Part 47 (2/2)
Taking from her portfolio two drawings she held first one and then the other in front of the motionless woman.
”I have made a drawing of the mantelpiece, just as you see it, and as I see it, and as it is. Is it not like it? Here are the two side-posts; but here”--exchanging one drawing for the other--”is only one of them. That is a picture of the pillar which is on the left-hand side of the mantelpiece as you stand in front of it--you will remember, on the left-hand side. I have written down an exact description of it in case you should forget, because there is only one thing which you will never forget, and that is on the bed. Look closely at the drawing; it represents the pillar exactly. This long, slender part, which runs from here to here, is called the shaft. You hold it with both hands, or, as you are very strong, you will perhaps be able to manage with one, and you turn it right round in its socket--completely round. It will probably be a little stiff, as it has not been touched for so long; but you'll find that you'll be able to make it move. This narrow piece at the top is called the neck. After you have turned the column you pull it to the left. It slides in two grooves. It may be a little stiff, like the column, but if you push, or pull, hard enough, and long enough, it will yield. This still narrower piece near the foot of the column, just above the plinth--the plinth in the bottom of a column is called the _torus_, or the _tore_ (_torus_ is a Latin word which architects use, and it just means swelling)--when you have turned the pillar, and slipped the neck, you get as firm a grip on the top of the torus as you can, give a smart jerk, and it will fall over on a hinge. Have you ever read _The Arabian Nights?_ You don't look as if you had read anything. If you haven't, you never will; you'll never have a chance. But I suppose you've heard of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves; the cave in which they kept their treasure; the pa.s.sword, 'Open Sesame,' which caused the cave to open. All these man[oe]uvres of which I have been telling you--turning the shaft, sliding the neck, pulling forward the torus--are the 'Open Sesame' which will lead you to the place where the treasure is--greater treasure than was in the cave of the forty thieves. These performances which you will have gone through will have unlocked, unbolted and unbarred. All that remains is that you slide that whole side of the mantelpiece to the left.
You'll have no difficulty. Behind you'll discover a cupboard, deep though narrow, going far back into the wall, with shelves laden with treasures. On those shelves is the quarter of a million of money--I daresay more--which once was Cuthbert Grahame's, waiting for some one to carry it away! Here are the two drawings which are the key to the riddle. I present them to you freely. They were made specially for you. Although the broker's man is in for rent, and the bill of sale men clamour at the door, and you are penniless, and ruin stares you in the face--ruin utter and complete--though your need of it's so great, you'll not get that money which is hidden in the mantelpiece--you'll not dare! you'll not dare! Because the bed still stands in the room--you can see it now!--the bed on which you murdered Cuthbert Grahame; and Cuthbert Grahame still lies on it--you can see him too!--waiting and watching for you to return to where you threw the pillows on the floor--waiting and watching for you. You'll not dare go back into that room again, because in it the dead hand is waiting to grip you by the throat. And after to-morrow it will be too late--Cuthbert Grahame's money will be there no longer. Here are the drawings.
I will leave them with you, as I said. You will be able to study them at your leisure, conscious of who is looking over your shoulder.”
Margaret laid the drawings on the coverlet. With her portfolio again beneath her arm she quitted the room, as noiselessly as she had entered. All the time Mrs. Gregory Lamb had not moved or spoken a word.
CHAPTER x.x.x
MRS. LAMB IN SEARCH OF ADVICE
On the evening of that same day, at the door of Mr. Isaac Luker's little house in that _cul-de-sac_ near Stamford Street, some one knocked, in a rather unusual manner, as if after a prescribed fas.h.i.+on, then whistled half-a-dozen sharp, shrill notes up the scale. This performance was repeated thrice before anything happened to show that it had attracted attention within. Then a window was opened above; the solicitor's head came out.
”Who's there?”
A feminine voice replied--
”It's me--Isabel. I want to speak to you. Don't keep me waiting out here. Come down! let me in at once.”
There was a brief pause before the answer came, as if the man of law was endeavouring to see as much of his visitor as he could.
”Not much--I won't have you in this house; don't you think it; I'm not a fool. If you won't go without a fuss I'll soon get those who'll s.h.i.+ft you.”
”You are a fool. I don't want money from you, or anything of that kind. I want to tell you something--that's all.”
”Then tell it me from where you are; I'm listening.”
Mrs. Lamb's voice dropped, so that her words were only just audible to the man above.
”Cuthbert Grahame's money's found.”
Another pause, possibly of doubt.
”Is that a lie?”
”I'll swear it isn't; it's as true as I stand here.”
”Where is it?”
”It's in his house”
”His house? What house? I didn't know he'd got a house.”
”His house at Pitmuir--where I met him--where he died.”
”How do you know it's there?”
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