the mist, which had been gathering since the early afternoon, began to thicken ominously as i approached abbey-road, hornsey, from crouch end station, causing me to quicken my pace so that i might make my destination before the fog closed in; for this was my first visit to marion d’arblay’s studio, and the neighbourhood was strange to me. and in fact i was none too soon; for hardly had i set my hand on the quaint bronze knocker above the plate inscribed “mr. j. d’arblay,” when the adjoining houses grew pale and shadowy and then vanished altogether.
my elaborate knock—in keeping with the distinguished knocker—was followed by soft, quick footsteps, the sound whereof set my heart ticking in double-quick time; the door opened, and there stood miss d’arblay, garbed in a most alluring blue smock or pinafore, with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, with a smile of friendly welcome on her comely face, and looking so sweet and charming that i yearned then and there to take her in my arms and kiss her. this, however being inadmissible, i shook her hand warmly and was forthwith conducted through the outer lobby into the main studio, where i stood looking about me with amused surprise. she looked at me inquiringly as i emitted an audible chuckle.
“it is a queer-looking place,” said i; “something between a miracle-shrine hung with votive offerings from sufferers who have been cured of sore heads and arms and legs, and a meat emporium in a cannibal district.”
“it is nothing of the kind!” she exclaimed indignantly. “i don’t mind the votive offerings, but i reject the cannibal meat-market as a gross and libellous fiction. but i suppose it does look rather queer to a stranger.”
“to a what?” i demanded fiercely.
“oh, i only meant a stranger to the place, of course, and you know i did. so you needn’t be cantankerous.”
she glanced smilingly round the studio, and for the first time, apparently, the oddity of its appearance dawned on her, for she laughed softly and then turned a mischievous eye on me as i gaped about me like a bumpkin at a fair. the studio was a very large and lofty room or hall, with a partially glazed roof and a single large window just below the skylight. the walls were fitted partly with rows of large shelves, and the remainder with ranks of pegs. from the latter hung row after row of casts of arms, hands, legs, and faces—especially faces—while the shelves supported a weird succession of heads, busts, and a few half-length but armless figures. the general effect was very strange and uncanny, and what made it more so was the fact that all the heads presented perfectly smooth, bare craniums.
“are artists’ models usually bald?” i inquired, as i noted this latter phenomenon.
“now you are being foolish,” she replied; “wilfully and deliberately foolish. you know very well that all these heads have got to be fitted with wigs; and you couldn’t fit a wig to a head that already had a fine covering of plaster curls. but i must admit that it rather detracts from the beauty of a girl’s head if you represent it without hair. the models used to hate it when they were shown with heads like old gentlemen’s, and so did poor daddy; in fact, he usually rendered the hair in the clay, just sketchily, for the sake of the model’s feelings and his own, and took it off afterwards with a wire tool. but there is the kettle boiling over. i must make the tea.”
while this ceremony was being performed i strolled round the studio and inspected the casts, more particularly the heads and faces. of these latter the majority were obviously modelled, but i noticed a number with closed eyes, having very much the appearance of death masks. when we had taken our places at the little table near the great gas-ring i inquired what they were.
“they do look rather cadaverous, don’t they?” she said, as she poured out the tea; “but they are not death masks. they are casts from living faces, mostly from the faces of models, but my father always used to take a cast from any one who would let him, they are quite useful to work from, though, of course, the eyes have to be put in from another cast or from life.”
“it must be rather an unpleasant operation,” i said, “having the plaster poured over the face. how does the victim manage to breathe?”
“the usual plan is to put little tubes or quills into the nostrils. but my father could keep the nostrils free without any tubes. he was a very skilful moulder; and then he always used the best plaster, which set very quickly, so that it only took a few minutes.”
“and how are you getting on, and what were you doing when i came in?”
“i am getting on quite well,” she replied. “my work has been passed as satisfactory, and i have three new commissions. when you came in i was just getting ready to make a mould for a head and shoulders. after tea i shall go on with it, and you shall help me. but tell me about yourself. you have finished with dr. cornish, haven’t you?”
“yes, i am a gentleman at large for the time being, but that won’t do. i shall have to look out for another job.”
“i hope it will be a london job,” she said. “arabella and i would feel quite lonely if you went away even for a week or two. we both look forward so much to our little family gathering on sunday afternoon.”
“you don’t look forward to it as much as i do,” i said warmly. “it is difficult for me to realize that there was ever a time when you were not a part of my life. and yet we are quite new friends.”
“yes,” she said; “only a few weeks old. but i have the same feeling. i seem to have known you for years, and as for arabella, she speaks of you as if she had nursed you from infancy. you have a very insinuating way with you.”
“oh, don’t spoil it by calling me insinuating!” i protested.
“no, i won’t,” she replied. “it was the wrong word. i meant sympathetic. you have the gift of entering into other people’s troubles and feeling them as if they were your own; which is a very precious gift—to the other people.”
“your troubles are my own,” said i, “since i have the privilege to be your friend. but i have been a happier man since i shared them.”
“it is very nice of you to say that,” she murmured, with a quick glance at me and just a faint heightening of colour; and then for a while neither of us spoke.
“have you seen dr. thorndyke lately?” she asked, when she had refilled our cups, and thereby, as it were, punctuated our silence.
“yes,” i answered. “i saw him only a night or two ago. and that reminds me that i was commissioned to make some inquiries. can you tell me if your father ever did any electrotype work for outsiders?”
“i don’t know,” she answered. “he used latterly to electrotype most of his own work instead of sending it to the bronze-founders, but it is hardly likely that he would do electros for outsiders. there are firms who do nothing else, and i know that, when he was busy, he used to send his work to them. but why do you ask?”
i related to her what thorndyke had told me, and pointed out the importance of ascertaining the facts, which she saw at once.
“as soon as we have finished tea,” she said, “we will go and look over the cupboard where the electro moulds were kept—that is, the permanent ones. the gelatine moulds for works in the round couldn’t be kept. they were melted down again. but the water-proofed plaster moulds were stored away in this cupboard, and the gutta-percha ones, too, until they were wanted to soften down to make new moulds. and even if the moulds were destroyed, father usually kept a cast.”
“would you be able to tell by looking through the cupboard?” i asked.
“yes. i should know a strange mould, of course, as i saw all the original work that he did. have we finished? then let us go and settle the question now.”
she produced a bunch of keys from her pocket and crossed the studio to a large, tall cupboard in a corner. selecting a key, she inserted it and was trying vainly to turn it when the door came open. she looked at it in surprise and then turned to me with a somewhat puzzled expression.
“this is really very curious,” she said. “when i came here this morning i found the outer door unlocked. naturally i thought i must have forgotten to lock it, though that would have been an extraordinary oversight. and now i find this door unlocked. but i distinctly remember locking it before going away last night, when i had put back the box of modelling wax. what do you make of that?”
“it looks as if some one had entered the studio last night with false keys or by picking the lock. but why should they? perhaps the cupboard will tell. you will know if it has been disturbed.”
she ran her eyes along the shelves and said at once: “it has been. the things are all in disorder and one of the moulds is broken. we had better take them all out and see if anything is missing—so far as i can judge, that is, for the moulds were just as my father left them.”
we dragged a small work-table to the cupboard and emptied the shelves one by one. she examined each mould as we took it out, and i jotted down a rough list at her dictation. when we had been through the whole collection and re-arranged the moulds on the shelves—they were mostly plaques and medallions—she slowly read through the list and reflected for a few moments. at length she said:
“i don’t miss anything that i can remember. but the question is, were there any moulds or casts that i did not know about? i am thinking of dr. thorndyke’s question. if there were any, they have gone, so that question cannot be answered.”
we looked at one another gravely, and in both our minds was the same unspoken question: “who was it that had entered the studio last night?”
we had just closed the cupboard and were moving away when my eye caught a small object half-hidden in the darkness under the cupboard itself—the bottom of which was raised by low feet about an inch and a half from the floor. i knelt down and passed my hand into the shallow space and was just able to hook it out. it proved to be a fragment of a small plaster mould, saturated with wax and black-leaded on the inside. miss d’arblay stooped over it eagerly and exclaimed: “i don’t know that one. what a pity it is such a small piece. but it is certainly part of a coin.”
“it is part of the coin,” said i. “there can be no doubt of that. i examined the cast that dr. thorndyke made and i recognize this as the same. there is the lower part of the bust, the letters c a—the first two letters of carolus—and the tiny elephant and castle. that is conclusive. this is the mould from which that electrotype was made. but i had better hand it to dr. thorndyke to compare with the cast that he has.”
i carefully bestowed the fragment in my tobacco-pouch, as the safest place for the time being, and meanwhile miss d’arblay looked fixedly at me with a very singular expression.
“you realize,” she said in a hushed voice, “what this means. he was in here last night.”
i nodded. the same conclusion had instantly occurred to me, and a very uncomfortable one it was. there was something very sinister and horrid in the thought of that murderous villain quietly letting himself into this studio and ransacking its hiding-places in the dead of the night. so unpleasantly suggestive was it that for a time neither of us spoke a word, but stood looking blankly at one another in silent dismay. and in the midst of the tense silence there came a knock at the door.
we both started as if we had been struck. then miss d’arblay, recovering herself quickly, said: “i had better go,” and hurried down the studio to the lobby.
i listened nervously, for i was a little unstrung. i heard her go into the lobby and open the outer door. i heard a low voice, apparently asking a question; the outer door closed, and then came a sudden scuffling sound and a piercing shriek. with a shout of alarm, i raced down the studio, knocking over a chair as i ran, and darted into the lobby just as the outer door slammed.
for a moment i hesitated. miss d’arblay had shrunk into a corner, and stood in the semi-darkness with both her hands pressed tightly to her breast. but she called out excitedly: “follow him! i am not hurt”; and on this i wrenched open the door and stepped out.
but the first glance showed me that pursuit was hopeless. the fog had now become so dense that i could hardly see my own feet. i dared not leave the threshold for fear of not being able to find my way back. then she would be alone—and he was probably lurking close by even now.
i stood irresolute, stock-still; listening intently. the silence was profound. all the natural noises of a populous neighbourhood seemed to be smothered by the dense blanket of dark yellow vapour. not a sound came to my ear; no stealthy footfall, no rustle of movement. nothing but stark silence.
uneasily i crept back until the open doorway showed as a dim rectangle of shadow; crept back and peered fearfully into the darkness of the lobby. she was still standing in the corner—an upright smudge of deeper darkness in the obscurity. but even as i looked, the shadowy figure collapsed and slid noiselessly to the floor.
in an instant the pursuit was forgotten, and i darted into the lobby, shutting the outer door behind me, and dropped on my knees at her side. where she had fallen a streak of light came in from the studio, and the sight that it revealed turned me sick with terror. the whole front of her smock, from the breast downwards, was saturated with blood; both her hands were crimson and gory, and her face was dead-white to the lips.
for an instant i was paralyzed with horror. i could see no movement of breathing, and the white face with its parted lips and half-closed eyes, was as the face of the dead. but when i dared to search for the wound, i was a little reassured; for, closely as i scrutinized it, the gory smock showed no sign of a cut excepting on the bloodstained right sleeve. and now i noticed a deep gash on the left hand, which was still bleeding freely, and was probably the source of the blood which had soaked the smock. there seemed to be no vital wound.
with a deep breath of relief, i hastily tore my handkerchief into strips and applied the improvised bandage tightly enough to control the bleeding. then with the scissors from my pocket-case, which i now carried from habit, i laid open the blood-stained sleeve. the wound on the arm, just above the elbow, was quite shallow; a glancing wound, which tailed off upwards into a scratch. a turn of the remaining strip of bandage secured it for the time being, and this done i once more explored the front of the smock, pulling its folds tightly apart in search of the dreaded cut. but there was none; and now, the bleeding being controlled, it was safe to take measures of restoration. tenderly—and not without effort—i lifted her and carried her into the studio, where was a shabby but roomy couch, on which poor d’arblay had been accustomed to rest when he stayed for the night. on this i laid her, and fetching some water and a towel, dabbed her face and neck. presently she opened her eyes and heaved a deep sigh, looking at me with a troubled, bewildered expression, and evidently only half-conscious. suddenly her eye caught the great blood-stain on her smock, and her expression grew wild and terrified. for a few moments she gazed at me with eyes full of horror; then, as the memory of her dreadful experience rushed back on her, she uttered a little cry and burst into tears, moaning and sobbing almost hysterically.
i rested her head on my shoulder and tried to comfort her; and she, poor girl, weak and shaken by the awful shock, clung to me trembling, and wept passionately with her face buried in my breast. as for me, i was almost ready to weep, too, if only from sheer relief and revulsion from my late terrors.
“marion, darling!” i murmured into her ear as i stroked her damp hair. “poor dear little woman! it was horrible. but you mustn’t cry any more now. try to forget it, dearest.”
she shook her head passionately. “i can never do that,” she sobbed. “it will haunt me as long as i live. oh! and i am so frightened, even now. what a coward i am!”
“indeed you are not!” i exclaimed. “you are just weak from loss of blood. why did you let me leave you, marion?”
“i didn’t think i was hurt, and i wasn’t particularly frightened then; and i hoped that if you followed him he might be caught. did you see him?”
“no. there is a thick fog outside. i didn’t dare to leave the threshold. were you able to see what he was like?”
she shuddered and choked down a sob. “he is a dreadful-looking man,” she said. “i loathed him at the first glance: a beetle-browed, hook-nosed wretch, with a face like that of some horrible bird of prey. but i couldn’t see him very distinctly, for it is rather dark in the lobby, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled down over his brows.”
“would you know him again? and can you give a description of him that would be of use to the police?”
“i am sure i should know him again,” she said with a shudder. “it was a face that one could never forget. a hideous face! the face of a demon. i can see it now, and it will haunt me, sleeping and waking, until i die.”
her words ended with a catch of the breath, and she looked piteously into my face with wide, terrified eyes. i took her trembling hand and once more drew her head to my shoulder.
“you mustn’t think that, dear,” said i. “you are all unstrung now, but these terrors will pass. try to tell me quietly just what this man was like. what was his height, for instance?”
“he was not very tall. not much taller than i. and he was rather slightly built.”
“could you see whether he was dark or fair?”
“he was rather dark. i could see a shock of hair sticking out from under his hat, and he had a moustache with turned-up ends and a beard; a rather short beard.”
“and now as to his face. you say he had a hooked nose?”
“yes; a great, high-bridged nose like the beak of some horrible bird. and his eyes seemed to be deep-set under heavy brows with bushy eyebrows. the face was rather thin, with high cheek-bones; a fierce, scowling, repulsive face.”
“and the voice? should you know that again?”
“i don’t know,” she answered. “he spoke in quite a low tone, rather indistinctly. and he said only a few words—something about having come to make some inquiries about the cost of a wax model. then he stepped into the lobby and shut the outer door, and immediately, without another word, he seized my right arm and struck at me. but i saw the knife in his hand, and as i called out i snatched at it with my left hand, so that it missed my body and i felt it cut my right arm. then i got hold of his wrist. but he had heard you coming, and wrenched himself free. the next moment he had opened the door and rushed out, shutting it behind him.”
she paused, and then added in a shaking voice: “if you had not been here—if i had been alone⸺”
“we won’t think of that, marion. you were not alone, and you will never be again in this place. i shall see to that.”
at this she gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and looked into my face with the pallid ghost of a smile.
“then i shan’t be frightened any more,” she murmured; and, closing her eyes, she lay for a while, breathing quietly as if asleep. she looked very delicate and frail, with her waxen cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes, but still i noted a faint tinge of colour stealing back into her lips. i gazed down at her with fond anxiety, as a mother might look at a sleeping child that had just passed the crisis of a dangerous illness. of the bare chance that had snatched her from imminent death i would not allow myself to think. the horror of that moment was too fresh for the thought to be endurable. instead i began to occupy myself with the practical question as to how she was to be got home. it was a long way to north grove—some two miles i reckoned—too far for her to walk in her present weak state; and there was the fog. unless it lifted it would be impossible for her to find her way; and i could give her no help, as i was a stranger to this locality. nor was it by any means safe; for our enemy might still be lurking near, waiting for the opportunity that the fog would offer.
i was still turning over these difficulties when she opened her eyes and looked up at me a little shyly.
“i’m afraid i’ve been rather a baby,” she said, “but i am much better now. hadn’t i better get up?”
“no,” i answered. “lie quiet and rest. i am trying to think how you are to be got home. didn’t you say something about a caretaker?”
“yes; a woman in the little house next door, which really belongs to the studio. daddy used to leave the key with her at night, so that she could clean up. but i just fetch her in when i want her help. why do you ask?”
“do you think she could get a cab for us?”
“i am afraid not. there is no cab-stand anywhere near here. but i think i could walk, unless the fog is too thick. shall we go and see what it is like?”
“i will go,” said i, rising. but she clung to my arm. “you are not to go alone,” she said, in sudden alarm. “he may be there still.”
i thought it best to humour her, and accordingly helped her to rise. for a few moments she seemed rather unsteady on her feet, but soon she was able to walk, supported by my arm, to the studio door, which i opened, and through which wreaths of vapour drifted in. but the fog was perceptibly thinner; and even as i was looking across the road at the now faintly visible houses, two spots of dull yellow light appeared up the road, and my ear caught the muffled sound of wheels. gradually the lights grew brighter, and at length there stole out of the fog the shadowy form of a cab with a man leading the horse at a slow walk. here seemed a chance of escape from our dilemma.
“go in and shut the door while i speak to the cabman,” said i. “he may be able to take us. i shall give four knocks when i come back.”
she was unwilling to let me go, but i gently pushed her in and shut the door, and then advanced to meet the cab. a few words set my anxieties at rest, for it appeared that the cabman had to set down a fare a little way along the street, and was very willing to take a return fare, on suitable terms. as any terms would have been suitable to me under the circumstances the cabman was able to make a good bargain, and we parted with mutual satisfaction and a cordial au revoir. then i steered back along the fence to the studio door, on which i struck four distinct knocks and announced myself vocally by name. immediately, the door opened, and a hand drew me in by the sleeve.
“i am so glad you have come back,” she whispered. “it was horrid to be alone in the lobby even for a few minutes. what did the cabman say?”
i told her the joyful tidings, and we at once made ready for our departure. in a minute or two the welcome glare of the cab-lamps reappeared, and when i had locked up the studio and pocketed the key, i helped her into the rather ramshackle vehicle.
i don’t mind admitting that the cabman’s charges were extortionate; but i grudged him never a penny. it was probably the slowest journey that i had ever made, but yet the funereal pace was all too swift. half-ashamed as i was to admit it to myself, this horrible adventure was bearing sweet fruit to me in the unquestioned intimacy that had been born in the troubled hour. little enough was said; but i sat happily by her side, holding her uninjured hand in mine (on the pretence of keeping it warm), blissfully conscious that our sympathy and friendship had grown to something sweeter and more precious.
“what are we to say to arabella?” i asked. “i suppose she will have to be told?”
“of course she will,” replied marion; “you shall tell her. but,” she added, in a lower tone, “you needn’t tell her everything—i mean what a baby i was and how you had to comfort and soothe me. she is as brave as a lion, and she thinks i am, too. so you needn’t undeceive her too much.”
“i needn’t undeceive her at all,” said i, “because you are”; and we were still arguing this weighty question when the cab drew up at ivy cottage. i sent the cabman off, rejoicing, and then escorted marion up the path to the door, where miss boler was waiting, having apparently heard the cab arrive.
“thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “i was wondering how on earth you would manage to get home.” then she suddenly observed marion’s bandaged hand, and uttered an exclamation of alarm.
“miss marion has cut her hand rather badly,” i explained. “we won’t talk about it just now. i will tell you everything presently when you have put her to bed. now i want some stuff to make dressings and bandages.”
miss boler looked at me suspiciously, but made no comment. with extraordinary promptitude she produced a supply of linen, warm water, and other necessaries, and then stood by to watch the operation and give assistance.
“it is a nasty wound,” i said, as i removed the extemporized dressing, “but not so bad as i feared. there will be no lasting injury.”
i put on the permanent dressing and then exposed the wound on the arm, at the sight of which miss boler’s eyebrows went up. but she made no remark; and when a dressing had been put on this, too, she took charge of the patient to conduct her up to the bedroom.
“i shall come up and see that she is all right before i go,” said i, “and meanwhile, no questions, arabella.”
she cast a significant look at me over her shoulder and departed with her arm about the patient’s waist.
the rites and ceremonies abovestairs were briefer than i had expected—perhaps the promised explanations had accelerated matters. at any rate, in a very few minutes miss boler bustled into the room and said: “you can go up now, but don’t stop to gossip. i am bursting with curiosity.”
thereupon i ascended to my lady’s chamber, which i entered as diffidently and reverentially as though such visits were not the commonplace of my professional life. as i approached the bed she heaved a little sigh of content and murmured:
“what a fortunate girl i am! to be petted and cared for and pampered in this way! arabella is a perfect angel, and you, dr. gray⸺”
“oh, marion!” i protested. “not dr. gray.”
“well, then, stephen,” she corrected, with a faint blush.
“that is better. and what am i?”
“never mind,” she replied, very pink and smiling. “i expect you know. if you don’t, ask arabella when you go down.”
“i expect she will do most of the asking,” said i. “and i have strict orders not to stop to gossip, so let me see the bandages, and then i must go.”
i made my inspection without undue hurry, and, having seen that all was well, i took her hand.
“you are to stay here until i have seen you to-morrow morning, and you are to be a good girl and try not to think of unpleasant things.”
“yes; i will do everything that you tell me.”
“then i can go away happy. good night, marion.”
“good night, stephen.”
i pressed her hand and felt her fingers close on mine. then i turned away, and with only a moment’s pause at the door for a last look at the sweet, smiling face, descended the stairs to confront the formidable arabella.
of my cautious statement and her keen cross-examination i will say nothing. i made the proceedings as short as was decent, for i wanted, if possible, to take counsel with thorndyke. on my explaining this, the brevity of my account was condoned, and even my refusal of food.
“but remember, arabella,” i said, as she escorted me to the gate, “she has had a very severe shock. the less you say to her about the affair for the present the quicker will be her recovery.”
with this warning i set forth through the rapidly thinning fog to catch the first conveyance that i could find to bear me southward.
