'Letty! How can you be so cruel.'

'Then you should do as I ask you. As you would do, without hesitation, if you really had a spark of the love you pretend to have for me.'

'I will; I'll do whatever you ask, though I'm ashamed of myself when I say so.'

'Promise that to-night you'll take your own?'

'I promise.'

She sat down again, and was as nice as she could be; he only knew how nice that was. He would have been as happy as is possible if it had not been for the thoughts which were at the back of his head, and the prospect which lay in front of him.

Unfortunately, nearly all the time Miss Broad was causing him to realise his good fortune in winning the love of such a girl as she was he was picturing himself stealing up a flight of darkened stairs, like a thief.

CHAPTER VII

THE BOTTOM DRAWER

That night he realised his own picture.

One o'clock was the hour suggested by Miss Casata. Twenty times before that hour arrived he told himself that he had better return to Africa--ghosts or no ghosts--than do this thing. It seemed to him that dishonour hedged him round about; that whichever way he went he would find himself among the thorns. If he did this thing he would break his plighted word; quite possibly lose his love and his fortune too. If he did the other he might quite possibly find himself up to the neck in a slough of misunderstandings--to speak of nothing worse--from which he could never emerge as clean as he went in. The choice was a pleasant one. Yet he never hesitated as to which horn of the dilemma he would thrust himself on. Although very much against his will, he was set on burglary. And, being once resolved, set about the business, to all outward appearances, as calmly as if such incidents were the mere trivialities of his nightly life.

At a quarter after midnight he started to stroll from Charing Cross.

At the half hour he was sauntering in the Westminster Abbey Gardens.

He glanced along Victoria Street as far as he could see. An occasional omnibus came rumbling along. Cabs flitted to and fro; sometimes carriages. But foot pa.s.sengers were few and far between. And, so far as could be seen from the street, the buildings on either side of the way were in darkness.

He strolled gently on, swinging his stick, smoking a cigar, as any other gentleman might have done who enjoyed the cool night air. Under a lamp-post stood a policeman. Mr Holland smiled.

'Good-night, officer!'

He bestowed on him a genial salutation, which the other returned in kind.

'Good-night, sir.'

He seemed rather a youngish man, well set up, with broad shoulders and a shrewd face. Mr Holland wondered if he should, have any professional intercourse with him before the night was over. He laughed to himself as he thought of it. When he had gone some distance further he stopped and turned. The constable had vanished. Presumably his duty had led him down one of the side streets. An omnibus was coming in one direction, a couple of cabs in the other. Miss Bewicke's rooms were close at hand. Should he let the vehicles pa.s.s before he came to business? It was not yet one. He hesitated, then walked slowly past the house, noticing as he went that the front door was closed. What did it mean? Was he supposed to knock, calling upon the porter to let him in? The notion was absurd. Perhaps Miss Casata had only been playing with him after all.

At the idea he laughed again. What would Miss Broad say--and think--if the woman had promised more than she could perform? He went nearly as far as Victoria, then retraced his steps. As he approached the house again Big Ben struck one; He stopped, threw away the b.u.t.t of his cigar, moved to the door. There was a handle. He turned it, it yielded, the door was open.

So it seemed that there was some sort of method in Miss Casata's madness.

The question was, Where was the porter? Was he within? Upstairs or down? He peeped inside the door, or tried to. The street lamps did not penetrate; it was pitch dark. He entered, closing the door behind him.

All was still. As he listened, seeking to peer this way and that, it seemed to him that the darkness was like a wall on every side.

'What am I to do? I shall tumble over something if I don't look out; I don't even know where the staircase is: Dare I strike a match? I wonder what professionals do under circ.u.mstances such as these. I've heard of their carrying dark lanterns, and such-like mysterious things. Unfortunately, I haven't got so far as that, though there's no knowing how far I shall get before I've done.'

He moved forward, and kicked against something which made a noise.

'This will never do. I shall come to grief if I don't look out. It'll have to be a match.'

He struck one; it ignited with a spluttering noise which seemed to him to resemble the explosion of a dynamite cartridge, fizzled, then went out.

'This is pretty. But I caught a glimpse of the staircase. I suppose I'll have to be content with seeing so much.'

He felt his way to the stairs, presently had his hand upon the rail, then commenced to ascend. All at once he stopped.

'Hanged if I haven't forgotten on which floor her rooms are! That's a comfortable state of affairs. I can't go prowling all over the place playing a game of hide-and-seek with Miss Bewicke's rooms. There'd be trouble. Now, what am I to do?'

The question was answered in rather a curious way. Looking up he gradually became conscious of what looked like a gleam of light somewhere overhead.

'I wonder if that's a hint to me, or if it's the porter. I'm off to inquire. If it's the porter I'll have to explain.'

He chuckled to himself at the reflection of the sort of explanation he would have to offer. He continued to ascend.

'I hope it's all right, but it seems a good way up. I didn't think she occupied quite such an elevated position as this.'

He reached the floor on which was the light, perceiving now that it proceeded from a door upon the right which was open but the merest fraction of an inch.

'Is that where she resides? I wonder. At least I'll make inquiries.

I'll knock, as an honest man should do, and see who answers.'

He tapped at the panel softly with his knuckles, so softly that one might have been excused for supposing he had no desire that his tapping should be heard. There was no response. He tapped again; still none. He pushed the door wider open, finding himself in what appeared, in the dim light, to be a little hall. Another open door was on his right. It was on the other side of this that the light was burning. He remembered what Miss Casata had said about Miss Bewicke's bedroom; that it was the second door on his right as he entered. Apparently she had been as good as her word; better, indeed, for she had placed a light to guide him. He advanced to find himself in what was evidently a lady's bedroom.

A night light flickered on a table in the centre; it was that which had lightened his darkness. He glanced around. Everywhere were traces of feminine occupation; knick-knacks which no man would willingly suffer in the chamber in which he slept; numerous examples of the inevitable photograph. Against a wall hung a crayon portrait. He recognised the original--the owner of the room. The pictured face seemed to return him look for look, reproaches in its glances. He removed his eyes, abashed.

On one side was the dressing-table of which Miss Casata had spoken.

A gorgeous piece of furniture, of some delicate light wood, with gilt and ivory insets. Columns of drawers were on either side; a full-length cheval gla.s.s swung between them. As he stood in front of it he was startled by the reflection of his own image; he felt that there was something sinister in the bearing of the man who spied on him. The little drawers were those of which he had been told. They contained many of Miss Bewicke's jewels. What he sought was in the bottom drawer upon his right. Somehow, since he had entered the house, everything seemed on his right. He stooped to open it. The drawer was locked.

The discovery staggered him more than anything which had gone before--that the drawer was locked. At last he was confronted with the real nature of the errand he had come upon. Hitherto he had been able to salve his conscience with the fact that he had simply pa.s.sed through open doors. Now, if he wished to effect an entrance he would have to force one, like any other thief. He gave another try at the handle. The drawer refused to budge. It certainly was locked. His eye was caught by something which was lying upon the floor, within a foot of him. It was a screwdriver. The juxtaposition was suggestive; the screwdriver, and the locked drawer. Miss Casata was no half-hearted ally; she was thorough. She was aware that, as an amateur, he might forget to bring the proper tools; so, with praiseworthy thoughtfulness, she had supplied, in advance, his possible omissions.

He was not so grateful as he might have been. He used strong language.

'Curse that woman! It is such as she who drive men along the road to h.e.l.l.'

None the less he took the screwdriver in his hand. He felt its edge.

It seemed sharp.

'I suppose, since I've gone so far, I may as well see the thing right through. It's no good shying at a gnat after tackling a whale. Here goes!'

Thrusting the chisel between the woodwork and the drawer, he proceeded to prise it open. The lock was but a slight one. It quickly yielded.

The drawer shot out. He peered within. It contained a small white box, apparently of deal. He took it out. Inside was a ruby signet ring. He rose with the ring between his fingers.

As he stood up, someone came into the room. Turning, he found himself staring at Miss Bewicke.