CHAPTER XI.

A VISITOR AT THE GUEST HOUSE

Before leaving for Switzerland, Otway and Sibell had paid several visits to the long-closed Guest House at Hampton Court, and, accompanied by a Mr. Sheldon, a well-known author and antiquary, the girl had picked out a number of the most valuable pieces of furniture, a quantity of old silver--including two Charles the Second cups--and a number of family portraits, all of which had been sent into store until such time as the old house should be decorated and refurnished.

The furniture included a number of very rare Caroline, Queen Anne, and William and Mary pieces, all entirely genuine, with no trace of the restorer’s hand.

Indeed, the old antiquary pointed out that a set of genuine Chippendale chairs and a Queen Anne tallboy were such as might well be acquired by the South Kensington Museum. Neither the young doctor nor his rather modern fiancée were lovers of the antique, so they merely picked out, at Mr. Sheldon’s suggestion, a few objects, as a matter of sentiment.

On the other hand, the news of the valuable contents of the Guest House had spread far and wide among dealers all over the country, and, in consequence of their inquiries, Mr. Gray predicted a highly profitable sale.

The latter was somewhat delayed owing to certain legal formalities abroad not having been complied with, but in the meantime Farmer, the heavily-built caretaker, had many applicants to view the contents privately, and many a half-crown fell into his ready palm, in consequence.

Sometimes Police Constable Askew, when on duty on that beat, would look in and spend half an hour in the little room on the left of the hall in which Farmer had taken up his quarters, the caretaker smoking his strong briar, while the man in uniform loosened his belt and enjoyed his “gasper.”

“I wonder when the sale’s to be?” Askew remarked one rough night when, just before midnight, he had taken shelter from the storm and hung up his dripping cape in the hall.

“Not till some legal formalities have been settled,” was the other’s reply. “Mr. Gray was here yesterday, and told me so. I saw a photograph of the young couple in the _Sketch_ the other day. They had those long bits of wood fastened on to their boots--things they call skis. How they get along on such things beats me.”

“I suppose the young doctor is quite better now,” Askew said. “He had a narrow squeak, I’ve heard.”

“Yes. He was one of those affected by this house. Very uncanny, ain’t it? I’ve never been troubled yet.”

“Don’t you boast, old man,” said the constable warningly. “There’s something mysterious and unaccountable in this old place. I’m sure of that”; and he glanced apprehensively around the small, dark-papered room, where a bright fire burned in the grate and a paraffin lamp stood upon the table.

“Bosh! I don’t believe in it!” laughed the man Farmer, who had spent all the years since his retirement from the police force in taking care of other people’s property.

“You don’t believe in what I’ve seen?” asked Askew with quick resentment.

“I never believe anything I don’t see with my own eyes,” was the other’s quiet reply.

“Well, I’m not a liar, I assure you. I’ve seen something here--that’s all I can tell you.”

“And I’ve seen nothing, so let’s leave it at that,” said the man in charge of the place.

“What about those strange seizures?”

“Mere coincidences,” laughed the matter-of-fact Farmer. “I hope the facts won’t leak out or we’ll have all sorts of people here--spiritualists, ghost hunters, and those people whose dead aunts tell them what they’ve had for supper.”

“Yes. It is to be hoped it won’t come out. I’ve told nobody,” said Askew.

“But that chap who writes to the _Richmond and Twickenham Times_ may be keeping his eyes and ears open. He seems to me to be a bit of a Nosey Parker.”

“Well, if there are any inquiries, we must deny everything,” the constable said.

“I’ve never admitted anything. You’ve got to deny what you say that you’ve seen.”

“But surely you saw it too?”

“I told you I didn’t! I’ve seen nothing, I’ve heard nothing, and I think nothing--see?” declared Farmer. “I’m only the caretaker, paid by the week to keep my mouth shut and frighten away thieves and burglars”; and he laughed heartily.

“But what’s going to happen here?” asked the constable, lighting a fresh cigarette and glancing at Farmer’s cheap alarm clock on the mantelshelf. Outside, the big trees swayed, the wind howled around the place, and the rain pattered upon the window-panes in sudden gusts.

“Happen? Why, it will be wedding-bells after the sale,” Farmer said. “Before Miss Dare left she ordered the grounds to be put in order, and there have been six men at work grubbing out all the undergrowth, taking out unwanted trees, and lopping the rest. By Jove! you should see the impenetrable jungle it was before they started. Thirty years of undergrowth takes some grubbing out. They’re letting in light and air, and making a new tennis-lawn. When it’s finished it will be a very beautiful garden, no doubt. There’s going to be central heating, baths, a servants’ hall, electric light, and all the most up-to-date contrivances. It will cost a big sum, but when a young girl comes into a big fortune, as she’s done, a few thousand don’t matter much, I suppose.”

“I expect the sale will bring in a tidy sum,” remarked the police constable, holding his hands out to the fire to warm them.

“I heard Mr. Gray tell his partner last Tuesday, when they were here together, that the pictures alone will probably bring in twenty thousand. Six of them have been sent up to Bond Street on show already.”

“Lucky girl, eh?” remarked the constable of the T Division of Metropolitan Police, rising slowly and stretching himself. “Well, I’ll have to go, Mr. Farmer. Thanks so much”; and he finished the bottle of ale his host had placed before him, on entering.

“So long. Look in again when you can. Three taps on the door if you see my light a-burning. Good-night, and good luck to you.”

Askew threw his wet cape around his shoulders, straightened himself, put on his helmet, arranged his lamp, and strode heavily along the stone hall, and out to continue his vigilance in the stormy night, while the lonely caretaker, heedless of the dismal howling of the wind and the many weird noises through the house, finished his glass of beer, smoked a final pipe as he read the evening paper by the fire, and then turned into his narrow bed.

About ten o’clock next morning there came a tug at the clanging old bell, and Farmer opened the door to confront a rather wizened-up little old man in a drab mackintosh and holding an umbrella against the pelting rain.

“Excuse me,” he said very politely in a thin, refined voice. “Are you caretaker here?”

“I am, sir,” replied the broad-shouldered, plethoric Farmer.

“Well, I’ve heard very much about this old house and the treasures it contains, so I’ve come up from Newcastle-on-Tyne wondering if you would allow me to go through the rooms,” he said. “My name is Bettinson. I’m a great lover of the antique--indeed, a collector.”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but the firm of auctioneers which employ me have given me strict orders to allow nobody to view. The things were on view some little time ago, but the sale has now been postponed.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the little old man in deep disappointment. “Then the contents of the house will not be sold?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“And what’s the name of the fortunate young lady who owns the house?”

“Dare, sir--Miss Sibell Dare.”

The old man nodded as slowly understanding the situation. “But I wonder,” he said, after a pause, during which he drew a ten-shilling note from his vest pocket, “I wonder if this would be any inducement for you to allow me just a brief glance through the rooms?”

Farmer smiled. Caretakers are all human, and, after all, there could be little danger of theft in allowing the inoffensive, odd-looking old fellow a peep at the shabby, neglected rooms.

Two minutes later old Mr. Bettinson was inside, and, leaving his umbrella in the hall, followed his guide first into the library, where the books had already been tied in parcels ready for offering at auction, though nothing had yet been catalogued or numbered. The heavy furniture in the dining-room, especially the long oak refectory-table, with its bulbous legs and worn struts, attracted him.

“A perfect specimen!” he exclaimed, as though to himself. “Genuine Tudor, without a doubt!” And he placed his fingers caressingly upon the polished wood.

The huge buffet also attracted his admiration, as well as a pair of Queen Anne candelabra and a large silver salver of the same period.

Then, upstairs, he stood for some moments in the big drawing-room, gazing around in a strange, half-bewildered manner. He sat upon the big old velvet-covered chair--the same into which Mr. Gray, the estate agent, had sunk when he had had that mysterious attack--and admired many of the unique pieces of furniture, including the big carved chair, with its tattered crimson covering, in which he was seated.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “A perfect museum! Why, this collection ought never to be dispersed. It is a sin. The house and its contents should be acquired by the nation.”

“The young lady can’t sell it, I believe, sir,” remarked his guide. “By the terms of the will she is compelled to live here.”

“Ah! The testator was some fool of a crank, I suppose,” snapped the old man. “Fancy condemning any young girl to live in a dismal place like this!”

“She’s going to be married, so I suppose they’ll renovate the place and make it their headquarters,” Farmer said. “But I’ve heard that she’s hitherto been abroad a lot.”

“Well, this is no house for a young couple,” grunted old Mr. Bettinson as, after sitting in contemplation for a quarter of an hour, he arose from the huge chair of carved walnut--a handsome Italian Renaissance piece--following the stout man in charge into other rooms on the same floor, where, through the dingy panes of old green glass, the garden, with its high holly hedges now trimmed and clipped, could be seen.

“I’ve noted one or two pieces which I intend to buy,” the old man said as he at last descended the stairs, thanking his conductor for allowing him sight of them. “I shall commission a dealer to secure them for me. I mean to have them, regardless of what others will offer. I’m a collector, as I’ve told you, and when I set my mind on buying a piece I never rest until it is mine. It may be bought over my head and be sent away, but I follow it and always get it in the long run, for I never mind what price I pay.”

“Well, sir, I’m glad you are satisfied,” Farmer said pleasantly, whereupon the old chap drew out his leather cigar-case and emptied it into the caretaker’s hands. “Here,” he said, “take them. You’ll find they’re pretty good ones”; and Farmer’s trained eye saw that they were of a very expensive and choice variety.

“Funny old bloke!” he remarked aloud to himself as he saw the queer old fellow hobble away beneath his umbrella and disappear from the gate. “But all these people with hobbies are a bit cranky. I’ve seen such lots of ’em in my time.”

That same afternoon, just before dark, the bell rang, and Farmer went to the door, believing it to be the milkman, when, to his surprise, he found the same old gentleman standing beneath the porch.

“Hulloa!” he exclaimed. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon,” responded old Mr. Bettinson. “I’m so sorry to trouble you,” he went on apologetically, “but I hope this will act as solace for again disturbing you”; and he handed him a second ten-shilling note. “The fact is that I want to have a second look at that exquisite little inlaid tallboy in the drawing-room. I want to make up my mind as to how much I shall bid for it.”

“Oh, certainly, sir,” said Farmer politely. “Come in. There’s just enough light, I think, to enable you to see it. But I’ll bring up a lamp”; and he allowed the old man to reclimb the wide, old-fashioned stairs to the first floor.

He ascended slowly, mumbling something to himself, while Farmer went down to the basement to obtain his hurricane lamp. Having lit it, he followed the old visitor, whom he discovered standing in the centre of the big, dark room with his arms outstretched, waving them wildly towards the windows, with his head thrown back, uttering some kind of weird incantation which was all gibberish to him.

“What the deuce are you doing?” demanded the caretaker. “Have you suddenly gone crazy?”

But, without response, the old man, his thin hands outstretched, a weird and mysterious figure in the faint light shed by the lantern, turned slowly towards him, still continuing his monotonous gibberish drone in which “The Voice of the Four Winds,” “Unconquerable Spirit of Satin,” “Ruler of Thy Life,” “The Evil World,” “The Plane of Human Perfection,” “The Sacred Cubit,” “The Rejoin of the Well-Shaft’s Upper Mouth,” “The Glory of Death,” and “When Restitution is Complete,” were the only words distinguishable. For the rest, the man’s utterances might have been in Arabic, Hebrew, or Chinese so far as Farmer could understand them.

“Look here!” he said with humor. “You’d better get out of this, old sonny! You’ve evidently got bats in the belfry! For Heaven’s sake get away, and don’t look at me like that!”

The old stranger’s face had become long, drawn, and evilly distorted, as though he had taken leave of his senses or had become entranced. His bony hands clutched the air as he continued to wave his arms and call down some blessing or some curse upon the mysterious house and its contents, until Farmer, not usually perturbed, began to grow apprehensive lest his visitor should prove a raving lunatic.

“Now just come out of this at once and go away,” he said roughly. “Here’s your ten-bob note.”

“Touch me!” shrieked the old man, defiantly clawing the air. “Touch me, and it will be death to you! I am invulnerable!”

“I don’t care what you are, or who the devil you are, but you’ll get out of this at once!” cried Farmer, and, with an ex-policeman’s grip, he took him by the collar, shook him like a rat, and dragged him to the stairs.

“Now, go down and out quietly,” he advised him when they were upon the landing. “We can do with cranks here, but we don’t want any lunatics.”

In an instant the old fellow’s manner altered.

“My dear man, I am very, very sorry for you,” he said as he commenced to descend the stairs.

“You needn’t be. I want no sympathy,” laughed the caretaker.

“Not to-night,” replied the old man mysteriously. “But you will to-morrow”; and he gave vent to a harsh laugh of triumph. “I warned you, but you took no heed, so you will take the consequences. You will see.”

And with those parting words he passed out.

Farmer shut the door, walked back to his little den, and exclaimed aloud:

“Yes. This morning I thought he was a funny bloke. He’s mad, no doubt, poor fellow!”

And then he busied himself at the fire, toasting a round of bread for his tea.