Part 30 (2/2)

”We want to see Dexter.”

”You can't see him.”

”Why not?”

”What did you say your name was?”

”Macallan. Mrs. Macallan. Eustace Macallan's mother. _Now_ do you understand?”

The voice muttered and grunted behind the paling, and a key turned in the lock of the gate.

Admitted to the garden, in the deep shadow of the shrubs, I could see nothing distinctly of the woman with the rough voice, except that she wore a man's hat. Closing the gate behind us, without a word of welcome or explanation, she led the way to the house. Mrs. Macallan followed her easily, knowing the place; and I walked in Mrs. Macallan's footsteps as closely as I could. ”This is a nice family,” my mother-in-law whispered to me. ”Dexter's cousin is the only woman in the house--and Dexter's cousin is an idiot.”

We entered a s.p.a.cious hall with a low ceiling, dimly lighted at its further end by one small oil-lamp. I could see that there were pictures on the grim, brown walls, but the subjects represented were invisible in the obscure and shadowy light.

Mrs. Macallan addressed herself to the speechless cousin with the man's hat.

”Now tell me,” she said. ”Why can't we see Dexter?”

The cousin took a sheet of paper off the table, and handed it to Mrs.

Macallan.

”The Master's writing,” said this strange creature, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, as if the bare idea of ”the Master” terrified her. ”Read it. And stay or go, which you please.”

She opened an invisible side door in the wall, masked by one of the pictures--disappeared through it like a ghost--and left us together alone in the hall.

Mrs. Macallan approached the oil-lamp, and looked by its light at the sheet of paper which the woman had given to her. I followed and peeped over her shoulder without ceremony. The paper exhibited written characters, traced in a wonderfully large and firm handwriting. Had I caught the infection of madness in the air of the house? Or did I really see before me these words?

”NOTICE.--My immense imagination is at work. Visions of heroes unroll themselves before me. I reanimate in myself the spirits of the departed great. My brains are boiling in my head. Any persons who disturb me, under existing circ.u.mstances, will do it at the peril of their lives.--DEXTER.”

Mrs. Macallan looked around at me quietly with her sardonic smile.

”Do you still persist in wanting to be introduced to him?” she asked.

The mockery in the tone of the question roused my pride. I determined that I would not be the first to give way.

”Not if I am putting you in peril of your life, ma'am,” I answered, pertly enough, pointing to the paper in her hand.

My mother-in-law returned to the hall table, and put the paper back on it without condescending to reply. She then led the way to an arched recess on our right hand, beyond which I dimly discerned a broad flight of oaken stairs.

”Follow me,” said Mrs. Macallan, mounting the stairs in the dark. ”I know where to find him.”

We groped our way up the stairs to the first landing. The next flight of steps, turning in the reverse direction, was faintly illuminated, like the hall below, by one oil-lamp, placed in some invisible position above us. Ascending the second flight of stairs and crossing a short corridor, we discovered the lamp, through the open door of a quaintly shaped circular room, burning on the mantel-piece. Its light illuminated a strip of thick tapestry, hanging loose from the ceiling to the floor, on the wall opposite to the door by which we had entered.

Mrs. Macallan drew aside the strip of tapestry, and, signing me to follow her, pa.s.sed behind it.

”Listen!” she whispered.

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