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Page 36
Is it some vague shadowy sense of danger that makes him stand now as
though hesitating? A quick shiver rune through his veins.
"How cold it is," he says to himself, "even on this hot day, up in this
melancholy place!" Yet, he is quite unconscious of the ears that are
listening for his lightest movement, of the wicked eyes that are
watching him through a chink in the opposite door!
Now he steps forward again, and, mounting the last flight of stairs,
opens the fatal door and looks into the room. Even now it occurs to him
how unpleasant might be the consequences should the door close and the
secret lock fasten him in against his will. He pushes the door well
open, and holds it so, and then tries whether it can fall to again of
its own accord, and so make a prisoner of him.
No; it stands quite open, immovable apparently, and so, convinced that
he is safe enough, he commences his search. Then, swift as lightning, a
form darts from its concealed position, rushes up the stone staircase,
and, stealthily creeping still nearer, glances into the room.
Sir Adrian's back is turned; he is stooping, looking in every corner
for the missing prize. He sees nothing, hears nothing, though a
treacherous form crouching on the threshold is making ready to seal
his doom.
Arthur Dynecourt, putting forth his hand, which neither trembles nor
falters on its deadly mission, silently lays hold of the door, and,
drawing it toward him, the secret lock clicks sharply, and separates his
victim from the world!
Stealthily even now--his evil deed accomplished--Arthur Dynecourt
retreats down the stairs, and never indeed relaxes his speed until at
length he stands panting, but relentless, in the servants' corridor
again.
Remorse he knows not. But a certain sense of fear holds him irresolute,
making his limbs tremble and bringing out cold dews upon his brow. His
rival is safely secured, out of all harm's way as far as he is
concerned. No human being saw him go to the ill-fated tower; no human
voice heard him declare his intention of searching it for the missing
trinket. He--Arthur--had been careful before parting from him to express
his settled belief that Sir Adrian would not go to the haunted chamber,
and therefore he feels prepared to defend his case successfully, even
should the baronet be lucky enough to find a deliverer.
Yet he is not quite easy in his mind. Fear of discovery, fear of Sir
Adrian's displeasure, fear of the world, fear of the rope that already
seems to dangle in red lines before his eyes render him the veriest
coward that walks the earth. Shall he return and release his prisoner,
and treat the whole thing as a joke, and so leave Adrian free to
dispense his bounty at the castle, to entertain in his lavish fashion,
to secure the woman upon whom he--Arthur--has set his heart for his
bride?
No; a thousand times no! A few short days, and all will belong to Arthur
Dynecourt. He will be "Sir Arthur" then, and the bride he covets will be
unable to resist the temptations of a title, and the chance of being
mistress of the stately old pile that will call him master. Let Sir
Adrian die then in his distant garret alone, despairing, undiscoverable!
For who will think of going to the haunted room in search of him? Who
will even guess that any mission, however important, would lead him to
it, without having first mentioned it to some one? It is a grewsome
spot, seldom visited and gladly forgotten; and, indeed, what possibly
could there be in its bare walls and its blood-stained floor to attract
any one? No; surely it is the last place to suspect any one would go to
without a definite purpose; and what purpose could Sir Adrian have for
going there?
So far Arthur feels himself safe. He turns away, and joins the women and
the returned sportsmen in the upper drawing-room.
"Where is Dynecourt?" asks somebody a little later. Arthur, though he
hears the question, does not even change color, but calmly, with a
steady hand, gives Florence her tea.
"Yes; where is Sir Adrian?" asks Mrs. Talbot, glancing up at the
speaker.
"He left us about an hour ago," Captain Ringwood answers. "He said he'd
prefer walking home, and he shoveled his birds into our cart, and left
us without another word. He'll turn up presently, no doubt."
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