Part 3 (1/2)

”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-gla.s.s 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-gla.s.s 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.