Terror Keep/Chapter 10

a moment they stared at one another, she fearfully, he amazed. Olga Crewe!

Then he became conscious that he was still gripping her arm, and let it drop. The arm fascinated Mr. Reeder—he scarcely looked at anything else.

"I am very sorry," said Mr. Reeder. "Where did you come from?"

Her lips were quivering; she tried to speak, but no words came. Then she mastered her momentary paralysis and began to speak, slowly, laboriously:

"I—heard—a noise—in—the—corridor—and—came—out. A noise—I—was—frightened."

She was rubbing her arm mechanically; he saw a red welt where his hand had gripped. The wonder was that he had not broken her arm.

"Is—anything—wrong?"

Every word was created and articulated painfully. She seemed to be considering its formation before her tongue gave it sound.

"Where is the light switch in the hall?" asked Mr. Reeder. This was a more practical matter—he lost interest in her arm.

"Opposite my room."

"Turn it on," he said, and she obeyed meekly.

Only when the corridor was illuminated did he step out of his room, and even then in some doubt, if the Browning in his hand meant anything.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked again. By now she had taken command of herself. A little colour had come to her white face, but the live eyes were still beholding terrible visions.

"Did you see anything in the passage?" he answered.

She shook her head slowly.

"No, I saw nothing—nothing. I heard a noise and I came out."

She was lying—he did not trouble to doubt this. She had had time to pull on her slippers and find the flimsy wrap she wore, and the fight had not lasted more than two seconds. Moreover, he had not heard her door open; therefore it had been open all the time, and she had been spectator or audience of all that had happened.

He went down the corridor, retrieved his rubber truncheon, and came back to her. She was half standing, half leaning against the door-post, rubbing her arm. She was staring past him so intently that he looked round, though there was nothing to be seen.

"You hurt me," she said simply.

"Did I? I'm sorry."

The mark on the white flesh had gone blue, and Mr. Reeder was naturally a sympathetic man. Yet, if the truth be told, there was nothing of sorrow in his mind at that moment. Regret, yes. But the regret had nothing to do with her hurt.

"I think you'd better go to your bed, young lady. My nightmare is ended. I hope yours will end as quickly, though I shall be surprised if it does. Mine is for the moment; yours, unless I am greatly mistaken, is for life!"

Her dark, inscrutable eyes did not leave his face as she spoke.

"I think it must have been a nightmare," she said. "It will last all my life? I think it will!"

With a nod she turned away, and presently he heard her door close and the lock fasten.

Mr. Reeder went back to the far side of his bed, pulled up a chair and sat down. He did not attempt to close the door. Whilst his room was in darkness, and the corridor lighted, he did not expect a repetition of his bad and substantial dream.

The rubber truncheon was a mistake, he admitted regretfully. He wished he had not such a repugnance to a noisier weapon. He laid the pistol on the cover of the bed within reach of his hand. If the bad dream came again

Voices!

The murmur of a whispered colloquy and a fierce, hissing whisper that dominated the others. Not in the corridor, but in the hall below. He tiptoed to the door and listened.

Somebody laughed under his breath, a strange, blood-curdling little laugh; then he heard a key turn and a door open, and a voice demand:

"Who is there?"

It was Margaret. Her room faced the head of the stairs, he remembered. Slipping the pistol into his pocket, he ran round the end of the bed and into the corridor. She was standing by the banisters, looking down into the dark. The whispered voices had ceased. She saw him out of the corner of her eye and turned with a start.

"What is wrong, Mr. Reeder? Who put the corridor light on? I heard somebody speaking in the vestibule."

"It was only me."

His smile would in ordinary circumstances have been very reassuring, but now she was frightened, childishly frightened. She had an insane desire to cling to him and weep.

"Something has been happening here," she said. "I've been lying in bed listening and haven't had the courage to get up. I'm horribly scared, Mr. Reeder."

He beckoned her to him, and as she came, wondering, he slipped past her and took her place at the banisters. She saw him lean over and the light from a hand-lamp sweep the space below.

"There's nobody there," he said airily.

She was whiter than he had ever seen her.

"There was somebody there," she insisted. "I heard their feet moving on the tiled paving after you put on your flash-lamp."

"Probably Mrs. Burton," he suggested. "I thought I heard her voice"

And now arrived a newcomer on the scene. Mr. Daver had appeared at the end of the corridor. He wore a flowered silk dressing-gown buttoned up to his chin.

"Whatever is the matter, Miss Belman?" he asked. "Don't tell me that he tried to get into your window! I'm afraid you're going to tell me that! I hope you're not, but I'm afraid you will! Dear me, what an unpleasant thing to happen!"

"What has happened?" asked Mr. Reeder.

"I don't know, but I have an uncomfortable feeling that somebody has been trying to break into this house," said Mr. Daver.

He was genuinely agitated; the girl could almost hear his teeth chatter.

"I heard somebody trying the catch of my window and looked out, and I'll swear I saw—something! What a dreadful thing to happen! I have half a mind to telephone for the police."

"An excellent idea," murmured Mr. Reeder, suddenly his old deferential and agreeable self. "You were asleep, I suppose, when you heard the noise?"

Mr. Daver hesitated.

"Not exactly asleep," he said. "Between sleeping and waking. I was very restless to-night for some reason."

He put up his hand to his throat, his dressing-gown had gaped for a second. He was not quite quick enough.

"You were probably restless," said Mr. Reeder softly, "because you omitted to take off your collar and tie. I know of nothing more disturbing."

Mr. Daver made a characteristic grimace.

"I dressed myself rather hurriedly" he began.

"Better to undress yourself hurriedly," chided Mr. Reeder, almost playfully. "People who go to bed in stiff white collars occasionally choke themselves to death. And there is sorrow in the home of the cheated hangman. Your burglar probably saved your life."

Daver made as though to speak, suddenly retreated, and slammed the door.

Margaret was looking at Mr. Reeder apprehensively.

"What is the mystery—was there a burglar? Oh, please tell me the truth! I shall get hysterical if you don't!"

"The truth," said Mr. Reeder, his eyes twinkling, "is very nearly what that curious man told you—there was somebody in the house, somebody who had no right to be here, but I think he has gone, and you can go to bed without the slightest anxiety."

She looked at him oddly.

"Are you going to bed, too?"

"In a very few moments," said Mr. Reeder cheerfully.

She held out her hand with an impulsive gesture. He took it in both of his.

"You are my idea of a guardian angel," she smiled, though she was near to tears.

"I've never heard," said Mr. Reeder, "of guardian angels with side whiskers."

It was a mean advantage to take of her, yet he was ridiculously pleased as he repeated his little jeu d'esprit to himself in the seclusion of his room.