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Page 70
He had been shown in the drawing rooms, on his return, and she
had stopped a moment to look him over - he was a sort of mummy.
She was not hoping to find Bramwell Winton one of these elect.
But he was a hive that had not been plundered.
She reflected, sitting bent forward in the hansom, her face
determined and unchanging. She did not undertake to go forward
beyond the hundred pounds. Something would turn up. She was
lucky . . . others had gone to the tower; gone before the firing
squad for lesser activities in what Hecklemeir called her
profession, but she had floated through . . . carrying what she
gleaned to the paymaster. Was it skill, or was she a child of
Fortune?
And like every gambler, like every adventurer in a life of
hazard, she determined for the favorite of some immense Fatality.
It was an old house she came to, built in the prehistoric age of
London, with thick, heavy walls, one of a row, deadly in its
monotony. The row was only partly tenanted.
She dismissed the hansom and got out.
It was a moment before she found the number. The houses
adjoining on either side were empty, the windows were shuttered.
One might have considered the middle house with the two, for its
step was unscrubbed, and it presented unwashed windows.
It was a heavy, deep-walled structure like a monument. Even the
street in the vicinity was empty. If the biologist had been
seeking an undisturbed quarter of London, he had, beyond doubt,
found it here.
There was a bridged-over court before the house. Lady Muriel
crossed. She paused before the door. There had been a bell pull
in the wall, but the brass handle was broken and only the wire
remained.
She was uncertain whether one was supposed to pull this wire, and
in the hesitation she took hold of the door latch. To her
surprise the door yielded, and following the impulse of her
extended hand, she went in.
The hall was empty. There was no servant to be seen. And
immediately the domestic arrangement of the biologist were clear
to her. They would be that of one who had a cleaning woman in on
certain days, and so lived alone. She was not encouraged by this
economy, and yet such a custom in a man like Bramwell Winton
might be habit.
The scientist, in the popular conception, was not concerned with
the luxury of life - they were a rum lot.
But the house was not empty. A smart hat and stick were in the
rack and from what should be a drawing room, above, there
descended faintly the sound of voices.
It seemed ridiculous to Lady Muriel to go out and struggle with
the broken bell wire. She would go up, now that she had entered,
and announce herself, since, in any event, it must come to that.
The heavy oak door closed without a sound, as it had opened.
Lady Muriel went up the stairway. She had nothing to put down.
The only thing she carried was a purse, and lest it should appear
suggestive - as of one coming with his empty wallet in his hand -
she tucked the gold mesh into the bosom of her jacket.
The door to the drawing room was partly open, and as Lady Muriel
approached the top of the stair she heard the voices of two men
in an eager colloquy; a smart English accent from the world that
she was so desperately endeavoring to remain in, and a voice that
paused and was unhurried. But they were both eager, as I have
written, as though commonly impulsed by an unusual concern.
And now that she was near, Lady Muriel realized that the
conversation was not low or under uttered. The smart voice was,
in fact, loud and incisive. It was the heavy house that reduced
the sounds. In fact, the conversation was keyed up. The two men
were excited about something.
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