She went a few steps down the darkened pa.s.sage. When she got out of range of the electric light shining through her open door, it was not easy to find her way; she had to touch the wall with her outstretched fingers and feel it.

"I ought to have brought some matches, or something; the place is as dark as pitch. Shall I go back and fetch them? Whatever was that?

There's a light downstairs; someone is still up. That's a man's voice.

I seem to know it. Whose can it be? I know it quite well. And that's another man's voice. They're quarrelling. I believe they're fighting.

What are they doing? They're making noise enough. Surely, I'm not the only person in the place who hears them--a noise like that; it sounds as if they were fighting like two mad dogs."

She had reached what she realised to be the head of the great staircase. A faint light streamed in through the stained-gla.s.s window.

She hesitated; she might have been frightened by the noise that was going on below. A strange sound was coming through the darkness, as if furniture was being upset in all directions by persons who were chasing each other round the room; then--surely they were blows. Then a voice exclaimed, in a tone which suggested that the speaker, stricken with sudden, dreadful fear, was fighting for his life. The words which, in his agony, he uttered were destined to keep ringing in her ears:

"Beaton! My G.o.d!"

The sound of a blow, heavier than any of the others; the noise of a heavy body falling to the ground, and bringing articles of furniture down crashing with it. Silence, except for the light footsteps of the girl who was flying down the staircase as if for life. Beaton!--that was what he had said. Someone had called upon her lover's name in that terrible voice. What did it mean? She was rushing down to see. As she neared the bottom she caught her heel in her dressing-gown; striving to disentangle it in her haste, in the darkness she missed her footing, stumbled, went bungling to the foot of the staircase. Luckily, she had only a short distance to fall, but it was far enough; the thing was so unlooked for. She had fallen clumsily, heavily; the shock had nearly stunned her. For some moments she lay in doubt as to what really had befallen her; then, rising, not without difficulty, to her feet, she found that she was trembling, that her whole frame seemed to ache, that her right ankle pained her so that she could scarcely stand on it.

But it was no time to consider her bruises, what had happened to her; there was something else for her to do. She listened, but all was still; there was no sound of voices, of struggling, of falling furniture, or blows--no sound of anything. The silence, after what she had heard, in itself was ominous. Something terrible had happened.

She went limping across the hall, wincing each time her right foot touched the ground. All sorts of unseen things were in her way. The hall was used as a sitting-room; the household had its tea there. It was crowded with all kinds of impedimenta; it was not easy, by mere instinct, to find her way among them. She did not know until she had come in sometimes painful contact with them that the things were there.

Presently she tripped, with her bad foot, over what doubtless was a footstool; she would have gone headlong to the ground had not an arm-chair saved her. It was an arm-chair; she was in doubt as to what it was at first, but when she perched herself upon its friendly arm she knew. She had been unable to keep back a cry of pain; the jerk to her twisted ankle had sent a shock all over her, as if red-hot needles were being driven into her limbs.

How it hurt her as she sat there; it really was excruciating agony. The foot was dangling in the air. How much worse it would be when, putting it back upon the ground, she would have to use it to stand and walk upon. She essayed a little experiment: putting it gingerly down, resting her weight upon it as lightly as she could. She flattered herself on her capacity to bear pain, but that was too much even for her. A sound, which was half wail, half sob, came from between her lips.

She had a feeling as, back again upon the arm of the chair, with an effort she held her breath, that someone had heard the cry which came from her lips. She peered about her; it was impossible to make things out, to see what was there and what wasn't. She might have been surrounded by a dozen people without her eyes even hinting that a soul was there. There was something which did her better service than her eyes--perhaps it was her ears--some subtle sense which she would have been unable to define. She felt sure that she had been overheard by--she did not know by whom or by what--by someone, something. It might have been a man, or a woman, or an animal--a dog. It could scarcely have been the latter; it is not the canine habit to preserve such silence when the sense of hearing is a.s.sailed. It was something human. She was not alone; someone else was with her in the hall.

She adopted the simplest way of finding out. She asked:

"Who's there?"

No answer. She had a feeling that her question had put the unseen person on his--or her--guard; that someone had withdrawn farther from her, and was awaiting a chance to effect a safe retreat. She was persuaded that there had been a just audible movement, that someone had been quite close to her, and had drawn away. While she waited, with straining ears and bated breath, uncertain whether to speak again or what to do--her foot was causing her such pain that walking was beyond her strength--there came what was undoubtedly a sound of an unmistakable kind. Someone had come hastening into the hall from the direction of the suite of rooms which was on the other side, someone who was pressed for time. Although he moved with a curious noiselessness, as if his feet had been shod with velvet, she felt sure that it was a man. She doubted if he was able to see any better than she could; the fashion of his progress suggested it. He seemed to be making for the side of the hall on which she was, and to be following her example by coming into contact with most of the objects which he met upon his way. She heard him mutter something beneath his breath which might have been an oath. She was sure it was a man. Plainly he was as blind as a bat; he was floundering closer and closer; he was nearly on her, came into actual contact with the chair on which she was perched. That was too much. She had to speak.

"Who are you? Take care--oh!"

This last was a cry of pain wrung from her much against her will. The chair on which she was resting had received a sudden push; she was precipitated forward, on to the bad foot. The result was anguish; her feelings escaped her in spite of herself. Whoever had done it was evidently as much taken by surprise as she was. There was a muttered, distinctly masculine e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. Then, as she continued to wail--there can be few things more painful than a twisted ankle, and the pain of that was really unendurable--all at once a light was shining in her face. Her unintentional a.s.sailant was carrying a dark lantern; turning the shutter, he flashed it on her. For a second or two the effect it had on her was to make her blinder still; then the hand of the person who was holding it swerved, a pencil of light pa.s.sed across his face so that she caught a glimpse of it--only one glimpse, but that was enough.

"Sydney!" she cried. "My darling! Thank G.o.d, it's you."

In the first wild rapture of the recognition she forgot everything--her foot, the singularity of the fact that her lover should be there at all; all she thought of was to reach him. Even while she was speaking she moved quickly towards him. That same instant the light was darkened, her foot gave way beneath her. As she sank to the floor she was conscious that the bearer of the lantern, instead of sharing her rapture, of coming to her a.s.sistance, of rushing to take her in his arms, was retreating with so much expedition that things were being overturned in all directions in his haste to get away. She had been aware that, as he started back instead of forward, something had fallen from his hand on to the seat of the chair on whose arm she had been resting. He had not stopped to retrieve it, whatever it was. Her hand came into contact with it as she tried to raise herself. It was a leather bag of some sort, so much she learnt from the sense of touch.

She found the handle, tried to lift it; it was oddly heavy.

As she was still trying to lift it she became conscious that someone else was coming down the stairs. Her heart was heavy as lead within her. She was filled with a great fear; the presence of that bag had frightened her more than anything else. A cushion was on the ground beside her; she picked it up, using it to cover the bag to the best of her ability so that its presence on the chair need not be at once detected.

The person who had descended the stairs had paused at the bottom. A match was struck. If she had only brought a box of matches with her, how much might have been avoided! The holder of the match moved forward towards an electric switch; immediately a light was shining down at her. A voice addressed her:

"Miss Forster! What on earth are you doing here?"

She looked up at the kindly, friendly face which was bending over her.

"Major Reith!"

Then something came to her. All at once the world was whirling round; for the first time in her life she had fainted.

CHAPTER XVI

The Lacquered Club

There was a sort of self-consciousness in her brain, even though she swooned; something which told her that this was the moment in all her life in which it was most necessary that she should keep her wits about her--and here she was losing them. They were willing to slip still farther away; with comfort she could have remained, to all intents and purposes, unconscious for quite a considerable length of time; but she would not. So it came about that her faintness endured but for a moment.

Major Reith's ideas as to what to do with a young lady who had fainted were vague. His impulse was to return upstairs and alarm the household; but before he could put his impulse into practice the lady relieved him of his difficulties by sitting up and returning to life.

"Oh, Major Reith, I've hurt my foot."

He thought that he had never seen her looking prettier. He probably never had; that dressing-gown became her.

"I'm very sorry." His tone was gravity itself. "Is it very bad? Let me help you to get up."

He helped her; would have placed her on the chair on which was the cushion and, underneath, the bag, but she managed to make him understand that she preferred another. He was all sympathy.

"Can I do anything for it, or would you rather that I let the people know?"

"Thank you, I would rather that you didn't. It is painful for the moment, but I shall manage; it's the first twinge. Did you hear a strange noise upstairs?"

"I did, and wondered what it was; it was that which brought me down."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what had brought her down, but he refrained. Where she was concerned he was a man of quick perception.

He was already conscious that there was something in the situation which he did not understand, which, possibly, she would rather that he did not understand.

"What did you hear?"

"I thought I heard someone in the hall just now, but I suppose it was you."

"I expect it was. I heard something, and I came down to see what it was, tripped on the stairs, and I've been behaving like a goose ever since."

"As I came round the corner from my room I saw a light flashing down in the hall. Was that you?"

"A light? What light?" She went on without giving him a chance to answer the questions she asked: "Did you hear a sound as if someone was quarrelling?"

"That's what roused me. First of all, I heard someone running up and down my pa.s.sage----"

"So did I."

"I looked out to see what was up, thinking that someone might be ill; then I heard a din as if a free fight was taking place downstairs."

"Did you hear anyone call out?"

"I heard voices."

"More than one?"