The Pauper of Park Lane Part 68

Max could hear his own heart beating. The risk was greater than he had ever antic.i.p.ated. Yet so greatly was their curiosity now aroused that nothing could brook their attempt to learn the secret that dark mysterious house contained.

They stood together, not daring to move. At a short distance away was a thin iron support running into the wall--part of the framework of the roof--and towards that Max crept carefully, until at last he reached it and stood in a safer position.

The weight of both men caused the curved roof to give slightly, and more than once they heard sharp noises where the gla.s.s, fitting too tightly, cracked across by the undue pressure.

Neither spoke. Max was eagerly searching for some means by which to reach one of the windows above. In his ascent there he had torn his coat, and a great strip of it was hanging. He had left his hat below, and the light rain was falling upon his uncovered head.

Slowly he crept forward from iron to iron until he reached the opposite side of the big gla.s.s roof, and there found, as he had hoped, another iron rain-spout which led straight up past the end window, to the roof of the house.

Back he came to his companion in order to obtain the rope, and then, with it bulging in his pocket, he stole along and ascended the second pipe as he had done the first. This proceeding was, however, far more dangerous, for to fall with the gla.s.s beneath him meant almost certain death.

Charlie watched his form ascending in the darkness, scarce daring to breathe. Slowly he went up, until, on a level with the window, he halted. Around the ledge, six inches above, was an iron bar let into the wall in order to prevent flowerpots from being blown down upon the conservatory roof. This iron proved Max's salvation, for gripping it he steadied himself while he secured the rope to the spout as he had previously done on the first ascent.

Then, with a firm grip upon the strong bar, and his knee upon the stone ledge, he tried the window.

It was fastened. The green holland blind was drawn, but as far as he could ascertain the shutters were not closed.

From his pocket he drew a glazier's putty-knife, and, inserting it between the sashes, worked quietly until his heart gave a bound of satisfaction at feeling the latch slowly give.

A second later it went back with a sharp snap, and the window was free!

He lifted the sash, pushed the blind aside, and crept within.

Then leaning forth he whispered to Charlie to follow. Up the latter came by means of the rope as quickly as he was able, and a few moments later both men stood within the room.

By its sound, and by the fact that it was carpetless, they knew it was devoid of furniture. Max flashed on the light, and the truth was at once made plain. The apartment was square and of fair size, but within was not a single thing; was perfectly empty.

In a second a thought occurred to Charlie.

"If the door's locked on the outside we're done!" he gasped.

They both crossed to the door in an instant, and Max placed his hand upon it. The handle turned slowly, and the door yielded. By great good fortune it was not locked.

Creeping noiselessly outside, they found themselves upon a big square landing above half a dozen broad stairs. Below them was the white-enamelled iron door, which opened only to its owner and which no person had been known to pa.s.s.

The landing and stairs were thickly-carpeted, just as they were below the door. But about the place was the close musty smell of a house that for years had remained closed and neglected.

From the landing were three other doors beside the one at which they stood, all of them closed.

Charlie took his bearings, and, pointing to the door farthest away from them, whispered:

"That's the drawing-room, no doubt. And that's the door of the room adjoining. I expect it's a big room opening from back to front like all drawing-rooms in these houses."

"Awkward if it proves to be the old man's bedroom," Max replied, with a laugh.

"We must risk that. My own belief is that he sleeps up on the next floor. These are all reception-rooms, without a doubt," was Charlie's answer. It was strange, after all the time he had been in the old man's employ, that this should be the first occasion he should explore the house.

Those moments of pitch darkness were exciting ones.

They resolved to enter the door furthest away, the door which they believed led to the drawing-room, and together they moved noiselessly across with that purpose.

The key was in the lock. Without noise Max turned it, and slowly pushed open the door.

Both entered, holding their breath and fearing to make the slightest sound, for they knew not whether old Sam was asleep there.

For a full ten minutes they paused listening for sounds of breathing in the pitch darkness. But there were none, only the beating of their own hearts.

Then, with Charlie's whispered consent, Max pressed the b.u.t.ton of the pocket-lamp, and it shed a streak of light across to the opposite wall of the big apartment.

What was revealed held them aghast and amazed.

"This is indeed strange?" gasped Charlie. "What can it be?"

Max was turning the light from side to side of the room, examining every corner.

What they saw had held them both speechless.

Charlie saw an electric switch near his hand, and touched it. In an instant the great room was flooded with light, revealing a scene, curious, unusual, extraordinary.

There was no thick carpet or upholstered furniture; no painted ceiling or pictures upon the walls; no cabinet or bric-a-brac, or grand piano, or palms, or anything connected with drawing-room furniture.

Instead, the two intruders found themselves inside a peasant's cottage in some far-off country--a house, it seemed, with quaint furniture painted and carved. Before them was an old-fas.h.i.+oned oak press, black with smoke and age, and along the wall a row of s.h.i.+ning cooking utensils of copper. In the centre was a long old table, with big high-backed wooden chairs; at the side a high brick stove.

The men stepped within and gazed around, bewildered.

At one end was a small square window, where beyond lay a snow-clad scene, lit by the moon's rays--a cleverly contrived piece of scenery, showing the white road winding into the distance lined on each side by the dark forest of firs.

The scene was intended to be Russian, without a doubt, for over the stove a holy ikon hung against the wall, a small painted head surrounded by a square of highly burnished gold.

Every object was quaintly shaped and foreign. In one corner stood an old spinning-wheel with the flax upon it, while in another was an old-fas.h.i.+oned gun. A couple of wolves' skins were spread upon the floor, while upon the cleanly-scrubbed table showed a large brown stain--it might be of coffee, or it might be of blood!

The walls had been whitewashed, and across the ceiling, once gilt and adorned, no doubt, ran blackened beams in exact imitation, it seemed, of some house in the far east of Russia beyond the Volga.

Upon a side table lay a big, rather thin book, bearing upon its black, greasy cover the Imperial Russian arms--the double-headed eagle.

Charlie opened it, and found it ruled like an attendance book, with careful entries in Russian in various hands. Neither could read the language, therefore it was to them unintelligible. By the stove was a low wooden settle, upon which lay a man's fur cap and big sheepskin winter coat, as though the owner of the place had just risen and left.

"What can this possibly mean?" asked Max, gazing around in sheer wonderment.

To this query, however, Charlie could venture no suggestion.

They stood amid surroundings that were to both a complete mystery.

Charlie touched the switch when, lo! the lights in the room were extinguished, and only a line of white brilliance as that of the full moon entering the window from the snow-covered land beyond, fell across the silent place full upon the table which bore that ugly dark brown stain.

Both men stood motionless and wondering, fascinated by the extraordinary and striking effect.

Was that stain shown so vividly beneath the white moonbeams actually the stain of blood?

CHAPTER FIFTY.