The Weird Sisters: A Romance. Volume 1 of 3. Dowling Richard

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      "Quite so. You may be sure I am overlooking no point in the case. Let me proceed with my view. You and I don't get on well together, and you attack me. You are clearly the burglar, and I am attacked by you, and I defend myself with force. You kill me; that is no good to you. You won't make a penny by my death. But suppose it should unhappily occur that the revolver, on the trigger of which, Joe, I now have my finger, and the muzzle of which is about a foot from your heart, suppose it should go off, what then? You can see the accident would be all in my favour."

      Farleg uttered a loud whistle.

      For a second no word was spoken. No movement was made in that room.

      All at once, apparently from the feet of the two men, a wild alarmed scream of a woman shot up through the silence, and shook the silence into echoes of chattering fear.

      As though a blast had struck the banker's face, it shrivelled up like a withered leaf. Something heavy fell from his hand in the drawer, and he rose slowly, painfully, to his feet.

      Farleg rose also, keeping his face in the same relation, and on the same level as the banker's, until the pinched face of the banker stole slowly above the burglar's.

      The hands of Grey rested on the table. His eyes were fixed on vacancy. He seemed to be listening intently, spellbound by some awful vision, some distracting anticipation intimately concerned with appalling voices.

      Slowly from his lips trickled the whispered words: "What was that?"

      "My wife's voice," whispered Farleg. "You thought it was yours. When I told you no one knew, I meant I had no pal. But my wife knows all, and if anything came amiss to me she'd tell all."

      "I understand," the banker answered, still in a whisper. The dread was slowly descending from his face, and he made a hideous attempt at a smile.

      "I, too," pursued Farleg, "was afraid we might quarrel, and left her there. For one whistle she was to scream out to show she was on the watch. For two whistles she was to run away and call help. Do you see, sir?"

      "Very clever. Very neat. You have won the odd trick."

      "And honours are divided."

      "Yes. How is that money to reach you?"

      "I'd like it in gold, sir, if you please. You can send it in a large parcel, a hamper, sir, or a large box, so that no one need be the wiser. I'm for your own good as well as my own in this matter."

      "You shall have the money the day after to-morrow at four o'clock. It will reach you from London. Now go."

      "Well, after what has been done, and our coming to a bargain, shake hands, Wat," said the man, in a tone of insolent triumph.

      "Go, sir. Go at once!"

      "Honours are not divided; I hold three to your one. Give me your hand, old man. Joe Farleg will never split on a pal."

      With a shudder of loathing the banker held out his hand.

      As soon as he was alone, the moment the door was shut, he took up the claret-jug, poured the contents over his right hand to cleanse it from the contamination of that touch, and then walked hastily up and down the room, waving his hand through the air until it dried.

      "A thousand isn't much to secure him. But will it secure him? That is the question. Yes, I think it will. I think the coast is now clear. With prudence and patience I can do all now," he whispered to himself, with his left hand on his forehead. "Wat Grey, you've had a close shave. Nothing could have been closer. Had you pulled that trigger all would have been lost. Now you have a clear stage, and must let things take their course. The old man can't live for ever; and until he dies you must keep quiet and repress all indication of the direction in which your hopes lie. Maud does not dream of this."

      A knock at the door.

      "Come in."

      James, the servant, entered, holding a slip of paper in his hand.

      "What is it, James?" asked the master.

      "That man that's gone out, sir, said he forgot to give his address, and as you might want it he asked me to take it up to you."

      Mr. Grey was standing by the low gasalier as the servant handed him the piece of paper.

      Mr. Grey took the address in his right hand; as he did so the purblind footman sprang back a pace.

      "What's the matter?" demanded Mr. Grey with an amused smile.

      "Ex – excuse – me – sir," the man faltered, "but your hand – "

      "Well, what about it?"

      "It's all over blood!"

      "What! What do you say?" shouted the master, in a tone of dismay. "Do you want a thousand too?"

      "Indeed, no, sir; and I beg pardon; but do look at your hand."

      Mr. Grey held up his hand, examined it, and then burst out into a loud shout of laughter. When he could speak he cried:

      "You charming idiot! You will kill me with your droll ways. That dirty wretch who went out touched my hand. I had no water near me, so I poured some claret over my hand and forgot to wipe it."

      He approached James and held out his hand, saying, "Look." Then added, in a tone of solemn amusement: "James, there was once a man who died of laughing at seeing an ass eat. I do think I shall die of laughing at hearing a donkey talk. Bring me the coffee. Go."

      And as the servant was leaving the room, Mr. Grey broke out into a laugh of quiet self-congratulation on the fact of his possessing such a wonderful source of amusement in his servant, James.

      CHAPTER III

      THE MANOR HOUSE

      The house occupied by Mr. Grey was very old. It had been the Manor House, and was still called the Manor House, or the Manor, although it had long ago ceased to be the property of the original owner's descendants. For years before Mr. Grey bought it the house had been uninhabited.

      It bore a bad name – why, no one could tell. The fortunes of the lords of the manor had gradually mouldered away, and the old house had been allowed to fall into decay and dilapidation.

      During the time it was shut up people spoke of it as a kind of phantom house; some regarded it as a myth, and others treated it with a superstitious respect as a thing which might exercise an evil influence over those who fell under the shadow of its displeasure.

      Sunken deeply from the road, surrounded by a wild tangle of rugged oaks, its grounds girt with walls ten feet high, there were few points open to the public from which a glimpse of it could be caught, and no spot from which a full view could be obtained.

      Boys had scaled the walls and penetrated into the tangled mazes of the neglected undergrowth. But the briars and brambles and bushes were too rough even for boys, and they came away soon.

      No boy of Daneford – and there were high-hearted, brave, adventurous boys there – could say he had penetrated as far as the house. Although those who had once been boys of Daneford had faced the enemies of their country in every clime, by day and by night, on land and sea, and СКАЧАТЬ