The Voice of Káli/Chapter 9

N THE drawing room, some attempt had been made to disperse the gloom with music and dancing; but there was a hollowness in the merriment. That uncanny sense of danger which seemed to pervade the atmosphere round and about Burton van Dean had culminated in the mysterious death of the man in the Abbey shrubbery. The horror of it all and the ordeal of an unofficial inquiry had shaken everybody's nerves. Now, tonight, there was the story of the hooded man who had passed across the terrace in the moonlight.

“You know, dear,” Mrs. Moody said to Phil Westbury, “much as I like Mr. Van Dean, I really don't think I shall be able to stand it much longer. I am beginning to believe that Jim is right when he says that Mr. Van Dean is haunted. I'm certain I sha'n't sleep a wink, tonight.”

“I wish we were back at the Warren,” said the girl. “I can't help wondering and wondering about that strange telegram.”

“Don't worry about it, dear,” urged Mrs. Moody; “it may have come from the solicitor, after all.”

“It came from London. But Harry—that is, Captain Latham—is certain it was part of some plot.”

Mrs. Moody laid down her knitting and took the girl's hands in. her own.

“Phil, dear,” she said coaxingly, “I have been wondering for a long time. Won't you tell me? Is it Captain Latham you care for?”

Phil Westbury blushed rosily; then the blush faded, leaving her very pale. She nodded her head and lowered her eyes in sudden confusion.

“Mother would never hear of it,” she whispered. “What are we going to do?”

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” said Mrs. Moody, patting her hand encouragingly. “Why didn't you tell me before? Your mother would have listened to me. And is it all settled between you and Captain Latham?”

Again the girl nodded her head.

“Don't worry, dear,” continued the old lady in her sweet, sympathetic way. “It will come all right.”

“But his leave expires on Thursday,” explained Phil almost tearfully. “We were going to tell mother, tonight.”

“Never mind, dear. Probably it will all turn out for the best.”

And such was the influence of her restful personality that for a while Phil was soothed. She looked across at Joyce Gayford; but Joyce, ignoring the conversation of Jim, was watching the drawing room door for the return of Harley and Latham.

At that moment it opened and Latham came in alone. Joyce immediately stood up and crossed to him.

“Captain Latham,” she said, “I know you don't want to alarm mother and Phil, but you needn't worry about me. You are Mr. Harley's friend and you probably know the facts. What is the meaning of all this bogey business? Did Phil really see someone cross the terrace a while ago?”

Latham hesitated, glancing around the room and then back to the resolute face of the girl.

“Yes,” he finally admitted. “Someone did cross the terrace.”

“Dressed like a monk?”

“It sounds ridiculous, I know,” replied Latham, “but yes, I believe he was dressed in that way.”

Jim Westbury had started the gramophone again, and Joyce had to raise her voice above the music of a fox trot.

“I wanted to know,” she explained, “because, about a week ago, I thought I saw a cowled man in the library one night.”

“What!” exclaimed Latham. “And did you mention it to no one?”

“No,” answered the girl composedly; “I thought I was dreaming. The place is supposed to be haunted by a monk, you know. But I have lived here for a good many years and have never seen the apparition.”

“You have great courage, Miss Gayford,” said Latham.

“No,” she replied. “Just common sense. But now I realize that I really did see someone. Tell me—” she glanced around to be sure that she was not overheard—“who is it?”

“I don't know,” answered Latham. “Keep it from the others, but, there's a stranger in the house.”

She studied him for a moment with her clear eyes.

“Does Mr. Harley know?” she challenged.

“Yes,” said Captain Latham, “I believe he does.”

“Then why doesn't he act?”

“Tm afraid I can't tell you. He is a clever man, who thoroughly understands his business. We must allow him to know best, I suppose.”

He paused as Harley entered with Van Dean. Joyce, giving a quick glance at Latham, accepted a silent invitation from Jim Westbury to dance.

“Hullo,” said Latham, “I wondered what had become of you.”

“He came and knocked on my bedroom door, Latham,” explained Van Dean, “and gave me the fright of my life.”

“Sorry,” said Harley, clapping his hand on Van Dean's shoulder; “but perhaps it was as well. You're growing morbid, man. Try to forget it, if only for an hour.”

“What's the trouble?” asked Latham, glancing back toward the ladies.

“Van Dean is preparing a condensed statement,” replied Harley, “a statement of certain matters known only to himself; facts he discovered in Tibet.”

“But,” Latham asked, “the book”

“I'm a tired man,” said Van Dean, “and tonight I feel that my race is run. It may be my book will never be completed. But there are things not yet put on paper which must be made known to our own peoples, even if I die tonight.”

“Brace up, man!” snapped Harley brusquely. “You're not going to die tonight.”

“Harley,” was the reply, “I wish I had your spirit; but what I had, they broke. No, no! What I've begun I'll finish. Another two or three pages, that's all. And then, anyway, I shall have done my bit. It'll be in my safe, addressed to you.”

He turned to go.

“Make it as short as possible,” said Harley significantly.

Van Dean nodded and went out.

Latham watched him to the door.

“It sounds a silly question,” he said, “but do you think Van Dean is safe alone?”

“No,” snapped Harley, “I don't. That's why I banged on his door a while ago. Hang it all! I'll smoke a pipe with him while he writes.”

He turned toward the door, when Joyce, breaking away from Jim, ran toward him.

“What! Are you deserting us, too, Mr. Harley!” she cried. “We were just going to ask you to dance.”

“Oh!” said Harley, pausing. “Might I suggest, without upsetting the party, that you have the gramophone taken into the library and continue the ball there?”

“But, whatever” began Joyce. And then, reading urgency in the gray eyes which were watching her, “Oh, of course, yes. I suppose really there is more room in the library.”

“Infinitely more suitable, I think,” said Harley. “Mr. Van Dean is finishing a piece of writing, and I am going to ask him to complete it in his study.”

With his intuitive grasp of character, Paul Harley had recognized that Joyce Gayford was to be relied upon.

“May I leave these arrangements to you, Miss Gayford?” he concluded.

“Certainly,” she said. “I quite agree with you.”

He nodded to Latham and went out.

“Come on, Mumsie,” cried Joyce, running across the room and ringing the bell. “We're all going into the library. We're going to take the gramophone in there.”

“But,” protested Mrs. Moody, “if Mr. Van Dean is working, and he always seems to be working, surely the noise will disturb him?”

A rumbling of thunder sounded rather nearer than before.

“At least,” said Joyce, “it will be more cheerful than the storm.”

“Yes,” murmured Mrs. Moody, “I quite agree.”

Mohammed Khán came in.

“Oh, Mohammed,” said Joyce, “will you take the gramophone into the library?”

Mohammed Khán bowed and, under the supervision of Jim Westbury, conveyed the instrument and a number of selected records from the drawing room into the library. Mrs. Moody gathered up her work basket and followed; but Phil Westbury and Latham lingered behind.

“I suppose the idea of returning tonight, Harry,” said the girl, “is perfectly hopeless?”

“Perfectly,” he replied, putting his arm around her shoulders. “But don't worry; there's no danger at the Warren. There are queer things going on, Phil, and I'm sorry you are here. But”

She looked up at him. “I don't mind, as you are here as well.”

The gramophone was duly installed in the library, to Jim Westbury's satisfaction; and presently Latham and Phil joined the party. There were ominous rumbles of thunder, now, and the electrical disturbance of the atmosphere manifested itself curiously in the form of general nervousness. No one is wholly immune from the curious influence of a thunder storm, and it seemed a jest of fate that this party, already wrought upon by a series of uncanny events, should be further tried by a natural phenomenon at no time pleasant.

Mohammed Khán had retired, and Jim, in his capacity of orchestra leader, was about to start the gramophone when Harley came in with Van Dean and crossed in the direction of the study stairs. Joyce looked up. `

“Is there anything I can do, Mr. Van Dean?” she asked.

“Thanks, no,” replied Van Dean. “I am just making a few notes. Your work, Miss Gayford—” and he forced a smile—“will begin tomorrow.”

With which he nodded and went up the stairs to the study. Everyone noticed his extreme nervousness. Paul Harley allowed Van Dean to precede him; then, as he passed Latham, he whispered, “See that this room is never empty, until I return. And, by the way, look at the rest chair.”

He went upstairs and disappeared into the study. The gramophone, started by Jim, proclaimed a popular melody. But Latham twisted his head sharply and looked in the direction of the fireplace. The big rest chair was once more in its usual position.