CHAPTER V

_In which it is obvious that the owner is a guest in his own house_

Leonard Grath entered the Copper House like a visitor, hat in hand. A sunbeam lay right across the polished oak floor of the hall, and in the middle of the patch of light stood a tall, old lady, as upright as a grenadier, and as thin and dark as a Bedouin, who fixed a penetrating glance upon the new-comer. She went on crocheting a piece of lace, the other end of which was hidden in an old-fashioned basket-work satchel that hung on her left arm.

Leo stopped short, as though her look was an actual barrier, and bowed.

"Sonia Andreievna," said the old lady, in the tone of a drill sergeant on parade, "where have you been?"

The girl shot a covert glance at the young man, and threw down her riding-whip.

"Aunt Lona," she replied meekly, "this gentleman has just been mistaken for a squirrel...."

"Sonia Andreievna" ... the sharp voice interrupted, "speak sensibly; you know that I detest riddles."

"My name is Leonard Grath," the latter interposed, hastily, bowing again and feeling somewhat embarrassed.

The crochet-needles came to a standstill, and their owner took two strides towards him, and stared unblinkingly into his eyes. He noticed that, in spite of her iron-gray hair and lean, dried-up looks, she could hardly be more than sixty. Her imperious eyes still flashed with youthful energy, every movement betokened strength, and her whole bearing was that of a well-bred lady, even though she might be a bit of a martinet. Like her niece, she was plainly dressed in black, with white ruffles, and a necklace of jet beads, which clicked gently as she moved.

"Leonard Grath," she echoed; "the owner?"

"Yes, I am afraid I have arrived rather unexpectedly, and if I have in any way...."

"Sonia Andreievna! pick up your whip at once" (the young man was quite startled) "and put it in its place. Yes, Mr. Grath, I cannot deny that you _have_ taken us by surprise."

"Oh dear, I certainly never meant...."

"Sonia Andreievna! Do you see what time it is? Have I not told you a thousand times that we have a fixed hour for dinner?"

Her remarks seemed to Leo to be emphasized by a perfect regiment of exclamation-points, and he did not wonder that the girl darted away like an arrow from a bow. But to his surprise, no sooner were they alone, than the old lady's tone became almost cordial.

"I am Lona Ivanovna Bernin, and as your tenant I bid you welcome to the Copper House. You will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner? Good, let us have a cigarette while we are waiting."

Still wondering, Leo allowed himself to be ushered to an armchair in the familiar old Empire drawing-room on the left side of the hall. Lona Ivanovna offered him a cigarette case, and herself took a Russian cigarette, which she lighted with one hand. Leo was thinking what to say next, when she forestalled him.

"Have you come from abroad?"

"Yes, from California."

"Ah, California; a magnificent climate, I believe. No doubt you have become tired of living out there?"

"Not exactly, but I felt inclined to come home."

"Hm--Do you think of making a long stay?"

"That depends. You see, it isn't a question of climate, exactly...."

She pursed up her mouth and frowned.

"In my opinion, the climate of California is far preferable," she remarked, looking sharply at him.

"Very possibly, but this visit will be quite a change for me."

"How so?"

"Oh, there is so much that is new, I mean ... a whole lot of strange ... well, in short...."

Leo stopped short in confusion, and puffed away furiously at his cigarette. The old lady blew a perfect ring, looked quizzically at him through it, and said dryly: "Young man, whatever you do, don't go and fall in love with Sonia!"

Leo stared dumbfounded at his cigarette. The conversation dropped, and silence reigned in the room, broken only by the buzzing of a stray bee on the window pane.

* * * * *

Dinner was over, and Leonard Grath the richer by several experiences. First of all, he had proved the truth of the old adage that: "guests are hosts in the host's house," for was not he a guest and stranger, and moreover a thoroughly unwelcome one, in his own home? It seemed to him as though the girl and her aunt took it in turns to keep an eye on him: he could see them exchanging glances and whispers whose meaning was unintelligible to him, and, what struck him as strangest of all, in the whole of that spacious house and its adjoining buildings there appeared to be no living creature except the two ladies. He inquired, as a matter of politeness, for Mr. Andrei Bernin, who was stated to be in bed in his own room, and far too unwell to see the honored guest.

As soon as the dinner was over, Sonia, obeying a signal from her aunt, proposed a turn round the garden, and the two young people strolled along for a while in silence. It was getting towards sunset, and the rural orchestra was in full chorus: birds were fluting in a medley of youthful emulation, bumble-bees droned in their drowsy baritones, and in the grass the crickets added their violin notes to the evening concert.

Now that Sonia Bernin in the flesh was alongside of him, Leo found her ten times more interesting than when he had first seen her portrait on Wallion's table; her boyish unconstraint, added to a lissom, almost kitten-like grace, and her ready wit, gave him a delightful sensation of comradeship--but the minute he attempted to strike a note of intimacy, he ran up against a barrier of chilly reserve, and the pose of the boyish, black head became all of a sudden alarmingly ladylike. Whatever the reason might be, she appeared totally unimpressed by his masculine superiority, and this was a very novel experience for the spoilt young man.

At length he remarked: "I had thought of staying some time at the Copper House, but it seems to me I am rather 'de trop' here."

She twisted a leaf between her lips like a cigarette: "How so?" she inquired.

"Oh, there's no doubt about it. The man at the gate showed it quite unmistakably--for one."

"With his gun, you mean? It _was_ too bad; but you see, he naturally took you for an impostor, having heard that the owner of the Copper House was in America. I expect he will be discharged, in any case," she added.

"And you told me yourself to go away, as soon as ever you knew who I was," he continued.

"Wasn't it kind of me to warn you, when it is so dull here?" laughed the girl.

"It is not dull here, and that is not why you warned me," he retorted. She looked up, and their eyes met: for the second time that day, Leo saw hers dilate and darken. She did not reply, but hurried on a little, as though to evade him, but he kept step with her, and proceeded:

"As you know, your father wants to buy this property; it is a pity I can't have a talk with him about it. Your aunt is reticent, and you are mysterious. Won't you have a little pity on me?"

They had walked to the top of a slight rise, from which they could see down the greater part of the avenue. The girl stood still, panting a little. Suddenly she asked:

"Have you seen Mr. Tassler?"

Leo shook his head, and they were silent again. The girl seemed to be listening to something, rather uneasily. Far off in the sunlit stillness a rhythmical throbbing sound became audible; it approached with uncanny rapidity, getting louder every minute, then suddenly ceased altogether.

"Did you hear that?" whispered the girl.

"Yes," he answered. "A motor cycle has apparently stopped at Karka gates; it's a pity we can't see them from here, it must be someone from Stockholm."

As he said this, he remembered the young man with the attaché-case, whom he had so unintentionally startled with Sonia's photograph, but as he was about to tell her of the occurrence, there was a dramatic interruption. A shot was fired at the gate, and it was followed by a long, thrilling cry. A few seconds later, a man came dashing up the avenue as though he was running for his life. Leo at once recognized his fellow passenger, and the girl cried out in a voice of terrified dismay: "Sergius, Sergius!"

The fugitive raised his face, which was deathly pale, and without stopping, he exclaimed: "Rastakov!"

The girl turned round to Leo, and said in a rapid stifled voice: "Hide yourself; and, mind, you have seen nothing!"

With that, she sprang down from the little hill, followed by the fugitive, and both disappeared. Almost immediately afterwards, two more men came running up the avenue: one was the porter who had threatened Leo with the same gun that he still carried in his hand, the other was a tall fellow, dressed as a motor cyclist. They also vanished in the direction of the house.

Without further delay, Leo hastened back along the same path by which he had come, and in five seconds he came in sight of the terrace in front of the Copper House. He saw the man with the case run up the steps, hesitate for a moment, then dash into the house. The girl followed on his heels, and the porter and the cyclist reached the terrace to find it deserted. Then, as though by the touch of a magic wand, some more men appeared from both sides of the house. These, with the two men already mentioned, made a party of nine, of whom four carried guns. They approached the house at the double. The cyclist called out some order in a commanding voice, and began to mount the terrace-steps. Leo reached the spot at the same moment, and exclaimed: "What's wrong?"

The motor cyclist took no notice of him.

Again a shot rang out, this time inside the Copper House; most of the men had passed out of earshot on the other side of the house, but the cyclist, the porter, and one other unknown man, ran into the hall, together with Leo.

The old lady advanced to meet them, with a revolver in her hand. She looked firmly and menacingly at the intruder and said: "Rastakov, did I invite you to come in?"

The cyclist halted.

"Who fired, Lona Ivanovna?" he demanded.

"I did."

"Where is he?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"Oh, you know perfectly well, that thief Bernard Jenin; what have you done with him?"

Lona Ivanovna thrust the revolver into her workbag, looked resignedly at the cyclist, and said: "You may look for him."

Leo, who understood nothing of this hurried interchange of questions, looked on bewildered. Rastakov caught sight of the fugitive's case lying open on the floor, caught it up, and flung it against the wall with an oath, for it was empty.

"I will have him, dead or alive," he shouted, "and the damned document too!"

He ran half-way up the stairs to the first floor, but turned round as though he had remembered something.

"And what's more," he cried across the hall, "I know how pigheaded you are, Lona Ivanovna! All right, if you would rather have the Chief to deal with, just let me know! But beware of meddling with Tarraschin's memorandum, for it means death!"

With that, he disappeared. Lona Ivanovna took Leo by the arm, and drew him with unexpected force, though not unkindly, into the dining-room after her.

"Isn't it a case for the police?" he began.

"Don't mix yourself up in this," she said kindly. "Sonia, they want to search the house: you must see that Mr. Grath is spared hearing anything more of Rastakov...."

Sonia came up to them; she was very pale, but quite composed; the boyish look had vanished, and she answered quietly: "If Mr. Grath is determined to stay, I am afraid he will be obliged to see a good deal both of Rastakov and of Baron Fayerling."

The two women looked expectantly at him. They could hear the hasty steps of the searchers echoing through the whole house.

"I should like to know who this Rastakov is, that he takes so much upon himself in a house where my honored guests are staying," said Leo, emphasizing the word 'guests'--"neither have I heard anything of Baron Fayerling. But I shall be glad to make the acquaintance of anyone who is good enough to honor the Copper House with his presence."

He was quite aware that his tone was not courteous, in spite of the formality of his speech, but he was thoroughly roused. He could see now, as though a curtain had been drawn back, that these people, whose strange dark faces were stamped with furtive menace, were the mysterious offspring of the lurid shadows of the World War.

He thought of the panic-stricken fugitive whom he had just seen flying for his life; of the shot which had so recently rung through the house: of Lona Ivanovna with the revolver in her hand. The frenzied search was still progressing overhead; footsteps and voices echoed through the passages. "Living or dead!" As Rastakov's words recurred to Leo's mind, he was seized with the horrible conviction that murder had been committed already: what ought he to do?

The two women were watching his face as though they longed to read his thoughts.

"Your room is quite ready," said the elder one gravely.

Before Leo had decided what to answer, he found himself alone. He began to pace up and down in great perturbation. He could see one of the men, with his gun, outside on the terrace, silhouetted against the rosy, sunset sky. For the last few minutes, such a silence had fallen, that he could have fancied himself alone in the house. He listened attentively, but could hear nothing. His thoughts circled irresolutely over what had occurred, but he could find no explanation of it, and began to feel more and more uneasy. An hour passed by, the shadows lengthened and still no sound broke the stillness. Was no one coming back?

At last he could bear the suspense no longer, and he went into the hall. He could still see, through the glass doors, the armed sentry on the terrace, but inside the house all was empty and silent. He went from one room to another, and ran upstairs to the first floor, but not a soul did he meet. The thought that the fugitive was perhaps lying dead, huddled away in some dark corner, obsessed him like a nightmare, and his limbs trembled as though with fever. Suddenly a sort of panic came over him, he ran breathlessly up another flight of stairs, burst open the door of his bedroom, and shut it after him with a bang that resounded through the house. Leaning against the door, and alone in the little room, where everything was just as it always had been since his earliest childhood, and where he had dreamed so many boyish dreams, he breathed again.

"Have I gone mad?" he asked himself. "What is going on here? The Problem-hunter was right, the Copper House is full of mysteries!"

He looked round for some water, for his lips felt parched, but there was none in the room. "Can they have killed him!" he thought. "And is it possible that I have stood by, without moving a finger, and allowed a man to be done to death!"

At last he heard a door creak outside, and he peeped out into the dusky corridor. The door of the spare bedroom at the other end of the passage was opening slowly, an inch at a time, and he could see first a feeble, bony hand, and then a stooping figure outlined against the window behind.

The figure moved uncertainly, groping with a stick along the edge of the carpet, and walked with short, senile steps towards the stairs. Leo watched him narrowly, trying to get a glimpse of his face; he thought he could make out a short white beard and straggling white hair under a velvet skull-cap, and the glimmer of a pair of blue spectacles. A blind man! In an instant he realized that his wealthy tenant, Andrei Bernin, was before him for the first time. The old man seemed to hesitate, and called softly: "Sonia!" but receiving no answer, he finally went towards the staircase, tapping with his stick at every step. Leo could hear his quavering voice calling to Lona Ivanovna, the sound getting fainter as it receded. There was something so eerie about those feeble tones, uttered in the silent, lonely house at nightfall, that the young man, with a shudder, shut himself into his room again. After a minute he double-locked the door, and went over to the open window. The sky had faded to sulphur-yellow in the west, and night was closing in, cool and dim, over the countryside. A soft breeze was blowing in from the sea. He heard the crunching of gravel under his window, and leaned out. Two figures passed beneath, one of whom pointed upwards, and said something in an imperious tone. Leo fancied he recognized Rastakov's voice.

They knew, then, that he was in his bedroom, and they were keeping an eye on him! The conviction awakened fresh misgivings. He sat down on the bed, and buried his head in his hands. Was he afraid? Yes, he had to confess that he _was_ afraid, because there was nobody within reach in whom he could confide, or whom he could ask for advice.... The Problem-hunter! He sprang to his feet.

Five minutes later, he had climbed down the thick clumsy copper gutter-spout, with the same soundless agility, and the same intense excitement as had characterized such escapades twenty years ago. He expected to be halted by a challenge from the shadowy avenue, but none came, and the owner of Copper House crept away like a Red Indian through the trees into the wood. Three times he caught a glimpse of the dark forms of the men whom Sonia Bernin called forest-guards, but, lucky for once, he did not attract their notice. When he turned round, he could see in the far distance, behind the top of the massive pile of the Copper House, a flickering, bluish glimmer, which seemed to come from the direction of the Bay. He did not venture to delay that he might investigate the source of this unusual light.... When he strung himself aboard the last train to Stockholm, which was already moving out of Karkby, he was gasping for breath, and drenched with perspiration.