CHAPTER XIX

THE MISSING PAGE

Robert Baxter was the first to hear the good news, and, being a young man of few words, he lighted a candle and made straight for the wine cellar. In a few moments he returned empty handed.

"It's mighty funny," he said to Lionel. "There was a whole case last week--all but one quart, and it's disappeared, case and all! And what's more, that '66 brandy is gone, too. I'm certain there were at least half a dozen left. What do you make of it?"

Lionel tugged at his mustache.

"Well, if you ask me, old chap, I don't mind telling you I never did like the cut of Parker's sidewhiskers."

"Parker!" exclaimed Bob. "It doesn't seem possible. You never saw such references as he brought. There were two bishops and a prime minister. It's queer, though," he added, as he relocked the cellar door.

At the supper table, much to the Storm girl's relief, her services were not required. There were no more secrets to be learned and to-morrow she would offer to call at the club for the golf bag. No, that would look suspicious--well, she would think out a plan, she would manage it some way.

In a great chair at Horatio's side sat little An Petronia, who, at the curate's request, had been allowed to join the happy gathering. Clasped in her hand was a priceless nectarine (too marvelous for human food) and her watchful eyes were fixed on the door fearful each moment of the apparition of a beckoning grandmother and the End of Things.

And now every one was eager to hear the curate's story, all but Martin Luther, who showed not the slightest interest. It was enough for him that his dear friend was safe and sound. What more could anybody want? In recognition of his conspicuous services, Martin Luther had been awarded a special fish, which now existed only in a beautiful dream as Martin lay fast asleep in the lap of An Petronia.

The curate's story did not take long to tell. When he walked out of the dining room this morning to vanish so strangely, his only thought was to get out of doors and, snatching his hat from the antlers in the hall, he passed quickly through the open front door. Then, remembering that Martin Luther had not had any luncheon, he changed his mind and went straight to the kitchen, entering by the outside door instead of returning to the house, which accounted for Lionel's not seeing him.

As Horatio was about to enter the kitchen, he was startled by the sound of steps. He stood still with his hand on the knob and listened. Who could be in the kitchen? Every one was upstairs in the dining room, every one who had any right in the house.

He opened the door quietly. No one was there. Again he listened. There was somebody in the passage, the dark stone passage that led to the wine cellar and to the well room further on. Horatio tiptoed across the kitchen and peered through the archway. There was a faint yellow flicker in the gloom at the turn of the passage. The curate wondered what anybody could be doing in the well room. The servants never went near it. For one thing it had no window and there was something frightening about the black oblong of the well in the middle of the stone floor. It reminded Horatio of a picture by Doré in Dante's "Inferno," and, according to Parker (who claimed to have read it in a book) it was in that very well that the pious Lady Ysobel had been drowned. Once he had seen the Gray Lady sitting on the edge of the well wringing her hands and "weeping and wailing most orful." It had given him the "willys" for a week.

Keeping close to the wall, the curate crept cautiously along the passage. The well room door was almost closed. Fearful lest it should creak, he opened it slowly toward him, inch by inch. At this point in the story the curate paused to relieve his throat with a glass of water.

"Weren't you frightened, Daddy Merle?" squeaked An Petronia, thrilling with delicious terror.

"Yes, my dear," said Horatio. "When I opened that door and saw where that light came from I am compelled to admit that I was frightened."

Again the curate paused, this time to wipe his lips with the napkin. Martin Luther opened his eyes and yawned, stretching his fore paws straight out in front of him, the very image of a sleepy sphinx. "Isn't that story finished yet?" he mewed, then raising himself slowly to his feet he stepped over the arm of An Petronia's chair and curled up to sleep in the curate's lap.

"Well, my dear?" queried Harriet impatiently.

"I say!" cried Lionel, "what about the light?"

"The light came from the well," replied the curate.

Then he related how, as he stared at the well, half expecting to see the Gray Lady rise slowly out of its depths, there appeared, instead, a human hand holding--"What do you think it was holding?" he asked looking at each in turn.

"A dagger, of course," laughed Kate.

"A golden key," came timidly from An Petronia.

"If it wasn't an umbrella, I give it up," said Lionel.

"Go on! Tell us!" urged Harriet.

Robert Baxter had just achieved a perfect smoke ring. He watched it soar upward and melt away, then questioned quietly. "A bottle of champagne?"

"My dear Mr. Baxter, that's exactly what it was," said the curate.

Lionel slapped his knee vigorously. "Parker! By Jove! Five to one it was Parker!"

The curate's eyes blinked with amazement. "Bless my soul! How did you know that?"

"Oh, I just put two and two together," drawled Lionel, "and it made Parker."

"Fortunately Parker didn't see me," continued Horatio, "and as he reached down for another bottle I slipped back into the passage and behind the door. It was a dreadful moment. You may not believe it, I suppose I was a little unstrung, but I had an uncontrollable desire to laugh. I pressed my hands over my mouth, but I fear that only made it worse--it was like new wine in an old bottle--I simply exploded."

"Horatio! You didn't laugh?" exclaimed Harriet.

"My dear Harriet, it burst through my fingers. You have often complained of my laugh, Harriet, but this was much worse. It must have sounded like that strange cry of the American natives."

Bob looked up, puzzled. "American natives?"

"I take it so," replied Horatio. "I heard it once at Earl's Court at the Wild West Show. It is apparently produced by a rapid oscillation of the palm of the hand against the mouth while enunciating with great force the sound of the fifth vowel."

Bob laughed uproariously. "Oh, yes, of course! That's the sound the squaws make when they go shopping on Broadway."

"Dear me," exclaimed the curate, "what an interesting custom! Harriet, love," he turned to his wife, "remind me to make a note of what Mr. Baxter has just told us about the squaws going shopping on Broadway."

Bob's laugh took on a doubtful ring--he was never quite sure with Horatio whether the joke was on himself or on the curate.

"Whatever it sounded like," continued Merle, "the effect was most astonishing. I could see through the hinge-crack. Parker shot out of that well like a Jack-in-the-box and flew up the steps and along the passage as if Beelzebub himself were after him. I don't suppose he stopped this side of Ippingford."

"Except to pick up your hat," put in Lionel.

"Dear me! Perhaps he did, I left it on the kitchen dresser. Well I hope it will be a lesson to the man."

And now why on earth did he go back to that wretched cellar? Parker's candle would have burned itself out in the well and the wine was safe for the time being anyway. It seemed to Horatio, as if some irresistible force had dragged him down those steps against his will, right to the brink of the well. There at the bottom was the candle burning cheerfully among the bottles, at least a dozen of champagne and various others. The curate had no trouble in letting himself down and was already pondering on the best way to climb out again without soiling his clothes, when his attention was caught by a peculiarity in the construction of the well. Two sides and one end were built of small stones about six or eight inches square. The remaining end was quite different; there were small stones at the top and bottom and, in the middle, one large stone about three feet square.

Horatio picked up the candle and carefully examined this stone. In the lower right hand corner was a half obliterated Latin inscription:

N H L T NGE O NIA D SCE A O 1360

He spelled it out slowly. The first word, allowing for the space, could only be Nihil. The missing "A" of Tange was also quite evident, so was the "M" of Omnia. He puzzled over the last word for some time till the light of the candle, held a little to one side and very close to the stone, showed that what he had taken for the letter "I" was really the letter "D". Then it was easy, and now Horatio had the motto complete: NIHIL TANGE OMNIA DISCE it now read: "Touch nothing, know everything."

When a thing sounds so utterly senseless as that, he reflected, it generally turns out to mean something very wise, especially if it is chiseled in stone.

He held the candle close to the date: Anno 1360. Here was something peculiar. The last figure, the zero, was cut very deep into the stone--much deeper than any other figure or letter in the whole inscription. The difference was too marked to be accidental. That figure "nought," he reasoned, must have some relation to the inscription. But what? What was there in the inscription about a zero? Then in a flash it came to him.

Touch nothing--Learn everything. Now it was plain. That figure "nought" was the key to the mystery. It must be touched, pressed with the finger. The candlestick shook in his hand, he set it down on the floor beside him. Then Horatio pressed one finger firmly on the center of the figure "nought" in the corner of the big stone.

Nothing happened.

He pressed harder, still harder, still with no effect. Then, as he relaxed the pressure, there came a sharp metallic twang from some hidden place, and, with a strangely animate whine, the stone swung slowly away from him revealing a dark aperture.

Carefully guarding the flame of the candle, the curate stepped through the opening and found himself at the top of a short flight of stone steps. Before going any further, he placed one of the champagne bottles on the top step in such a way that its neck prevented the door from closing.

At the foot of the steps Horatio found himself in a passage which, from its position, he judged must lead toward the ivy covered ruin that formed the outer end of the kitchen garden.

In another moment he knew he was right. Directly overhead, at the further end of the gallery, was an irregular fissure scarcely a foot in width. The crack continued upward for a little way, and through the opening Horatio could see far above him a mountain of jagged stones over which poured a torrent of ivy. Beyond this was a triangle of blue across which flashed the blackness of a bird's wing.

As the curate was about to return, a sudden draught extinguished his candle. Moving cautiously, he probed the treacherous blackness, with outstretched hands, trusting to his sense of direction. Suddenly he stumbled against the steps and plunged heavily forward with his whole weight upon the partly open stone door.

Through the crunch and gurgle of the decapitated champagne bottle and the thud of the door, Merle heard the sharp metallic twang of a hidden lock.

"Go on," said the curate's wife.

"My dear Harriet, I worked over that door in the pitch darkness for two blessed hours."

"I thought you had a candle, Daddy Merle," piped An Petronia sleepily.

"I had, my dear, but no matches, not a single match!"

He pushed back his chair.

"I say! Let's all go and kick the life out of that beastly door!" cried Lionel.

The curate smiled. "I believe I shall sleep better when I know how it works."

"I should think you'd excommunicate it," said Kate.

Whereupon Martin Luther jumped to the floor and walked stiffly out of the room. It was exactly as if he said: "I consider that remark in very bad taste," and everybody laughed. Harriet, however, refused to countenance such folly as going into the cellar at that time of the night, and as for An Petronia, the child ought to have been in bed hours ago!

Ten minutes later when the Reverend Horatio Merle was removing various articles from his coat pockets, preparatory to folding the garment for the night, he came across the forgotten page of An Petronia's novel. As he glanced at it he was astonished to find, instead of the large childish writing he had seen there, the small neat hand of a grown person. It was a piece of a torn letter, and An Petronia had made use of the blank side. Nothing very surprising in that.

He laid it down on the dressing table so that he would remember to give it to the little girl in the morning. As he did so, Horatio's eye caught a startling sentence written across the upper corner of the page.

"Remember, please, not to address me as Jenny Regan, but as Hester Storm."

"Jenny Regan! Hester Storm!" he reflected. "Strange! What can that girl be doing with two names?"

Then Horatio blew out the candle.