Part 9 (1/2)

”Come on, let me out, quick!” he exclaimed, horrified to find that the janitor had gripped his shoulders with the strength of a vice.

”All in good time, my pretty,” replied the other, and in the darkness, which corresponded to the biblical description of that which ”could be felt,” the young man thought he had never heard words p.r.o.nounced in such a diabolical tone. ”What would you say if I refused to let you go, my son? Ha, ha, you're in my power. Struggle as you may, I have got you as safe as if you were in Dartmoor, and, what's more, I shan't let you go until you make it worth my while.”

He laughed coa.r.s.ely and brutally. In the black gloom, and judging by his voice, he might have been some fiend from the nether world. Was there ever such a strange house and such strange inhabitants, thought Laurence, as he struggled to free his hand for one moment, so that he might seize the pistol with which to silence the man's demands and to a.s.sist his own departure to the home where he was so greatly needed.

There was no denying that Laurence Carrington was a fairly strong man, yet in the hands of this strange guide he seemed as helpless as a rat.

With anything but good grace he offered the servant half a sovereign if he would instantly open the front door for him and offer no further molestation.

”Make it a thick 'un,” whispered the man, with something like a leer; ”make it a sov., mister, and you shall go free.”

”You scoundrel!” cried Laurence, ”I shall report your conduct to your master.”

”Ha, ha! D'yer think I care?” replied the rascal; ”he's no more to me than that.” He snapped his fingers loudly.

”All right, let me out of the door, and I'll give you a sovereign.”

”That I won't, unless you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you don't produce any firearms,” replied the man, with a dig at Laurence's ribs which caused the latter to lounge out with his knee at where he imagined the other to be.

”All right, I promise.”

”There you are, then. Fork out the gold boy.”

Laurence fumbled in his pocket on his arms being released, and produced a coin from his pocket--the first he laid hands on--and pa.s.sed it to Smith. As he did so, a sound broke upon the grave-like stillness of this house of mystery--a sound that seemed to rise from the bas.e.m.e.nt or cellars, a long-drawn, terrible cry--the unnatural, nay, fiendish shriek of a person in the agonies of death.

And simultaneously the door opened, and Laurence found himself thrust hurriedly out into the night.

Before he could turn, or could realise the meaning of that awful sound, the door clanged upon him.

Then once more there was silence, unbroken save by the sudden hoot of an owl in a distant tree.

CHAPTER XIV

THE FIGURE IN THE MOONLIGHT

At last he was free from the horrors of that strange house--Durley Dene--and Laurence Carrington felt that for the moment he could breathe again. Then he remembered the cause of his hasty departure from Doctor Meadows' handsome sitting-room.

Running like mad down the dark drive and up the avenue that led to his home, he at length reached the front door of the Manse, opened it with his latch-key, and pa.s.sed through at the height of his speed.

No one was about. The pa.s.sages were deserted. But from upstairs came the sound of loud weeping. He leaped up the staircase, never stopping until he reached the Squire's bedroom, the door of which was open.

On the floor just inside the room sat Mrs. Knox crying loudly. A female servant stood by her in an equally hysterical state.

Laurence brushed past them, entered the room, and approached the old-fas.h.i.+oned bed, round which stood the butler, the housekeeper, and Lena.

On the bed, fully dressed, lay the body of his father, the Squire, stretched out in death. The face was a ghastly colour--a slaty shade of blue. The veins in it stood out like strips of whalebone. The chest protruded in an unnatural manner. The eyes were yet half opened. The fingers clutched tightly at the bedclothes. There was no sign that any breath remained in the old gentleman's body.

”Have you sent for Bathurst?” Laurence asked hoa.r.s.ely, addressing the butler.