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Page 95
I could realize from the heavy breathing of my companion, and
the twitchings of the hand which still clutched my wrist, the
furious indignation which filled his heart as he saw this vandalism
in the quarter of all others where he could least have expected it.
He, the very man who a fortnight before had reverently bent over
this unique relic, and who had impressed its antiquity and its
sanctity upon us, was now engaged in this outrageous profanation.
It was impossible, unthinkable--and yet there, in the white glare
of the electric light beneath us, was that dark figure with the
bent grey head, and the twitching elbow. What inhuman hypocrisy,
what hateful depth of malice against his successor must underlie
these sinister nocturnal labours. It was painful to think of and
dreadful to watch. Even I, who had none of the acute feelings of
a virtuoso, could not bear to look on and see this deliberate
mutilation of so ancient a relic. It was a relief to me when my
companion tugged at my sleeve as a signal that I was to follow him
as he softly crept out of the room. It was not until we were
within his own quarters that he opened his lips, and then I saw by
his agitated face how deep was his consternation.
"The abominable Goth!" he cried. "Could you have believed it?"
"It is amazing."
"He is a villain or a lunatic--one or the other. We shall very
soon see which. Come with me, Jackson, and we shall get to the
bottom of this black business."
A door opened out of the passage which was the private entrance
from his rooms into the museum. This he opened softly with his
key, having first kicked off his shoes, an example which I
followed. We crept together through room after room, until the
large hall lay before us, with that dark figure still stooping and
working at the central case. With an advance as cautious as his
own we closed in upon him, but softly as we went we could not take
him entirely unawares. We were still a dozen yards from him when
he looked round with a start, and uttering a husky cry of terror,
ran frantically down the museum.
"Simpson! Simpson!" roared Mortimer, and far away down the
vista of electric lighted doors we saw the stiff figure of the old
soldier suddenly appear. Professor Andreas saw him also, and
stopped running, with a gesture of despair. At the same instant we
each laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Yes, yes, gentlemen," he panted, "I will come with you. To
your room, Mr. Ward Mortimer, if you please! I feel that I owe you
an explanation."
My companion's indignation was so great that I could see that
he dared not trust himself to reply. We walked on each side of the
old Professor, the astonished commissionaire bringing up the rear.
When we reached the violated case, Mortimer stopped and examined
the breastplate. Already one of the stones of the lower row had
had its setting turned back in the same manner as the others. My
friend held it up and glanced furiously at his prisoner.
"How could you!" he cried. "How could you!"
"It is horrible--horrible!" said the Professor. "I don't
wonder at your feelings. Take me to your room."
"But this shall not be left exposed!" cried Mortimer. He
picked the breastplate up and carried it tenderly in his hand,
while I walked beside the Professor, like a policeman with a
malefactor. We passed into Mortimer's chambers, leaving the amazed
old soldier to understand matters as best he could. The Professor
sat down in Mortimer's arm-chair, and turned so ghastly a colour
that for the instant all our resentment was changed to concern. A
stiff glass of brandy brought the life back to him once more.
"There, I am better now!" said he. "These last few days have
been too much for me. I am convinced that I could not stand it any
longer. It is a nightmare--a horrible nightmare--that I should be
arrested as a burglar in what has been for so long my own museum.
And yet I cannot blame you. You could not have done otherwise. My
hope always was that I should get it all over before I was
detected. This would have been my last night's work."
"How did you get in?" asked Mortimer.
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