.body will return while we are below. If they do, Horton and Marvin will arrest them. We'll take Edwards down with us.”

While the constable Marvin repacked the precious box to replace it, Pickering and myself went to the drawer and looked over the letters.

Many of them were unimportant and incomprehensible, until one I opened written upon blue-grey notepaper bearing the heading: ”Harewolde Abbey, Herefords.h.i.+re.” It was in the well-known handwriting of Sybil Burnet!