“Are you sure it is a fact?” I gasped. I was trembling in every limb, but managed to close the door behind us before I sank into a chair. “I have lived in this house twenty years. I know its rooms and halls as I do my own face, and never, never have I suspected that there was a nook or corner in it which was not open to the light of day. Yet—yet it is true that the rooms on this floor are smaller than those above, this one especially.” And I cast a horrified glance about me, that reminded me, even against my will, of the searching and peculiar look I had seen cast in the same direction by Mr. Urquhart sixteen years before.
“I see that I have stumbled upon a bit of knowledge that has been kept from the purchasers of this property,” observed the old gentleman. “Well, that does not detract from the interest of the occasion. When I knew I was to pass this way, I said to myself I shall certainly stop at the old inn with the secret chamber in it, but I did not think I should be the first one to disclose its secret to the present generation. But my information seems to affect you strangely. Is it such a disturbing thing to find that one’s house has held a disused spot within it, that might have been made useful if you had known of its existence?”
I could not answer. I was enveloped in a strange horror, and was only conscious of the one wish—that Burritt had lived to help me through the dreadful hour I saw before me.
“Let us see if my information has been correct,” continued Mr. Tamworth. “Perhaps there has been some mistake. The secret chamber, if there is one, should be behind this chimney. Shall I hunt for an opening?”
I managed to shake my head. I had not strength for the experiment yet. I wanted to prepare myself.
“Tell me first how you heard about this room?” I entreated.
He drew his chair nearer to mine with the greatest courtesy.
“There is no reason why I should not tell you,” replied he, “and as I see that you are in no mood for a long story, I shall make my words as few as possible. Some years ago I had occasion to spend a night in an inn not unlike this, on Long Island. I was alone, but there was a merry crowd in the tap room, and being fond of good company, I presently found myself joining in the conversation. The talk was of inns, and many a stirring story of adventure in out-of-the-way taverns did I listen to that night before the clock struck twelve. Each man present had some humorous or thrilling experience to relate, with the exception of a certain glum and dark-browed gentleman, who sat somewhat apart from the rest, and who said nothing. His reticence was in such marked contrast to the volubility about him that he finally attracted universal attention, and more than one of the merry-makers near him asked if he had not some anecdote to add to the rest. But though he replied with sufficient politeness, it was evident that he had no intention of dropping his reserve, and it was not till the party had broken up and the room was nearly cleared that he deigned to address any one. Then he turned to me, and with a very peculiar smile, remarked:
“‘A dull collection of tales, sir. Bah! if they had wanted to hear of an inn that was really romantic, I could have told them—’
“‘What?’ I involuntarily ejaculated. ‘You will not torture me by suggesting a mystery you will not explain.’
“He looked very indifferent.
“‘It is nothing,’ he declared, ‘only I know of an inn—at least it is used for an inn now—which has in its interior a secret chamber so deftly hidden away in the very heart of the house that I doubt if even its present owner could find it without the minutest directions from the man who saw it built. I knew that man. He was an Englishman, and he had a fancy to make his fortune through the aid of smuggled goods. He did it; and though always suspected, was never convicted, owing to the fact that he kept all his goods in this hidden room. The place is sold now, but the room remains. I wonder if any forgotten treasures lie in it. Imagination could easily run riot over the supposition, do you not think so, sir?’
“I certainly did, especially as I imagined myself to detect in every line of his able and crafty face that he bore a closer relation to the Englishman than he would have me believe. I did not betray my feelings, however, but urged him to tell me how in a modern house, a room, or even a closet, could be so concealed as not to awaken any one’s suspicion. He answered by taking out pencil and paper, and showing me, by a few lines, the secret of its construction. Then seeing me deeply interested, he went on to say:
“‘We find what we have been told to search for; but here is a case where the secret has been so well kept that in all possibility the question of this room’s existence has never arisen. It is just as well.’
“Meantime I was studying the plan.
“‘The hidden chamber lies,’ said I, ‘between this room,’ designating one with my forefinger, ‘and these two others. From which is it entered?’
“He pointed at the one I had first indicated.
“‘From this,’ he affirmed. ‘And a quaint, old-fashioned room it is, too, with a wainscoting of oak all around it as high as a man’s head. It used to be called the oak parlor, and many a time has its floor rung to the tread of the king’s soldiers, who, disappointed in their search for hidden goods, consented to take a drink at their host’s expense, little recking that, but a few feet away, behind the carven chimneypiece upon which they doubtless set down their glasses, there lay heaps and heaps of the richest goods, only awaiting their own departure to be scattered through the length and breadth of the land.’
“‘And this house is now an inn?’ I remarked.
“‘Yes.’
“‘Curious. I should like nothing better than to visit that inn.’
“‘You doubtless have.’
“‘It is not this one?’ I suddenly cried, looking uneasily about me.
“‘Oh, no; it is on the Hudson River, not fifty miles this side of Albany. It is called the Happy-Go-Lucky, and is in a woman’s hands at present; but it prospers, I believe. Perhaps because she has discovered the secret, and knows where to keep her stores.’ And with a shrug of his shoulders he dismissed the subject, with the remark: ‘I don’t know why I told you of this. I never made it the subject of conversation before in my life.’
“This was just before the outbreak in Lexington, sixteen years ago, ma’am, and this is the first time I have found myself in this region since that day. But I have never forgotten this story of a secret room, and when I took the coach this morning I made up my mind that I would spend the night here, and, if possible, see the famous oak parlor, with its mysterious adjunct; never dreaming that in all these years of your occupancy you would have remained as ignorant of its existence as he hinted and you have now declared.”
Mr. Tamworth paused, looking so benevolent that I summoned up my courage, and quietly informed him that he had not told me what kind of a looking man this stranger was.
“Was he young?” I asked. “Had he a blond complexion?”
“On the contrary,” interrupted Mr. Tamworth, “he was very dark, and, in years, as old or nearly as old as myself.”
I was disappointed. I had expected a different reply. As he talked of the stranger, I had, rightfully or wrongfully, with reason or without reason, seen before me the face of Mr. Urquhart, and this description of a dark and well-nigh aged man completely disconcerted me.
“Are you certain this man was not in disguise?” I asked.
“Disguise?”
“Are you certain that he was not young, and blond, and—”
“Quite sure,” was the dry interruption. “No disguise could transform a young blood into the man I saw that night. May I ask—”
In