"If we remain here chattering, the constable will find us," I remarked, so we all three went forth into the street, the ugly hunchback walking at my side, quite tractable and quiet.

Presently, unable to gather a single intelligible sentence from him, Jack and I resolved to leave him, and afterwards follow him and ascertain where he lived.

Why had he pointed to the garden and laughed so hilariously? Had he witnessed any of those nocturnal preparations--or interments?

At last, at the corner of Bishop's Road, we wished him farewell and turned away. Then, at a respectable distance, we drew into a gateway to watch. He remained standing where we had left him for some ten minutes or so, until a constable slowly approached, and, halting, began to chat to him.

Apparently he was a well-known figure, for we could hear the policeman speaking, and could distinguish the poor fellow laughing that queer, harsh, discordant laugh--the laugh of the idiot.

Presently the constable moved forward again, whereupon I said--

"I'll get on and have a chat with the policeman, Jack. You follow the hunchback if he moves away."

"Right-ho," replied my friend, while I sped off, crossing the road and making a detour until I met the constable.

Having wished him good-night, I inquired the ident.i.ty of the deformed youth.

"Oh, sir," he laughed, "that's Mad 'Arry. 'E's quite 'armless. 'E's out most nights, but we never see 'im in the day, poor chap. I've known 'im ever since he was about nine."

"Does no work, I suppose?"

"None. 'Ow can 'e? 'E's as mad as a hatter, as the sayin' goes,"

replied the constable, his thumbs. .h.i.tched in his belt as he stood.

"A kind of midnight wanderer, eh?"

"Yes, 'e's always a-pryin' about at night. Not long ago 'e found burglars in a 'ouse in Gloucester Terrace, and gave us the alarm. We copped four of 'em. The magistrate gave 'im a guinea out o' the poor-box."

"Ah! so he's of use to you?"

"Yes, sir, 'e's most intelligent where there's any suspicious characters about. I've often put 'im on the watch myself."

"Then he's not quite insane?"

"Not on that point, at any rate," laughed the officer.

"Where does he live?"

"'Is father's a hackney-carriage driver, and 'e lives with 'im up in Gloucester Mews, just at the back of Porchester Mews--I don't know if you know it?"

I was compelled to confess ignorance of the locality, but he directed me.

"Are you on night-duty in Porchester Terrace, constable?" I asked a few moments later.

"Yes, sir, sometimes. Why?"

"You know Althorp House, of course?"

"Yes, the 'aunted 'ouse, as some people call it. Myself, I don't believe in ghosts."

"Neither do I," I laughed, "but I've heard many funny stories about that place. Have you ever heard any?"

"Lots, sir," replied the man. "We're always being told of strange things that 'ave 'appened there, yet when we 'ave a look around we never find anything, so we've ceased to trouble. Our inspector's given us orders not to make any further inquiries, 'e's been worried too often over idle gossip."

"What's the latest story afloat concerning the place?" I asked. "I'm always interested in mysteries of that sort."

"Oh, I 'eard yesterday that somebody was seen to get out of a taxi-cab and enter. And 'e 'asn't been seen to come forth again."

"That's curious," I said. "And haven't you looked over the place?"

"I'm not on duty there. Perhaps my mate 'as. I don't know.

But, funnily enough," added the officer, "Mad 'Arry has been tellin' me something about it a moment ago--something I can't understand--something about the garden. I suppose 'e's been a-fancyin'

something or other. Everybody seems to see something in the garden, or at the windows. Why, about a week ago, a servant from one of the 'ouses in the Terrace came up to me at three o'clock in the afternoon, in broad daylight, and said as how she'd distinctly seen at the drawin'-room window the face of a pretty, fair-haired girl a-peerin'

through the side of the dirty blind. She described the girl, too, and said that as soon as she saw she was noticed the inmate of the place drew back instantly."

"A fair-haired girl!" I exclaimed, quickly interested.

"Yes; she described her as wearin' a black velvet band on her hair."

"And what did you do?" I asked anxiously.

"Why, nothing. I've 'eard too many o' them kind o' tales before."

"Yes," I said reflectively. "Of course all kinds of legends and rumours must naturally spring up around a house so long closed."

"Of course. It's all in people's imagination. I suppose they'll say next that a murder's been committed in the place!" he laughed.

"I suppose so," I said, and then, putting a shilling in his hand, wished him good-night, and pa.s.sed along.

Jack and the idiot had gone, but, knowing the direction they had taken--for the youth was, no doubt, on his way home--I was not long before I caught up my friend, and then together we retraced our steps towards the Bayswater Road, in search of a taxi.

I could not forget that curious statement that a girl's face had been seen at the drawing-room window--a fair-headed girl with a band of black velvet in her hair.

Could it have been Sylvia Pennington?

It was past three o'clock in the morning before I retraced my steps to Wilton Street. We were unable to find a cab, therefore we walked down Park Lane together.

On the way Jack had pressed me to tell him the reason of my visit to that weird house and the circ.u.mstances in which my life had been attempted. For the present, however, I refused to satisfy his curiosity. I promised him I would tell him the whole facts of the case some day.

"But why are you at home now?" he asked. "I can't really make you out lately, Owen. You told me you hated London, and preferred life on the Continent, yet here you are, back again, and quite settled down in town!"

"Well, a fellow must come here for the London season sometimes," I said. "I feel that I've been away far too long, and am a bit out of touch with things. Why, my tailor hardly knew me, and the hall-porter at White's had to look twice before he realized who I was."

"But there's some attraction which has brought you to London," he declared. "I'm sure there is!"

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him how cleverly the two scoundrels had used his name wherewith to entrap me on the previous night. But I refrained. Instead, I asked--

"Have you ever met two men named Reckitt and Forbes, Jack?"