The House with the Twisted Chimneys/Chapter 3

I invited Terry to breakfast with me at nine precisely next day, and each was solemnly pledged not to look at a newspaper until we could open them together.

We had gone to the theater the night before—the first time Terry could endure the thought since his illness—and supped at the Savoy afterward, simply to mitigate the suffering of suspense. Nevertheless, I was up at seven-thirty, and at eight-forty-eight was in the breakfast room gazing at six newspapers neatly folded on the flower-decked table.

At eight-fifty-one my guest arrived, and by common consent we seized the newspapers. He opened three. I opened three. Yes, there it was! How perfect, how thrilling! How even better it appeared in print than we had expected! Anxiously we read the other advertisements of country houses to let or sell, and agreed, that there was not one whose attractions came within miles of our—in all senses of the word!—priceless offer.

How we got through the next two and a half hours I don't know!

I say two and a half advisedly, because, as Jones had six visits to pay, we thought we might start him off at eleven-thirty. This we did, but his calmness had damped us. He wasn't excited. Was it probable that any one else, except ourselves, would be?

Cold reaction set in. We prepared each other for the news that there were no telegrams or answers of any sort. Terry said it was no use concealing that this would be a bitter blow. I had not the energy to correct his rhetoric or whatever it was by explaining that a blow can't be bitter.

Twelve-thirty struck, and there was no Jones; twelve-forty-five, one. Jones was still missing.

“I ought to have told him to come back at once after the sixth place, even if there wasn't a thing,” said Terry. “Like a fool, I didn't. He may have thought he'd do some other errands on the way home if he'd nothing to report, Donkey! Ass! Pig!”

“Captain Burns' man, your highness,” announced my maid. “He wants to know”

“Tell him to come in!” I shrieked,

“Yes, your highness. It was only, should he bring them all in here or leave them in Mr. Carstairs' apartment.”

“All!” gasped Terry.

“Here,” I commanded.

Jones staggered in.

You won't believe it when I tell you, because you didn't see it. That is, you won't unless you have inserted the advertisement of the ages, the unique, the siren, the best, yet cheapest, in six leading London journals at once.

There were six bundles wrapped in newspapers. Enormous bundles! Jones had two under each arm and was carrying one in each hand by loops of string. As he came into the drawing-room, the biggest bundle dropped. The string broke. The wrappings yawned. The contents gushed out. Not only telegrams, but letters with no stamps or postmarks! They must have been rushed frantically round to the six offices by messengers.

It was true, then, what the newspapers said: all London, all England, yearned, pined, prayed for houses. Yet people must already be living somewhere.

Literally, there were thousands of answers. To be precise, Terence Burns, Jones, and I counted two thousand and ten replies which had reached the six offices by noon on the first day of the advertisement, one thousand and eight telegrams, the rest letters dispatched by hand. Each sender earnestly hoped that his application might be the first! Heaven knew how many more might been en route. What a tribute to the largest circulations!

Jones explained his delay by saying that the “things was comin' in thick as flies,” so he had waited until a lull fell upon each great office in turn. When the count had been made by us and envelopes neatly piled in stacks of twenty-four on a large desk hastily cleared for action, Terry sent his servant away. And then began the fun!

But we hadn't gone far when, between laughs, we felt the pricks of conscience. Alas for all these people who burned to possess our moated grange “practically free,” at its absurdly low rent! And the moated grange didn't exist. Not one of the unfortunate wretches would so much as get an answer.

They were not all nouveaux riches, by any means, these eager senders of letters and telegrams. Fearing repulse from the fastidious moat owner, they described themselves attractively, even by wire at so much the word. They were young; they were of good family; they were lately married or going to be married; their husbands were V.C.'s; there was every reason why they, and they alone, should have the house. They begged that particulars might be telegraphed. They inclosed stamps in addressed envelopes. As the moated grange was “rich in old oak,” so did we now become rich in new stamps! Some people were willing to take the house on its description, without waiting to see it. Others assured the advertiser that money was no object to them, he might ask what he liked; and these were the ones on whom we wasted no pity. If this was what the first three hours brought forth, how would the tide swell by the end of the day, the end of the week? Tarpeia buried under the shields and bracelets wasn't in it with us!

Terry and I divided the budget, planning to exchange when all had been read. But we couldn't keep silent. Every second minute one or other of us exploded:

“You must hear this! Just listen to one more!”

About halfway through my pile I picked up a remarkably alluring envelope. It was a peculiar, pale shade of purple, the paper being of a rich, satin quality. The address of the newspaper office was in purple ink, and the handwriting was impressive. But what struck me most was a gold crown on the back of the envelope, above a purple seal—a crown signifying the same rank as my own.

I glanced up to see if Terry were noticing. If he had been, I should have passed the letter to him as a , for this was really his show, and I wanted him to have all the plums. But he was grinning over somebody's photograph, so I broke the seal without disturbing him.

I couldn't keep up this reserve for long, however. I hadn't read far when I burst out with a “By Jove!”

“What is it?” asked Terry.

“We've hooked quite a big fish,” said I. “Listen to this:

“But, my goodness gracious, Terence Burns! What's the matter?”

The man had gone pale as skim milk and was staring at me as though I'd turned into a Gorgon.