Part 19 (1/2)

He knew what that meant, too; the door had been drawn to, and so he found it as he stepped lightly there, opened it, and pa.s.sed out on to the great landing, where he strained his eyes upward to try and make out the graceful draped figure as it went up the winding staircase to the bedroom.

It was not so dark there, for a faint gloom--it could not be called light--fell from the great ground-gla.s.s sky-light, at the top of the winding staircase, like so much diluted darkness being poured down into a well.

That great winding staircase suddenly seemed to him full of horror, as he stood there. It had never struck him before, but now, how terrible it seemed. That bal.u.s.trade was so low. Suppose, poor girl, in her sleep, she should lean over it, and fall down onto the white stones, where the black fretwork of the glistening stove could be seen like a square patch against the white slabs.

There was no reason for such fancies, but Paul Capel's hands grew wet with a cold perspiration.

”I ought to have stopped her, and awakened her at any risk,” he said, as he still gazed up the great staircase; and then his heart seemed to stand still, for there was a faint click, as of a lock shot back, and it came either from on a level with where he stood, or from down below.

In an instant he realised what had happened: Katrine had been to fetch the key of the late Colonel's chamber, and had gone in there.

He hesitated a moment, and then, going close, he softly touched the door, and felt it yield.

Just then there came a faint scratching noise, and there was a gleam of light, showing him that the heavy curtain was drawn.

Then the light shone more clearly, and pressing the door a little more open, he glided through.

He was about to peer out softly, when the light was set down, he heard the soft rustle of the dress, an arm was thrust round from the far side of the curtain, and the door was carefully closed.

”The work of a spy,” he said. But a slight sound attracted his attention, and his curiosity mastered all other feelings.

Gently sliding his hand into his pocket, he drew out a penknife, and cut gently downwards, making a slit a few inches in length.

This he drew slightly apart and gazed through, to see that Katrine was standing with her back to him, in the act of opening one of the large cabinets at the side of the bed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

BIRDS OF PREY.

Travellers in Mayfair will have noticed that every here and there old-fas.h.i.+oned, snug looking hostelries exist in out-of-the-way places-- at the corner of a mews, in a private street, where they do not seem to belong; and they are generally kept by ex-butlers, who have taken wives, joined their savings, and gone into business with the brewers' help.

In the parlour of the ”Four-in-Hand,” Lower Maybush street, a party of gentlemen's servants were playing bagatelle upon a bad board in a very smoky atmosphere, while a knot of three men sat at one of the old, narrow, battered mahogany tables in a corner, drinking cold gin and water, and smoking bad cigars.

One was a little sharp-eyed, round-headed man, smartly dressed, and evidently rather proud of a large gilt pin in his figured silk tie.

Another was tall and not ill-looking; he might have been a valet, for there was a certain imitation gentility about his cut--a valet whose master had been rather addicted to the turf, and this had been reflected on his man to the extent of trousers rather too tight, short hair, and a horseshoe pin with pearl nails. The third was rather a shabby-looking man of forty, undoubtedly a gentleman's servant out of place, carrying the sign in the front of the reason why, in the shape of a nose unduly ripened by being bathed in gla.s.ses of alcoholic drink.

”Knew him how long, did you say?” said the tall man, tapping his chin with an ivory-handled rattan-cane.

”Ten years, poor chap,” said the ex-servant. ”It was very horrid.”

”Here, never mind that,” said the brisk little man. ”We don't want horrors. Touch the bell, d.i.c.k. Come, old fellow, sip up your lotion, and we'll have them filled again. That cigar don't draw. Try one of these. Here! three fours of gin cold,” he cried to the landlord, and as soon as the gla.s.ses were refilled, and cigars lighted, the conversation went on, to the accompaniment of rattling b.a.l.l.s and laughter from the bagatelle players.

”Well,” said the tall man, in a low voice, ”you can do as you like, my lad, but I should have thought that, hard up as you are, and I should say without much chance of getting another crib--say at present--you'd have been glad to earn a honest quid or two.”

The shabby-looking man shook his head.

”Here, you're always putting on the pace too much, d.i.c.k,” said the little man. ”A fellow wants a little time. He's on, you see if he isn't. My respects to you, Mr Barnes. Hah! nice flavoured drop of gin that.”