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FreeThe Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
Algernon Blackwood
Adapt
II
The tall figure disappeared and the door was shut. The conversation of the past few minutes had come somewhat as a revelation to the secretary. Garvey seemed in full possession of normal instincts. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of his manner and intentions. The suspicions of the first hour began to vanish like mist before the sun. Sidebotham's portentous warnings and the mystery with which he surrounded the whole episode had been allowed to unduly influence his mind. The loneliness of the situation and the bleak nature of the surroundings had helped to complete the illusion. He began to be ashamed of his suspicions and a change gradually began to be wrought in his thoughts. Anyhow, a dinner and a bed were preferable to six miles in the dark, no dinner, and a cold train ride into the bargain.
Garvey returned presently. "We'll do the best we can for you," he said, dropping into the deep armchair on the other side of the fire. "Marx is a good servant if you watch him all the time. You must always stand over a Jew, though, if you want things done properly. They're tricky and uncertain unless they're working for their own interest. But Marx might be worse, I'll admit. He's been with me for nearly twenty years--cook, valet, housemaid, and butler all in one. In the old days, you know, he was a clerk in our office in Chicago."
Garvey rattled on and Shorthouse listened with occasional remarks thrown in. The former seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to and the sound of his own voice was evidently sweet music to his ears. After a few minutes, he crossed over to the sideboard and again took up the decanter of whisky, holding it to the light. "You will join me this time," he said pleasantly, pouring out two glasses, "it will give us an appetite for dinner," and this time Shorthouse did not refuse. The liquor was mellow and soft, and the men took two glasses apiece.
"Excellent," remarked the secretary.
"Glad you appreciate it," said the host, smacking his lips. "It's very old whisky, and I rarely touch it when I'm alone. But this," he added, "is a special occasion, isn't it?"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 1 / 22
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
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## II
The tall figure disappeared and the door was shut. The conversation of the past few minutes had come somewhat as a revelation to the secretary. Garvey seemed in full possession of normal instincts. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of his manner and intentions. The suspicions of the first hour began to vanish like mist before the sun. Sidebotham's portentous warnings and the mystery with which he surrounded the whole episode had been allowed to unduly influence his mind. The loneliness of the situation and the bleak nature of the surroundings had helped to complete the illusion. He began to be ashamed of his suspicions and a change gradually began to be wrought in his thoughts. Anyhow, a dinner and a bed were preferable to six miles in the dark, no dinner, and a cold train ride into the bargain.
Garvey returned presently. "We'll do the best we can for you," he said, dropping into the deep armchair on the other side of the fire. "Marx is a good servant if you watch him all the time. You must always stand over a Jew, though, if you want things done properly. They're tricky and uncertain unless they're working for their own interest. But Marx might be worse, I'll admit. He's been with me for nearly twenty years--cook, valet, housemaid, and butler all in one. In the old days, you know, he was a clerk in our office in Chicago."
Garvey rattled on and Shorthouse listened with occasional remarks thrown in. The former seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to and the sound of his own voice was evidently sweet music to his ears. After a few minutes, he crossed over to the sideboard and again took up the decanter of whisky, holding it to the light. "You will join me this time," he said pleasantly, pouring out two glasses, "it will give us an appetite for dinner," and this time Shorthouse did not refuse. The liquor was mellow and soft, and the men took two glasses apiece.
"Excellent," remarked the secretary.
"Glad you appreciate it," said the host, smacking his lips. "It's very old whisky, and I rarely touch it when I'm alone. But this," he added, "is a special occasion, isn't it?"Shorthouse was in the act of putting his glass down when something suddenly drew his eyes to the other's face. A strange note in the man's voice caught his attention and communicated alarm to his nerves.
A new light shone in Garvey's eyes, and there flitted momentarily across his strong features the shadow of something that set the secretary's nerves tingling. A mist spread before his eyes, and the unaccountable belief rose strongly within him that he was staring into the visage of an untamed animal. Close to his heart there was something wild, fierce, savage. An involuntary shudder ran over him, and it seemed to dispel the strange fancy as suddenly as it had come. He met the other's eye with a smile, the counterpart of which in his heart was vivid horror.
"It is a special occasion," he said, as naturally as possible, "and, allow me to add, very special whisky."
Garvey appeared delighted. He was in the middle of a devious tale describing how the whisky had originally come into his possession when the door opened behind them and a grating voice announced that dinner was ready. They followed the cassocked form of Marx across the dirty hall, lit only by the shaft of light that followed them from the library door, and entered a small room where a single lamp stood on a table laid for dinner. The walls were destitute of pictures, and the windows had Venetian blinds without curtains. There was no fire in the grate, and when the men sat down facing each other Shorthouse noticed that, while his own cover was laid with its due proportion of glasses and cutlery, his companion had nothing before him but a soup plate, without fork, knife, or spoon beside it.
"I don't know what there is to offer you," he said; "but I'm sure Marx has done the best he can at such short notice. I only eat one course for dinner, but please take your time and enjoy your food."
Presently Marx set a plate of soup before the guest, yet so loathsome was the immediate presence of this old Hebrew servant that the spoonfuls disappeared somewhat slowly. Garvey sat and watched him.
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# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 2 / 22
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
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Shorthouse was in the act of putting his glass down when something suddenly drew his eyes to the other's face. A strange note in the man's voice caught his attention and communicated alarm to his nerves. A new light shone in Garvey's eyes, and there flitted momentarily across his strong features the shadow of something that set the secretary's nerves tingling. A mist spread before his eyes, and the unaccountable belief rose strongly within him that he was staring into the visage of an untamed animal. Close to his heart there was something wild, fierce, savage. An involuntary shudder ran over him, and it seemed to dispel the strange fancy as suddenly as it had come. He met the other's eye with a smile, the counterpart of which in his heart was vivid horror.
"It _is_ a special occasion," he said, as naturally as possible, "and, allow me to add, very special whisky."
Garvey appeared delighted. He was in the middle of a devious tale describing how the whisky had originally come into his possession when the door opened behind them and a grating voice announced that dinner was ready. They followed the cassocked form of Marx across the dirty hall, lit only by the shaft of light that followed them from the library door, and entered a small room where a single lamp stood on a table laid for dinner. The walls were destitute of pictures, and the windows had Venetian blinds without curtains. There was no fire in the grate, and when the men sat down facing each other Shorthouse noticed that, while his own cover was laid with its due proportion of glasses and cutlery, his companion had nothing before him but a soup plate, without fork, knife, or spoon beside it.
"I don't know what there is to offer you," he said; "but I'm sure Marx has done the best he can at such short notice. I only eat one course for dinner, but please take your time and enjoy your food."
Presently Marx set a plate of soup before the guest, yet so loathsome was the immediate presence of this old Hebrew servant that the spoonfuls disappeared somewhat slowly. Garvey sat and watched him.Shorthouse said the soup was delicious and bravely swallowed another mouthful. In reality his thoughts were centred on his companion, whose manners were giving evidence of a gradual and curious change. There was a decided difference in his demeanour, a difference that the secretary felt at first, rather than saw. Garvey's quiet self-possession was giving place to a degree of suppressed excitement that seemed so far inexplicable. His movements became quick and nervous, his eye shifting and strangely brilliant, and his voice, when he spoke, betrayed an occasional deep tremor. Something unwonted was stirring within him and evidently demanding every moment more vigorous manifestation as the meal proceeded.
Intuitively, Shorthouse was afraid of this growing excitement, and while negotiating some unusually tough pork chops he tried to lead the conversation onto the subject of chemistry, of which he had been an enthusiastic student during his Oxford days. His companion, however, would have none of it. He seemed to have lost interest in the subject, and barely condescended to respond. When Marx presently returned with a plate of steaming eggs and bacon, the topic dropped of its own accord.
"An inadequate dinner dish," Garvey said, as soon as the man was gone; "but better than nothing, I hope."
Shorthouse remarked that he was exceedingly fond of bacon and eggs, and, looking up at the last word, saw that Garvey's face was twitching convulsively and that he was almost wriggling in his chair. He quieted down, however, under the secretary's gaze and observed, though evidently with an effort-- "Very good of you to say so. I wish I could join you, only I never eat such stuff. I only take one course for dinner."
Shorthouse began to feel some curiosity as to what the nature of this one course might be, but he made no further remark and contented himself with noting mentally that his companion's excitement seemed to be rapidly growing beyond his control. There was something uncanny about it, and he began to wish he had chosen the alternative of the walk to the station.
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# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 3 / 22
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
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Shorthouse said the soup was delicious and bravely swallowed another mouthful. In reality his thoughts were centred on his companion, whose manners were giving evidence of a gradual and curious change. There was a decided difference in his demeanour, a difference that the secretary _felt_ at first, rather than saw. Garvey's quiet self-possession was giving place to a degree of suppressed excitement that seemed so far inexplicable. His movements became quick and nervous, his eye shifting and strangely brilliant, and his voice, when he spoke, betrayed an occasional deep tremor. Something unwonted was stirring within him and evidently demanding every moment more vigorous manifestation as the meal proceeded.
Intuitively, Shorthouse was afraid of this growing excitement, and while negotiating some unusually tough pork chops he tried to lead the conversation onto the subject of chemistry, of which he had been an enthusiastic student during his Oxford days. His companion, however, would have none of it. He seemed to have lost interest in the subject, and barely condescended to respond. When Marx presently returned with a plate of steaming eggs and bacon, the topic dropped of its own accord.
"An inadequate dinner dish," Garvey said, as soon as the man was gone; "but better than nothing, I hope."
Shorthouse remarked that he was exceedingly fond of bacon and eggs, and, looking up at the last word, saw that Garvey's face was twitching convulsively and that he was almost wriggling in his chair. He quieted down, however, under the secretary's gaze and observed, though evidently with an effort-- "Very good of you to say so. I wish I could join you, only I never eat such stuff. I only take one course for dinner."
Shorthouse began to feel some curiosity as to what the nature of this one course might be, but he made no further remark and contented himself with noting mentally that his companion's excitement seemed to be rapidly growing beyond his control. There was something uncanny about it, and he began to wish he had chosen the alternative of the walk to the station."I'm glad to see you never speak when Marx is in the room," said Garvey presently. "I'm sure it's better not to. Don't you think so?"
He appeared to wait eagerly for the answer.
"Undoubtedly," said the puzzled secretary.
"Yes," the other went on quickly. "He's an excellent man, but he has one drawback--a really horrid one." You may--but, no, you could hardly have noticed it yet."
"Not drink, I trust," said Shorthouse, who would rather have discussed any other subject than the odious Jew.
"Worse than that by a great deal," Garvey replied, evidently expecting the other to draw him out. But Shorthouse was in no mood to hear anything horrible, and he declined to step into the trap.
"Even the best of servants have their faults," he said coldly.
"I'll tell you what it is if you like," Garvey continued, still speaking very softly and leaning forward over the table so that his face came close to the flame of the lamp, "only we must speak quietly in case he's listening. I'll tell you what it is--if you think you won't be frightened."
"Nothing frightens me," he laughed. (Garvey must understand that at all events.) "Nothing can frighten me," he repeated.
"I'm glad of that; for it frightens me a good deal sometimes."
Shorthouse feigned indifference. Yet he was aware that his heart was beating a little faster and that there was a sensation of chilliness in his back. He waited in silence for what was to come.
"He has a horrible predilection for vacuums," Garvey continued presently in an even lower voice, thrusting his face farther forward under the lamp.
"Vacuums!" exclaimed the secretary in spite of himself. "What in the world do you mean?"
"What I say, of course. He's always stumbling into them, so that I can't find him or get to him. He hides there for hours at a time, and for the life of me I can't figure out what he's doing there."
Shorthouse stared straight into his companion’s eyes. What in the name of Heaven was he talking about?
"Do you suppose he goes there for a change of air, or--or to escape?" he went on in a louder voice.
Shorthouse could have laughed outright but for the expression on the other's face.
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# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
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"I'm glad to see you never speak when Marx is in the room," said Garvey presently. "I'm sure it's better not to. Don't you think so?"
He appeared to wait eagerly for the answer.
"Undoubtedly," said the puzzled secretary.
"Yes," the other went on quickly. "He's an excellent man, but he has one drawback--a really horrid one." You may--but, no, you could hardly have noticed it yet."
"Not drink, I trust," said Shorthouse, who would rather have discussed any other subject than the odious Jew.
"Worse than that by a great deal," Garvey replied, evidently expecting the other to draw him out. But Shorthouse was in no mood to hear anything horrible, and he declined to step into the trap.
"Even the best of servants have their faults," he said coldly.
"I'll tell you what it is if you like," Garvey continued, still speaking very softly and leaning forward over the table so that his face came close to the flame of the lamp, "only we must speak quietly in case he's listening. I'll tell you what it is--if you think you won't be frightened."
"Nothing frightens me," he laughed. (Garvey must understand that at all events.) "Nothing can frighten me," he repeated.
"I'm glad of that; for it frightens _me_ a good deal sometimes."
Shorthouse feigned indifference. Yet he was aware that his heart was beating a little faster and that there was a sensation of chilliness in his back. He waited in silence for what was to come.
"He has a horrible predilection for vacuums," Garvey continued presently in an even lower voice, thrusting his face farther forward under the lamp.
"Vacuums!" exclaimed the secretary in spite of himself. "What in the world do you mean?"
"What I say, of course. He's always stumbling into them, so that I can't find him or get to him. He hides there for hours at a time, and for the life of me I can't figure out what he's doing there."
Shorthouse stared straight into his companion’s eyes. What in the name of Heaven was he talking about?
"Do you suppose he goes there for a change of air, or--or to escape?" he went on in a louder voice.
Shorthouse could have laughed outright but for the expression on the other's face."I should not think there was much air of any sort in a vacuum," he said quietly.
"That's exactly what I feel," continued Garvey with ever growing excitement. "That's the horrid part of it. How the devil does he live there? You see--" "Have you ever followed him there?" interrupted the secretary. The other leaned back in his chair and drew a deep sigh.
"Never! It's impossible. You see, I cannot follow him. There's not room for two. A vacuum only holds one comfortably. Marx knows that. He's out of my reach altogether once he's fairly inside. He knows the best side of a bargain. He's a regular Jew."
"That is a drawback to a servant, of course--" Shorthouse spoke slowly, with his eyes on his plate.
"A drawback," interrupted the other with an ugly chuckle, "I call it a draw-in, that's what I call it."
"A draw-in does seem a more accurate term," assented Shorthouse. "But," he went on, "I thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She used to, when I was at school--though perhaps--it's so long ago--" He hesitated and looked up. Something in Garvey's face--something he had felt before he looked up--stopped his tongue and froze the words in his throat. His lips refused to move and became suddenly dry. Again the mist rose before his eyes and the appalling shadow dropped its veil over the face before him. Garvey's features began to burn and glow. Then they seemed to coarsen and somehow slip confusedly together. He stared for a second--it seemed only for a second--into the visage of a ferocious and abominable animal; and then, as suddenly as it had come, the filthy shadow of the beast passed off, the mist melted away, and with a mighty effort over his nerves he forced himself to finish his sentence.
"You see, it's been so long since I've paid attention to such things," he stammered. His heart was beating rapidly, and a feeling of oppression was gathering over it.
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# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 5 / 22
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"I should not think there was much air of any sort in a vacuum," he said quietly.
"That's exactly what _I_ feel," continued Garvey with ever growing excitement. "That's the horrid part of it. How the devil does he live there? You see--" "Have you ever followed him there?" interrupted the secretary. The other leaned back in his chair and drew a deep sigh.
"Never! It's impossible. You see, I cannot follow him. There's not room for two. A vacuum only holds one comfortably. Marx knows that. He's out of my reach altogether once he's fairly inside. He knows the best side of a bargain. He's a regular Jew."
"That is a drawback to a servant, of course--" Shorthouse spoke slowly, with his eyes on his plate.
"A drawback," interrupted the other with an ugly chuckle, "I call it a draw-in, that's what I call it."
"A draw-in does seem a more accurate term," assented Shorthouse. "But," he went on, "I thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She used to, when I was at school--though perhaps--it's so long ago--" He hesitated and looked up. Something in Garvey's face--something he had _felt_ before he looked up--stopped his tongue and froze the words in his throat. His lips refused to move and became suddenly dry. Again the mist rose before his eyes and the appalling shadow dropped its veil over the face before him. Garvey's features began to burn and glow. Then they seemed to coarsen and somehow slip confusedly together. He stared for a second--it seemed only for a second--into the visage of a ferocious and abominable animal; and then, as suddenly as it had come, the filthy shadow of the beast passed off, the mist melted away, and with a mighty effort over his nerves he forced himself to finish his sentence.
"You see, it's been so long since I've paid attention to such things," he stammered. His heart was beating rapidly, and a feeling of oppression was gathering over it."It's my peculiar and special study, on the other hand," Garvey resumed. "I haven't spent all these years in my laboratory for no purpose, I can assure you. Nature, I know for a fact," he added with unnatural warmth, "does not abhor a vacuum. On the contrary, she's uncommonly fond of them, much too fond, it seems, for the comfort of my little household. If there were fewer vacuums and more abhorrence, we should get along better--a damned sight better, in my opinion."
"Your special knowledge, no doubt, enables you to speak with authority," Shorthouse said, curiosity and alarm warring with other mixed feelings in his mind; "but how can a man tumble into a vacuum?"
"You may well ask. That's just it. How can he? It's preposterous and I cannot make it out at all. Marx knows, but he won't tell me. Jews know more than we do. For my part, I have reason to believe--" He stopped and listened. "Hush! Here he comes," he added, rubbing his hands together as if in glee and fidgeting in his chair.
Steps were heard coming down the passage, and as they approached the door, Garvey seemed to give himself completely over to an excitement he could not control. His eyes were fixed on the door and he began clutching the tablecloth with both hands. Again his face was screened by the loathsome shadow. It grew wild, wolfish.
As through a mask, which concealed, and yet was thin enough to let through a suggestion of, the beast crouching behind, there leaped into his countenance the strange look of the animal in the human—the expression of the were-wolf, the monster. The change, in all its loathsomeness, came rapidly over his features, which began to lose their outline. The nose flattened, dropping with broad nostrils over thick lips. The face rounded, filled out, and became squat. The eyes, which, luckily for Shorthouse, no longer sought his own, glowed with the light of untamed appetite and bestial greed.
The hands left the cloth and grasped the edges of the plate, and then clutched the cloth again.
"This is my course coming now," said Garvey, in a deep guttural voice. He was shivering. His upper lip was partly lifted and showed the teeth, white and gleaming.
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# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
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"It's my peculiar and special study, on the other hand," Garvey resumed. "I haven't spent all these years in my laboratory for no purpose, I can assure you. Nature, I know for a fact," he added with unnatural warmth, "does _not_ abhor a vacuum. On the contrary, she's uncommonly fond of them, much too fond, it seems, for the comfort of my little household. If there were fewer vacuums and more abhorrence, we should get along better--a damned sight better, in my opinion."
"Your special knowledge, no doubt, enables you to speak with authority," Shorthouse said, curiosity and alarm warring with other mixed feelings in his mind; "but how _can_ a man tumble into a vacuum?"
"You may well ask. That's just it. How can he? It's preposterous and I cannot make it out at all. Marx knows, but he won't tell me. Jews know more than we do. For my part, I have reason to believe--" He stopped and listened. "Hush! Here he comes," he added, rubbing his hands together as if in glee and fidgeting in his chair.
Steps were heard coming down the passage, and as they approached the door, Garvey seemed to give himself completely over to an excitement he could not control. His eyes were fixed on the door and he began clutching the tablecloth with both hands. Again his face was screened by the loathsome shadow. It grew wild, wolfish. As through a mask, which concealed, and yet was thin enough to let through a suggestion of, the beast crouching behind, there leaped into his countenance the strange look of the animal in the human—the expression of the were-wolf, the monster. The change, in all its loathsomeness, came rapidly over his features, which began to lose their outline. The nose flattened, dropping with broad nostrils over thick lips. The face rounded, filled out, and became squat. The eyes, which, luckily for Shorthouse, no longer sought his own, glowed with the light of untamed appetite and bestial greed.
The hands left the cloth and grasped the edges of the plate, and then clutched the cloth again.
"This is _my_ course coming now," said Garvey, in a deep guttural voice. He was shivering. His upper lip was partly lifted and showed the teeth, white and gleaming.A moment later the door opened and Marx hurried into the room and set a dish in front of his master. Garvey half rose to meet him, stretching out his hands and grinning horribly. With his mouth he made a sound like the snarl of an animal. The dish before him was steaming, but the slight vapour rising from it betrayed by its odour that it was not born of a fire of coals. It was the natural heat of flesh warmed by the fires of life only just expelled. The moment the dish rested on the table, Garvey pushed away his own plate and drew the other up close under his mouth. Then he seized the food with both hands and began to tear it with his teeth, grunting as he did so. Shorthouse closed his eyes, feeling nauseated. When he looked up again, the man opposite had crimson stains on his lips and jaw. The whole man had been transformed.
A feasting tiger, starved and ravenous, but without a tiger's grace—this was what he watched for several minutes, transfixed with horror and disgust.
Marx had already left, evidently knowing what was not good for the eyes to behold, and Shorthouse finally realized that he was sitting face to face with a madman.
The ghastly meal was finished in an incredibly short time, and nothing remained but a tiny pool of red liquid rapidly hardening. Garvey leaned back heavily in his chair and sighed. His smeared face, now withdrawn from the glare of the lamp, began to resume its normal appearance. Presently he looked up at his guest and said in his natural voice—"I hope you've had enough to eat. You wouldn't care for this, you know," with a downward glance.
Shorthouse met his eyes with inward loathing, and it was impossible not to show some of the repugnance he felt. In the other's face, however, he thought he saw a subdued, cowed expression. But he found nothing to say.
"Marx will be here presently," Garvey continued. "He's either listening, or in a vacuum."
"Does he choose any particular time for his visits?" the secretary managed to ask.
"He generally comes after dinner; about this time, in fact. But he hasn't gone yet," he added, shrugging his shoulders, "for I think I hear him coming."
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# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 7 / 22
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# language: en
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A moment later the door opened and Marx hurried into the room and set a dish in front of his master. Garvey half rose to meet him, stretching out his hands and grinning horribly. With his mouth he made a sound like the snarl of an animal. The dish before him was steaming, but the slight vapour rising from it betrayed by its odour that it was not born of a fire of coals. It was the natural heat of flesh warmed by the fires of life only just expelled. The moment the dish rested on the table, Garvey pushed away his own plate and drew the other up close under his mouth. Then he seized the food with both hands and began to tear it with his teeth, grunting as he did so. Shorthouse closed his eyes, feeling nauseated. When he looked up again, the man opposite had crimson stains on his lips and jaw. The whole man had been transformed.
A feasting tiger, starved and ravenous, but without a tiger's grace—this was what he watched for several minutes, transfixed with horror and disgust.
Marx had already left, evidently knowing what was not good for the eyes to behold, and Shorthouse finally realized that he was sitting face to face with a madman.
The ghastly meal was finished in an incredibly short time, and nothing remained but a tiny pool of red liquid rapidly hardening. Garvey leaned back heavily in his chair and sighed. His smeared face, now withdrawn from the glare of the lamp, began to resume its normal appearance. Presently he looked up at his guest and said in his natural voice—"I hope you've had enough to eat. You wouldn't care for this, you know," with a downward glance.
Shorthouse met his eyes with inward loathing, and it was impossible not to show some of the repugnance he felt. In the other's face, however, he thought he saw a subdued, cowed expression. But he found nothing to say.
"Marx will be here presently," Garvey continued. "He's either listening, or in a vacuum."
"Does he choose any particular time for his visits?" the secretary managed to ask.
"He generally comes after dinner; about this time, in fact. But he hasn't gone yet," he added, shrugging his shoulders, "for I think I hear him coming."Shorthouse wondered whether "vacuum" might be synonymous with "wine cellar," but gave no expression to his thoughts. With chills of horror still running up and down his back, he saw Marx come in with a basin and towel, while Garvey thrust up his face just as an animal puts up its muzzle to be rubbed.
"Now we'll have coffee in the library, if you're ready," he said, in the tone of a gentleman addressing his guests after a dinner party.
Shorthouse picked up the bag, which had lain all this time between his feet, and walked through the door his host held open for him. Side by side they crossed the dark hall together, and, to his disgust, Garvey linked an arm in his, and with his face so close to the secretary's ear that he felt the warm breath, said in a thick voice-- "You're uncommonly careful with that bag, Mr. Shorthouse. It surely must contain something more than the bundle of papers."
"Nothing but the papers," he answered, feeling the hand burning on his arm and wishing he were miles away from the house and its abominable occupants.
"Quite sure?" asked the other with an odious and suggestive chuckle. "Is there any meat in it, fresh meat--raw meat?"
The secretary felt, somehow, that at the least sign of fear the beast on his arm would leap on him and tear him with its teeth.
"Nothing of the sort," he answered vigorously. "It wouldn't hold enough to feed a cat."
"True," said Garvey with a vile sigh, while the other felt the hand on his arm twitch up and down as if feeling the flesh. "True, it's too small to be of any real use. As you say, it wouldn't hold enough to feed a cat."
Shorthouse could not suppress a cry. The muscles of his fingers, too, relaxed in spite of himself, and he let the black bag fall with a bang to the floor. Garvey instantly withdrew his arm and turned with a quick movement. But the secretary had regained his control as suddenly as he had lost it, and he met the maniac's eyes with a steady and aggressive glare.
"There, you see, it's quite light. It makes no appreciable noise when I drop it." He picked it up and let it fall again, as if he had dropped it for the first time on purpose. The ruse was successful.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 8 / 22
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Shorthouse wondered whether "vacuum" might be synonymous with "wine cellar," but gave no expression to his thoughts. With chills of horror still running up and down his back, he saw Marx come in with a basin and towel, while Garvey thrust up his face just as an animal puts up its muzzle to be rubbed.
"Now we'll have coffee in the library, if you're ready," he said, in the tone of a gentleman addressing his guests after a dinner party.
Shorthouse picked up the bag, which had lain all this time between his feet, and walked through the door his host held open for him. Side by side they crossed the dark hall together, and, to his disgust, Garvey linked an arm in his, and with his face so close to the secretary's ear that he felt the warm breath, said in a thick voice-- "You're uncommonly careful with that bag, Mr. Shorthouse. It surely must contain something more than the bundle of papers."
"Nothing but the papers," he answered, feeling the hand burning on his arm and wishing he were miles away from the house and its abominable occupants.
"Quite sure?" asked the other with an odious and suggestive chuckle. "Is there any meat in it, fresh meat--raw meat?"
The secretary felt, somehow, that at the least sign of fear the beast on his arm would leap on him and tear him with its teeth.
"Nothing of the sort," he answered vigorously. "It wouldn't hold enough to feed a cat."
"True," said Garvey with a vile sigh, while the other felt the hand on his arm twitch up and down as if feeling the flesh. "True, it's too small to be of any real use. As you say, it wouldn't hold enough to feed a cat."
Shorthouse could not suppress a cry. The muscles of his fingers, too, relaxed in spite of himself, and he let the black bag fall with a bang to the floor. Garvey instantly withdrew his arm and turned with a quick movement. But the secretary had regained his control as suddenly as he had lost it, and he met the maniac's eyes with a steady and aggressive glare.
"There, you see, it's quite light. It makes no appreciable noise when I drop it." He picked it up and let it fall again, as if he had dropped it for the first time on purpose. The ruse was successful."Yes. You're right," said Garvey, still standing in the doorway and staring at him. "At any rate it wouldn't hold enough for two," he laughed. And as he closed the door, the horrid laughter echoed in the empty hall.
They sat down by a blazing fire, and Shorthouse was glad to feel its warmth. Marx presently brought in coffee. A glass of the old whisky and a good cigar helped to restore equilibrium. For some minutes the men sat in silence, staring into the fire.
Then, without looking up, Garvey said in a quiet voice-- "I suppose it was a shock to you to see me eat raw meat like that. I must apologise if it was unpleasant to you. But it's all I can eat, and it's the only meal I take in the twenty-four hours."
"The best nourishment in the world, no doubt; though I should think it might be a trifle strong for some stomachs."
He tried to lead the conversation away from such an unpleasant subject, and went on to talk rapidly about the nutritional values of different foods, about vegetarianism and vegetarians, and about men who had gone for long periods without any food at all. Garvey listened apparently without interest and had nothing to say. At the first pause he jumped in eagerly.
"When the hunger gets really bad on me," he said, still gazing into the fire, "I simply cannot control myself. I must have raw meat--the first I can get--" Here he raised his shining eyes and Shorthouse felt his hair beginning to rise.
"It comes on me so suddenly too. I never can tell when to expect it. A year ago the passion rose in me like a whirlwind and Marx was out and I couldn't get meat. I had to get something or I should have bitten myself. Just when it was getting unbearable my dog ran out from beneath the sofa. It was a spaniel."
Shorthouse responded with an effort. He hardly knew what he was saying and his skin crawled as if a million ants were moving over it.
There was a pause of several minutes.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 9 / 22
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Yes. You're right," said Garvey, still standing in the doorway and staring at him. "At any rate it wouldn't hold enough for two," he laughed. And as he closed the door, the horrid laughter echoed in the empty hall.
They sat down by a blazing fire, and Shorthouse was glad to feel its warmth. Marx presently brought in coffee. A glass of the old whisky and a good cigar helped to restore equilibrium. For some minutes the men sat in silence, staring into the fire.
Then, without looking up, Garvey said in a quiet voice-- "I suppose it was a shock to you to see me eat raw meat like that. I must apologise if it was unpleasant to you. But it's all I can eat, and it's the only meal I take in the twenty-four hours."
"The best nourishment in the world, no doubt; though I should think it might be a trifle strong for some stomachs."
He tried to lead the conversation away from such an unpleasant subject, and went on to talk rapidly about the nutritional values of different foods, about vegetarianism and vegetarians, and about men who had gone for long periods without any food at all. Garvey listened apparently without interest and had nothing to say. At the first pause he jumped in eagerly.
"When the hunger gets really bad on me," he said, still gazing into the fire, "I simply cannot control myself. I must have raw meat--the first I can get--" Here he raised his shining eyes and Shorthouse felt his hair beginning to rise.
"It comes on me so suddenly too. I never can tell when to expect it. A year ago the passion rose in me like a whirlwind and Marx was out and I couldn't get meat. I had to get something or I should have bitten myself. Just when it was getting unbearable my dog ran out from beneath the sofa. It was a spaniel."
Shorthouse responded with an effort. He hardly knew what he was saying and his skin crawled as if a million ants were moving over it.
There was a pause of several minutes."I've bitten Marx all over," Garvey went on presently in his strange quiet voice, and as if he were speaking of apples; "but he's bitter. I doubt if the hunger could ever make me do it again. Probably that's what first drove him to take shelter in a vacuum." He chuckled hideously as he thought of this solution to his attendant's disappearances.
Shorthouse seized the poker and poked the fire as if his life depended on it. But when the banging and clattering was over Garvey continued his remarks with the same calmness. The next sentence, however, was never finished. The secretary had suddenly gotten to his feet.
"I shall ask your permission to retire," he said in a determined voice; "I'm tired tonight; would you be kind enough to show me to my room?"
Garvey looked up at him with a curious, cringing expression, behind which shone the gleam of cunning passion.
"Certainly," he said, rising from his chair. "You've had a tiring journey. I ought to have thought of that before."
He took the candle from the table and lit it, and the fingers that held the match trembled.
"We needn't bother Marx," he explained. "That beast is in his vacuum by this time."
III
They crossed the hall and began to ascend the carpetless wooden stairs. They were in the well of the house and the air cut like ice. Garvey, the flickering candle in his hand throwing his face into strong outline, led the way across the first landing and opened a door near the mouth of a dark passage. A pleasant room greeted the visitor's eyes, and he rapidly took in its features while his host walked over and lit two candles that stood on a table at the foot of the bed. A fire burned brightly in the grate. There were two windows, opening like doors, in the wall opposite, and a high, canopied bed occupied most of the space on the right. Panelling ran all round the room, reaching nearly to the ceiling, and gave a warm and cosy appearance to the whole; while the portraits that stood in alternate panels somehow suggested the atmosphere of an old country house in England. Shorthouse was agreeably surprised.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 10 / 22
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"I've bitten Marx all over," Garvey went on presently in his strange quiet voice, and as if he were speaking of apples; "but he's bitter. I doubt if the hunger could ever make me do it again. Probably that's what first drove him to take shelter in a vacuum." He chuckled hideously as he thought of this solution to his attendant's disappearances.
Shorthouse seized the poker and poked the fire as if his life depended on it. But when the banging and clattering was over Garvey continued his remarks with the same calmness. The next sentence, however, was never finished. The secretary had suddenly gotten to his feet.
"I shall ask your permission to retire," he said in a determined voice; "I'm tired tonight; would you be kind enough to show me to my room?"
Garvey looked up at him with a curious, cringing expression, behind which shone the gleam of cunning passion.
"Certainly," he said, rising from his chair. "You've had a tiring journey. I ought to have thought of that before."
He took the candle from the table and lit it, and the fingers that held the match trembled.
"We needn't bother Marx," he explained. "That beast is in his vacuum by this time."
## III
They crossed the hall and began to ascend the carpetless wooden stairs. They were in the well of the house and the air cut like ice. Garvey, the flickering candle in his hand throwing his face into strong outline, led the way across the first landing and opened a door near the mouth of a dark passage. A pleasant room greeted the visitor's eyes, and he rapidly took in its features while his host walked over and lit two candles that stood on a table at the foot of the bed. A fire burned brightly in the grate. There were two windows, opening like doors, in the wall opposite, and a high, canopied bed occupied most of the space on the right. Panelling ran all round the room, reaching nearly to the ceiling, and gave a warm and cosy appearance to the whole; while the portraits that stood in alternate panels somehow suggested the atmosphere of an old country house in England. Shorthouse was agreeably surprised."I hope you'll find everything you need," Garvey was saying in the doorway. "If not, you have only to ring that bell by the fireplace. Marx won't hear it of course, but it rings in my laboratory, where I spend most of the night."
Then, with a brief good-night, he went out and shut the door behind him. The instant he was gone, Mr. Sidebotham's private secretary did a peculiar thing. He planted himself in the middle of the room with his back to the door, and drawing the pistol swiftly from his hip pocket levelled it across his left arm at the window. Standing motionless in this position for thirty seconds, he then suddenly swerved round and faced in the other direction, pointing his pistol straight at the keyhole of the door. Immediately afterwards, there was a sound of shuffling outside and of footsteps retreating across the landing.
"On his knees at the keyhole," was the secretary's reflection. "Just as I thought. But he didn't expect to look down the barrel of a pistol, and it made him jump a little."
As soon as the footsteps had gone downstairs and died away across the hall, Shorthouse went over and locked the door, stuffing a piece of crumpled paper into the second keyhole which he saw immediately above the first. After that, he made a thorough search of the room. It hardly repaid the trouble, for he found nothing unusual. Yet he was glad he had done it. It relieved him to find that no one was hiding under the bed or in the deep oak cupboard; and he hoped sincerely that it was not the cupboard in which the unfortunate spaniel had met its vile death. The French windows, he discovered, opened onto a little balcony. It looked out onto the front, and there was a drop of less than twenty feet to the ground below. The bed was high and wide, soft as feathers and covered with snowy sheets—very inviting to a tired man; and beside the blazing fire were a couple of deep armchairs.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 11 / 22
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"I hope you'll find everything you need," Garvey was saying in the doorway. "If not, you have only to ring that bell by the fireplace. Marx won't hear it of course, but it rings in my laboratory, where I spend most of the night."
Then, with a brief good-night, he went out and shut the door behind him. The instant he was gone, Mr. Sidebotham's private secretary did a peculiar thing. He planted himself in the middle of the room with his back to the door, and drawing the pistol swiftly from his hip pocket levelled it across his left arm at the window. Standing motionless in this position for thirty seconds, he then suddenly swerved round and faced in the other direction, pointing his pistol straight at the keyhole of the door. Immediately afterwards, there was a sound of shuffling outside and of footsteps retreating across the landing.
"On his knees at the keyhole," was the secretary's reflection. "Just as I thought. But he didn't expect to look down the barrel of a pistol, and it made him jump a little."
As soon as the footsteps had gone downstairs and died away across the hall, Shorthouse went over and locked the door, stuffing a piece of crumpled paper into the second keyhole which he saw immediately above the first. After that, he made a thorough search of the room. It hardly repaid the trouble, for he found nothing unusual. Yet he was glad he had done it. It relieved him to find that no one was hiding under the bed or in the deep oak cupboard; and he hoped sincerely that it was not the cupboard in which the unfortunate spaniel had met its vile death. The French windows, he discovered, opened onto a little balcony. It looked out onto the front, and there was a drop of less than twenty feet to the ground below. The bed was high and wide, soft as feathers and covered with snowy sheets—very inviting to a tired man; and beside the blazing fire were a couple of deep armchairs.Altogether, it was very pleasant and comfortable; but, tired though he was, Shorthouse had no intention of going to bed. It was impossible to disregard the warning of his nerves. They had never failed him before, and when that sense of distressing horror lodged in his bones he knew that something was in the wind and that a red flag was flying over the immediate future. Some delicate instrument in his being, more subtle than the senses, more accurate than mere presentiment, had seen the red flag and interpreted its meaning.
Again it seemed to him, as he sat in an armchair over the fire, that his movements were being carefully watched from somewhere; and, not knowing what weapons might be used against him, he felt that his real safety lay in a rigid control of his mind and feelings and a stout refusal to admit that he was in the least alarmed.
The house was very still. As the night wore on the wind dropped. Only occasional bursts of sleet against the windows reminded him that the elements were awake and uneasy. Once or twice the windows rattled and the rain hissed in the fire, but the roar of the wind in the chimney grew less and less and the lonely building was at last lapped in a great stillness. The coals clicked, settling themselves deeper in the grate, and the noise of the cinders dropping with a tiny report into the soft heap of accumulated ashes was the only sound that punctuated the silence.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 12 / 22
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Altogether, it was very pleasant and comfortable; but, tired though he was, Shorthouse had no intention of going to bed. It was impossible to disregard the warning of his nerves. They had never failed him before, and when that sense of distressing horror lodged in his bones he knew that something was in the wind and that a red flag was flying over the immediate future. Some delicate instrument in his being, more subtle than the senses, more accurate than mere presentiment, had seen the red flag and interpreted its meaning.
Again it seemed to him, as he sat in an armchair over the fire, that his movements were being carefully watched from somewhere; and, not knowing what weapons might be used against him, he felt that his real safety lay in a rigid control of his mind and feelings and a stout refusal to admit that he was in the least alarmed.
The house was very still. As the night wore on the wind dropped. Only occasional bursts of sleet against the windows reminded him that the elements were awake and uneasy. Once or twice the windows rattled and the rain hissed in the fire, but the roar of the wind in the chimney grew less and less and the lonely building was at last lapped in a great stillness. The coals clicked, settling themselves deeper in the grate, and the noise of the cinders dropping with a tiny report into the soft heap of accumulated ashes was the only sound that punctuated the silence.In proportion as the power of sleep grew upon him the dread of the situation lessened; but so imperceptibly, so gradually, and so insidiously that he scarcely realised the change. He thought he was as wide awake to his danger as ever. He attributed the successful exclusion of the horrible mental images of what he had seen to his rigorous control, rather than to their true cause: the creeping influence of sleep. The faces in the coals were so soothing; the armchair was so comfortable; the breath that gently pressed on his eyelids was so sweet; the sensation of safety grew so subtly. He settled deeper into the chair, and in another moment he would have been asleep when the red flag began to shake violently back and forth, and he sat bolt upright as if he had been stabbed in the back.
Someone was coming up the stairs. The boards creaked under a stealthy weight.
Shorthouse sprang from the chair and crossed the room swiftly, taking up his position beside the door, but out of range of the keyhole. The two candles flared unevenly on the table at the foot of the bed. The steps were slow and cautious—it seemed thirty seconds between each one—but the person taking them was very close to the door. Already he had reached the top of the stairs and was shuffling almost silently across the small landing.
The secretary slipped his hand into his pistol pocket and drew back further against the wall, and hardly had he completed the movement when the sounds abruptly ceased, and he knew that someone was standing just outside the door, preparing to observe carefully through the keyhole.
He was by no means a coward. In action, he was never afraid. It was the waiting and wondering and the uncertainty that might have loosened his nerves a little. But, somehow, a wave of intense horror swept over him for a second as he thought of the bestial maniac and his attendant Jew; and he would rather have faced a pack of wolves than have to do with either of these men.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 13 / 22
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
In proportion as the power of sleep grew upon him the dread of the situation lessened; but so imperceptibly, so gradually, and so insidiously that he scarcely realised the change. He thought he was as wide awake to his danger as ever. He attributed the successful exclusion of the horrible mental images of what he had seen to his rigorous control, rather than to their true cause: the creeping influence of sleep. The faces in the coals were so soothing; the armchair was so comfortable; the breath that gently pressed on his eyelids was so sweet; the sensation of safety grew so subtly. He settled deeper into the chair, and in another moment he would have been asleep when the red flag began to shake violently back and forth, and he sat bolt upright as if he had been stabbed in the back.
Someone was coming up the stairs. The boards creaked under a stealthy weight.
Shorthouse sprang from the chair and crossed the room swiftly, taking up his position beside the door, but out of range of the keyhole. The two candles flared unevenly on the table at the foot of the bed. The steps were slow and cautious—it seemed thirty seconds between each one—but the person taking them was very close to the door. Already he had reached the top of the stairs and was shuffling almost silently across the small landing.
The secretary slipped his hand into his pistol pocket and drew back further against the wall, and hardly had he completed the movement when the sounds abruptly ceased, and he knew that someone was standing just outside the door, preparing to observe carefully through the keyhole.
He was by no means a coward. In action, he was never afraid. It was the waiting and wondering and the uncertainty that might have loosened his nerves a little. But, somehow, a wave of intense horror swept over him for a second as he thought of the bestial maniac and his attendant Jew; and he would rather have faced a pack of wolves than have to do with either of these men.Something brushing gently against the door made his nerves tingle afresh and made him tighten his grip on the pistol. The steel was cold and slippery in his moist fingers. What an awful noise it would make when he pulled the trigger! If the door were to open, how close he would be to the figure that came in! Yet he knew it was locked on the inside and could not possibly open. Again, something brushed against the panel beside him, and a second later the piece of crumpled paper fell from the keyhole to the floor, while the piece of thin wire that had accomplished this result showed its point for a moment in the room and was then swiftly withdrawn.
Somebody was evidently peering now through the keyhole, and realising this fact, the spirit of attack entered into the heart of the beleaguered man. Raising aloft his right hand, he brought it suddenly down with a resounding crash on the panel of the door next to the keyhole—a crash that, to the crouching eavesdropper, must have seemed like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky. There was a gasp and a slight lurching against the door, and the midnight listener rose startled and alarmed, for Shorthouse plainly heard the tread of feet across the landing and down the stairs till they were lost in the silences of the hall. Only, this time, it seemed to him there were four feet instead of two.
Quickly stuffing the paper back into the keyhole, he was in the act of walking back to the fireplace when, over his shoulder, he caught sight of a white face pressed in outline against the outside of the window. It was blurred in the streams of sleet, but the white of the moving eyes was unmistakable. He turned instantly to meet it, but the face was withdrawn like a flash, and darkness rushed in to fill the gap where it had appeared.
"Watched on both sides," he reflected.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 14 / 22
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Something brushing gently against the door made his nerves tingle afresh and made him tighten his grip on the pistol. The steel was cold and slippery in his moist fingers. What an awful noise it would make when he pulled the trigger! If the door were to open, how close he would be to the figure that came in! Yet he knew it was locked on the inside and could not possibly open. Again, something brushed against the panel beside him, and a second later the piece of crumpled paper fell from the keyhole to the floor, while the piece of thin wire that had accomplished this result showed its point for a moment in the room and was then swiftly withdrawn.
Somebody was evidently peering now through the keyhole, and realising this fact, the spirit of attack entered into the heart of the beleaguered man. Raising aloft his right hand, he brought it suddenly down with a resounding crash on the panel of the door next to the keyhole—a crash that, to the crouching eavesdropper, must have seemed like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky. There was a gasp and a slight lurching against the door, and the midnight listener rose startled and alarmed, for Shorthouse plainly heard the tread of feet across the landing and down the stairs till they were lost in the silences of the hall. Only, this time, it seemed to him there were four feet instead of two.
Quickly stuffing the paper back into the keyhole, he was in the act of walking back to the fireplace when, over his shoulder, he caught sight of a white face pressed in outline against the outside of the window. It was blurred in the streams of sleet, but the white of the moving eyes was unmistakable. He turned instantly to meet it, but the face was withdrawn like a flash, and darkness rushed in to fill the gap where it had appeared.
"Watched on both sides," he reflected.But he was not to be surprised into any sudden action, and quietly walking over to the fireplace as if he had seen nothing unusual, he stirred the coals a moment and then strolled leisurely over to the window. Steeling his nerves, which quivered a moment in spite of his will, he opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony. The wind, which he thought had dropped, rushed past him into the room and extinguished one of the candles, while a volley of fine cold rain burst all over his face. At first he could see nothing, and the darkness came close up to his eyes like a wall. He went a little farther onto the balcony and drew the window after him till it clashed. Then he stood and waited.
But nothing touched him. No one seemed to be there. His eyes got accustomed to the blackness and he was able to make out the iron railing, the dark shapes of the trees beyond, and the faint light coming from the other window. Through this he peered into the room, walking the length of the balcony to do so. Of course he was standing in a shaft of light, and whoever was crouching in the darkness below could plainly see him. Below?--The idea that there might be anyone above did not occur to him until, just as he was preparing to go back inside, he became aware that something was moving in the darkness above his head.
He looked up, instinctively raising a protective arm, and saw a long black line swinging against the dim wall of the house. The shutters of the window on the next floor, from which it hung, were thrown open and moving back and forth in the wind. The line was evidently a thickish cord, for as he watched it was pulled in and the end disappeared into the darkness.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 15 / 22
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
But he was not to be surprised into any sudden action, and quietly walking over to the fireplace as if he had seen nothing unusual, he stirred the coals a moment and then strolled leisurely over to the window. Steeling his nerves, which quivered a moment in spite of his will, he opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony. The wind, which he thought had dropped, rushed past him into the room and extinguished one of the candles, while a volley of fine cold rain burst all over his face. At first he could see nothing, and the darkness came close up to his eyes like a wall. He went a little farther onto the balcony and drew the window after him till it clashed. Then he stood and waited.
But nothing touched him. No one seemed to be there. His eyes got accustomed to the blackness and he was able to make out the iron railing, the dark shapes of the trees beyond, and the faint light coming from the other window. Through this he peered into the room, walking the length of the balcony to do so. Of course he was standing in a shaft of light, and whoever was crouching in the darkness below could plainly see him. _Below?_--The idea that there might be anyone _above_ did not occur to him until, just as he was preparing to go back inside, he became aware that something was moving in the darkness above his head.
He looked up, instinctively raising a protective arm, and saw a long black line swinging against the dim wall of the house. The shutters of the window on the next floor, from which it hung, were thrown open and moving back and forth in the wind. The line was evidently a thickish cord, for as he watched it was pulled in and the end disappeared into the darkness.Shorthouse, trying to whistle to himself, peered over the edge of the balcony as if calculating the distance he might have to drop, and then calmly walked back into the room and closed the window behind him, leaving the latch so that the slightest touch would cause it to fly open. He relit the candle and drew a straight-backed chair up to the table. Then he put coal on the fire and stirred it up into a roaring blaze. He would willingly have folded the shutters over those staring windows at his back. But that was out of the question. It would have been to cut off his means of escape.
Sleep, for the time being, was at a disadvantage. His brain was filled with blood, and every nerve was tingling. He felt as if countless eyes were on him, and scores of stained hands were stretching out from the corners and crannies of the house to seize him. Crouching figures, figures of hideous Jews, stood everywhere around him where there was shelter, creeping forward out of the shadows when he was not looking and retreating swiftly and silently when he turned his head. Wherever he looked, other eyes met his own, and though they melted away under his steady, confident gaze, he knew they would wax stronger and draw in on him the instant his gaze weakened and his will wavered.
Although there were no sounds, he knew that in the well of the house there was movement going on, and preparation. And this knowledge, inasmuch as it came to him irresistibly and through channels other and more subtle than those of the senses, kept the sense of horror fresh in his blood and made him alert and awake.
But, no matter how great the dread in the heart, the power of sleep will eventually overcome it. Exhausted nature is irresistible, and as the minutes wore on and midnight passed, he realised that nature was vigorously asserting herself and sleep was creeping on him from the extremities.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 16 / 22
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Shorthouse, trying to whistle to himself, peered over the edge of the balcony as if calculating the distance he might have to drop, and then calmly walked back into the room and closed the window behind him, leaving the latch so that the slightest touch would cause it to fly open. He relit the candle and drew a straight-backed chair up to the table. Then he put coal on the fire and stirred it up into a roaring blaze. He would willingly have folded the shutters over those staring windows at his back. But that was out of the question. It would have been to cut off his means of escape.
Sleep, for the time being, was at a disadvantage. His brain was filled with blood, and every nerve was tingling. He felt as if countless eyes were on him, and scores of stained hands were stretching out from the corners and crannies of the house to seize him. Crouching figures, figures of hideous Jews, stood everywhere around him where there was shelter, creeping forward out of the shadows when he was not looking and retreating swiftly and silently when he turned his head. Wherever he looked, other eyes met his own, and though they melted away under his steady, confident gaze, he knew they would wax stronger and draw in on him the instant his gaze weakened and his will wavered.
Although there were no sounds, he knew that in the well of the house there was movement going on, _and preparation_. And this knowledge, inasmuch as it came to him irresistibly and through channels other and more subtle than those of the senses, kept the sense of horror fresh in his blood and made him alert and awake.
But, no matter how great the dread in the heart, the power of sleep will eventually overcome it. Exhausted nature is irresistible, and as the minutes wore on and midnight passed, he realised that nature was vigorously asserting herself and sleep was creeping on him from the extremities.To lessen the danger, he took out his pencil and began to draw the articles of furniture in the room. He worked out elaborate details of the cupboard, the mantelpiece, and the bed, and from these he passed on to the portraits. Possessed of genuine skill, he found the occupation sufficiently absorbing. It kept the blood in his brain, and that kept him awake. The pictures, moreover, now that he considered them for the first time, were exceedingly well painted. Owing to the dim light, he centred his attention on the portraits beside the fireplace. On the right was a woman, with a sweet, gentle face and a figure of great refinement; on the left was a full-size figure of a big handsome man with a full beard, wearing a hunting costume of ancient date.
From time to time he turned to the windows behind him, but the vision of the face was not repeated. More than once, too, he went to the door and listened, but the silence in the house was so profound that he gradually came to believe the plan of attack had been abandoned. Once he went out onto the balcony, but the sleet stung his face and he only had time to see that the shutters above were closed, when he was obliged to seek the shelter of the room again.
In this way the hours passed. The fire died down and the room grew chilly. Shorthouse had made several sketches of the two heads and was beginning to feel overpoweringly weary. His feet and his hands were cold and his yawns were prodigious. It seemed ages and ages since the steps had come to listen at his door and the face had watched him from the window. A feeling of safety had somehow come over him. In reality he was exhausted. His one desire was to drop onto the soft white bed and yield himself up to sleep without any further struggle.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 17 / 22
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
To lessen the danger, he took out his pencil and began to draw the articles of furniture in the room. He worked out elaborate details of the cupboard, the mantelpiece, and the bed, and from these he passed on to the portraits. Possessed of genuine skill, he found the occupation sufficiently absorbing. It kept the blood in his brain, and that kept him awake. The pictures, moreover, now that he considered them for the first time, were exceedingly well painted. Owing to the dim light, he centred his attention on the portraits beside the fireplace. On the right was a woman, with a sweet, gentle face and a figure of great refinement; on the left was a full-size figure of a big handsome man with a full beard, wearing a hunting costume of ancient date.
From time to time he turned to the windows behind him, but the vision of the face was not repeated. More than once, too, he went to the door and listened, but the silence in the house was so profound that he gradually came to believe the plan of attack had been abandoned. Once he went out onto the balcony, but the sleet stung his face and he only had time to see that the shutters above were closed, when he was obliged to seek the shelter of the room again.
In this way the hours passed. The fire died down and the room grew chilly. Shorthouse had made several sketches of the two heads and was beginning to feel overpoweringly weary. His feet and his hands were cold and his yawns were prodigious. It seemed ages and ages since the steps had come to listen at his door and the face had watched him from the window. A feeling of safety had somehow come over him. In reality he was exhausted. His one desire was to drop onto the soft white bed and yield himself up to sleep without any further struggle.He rose from his chair with a series of yawns that refused to be stifled and looked at his watch. It was close on three in the morning. He made up his mind that he would lie down with his clothes on and get some sleep. It was safe enough; the door was locked on the inside and the window was fastened. Putting the bag on the table near his pillow, he blew out the candles and dropped with a sense of careless and delicious exhaustion onto the soft mattress. Within five minutes he was sound asleep.
There had scarcely been time for the dreams to come when he found himself lying sideways across the bed with wide-open eyes staring into the darkness. Someone had touched him, and he had writhed away in his sleep as from something unholy. The movement had awakened him.
The room was simply black. No light came from the windows, and the fire had gone out as completely as if water had been poured on it. He gazed into a sheet of impenetrable darkness that came close up to his face like a wall.
His first thought was for the papers in his coat, and his hand flew to the pocket. They were safe; and the relief caused by this discovery instantly freed his mind for other reflections.
And the realisation that at once came to him with a touch of dismay was that during his sleep some definite change had been effected in the room. He felt this with that intuitive certainty which amounts to positive knowledge. The room was utterly still, but the corroboration that was speedily brought to him seemed at once to fill the darkness with a whispering, secret life that chilled his blood and made the sheet feel like ice against his cheek.
Hark! This was it; there reached his ears, in which the blood was already buzzing with warning clamour, a dull murmur of something that rose indistinctly from the well of the house and became audible to him without passing through walls or doors. There seemed no solid surface between him, lying on the bed, and the landing; between the landing and the stairs, and between the stairs and the hall beyond.
He knew that the door of the room was standing open! Therefore it had been opened from the inside. Yet the window was fastened, also on the inside.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 18 / 22
# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
He rose from his chair with a series of yawns that refused to be stifled and looked at his watch. It was close on three in the morning. He made up his mind that he would lie down with his clothes on and get some sleep. It was safe enough; the door was locked on the inside and the window was fastened. Putting the bag on the table near his pillow, he blew out the candles and dropped with a sense of careless and delicious exhaustion onto the soft mattress. Within five minutes he was sound asleep.
There had scarcely been time for the dreams to come when he found himself lying sideways across the bed with wide-open eyes staring into the darkness. Someone had touched him, and he had writhed away in his sleep as from something unholy. The movement had awakened him.
The room was simply black. No light came from the windows, and the fire had gone out as completely as if water had been poured on it. He gazed into a sheet of impenetrable darkness that came close up to his face like a wall.
His first thought was for the papers in his coat, and his hand flew to the pocket. They were safe; and the relief caused by this discovery instantly freed his mind for other reflections.
And the realisation that at once came to him with a touch of dismay was that during his sleep some definite _change_ had been effected in the room. He felt this with that intuitive certainty which amounts to positive knowledge. The room was utterly still, but the corroboration that was speedily brought to him seemed at once to fill the darkness with a whispering, secret life that chilled his blood and made the sheet feel like ice against his cheek.
Hark! This was it; there reached his ears, in which the blood was already buzzing with warning clamour, a dull murmur of something that rose indistinctly from the well of the house and became audible to him without passing through walls or doors. There seemed no solid surface between him, lying on the bed, and the landing; between the landing and the stairs, and between the stairs and the hall beyond.
He knew that the door of the room was standing open! Therefore it had been opened from the inside. Yet the window was fastened, also on the inside.Hardly had he realised this when the conspiring silence of the hour was broken by another and a more definite sound. A step was coming along the passage.
A certain bruise on his hip told Shorthouse that the pistol in his pocket was ready for use, and he drew it out quickly and cocked it. Then he just had time to slip over the edge of the bed and crouch down on the floor when the step halted on the threshold of the room. The bed was thus between him and the open door. The window was at his back.
He waited in the darkness. What struck him as peculiar about the footsteps was that there seemed no particular desire to move stealthily. There was no extreme caution. They moved along in rather a slipshod way and sounded like soft slippers or feet in stockings. There was something clumsy, irresponsible, almost reckless about the movement.
For a second the footsteps paused on the threshold, but only for a second. Almost immediately they came on into the room, and as they passed from the wood to the carpet Shorthouse noticed that they became wholly noiseless. He waited in suspense, not knowing whether the unseen walker was on the other side of the room or was close upon him. Presently he stood up and stretched out his left arm in front of him, groping, searching, feeling in a circle; and behind it he held the pistol, cocked and pointed, in his right hand. As he rose, a bone cracked in his knee, his clothes rustled as if they were newspapers, and his breath seemed loud enough to be heard all over the room. But not a sound came to betray the position of the invisible intruder.
Then, just when the tension was becoming unbearable, a noise relieved the gripping silence. It was wood knocking against wood, and it came from the farther end of the room. The footsteps had moved over to the fireplace. A sliding sound followed almost immediately, and then silence closed again over everything like a pall.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 19 / 22
# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Hardly had he realised this when the conspiring silence of the hour was broken by another and a more definite sound. A step was coming along the passage.
A certain bruise on his hip told Shorthouse that the pistol in his pocket was ready for use, and he drew it out quickly and cocked it. Then he just had time to slip over the edge of the bed and crouch down on the floor when the step halted on the threshold of the room. The bed was thus between him and the open door. The window was at his back.
He waited in the darkness. What struck him as peculiar about the footsteps was that there seemed no particular desire to move stealthily. There was no extreme caution. They moved along in rather a slipshod way and sounded like soft slippers or feet in stockings. There was something clumsy, irresponsible, almost reckless about the movement.
For a second the footsteps paused on the threshold, but only for a second. Almost immediately they came on into the room, and as they passed from the wood to the carpet Shorthouse noticed that they became wholly noiseless. He waited in suspense, not knowing whether the unseen walker was on the other side of the room or was close upon him. Presently he stood up and stretched out his left arm in front of him, groping, searching, feeling in a circle; and behind it he held the pistol, cocked and pointed, in his right hand. As he rose, a bone cracked in his knee, his clothes rustled as if they were newspapers, and his breath seemed loud enough to be heard all over the room. But not a sound came to betray the position of the invisible intruder.
Then, just when the tension was becoming unbearable, a noise relieved the gripping silence. It was wood knocking against wood, and it came from the farther end of the room. The footsteps had moved over to the fireplace. A sliding sound followed almost immediately, and then silence closed again over everything like a pall.For another five minutes Shorthouse waited, and then the suspense became too much. He could not stand that open door! The candles were close beside him, and he struck a match and lit them, expecting in the sudden glare to receive at least a terrific blow. But nothing happened, and he saw at once that the room was entirely empty. Walking over with the pistol cocked, he peered out into the darkness of the landing and then closed the door and turned the key. Then he searched the room—the bed, the cupboard, the table, the curtains, everything that could have concealed a man; but found no trace of the intruder. The owner of the footsteps had disappeared like a ghost into the shadows of the night. But for one fact he might have imagined that he had been dreaming: the bag had vanished!
There was no more sleep for Shorthouse that night. His watch pointed to 4
It was a.m., and there were still three hours before daylight. He sat down at the table and continued his sketches. With fixed determination, he went on with his drawing and began a new outline of the man's head. There was something in the expression that continually eluded him. He had no success with it, and this time it seemed to him that it was the eyes that brought about his discomfiture. He held up his pencil before his face to measure the distance between the nose and the eyes, and to his amazement he saw that a change had come over the features. The eyes were no longer open. The lids had closed! For a second he stood in a sort of stupefied astonishment. A push would have toppled him over. Then he sprang to his feet and held a candle close up to the picture.
The eye-lids quivered, the eye-lashes trembled. Then, right before his gaze, the eyes opened and looked straight into his own. Two holes were cut in the panel, and this pair of eyes, human eyes, just fitted them.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 20 / 22
# chapter_page: 20
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
For another five minutes Shorthouse waited, and then the suspense became too much. He could not stand that open door! The candles were close beside him, and he struck a match and lit them, expecting in the sudden glare to receive at least a terrific blow. But nothing happened, and he saw at once that the room was entirely empty. Walking over with the pistol cocked, he peered out into the darkness of the landing and then closed the door and turned the key. Then he searched the room—the bed, the cupboard, the table, the curtains, everything that could have concealed a man; but found no trace of the intruder. The owner of the footsteps had disappeared like a ghost into the shadows of the night. But for one fact he might have imagined that he had been dreaming: _the bag had vanished_!
There was no more sleep for Shorthouse that night. His watch pointed to 4
It was a.m., and there were still three hours before daylight. He sat down at the table and continued his sketches. With fixed determination, he went on with his drawing and began a new outline of the man's head. There was something in the expression that continually eluded him. He had no success with it, and this time it seemed to him that it was the eyes that brought about his discomfiture. He held up his pencil before his face to measure the distance between the nose and the eyes, and to his amazement he saw that a change had come over the features. The eyes were no longer open. _The lids had closed!_ For a second he stood in a sort of stupefied astonishment. A push would have toppled him over. Then he sprang to his feet and held a candle close up to the picture.
The eye-lids quivered, the eye-lashes trembled. Then, right before his gaze, the eyes opened and looked straight into his own. Two holes were cut in the panel, and this pair of eyes, human eyes, just fitted them.As if by a curious effect of magic, the strong fear that had governed him ever since his entry into the house disappeared in a second. Anger rushed into his heart, and his chilled blood suddenly rose to boiling point. Putting the candle down, he took two steps back into the room and then flung himself forward with all his strength against the painted panel. Instantly, and before the crash came, the eyes were withdrawn, and two black spaces showed where they had been. The old huntsman was eyeless. But the panel cracked and split inwards like a sheet of thin cardboard; and Shorthouse, pistol in hand, thrust an arm through the jagged aperture and, seizing a human leg, dragged out into the room--the Jew!
Words rushed in such a torrent to his lips that they choked him. The old Hebrew, white as chalk, stood shaking before him, the bright pistol barrel opposite his eyes, when a volume of cold air rushed into the room, and with it a sound of hurried steps. Shorthouse felt his arm knocked up before he had time to turn, and in the same second Garvey, who had somehow managed to burst open the window, came between him and the trembling Marx. His lips were parted and his eyes rolled strangely in his distorted face.
"Don't shoot him! Shoot in the air!" he shrieked. He seized the Jew by the shoulders.
"You damned hound," he roared, hissing in his face. "So I've got you at last. That's where your vacuum is, is it? I know your vile hiding-place at last." He shook him like a dog. "I've been after him all night," he cried, turning to Shorthouse, "all night, I tell you, and I've got him at last."
Garvey lifted his upper lip as he spoke and showed his teeth. They shone like the fangs of a wolf. The Jew evidently saw them too, for he gave a horrid yell and struggled furiously.
Before the secretary's eyes a mist seemed to rise. The hideous shadow leaped again into Garvey's face. He foresaw a dreadful battle, and covering the two men with his pistol he retreated slowly to the door. Whether they were both mad, or both criminal, he did not pause to inquire. The only thought present in his mind was that the sooner he made his escape the better.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 21 / 22
# chapter_page: 21
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
As if by a curious effect of magic, the strong fear that had governed him ever since his entry into the house disappeared in a second. Anger rushed into his heart, and his chilled blood suddenly rose to boiling point. Putting the candle down, he took two steps back into the room and then flung himself forward with all his strength against the painted panel. Instantly, and before the crash came, the eyes were withdrawn, and two black spaces showed where they had been. The old huntsman was eyeless. But the panel cracked and split inwards like a sheet of thin cardboard; and Shorthouse, pistol in hand, thrust an arm through the jagged aperture and, seizing a human leg, dragged out into the room--the Jew!
Words rushed in such a torrent to his lips that they choked him. The old Hebrew, white as chalk, stood shaking before him, the bright pistol barrel opposite his eyes, when a volume of cold air rushed into the room, and with it a sound of hurried steps. Shorthouse felt his arm knocked up before he had time to turn, and in the same second Garvey, who had somehow managed to burst open the window, came between him and the trembling Marx. His lips were parted and his eyes rolled strangely in his distorted face.
"Don't shoot him! Shoot in the air!" he shrieked. He seized the Jew by the shoulders.
"You damned hound," he roared, hissing in his face. "So I've got you at last. That's where your vacuum is, is it? I know your vile hiding-place at last." He shook him like a dog. "I've been after him all night," he cried, turning to Shorthouse, "all night, I tell you, and I've got him at last."
Garvey lifted his upper lip as he spoke and showed his teeth. They shone like the fangs of a wolf. The Jew evidently saw them too, for he gave a horrid yell and struggled furiously.
Before the secretary's eyes a mist seemed to rise. The hideous shadow leaped again into Garvey's face. He foresaw a dreadful battle, and covering the two men with his pistol he retreated slowly to the door. Whether they were both mad, or both criminal, he did not pause to inquire. The only thought present in his mind was that the sooner he made his escape the better.Garvey was still shaking the Jew when he reached the door and turned the key, but as he passed out onto the landing both men stopped their struggle and turned to face him. Garvey's face was bestial, loathsome, livid with anger; the Jew's was white and grey with fear and horror;—both turned towards him and joined in a wild, horrible yell that woke the echoes of the night. The next second they were after him at full speed.
Shorthouse slammed the door in their faces and was at the foot of the stairs, crouching in the shadow, before they were out on the landing. They tore shrieking down the stairs and past him, into the hall; and, wholly unnoticed, Shorthouse whipped up the stairs again, crossed the bedroom and dropped from the balcony into the soft snow.
As he ran down the drive he heard behind him in the house the yells of the maniacs; and when he reached home several hours later Mr. Sidebotham not only raised his salary but also told him to buy a new hat and overcoat, and send in the bill to him.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-b54f52e38db141a091639061badeb5ef
# book_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# chapter_id: 1-the-strange-adventures-of-a-private-secretary-in-new-york
# chapter_title: The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York
# book_page: 22 / 22
# chapter_page: 22
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Garvey was still shaking the Jew when he reached the door and turned the key, but as he passed out onto the landing both men stopped their struggle and turned to face him. Garvey's face was bestial, loathsome, livid with anger; the Jew's was white and grey with fear and horror;—both turned towards him and joined in a wild, horrible yell that woke the echoes of the night. The next second they were after him at full speed.
Shorthouse slammed the door in their faces and was at the foot of the stairs, crouching in the shadow, before they were out on the landing. They tore shrieking down the stairs and past him, into the hall; and, wholly unnoticed, Shorthouse whipped up the stairs again, crossed the bedroom and dropped from the balcony into the soft snow.
As he ran down the drive he heard behind him in the house the yells of the maniacs; and when he reached home several hours later Mr. Sidebotham not only raised his salary but also told him to buy a new hat and overcoat, and send in the bill to him.
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