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 "Get out, my dear boy! Lord, no,—that is, they don't get a chance. Thank my stars, it is an age since we had a night disturbance. It was Rathbone's fault, my head keeper, and the poor devil got his throat cut for a punishment. Nasty business, that—but I'll tell you all about it another time. Come now, good people, the tempus is fugiting, and everyone in the house is bound to be up and stirring at six in the morning. Off you go to bye-bye." And, amid much noise and laughing, the final farewells were said.

There was no help for it then. As I followed my old friend along the corridor, I found myself repeating, in an idiotic, parrot-like way, "Rathbone," "throat cut," "nasty business," etc., until we reached the end of it. Stelling stopped here, and touching a spring in what I had always regarded as a blank wall, caused a sliding panel to glide one side, and admitted us to the unknown territory beyond. The panel closed again, and we found ourselves in the dark. "Wait," whispered Stelling, "till I strike a light." He need not have been alarmed; I had not the least intention of abandoning him in the darkness, and pushing on on an independent voyage of discovery. I waited, then, till a small electric lamp which he carried lighted up his kindly features, and then prepared obediently to follow wherever he led. As we passed an occasional doorway, hung with a heavy curtain, my guide stopped and whistled softly, when the sound was repeated from within, and we again continued our march. At least it was reassuring that someone besides ourselves was on the alert, and I began to pull myself together, and make headway against my absurd cowardice, when all at once, the sound of a ghastly and prolonged chuckle broke the stillness and threw me into a cold perspiration. I convulsively clutched at Stelling's shoulder, who quieted me with a polite "Don't be a fool, Jack!" and we stood motionless for at least five minutes; then we again moved on, and at last pulled up in a snug little apartment, lighted up with a cheerful fire, which threw a cosy flicker on the wall, and gave me a comfortable sense of well-being. After all, it was not so bad. I was by this time dead tired, and, sinking into a huge arm-chair, I kicked off my boots and began to feel at home. This was easy enough as long as Stelling would stay with me, but I dreaded the moment of separation which was at hand, and I chattered on industriously, jumping from one topic to another with feverish ingenuity in the effort to keep him at my side. At first it was all very well, but it soon became deplorably evident that Stelling wanted to go to bed. I felt sorry for him, but continued, notwithstanding, to plunge into one anecdote after another of rather doubtful veracity, charging madly at reminiscences which had their origin in my excited brain alone, and, even resorting to riddles, I plied the poor fellow with why and because until his brain became sodden, and undisguised snores took the place of polite yawns. The end came, however, and, as we at length nodded good-night, and I watched his burly form recede into the corridor beyond, I had hard work to refrain from following him to implore not to abandon me, and to impress upon him my willingness to accompany him to the ends of the earth, or of any other place he might select, rather than that I should lose sight of his cheery face.

I did ejaculate his name in a feeble voice after the door closed, and he heard me and looked in again.