Part 4

“It was quite faint at first. Now, sir, I know I shall never be able to explain what it was like, because the strange thing was that we couldn’t really say we heard it, not through one’s ears, that is to say. It was as if it was going on inside one’s head. Also it was as much a shake as a noise; when it got worse it made everything in the house--how would you call it, sir?”

“Vibrate?” suggested Mr. Ponders.

“Yes, sir, as for what sort of sound it was, it reminded one of what Godson had said about Black Jack’s whistle, it seemed to scream in one’s head. You know that high noise bats make, piercing, but so high one can only just hear it. Well, sir, it was like that a thousand times louder, and it never stopped from dusk till dawn for a second. It seemed to cut us at the Hall from the rest of the world, close us in, as it were. I can’t tell you, sir, how horrible it was at its worst, but at first it was quite soft, though all the servants noticed it, and kept going to the windows to look out, and wondering what it was.

“At dinner that night Sir Roger was very queer. He had just started on the soup when I saw his eyes go to the dark corner I mentioned before, sir. He never touched another mouthful of anything, but all the time his eyes travelled round the room as if he was following something about. Once or twice when he seemed to follow it right up to his side, he half started from his chair, but he always had great self-control of a sort, that is to say, he hated to make any kind of exhibition of himself before other people, sir, and he held himself in, though I could see his knuckles go white as he hung on to the chair. He got up half-way through dinner and went back to the morning-room. When I took in his coffee he was peeping through the blind on to the lawn.

“When I came in he turned round rather slowly and said, ‘You know that dog I spoke to you about. It’s here again. Take the rook-rifle and see if you can find it. I thought I heard it barking just now in Grey Fallow.’ (Grey Fallow, sir, is a big copse in the Park, up the hill a bit, about three hundred yards from the wild-rose hedge which cuts the Park off from the lawn.)

“‘There,’ he said, ‘can’t you hear it?’

“‘I’ll see if I can find it, sir,’ I said, and got the rifle out, for I thought it would upset the master if I said I couldn’t hear anything. By the time I’d reached the rose-hedge I felt I wanted to turn back, but I went through the gate up towards Grey Fallow. There was just a little moon coming through the clouds. Suddenly I felt I couldn’t go any further. It was cowardice, I expect, sir, but there were two shadows which seemed to be coming from something standing, and another one crouching just inside the wood, which were more than I could face up to, sir. And then I found myself walking through the open window into the morning-room.

“‘Well?’ asked the master.

“‘I couldn’t see anything, sir.’

“‘Damn you,’ he said, ‘I can hear it now; give me the rifle and pour me out a whisky and soda!’

“Some time later I was working in the pantry when I heard a shot. I looked out, but at first I couldn’t see anything. Then the moon came through, and I picked out the master crouching down beside the big cedar. ‘What’s he up to?’ I wondered, and it was then for the first time I felt a sinking, creepy feeling, sir, as if I’d give anything to be up in London with people and lights. But I was fond of the master, sir, and I felt it was up to me to look after him, and I made up my mind to stick it out.

“When I went back to the morning-room to ask about orders for the next day he was on his knees peering through the blind. I went out and knocked loudly, and he was sitting in his chair when I came in again, but his left hand was twitching quickly. I was going to take the rifle out to be cleaned, but he told me to leave it there till the morning.

“It was from then, sir, that the bad time really began. It was all right till dusk came, and the master was quite boisterous and good-humoured during the day, but as soon as the sun was down, and that sound began, and the master started to be funny, and all the maids got agitated and hysterical, it was as much as I could stand.

“When I say the master started to be funny, I mean that he got silent and watchful and absorbed in something. From then on he ate nothing at dinner, though he usually went in and sat down for a time. On the third night, after he had been staring at the dark corner and round the room for a time, he suddenly jumped to his feet and seemed to fling something from him. His face was working, sir, and he pointed his hand to the door. ‘Turn that dog out! Turn that dog out!’ he shouted.

“I was badly taken aback, but I pretended to drive something out of the door. This finished the footman, who ran away the next morning. I wasn’t sorry, as I thought I’d better have the master to myself. It was from then on I had to pretend all the time when I was with him at night, for there was no doubt by now, sir, that he was seeing some dog most of the time, and he was scared of it. I had to sit with him in the evening with a whip in my hand and let fly in the direction he pointed to. Then he made me come and sleep in the room next to his. The sound got steadily worse and became something shocking, sir, and the maids went one by one. It seemed to drive them crazy, and they’d sit with their hands to their ears crying. I replaced them at first and offered every kind of high wages, but it was no good, they wouldn’t stay, and very soon Mrs. Miles and I were left alone. She was a brave woman, sir, she said she’d stick till she died, if necessary.”

“Did Sir Roger hear this sound?” asked Mr. Ponders.

“Not as we did, sir, but he was always hearing barking and snarling and something scratching at the door. He hated _that_ worst of all. Time after time he’d tell me through the tube from his room to mine that there was a dog at his door. I always got up, but, of course, there was nothing there.

“I expect you wonder, sir, why I didn’t take it for granted it was D.T.s--delirium tremens I should have said, sir, and fetched a doctor, and I often thought of it, but the master was not drinking so heavily now as before the trouble began. Then again the doctor would have probably come during the day, and found the master almost himself. Besides, I don’t believe he would have seen a doctor, he always hated and despised them.”

“You didn’t think it _was_ drink, then?” he asked.

“I didn’t know what to think. You see, sir, there was that Sound.”

“I wonder you could stick it.”

“Well, sir, I did long to go, but if Mrs. Miles could put up with it I could, and I felt I had to stand by the master in the bad time. I was quite attached to him, sir, and I shouldn’t have felt right about leaving him in the lurch. I tried to get him to go up to London and stay at the club, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“There began to be a lot of talk in the neighbourhood, for the maids said things before they left, and all the villagers and local people round were certain it had something to do with Black Jack. He had never been seen since that night his dog was killed, but he was believed to be somewhere about. It was a funny thing the local people had a curious knowledge when he was about, and they were always right.

“The master got worse and worse. He couldn’t seem to stay in the house after dark unless I was with him. He’d be out all night in the grounds, and I’d sometimes catch a sight of him crouching and hiding, and sometimes he’d come running back as if something was after him. He took to sleeping heavily during the day, but he had bad dreams then, and he said some funny things in his sleep.

“I felt he must be getting near the end of his tether.

“When the Judge came down I never for a moment believed he would attempt to entertain him, but, to my dismay, sir, he insisted, and asked thirty people to meet him. Of course, I had to get a lot of help down from London. The only good thing about it was, I felt, that some of the gentlemen might see what a state he was in and help me to do something for it.

“It was a terrible evening. The Sound was wicked that night. The hired chaps got the wind up, sir, as soon as it began, and kept asking what the hell it was, and several of them tried to slip away. It made all the guests nervous and uneasy.

“The master made an effort for a time; it was a very brave effort, sir, but after a time his eyes went to the corner by the door, and suddenly he gave a sharp movement and then his eyes flitted about as if he was following something. Twice he half rose from his chair as if something was getting at him. Of course, the guests noticed it and, although they made a pretence of talking, I could see them watching the master. The hired men lost their heads and were dropping plates and waiting shockingly. The Noise got so bad that everything was quivering and shaking, and I could see the guests were beginning to get horrified and very uneasy. I felt something was going to happen. Suddenly the master jumped to his feet and began flinging all his glasses and anything he could pick up from the table into the dark corner, shouting, ‘Go! go! go! Drive it out, I tell you! Drive it out!’ and then he fell in a heap on the floor. Some of the gentlemen helped me to carry him up to his room, and then they left, and glad to go they were. One of them, Sir Marcus O’Reilly, took me aside, and asked if this sort of thing had been going on long. I said for just three weeks. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s delirium tremens, and a bad case. I’ll do something about it in the morning. He can’t go on like this.’

“Would you believe it, sir, the master pulled round about midnight and spent the rest of the night out in the Park!”

“Did _you_ ever see anything unnatural, except those shadows, I mean?” asked Mr. Ponders.

Mr. Millin paused. “There was just something I did see--marks very like those made by the muddy paws of some animals outside the master’s bedroom door several times, and one time, when Sir Roger woke me up and told me the dog was on his bed, there were some marks on the blanket.

“There was one funny little thing. The master was fond of cats, and kept six of them. Well, as soon as the Sound began, they all disappeared and were never seen again, and the keeper told me his dog wouldn’t go near the hall after dusk. But I don’t _think_ I ever saw anything, though the master made it all seem so real that it was enough to make anyone see things.

“Well, sir, the next night it happened--I had managed to get to sleep about two o’clock--the master was out as usual. Suddenly I was awakened by hearing him rushing down the passage. I heard his door slam and then he began shouting, ‘Get down! Down, you brute! Down! Down! Down!’ and then I heard everything in the room begin crashing about. Just as I reached my door there was a terrible screaming and choking kind of cry--the most awful sound I ever heard, sir.

“I rushed to his room and turned on the light. He was lying across the bed, his throat torn open and the blood pouring out. He was dead already. As I lifted him and tried to staunch the blood I noticed something about his eyes. There was something sort of photographed in them.”

“What?” asked Mr. Ponders sharply.

“Well, sir, it might have been the head of a dog smashed up and bleeding.”

“When I went to pull down the blinds, my eye was caught by a shadow coming out from the big cedar. It was like the one I had seen in Grey Fallow. And it almost seemed as if I saw another shadow, which was leaping and bounding towards it--and then they both disappeared. And then I noticed the Sound had stopped.

“I got the doctor and the police as soon as I could. The doctor was very puzzled. He said he’d never seen a wound like it, and couldn’t imagine how it had been caused.

“Next day the London police came down, and, of course, it began to be a bit unpleasant for me, being so near in the next room like that, and no one else about. They cross-examined me for a long time. All I could say was that the master had been queer for a long time and taken to roaming in the grounds at night, that I had been woken up by hearing him scream and had rushed in to find what I have described, sir. But it sounded weak and fishy. The Inspector heard something in the village about Black Jack, and tried his best to find him, but he was never seen again. The inquest was adjourned several times, and I think everyone expected me to be arrested, but when the doctor had given his evidence it seemed to me that everyone in the Court felt there was something that couldn’t be explained about the business, and the verdict was ‘Murder by a person or persons unknown.’ After that the police left me alone, but I suppose most people still believe I did it. And then I came up to London and saw Sir Leonard. I’ve never been able to get another place. As soon as they hear I was with Sir Roger they turn me down.

“Well, that’s my story, sir, and it’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth, though I know how it must sound.”

“Did you ever think of telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth to the police?” asked Mr. Ponders.

“They wouldn’t have stood for it, sir. I’m sure they wouldn’t.”

“Well, Mr. Millin,” said Mr. Ponders smiling, “my brother has praised you more than I have known him praise many people, but even he never suggested you had the imagination to invent _that_ story. Do you know why--amongst other reasons--I believe every word of it? It’s because I’ve heard it before.”

“Heard it before, sir!”

“Well, almost. Do you see that black and red book on the shelf just behind you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that contains an account of a very, very similar happening in the year 1795 in this county, not ten miles away. It is called ‘A True Account of the Curious Events connected with the death of Mr. Arthur Pitts.’ You shall read it when you are installed here. By the way, how soon can you come?”

Mr. Millin’s eyes were very bright as he answered, “Any time which will suit you, sir.”

“HE COMETH AND HE PASSETH BY!”

“HE COMETH AND HE PASSETH BY!”

Edward Bellamy sat down at his desk, untied the ribbon round a formidable bundle of papers, yawned and looked out of the window.

On that glistening evening the prospect from Stone Buildings, Lincoln’s Inn, was restful and soothing. Just below the motor mowing-machine placidly “chug-chugged” as it clipped the finest turf in London. The muted murmurs from Kingsway and Holborn roamed in placidly. One sleepy pigeon was scratching its poll and ruffling its feathers in a tree opposite, two others--one coyly fleeing, the other doggedly in pursuit--strutted the greensward. “A curious rite of courtship,” thought Bellamy, “but they seem to enjoy it; more than I enjoy the job of reading this brief!”

Had these infatuated fowls gazed back at Mr. Bellamy they would have seen a pair of resolute and trustworthy eyes dominating a resolute, nondescript face, one that gave an indisputable impression of kindliness, candour and mental alacrity. No woman had etched lines upon it, nor were those deepening furrows ploughed by the higher exercise of the imagination marked thereon.

By his thirty-ninth birthday he had raised himself to the unchallenged position of the most brilliant junior at the Criminal Bar, though that is, perhaps, too flashy an epithet to describe that combination of inflexible integrity, impeccable common sense, perfect health and tireless industry which was Edward Bellamy. A modest person, he attributed his success entirely to that “perfect health,” a view not lightly to be challenged by those who spend many of their days in those Black Holes of controversy, the Law Courts of London. And he had spent nine out of the last fourteen days therein. But the result had been a signal triumph, for the Court of Criminal Appeal had taken _his_ view of Mr. James Stock’s motives, and had substituted ten years’ penal servitude for a six-foot drop. And he was very weary--and yet here was this monstrous bundle of papers! He had just succeeded in screwing his determination to the sticking point when his telephone bell rang.

He picked up the receiver languidly, and then his face lightened.

“I know that voice. How are you, my dear Philip? Why, what’s the matter? Yes, I’m doing nothing. Delighted! Brooks’s at eight o’clock. Right you are!”

So Philip had not forgotten his existence. He had begun to wonder. His mind wandered back over his curious friendship with Franton. It had begun on the first morning of their first term at Univ., when they had both been strolling nervously about the quad. That it ever had begun was the most surprising thing about it, for superficially they had nothing in common. Philip, the best bat at Eton, almost too decorative, with a personal charm most people found irresistible, the heir to great possessions. He, the crude product of an obscure Grammar School, destined to live precariously on his scholarships, gauche, shy, taciturn. In the ordinary way they would have graduated to different worlds, for the economic factor alone would have kept their paths all through their lives at Oxford inexorably apart. They would have had little more in common with each other than they had with their scouts. And yet they had spent a good part of almost every day together during term time, and during every vacation he had spent some time at Franton Hall, where he had had first revealed to him those many and delicate refinements of life which only great wealth, allied with traditional taste, can secure. Why had it been so? He had eventually asked Philip.

“Because,” he replied, “you have a first-class brain, I have a second or third. I have always had things made too easy for me. You have had most things made too hard. _Ergo_, you have a first-class character. I haven’t. I feel a sense of respectful shame towards you, my dear Teddie, which alone would keep me trotting at your heels. I feel I can rely on you as on no one else. You are at once my superior and my complement. Anyway, it has happened, why worry? Analysing such things often spoils them, it’s like over-rehearsing.”

And then the War--and even the Defence of Civilisation entailed subtle social distinctions.

Philip was given a commission in a regiment of cavalry (with the best will in the world Bellamy never quite understood the privileged rôle of the horse in the higher ranks of English society); he himself enlisted in a line regiment, and rose through his innate common sense and his unflagging capacity for finishing a job to the rank of Major, D.S.O. and bar, and a brace of wound-stripes. Philip went to Mesopotamia and was eventually invalided out through the medium of a gas-shell. His right lung seriously affected, he spent from 1917-1924 on a farm in Arizona.

They had written to each other occasionally--the hurried, flippant, shadow-of-death letters of the time, but somehow their friendship had dimmed and faded and become more than a little pre-War by the end of it, so that Bellamy was not more than mildly disappointed when he heard casually that Philip was back in England, yet had had but the most casual, damp letter from him.

But there had been all the old cordiality and affection in his voice over the telephone--and something more--not so pleasant to hear.

At the appointed hour he arrived in St. James’s Street, and a moment later Philip came up to him.

“Now, Teddie,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking, I know I’ve been a fool and the rottenest sort of type to have acted as I have, but there is a kind of explanation.”

Bellamy surrendered at once to that absurd sense of delight at being in Philip’s company, and his small resentment was rent and scattered. None the less he regarded him with a veiled intentness. He was looking tired and old--forcing himself--there was something seriously the matter.

“My very dear Philip,” he said, “you don’t need to explain things to me. To think it is eight years since we met!”

“First of all let’s order something,” said Philip. “You have what you like, I don’t want much, except a drink.” Whereupon he selected a reasonable collation for Bellamy and a dressed crab and asparagus for himself. But he drank two Martinis in ten seconds, and these were not the first--Bellamy knew--that he had ordered since 5.30 (there _was_ something wrong).

For a little while the conversation was uneasily, stalely reminiscent. Suddenly Philip blurted out, “I can’t keep it in any longer. You’re the only really reliable, unswerving friend I’ve ever had. You will help me, won’t you?”

“My dear Philip,” said Bellamy, touched, “I always have and always will be ready to do anything you want me to do and at any time--you know that.”

“Well, then, I’ll tell you my story. First of all, have you ever heard of a man called Oscar Clinton?”

“I seem to remember the name. It is somehow connected in my mind with the nineties, raptures and roses, absinthe and poses; and the _other_ Oscar. I believe his name cropped up in a case I was in. I have an impression he’s a wrong ’un.”

“That’s the man,” said Philip. “He stayed with me for three months at Franton.”

“Oh,” said Bellamy sharply, “how was that?”