when jane turned, and ran back down the dark passage, she had just the one thought—to get away out of earshot. that she, or any one but anthony luttrell, should have heard that breaking tone in raymond’s voice shocked her profoundly. she felt guilty of having intruded upon the innermost sacred places of another woman’s life. it shocked and moved her very deeply. tears blinded her, and she ran into the dark without a thought for herself. it was only when, looking back, she could not see even a glimmer of outside twilight that she halted and began to think what she must do.
the practical was never very long in abeyance with jane. she began to plan rapidly, even whilst she dried her eyes. she would feel her way to the foot of the stairs. if she kept touching the left-hand wall, there would be very little risk of losing her way. only one passage had led off in that direction and that one diverged at right angles, so that she would not run the risk of going down it unawares. when she came to the foot of the stairs, she would turn back again and wait in the first cross-passage until raymond passed. then she would follow her up the steps and watch to see how the door opened on this side.
jane was very much pleased with her plan when she had made it. it made her feel very intelligent and efficient. she began to put it into practice at once, walking quite quickly with her right hand feeling in front of her and the left just brushing the wall. of course the stone was horrid to touch—cold, damp, slimy. she was sure the slime was green. once she jabbed her finger on a rock splinter, and once she touched something soft which squirmed. the dark seemed to get darker and darker, and the silence was like a weight that she could hardly carry.
her little glow of self-satisfaction died down and left her coldly afraid. then, quite suddenly, she came to the cross-passage. her fingers slid from the stone into black air, groped, stretched out, and touched—something—warm, alive.
jane’s gasping scream went echoing down the dark. a hand came up and caught her wrist, another fell upon her right shoulder.
“jane, for the lord’s sake, hush!” said henry’s voice.
jane caught her breath as if she were going to scream again.
“henry, you utter, utter, utter beast!” she said, and incontinently burst into tears.
henry put his arms round her, and jane wept as she had never wept in her life, her face tightly pressed against the rough tweed of his coat sleeve, her whole figure shaking with tumultuous sobs.
presently, when she was mopping her eyes and feeling quite desperately ashamed, she exclaimed:
“i had just touched a slug, and you were worse. i didn’t think anything could be worse than a slug, but you were.”
henry had kissed the back of her neck twice while she was crying. now he managed to kiss a little bit of damp cheek.
“you’re not to,” said jane, in a muffled whisper.
“why not?” said henry, with the utmost simplicity. “you don’t mind it, you know you don’t.” he did it again. “jane, if you had minded, you wouldn’t have clung to me like that. jane darling, you do like me a little bit, don’t you?”
“oh, i don’t! and i didn’t cling, i didn’t.”
“you did. take it from me, you did.”
jane made a very slight effort to detach herself. it was unsuccessful because henry was a good deal stronger than she was and he held her firmly.
“henry, i really hate you,” she said. “any one might cling, if they thought it was a slug or mr. ember and then found it wasn’t.” then, after a pause, “henry, when a person says they hate you, it’s usual to let go of them.”
“my book of etiquette,” said henry firmly, “says—page 163, para. ii.—‘a profession of hatred is more compromising than a confession of love; a woman who expresses hatred in words has love in her heart.’ and i really did see that in a book yesterday, so it’s bound to be true, isn’t it?—isn’t it, darling?”
“henry, i told you to stop,” said jane; “i simply won’t be kissed by a man i’m not engaged to.”
“oh, but we are,” said henry. “i mean you will, won’t you?”
jane came a very little nearer.
“we should quarrel,” she said, “quite dreadfully. you know there are some people you feel you’d never quarrel with, not if you lived with them a hundred years; and there are others, well, you know from the very first minute that you’d quarrel with them and keep on doing it.”
“like we’re doing now?” said henry hopefully. jane nodded. of course henry could not see the nod, but he felt it because it bumped his chin.
“all really happily married people quarrel,” he said. “the really hopeless marriages are the polite ones. and you know you’ll like quarrelling with me, jane. we’ll make up in between whiles, and there won’t be a dull moment. will you?”
“i don’t mind promising to quarrel,” said jane. “no, henry, you’re positively not to kiss me any more. i’m here on business, if you’re not. how did you get here? and why were you lurking here, pretending to be a slug?”
“suppose you tell me first,” said henry. “how did you get here?”
“i followed lady heritage. i’ve got an immense amount to tell you.”
she leaned against henry’s arm in the darkness, and spoke in a soft, eager voice:
“it really began yesterday. i woke up and couldn’t go to sleep again, so i came down for a book, and just as i was at the drawing-room door, i saw lady heritage come out of the corner by willoughby luttrell’s picture. did you know there was a door there, henry?”
“yes. go on.”
“she went upstairs, and i was trying to screw up my courage to cross the hall when mr. ember came down the stairs and disappeared into the same corner. of course then i knew there must be a door there, so i made up my mind to come down to-night and look for it.”
“jane, wait,” said henry. “you say ember came down the stairs and went through the door. do you think lady heritage left it open? or do you think he watched her come out, and then found the way for himself?”
“no,” said jane; “neither. i mean i’m quite sure it wasn’t like that at all. she shut the door, for i heard it, and it certainly wasn’t the first time mr. ember had been that way. why, he even put his light out before he came to the wall, and any one would have to know the way very well to find it in the dark.”
“yes. then what happened?”
“i went back to bed. henry, you simply haven’t any idea how much i hated going up those stairs. there was a perfectly fiendish patch of moonlight, and i felt as if i couldn’t go through it and perhaps be pounced on by some one just round the corner. if it hadn’t been for the housemaids finding me in the morning, i believe i should just have stuck where i was.”
henry’s arm tightened a little.
“well, to-night i hid in the study quite early, but i had hardly got there when lady heritage came down. i watched to see what she did, and as soon as she had gone through the door and shut it, i hauled that great heavy chair along and climbed on to it, and found the spring. your old secret door was made for much taller people than me, and i was just dreadfully frightened that some one would come and find me standing on the chair in the corner, and looking like a perfect fool. oh, i was thankful when i really got into the passage and found that lady heritage was still in sight.”
“i think it was frightfully clever of you,” said henry, “frightfully clever and frightfully brave; but you’re not to do it again. you might have run into ember or any one.”
“then you do believe there’s something dreadful going on,” said jane quickly.
“i don’t know about what i believe, but i know that the passages are being used, and that they’ve been wired for electric light. i haven’t explored them yet, but people don’t do that sort of thing for nothing. now go on. i may say that i saw raymond pass, and you after her. what happened next?”
jane hesitated.
“i’ll tell you,” she said. “she opened another door, and went out—why, it’s been puzzling me, but of course i know now, the passage leads to the headland. and the other day, when i was so frightened, mr. patterson must have come out of it; and he was there to-night.”
“yes, go on. did they meet?”
“yes,” said jane, in a queer, shy voice. “i couldn’t help hearing. i ran away at once, but i couldn’t help hearing her call him tony. it’s your cousin, anthony luttrell, isn’t it?”
“yes, it’s tony,” said henry. “thank the lord they’ve met. i’d just left him there after jawing him about seeing raymond.”
“oh, i hope they’ve made it up,” said jane. “she looked so dreadfully unhappy last night that i felt i simply couldn’t bear it. it’s so dreadful to see people hurt like that, and not be able to do anything. do you think they’ll make it up?”
“i hope so,” said henry not very hopefully. “tony’s a queer sort of fellow, you know—frightfully hard to move, and a perfect devil for hugging a grievance. he’s had a rotten time of it too. what with raymond marrying some one else, and then getting knocked out himself, and coming round to find himself a prisoner—well, there wasn’t much to take his mind off it. he escaped three times before he actually got away, and then he went to russia and had the worst time of the lot. so that he’s got a good deal of excuse for sticking to his grouch.”
jane suddenly pinched henry very hard, put her lips quite close to his ear, and breathed:
“some one’s coming.”
as she spoke henry drew her noiselessly back a yard or two. the faint glow which jane had seen brightened until it seemed dazzling. the arched entrance to the tunnel in which they stood became sharply defined. the light struck the opposite wall, showing it rough and black, with patches of dull green slime.
instantly jane felt that her finger-tips would never be clean again. as the thought shuddered through her mind the light went by. that’s what it looked like, the passing of a light. raymond’s dark figure hardly showed behind it. the lighted archway faded. the darkness spread an even surface over everything again.
jane laid her face against henry’s sleeve, pressed quite close to him, and said in a little voice that trembled:
“oh, they haven’t made it up—they haven’t. he’d have come with her if they had.”
“i’m afraid so.”
“of course he’d have come with her. you wouldn’t have let me go by myself, you know you wouldn’t. no, they haven’t made it up, they can’t have, and—oh, henry, why do people quarrel like that? you won’t with me, will you—ever? i mean that dreadful world-without-end sort. i couldn’t bear it. you won’t, will you?”
jane was shaking all over. henry put his arms round her very tight, laid his cheek against hers, and said:
“not much! it’s a mug’s game.”
after a little while jane said:
“i must go. you know she came to my room before, and last night when i got back i found the door shut. i had left it open so as not to make any noise, but it was shut when i got back. that frightened me more than anything, but now i think it must have been the wind that shut it. i think so, only i’m not sure. it might have been the wind, or it might have been ... somebody. it’s much more frightening not to be sure. so i’d better go, hadn’t i?”
“yes, you must go,” said henry. “i’ll come with you and show you how to get out. and you must promise me, jane, that you won’t come down here by yourself?”
“how can i promise? i might have to.”
“why?”
“i don’t know why,” said jane, “but i might have to. supposing they were murdering some one, and i heard the screams? or suppose i knew that they were just going to blow the house up?”
“well,” said henry, with strong common sense, “i don’t see what good you’d do by getting murdered and blown up too, which is what it would come to. you really must promise me.”
“i really won’t.”
henry gave her an exasperated shake.
“look here, jane,” he said, “the whole thing’s most infernally complicated. tony’s chucking his job here, says he can’t stand it, and i must go back to town and see piggy about that.”
“who on earth is piggy?” said jane.
“sir julian le mesurier, my chief. every one calls him piggy. i must see him about tony, and i also want to report what i told you about the passages being wired and in use. i’ll try and see tony again before i go. you see the thing is, i don’t know how far raymond is involved, and i want to get her out of the way. tony’s the only man who can get her out of the way. i suppose i ought to go through all the passages to-night, but i’m not going to. i shall tell piggy why. as a matter of fact, he’ll be just as keen as i am on getting raymond out of it. once she’s clear, we can come down on ember like a cartload of bricks and smash up any devilry he may have been contriving. now do you see why you must keep clear? i can’t possibly do my job if i’m torn in bits about your running into danger. and next time you went feeling along these passages you might really run into your friend ember, you know.”
“i won’t unless i’ve got to,” said jane. “you don’t imagine i like green slime, and slugs, and the pitch dark, do you? but i won’t promise. now i’m going. good-bye, henry.”
“you’re an obstinate little devil, jane,” said henry.
jane gave a little gurgling laugh.
“we haven’t made an assignation yet,” she said. “when are you coming back?”
“well, i’ve made an appointment with tony for to-morrow night, but i’ll try and catch him now and put that off for twenty-four hours. if for any reason i have to come down sooner, i will come and tap on your cupboard door. if i’m not there by midnight to-morrow, don’t expect me. but i’ll be there for certain the following night—let me see, that’s sunday.”
“but if you don’t come?”
“i will.”
“well, just supposing something prevented you?”
“it won’t,” said henry cheerfully.
