“Oh, we’re all right.”
“That is lucky. Our somewhat odd party needs a few able-bodied members to look after the rest. Our friend Mr. Thomson is sneezing his head off. Not that the absence of his head would make much material difference to his utility——”
“Come, sir, he is washing up!” interposed David with a grin. “As a matter of fact, I think I ought to go and help him.”
“You will disappoint him if you do,” retorted Mr. Maltby. “Mr. Thomson is one of those sensitive young men who need so much help that they insist on none. He is, as you say, washing up, and from sundry sounds I have heard between sneezes he is also breaking up. I imagine we shall have to include two cups and a saucer in the account for damages. I also imagine that, before midnight, our Mr. Thomson will be running a very high temperature. He is the one who ought to be in bed.”
“He certainly looks a bit glassy,” nodded David.
“So does the lady you have just carried upstairs. What is her name?”
“Jessie Noyes.”
“Jessie Noyes. Well, she probably has a temperature, too. I am less certain about the last victim, Mr. Hopkins. My estimation of that individual is that he will develop a temperature if he wants to, but not otherwise. I undoubtedly have a temperature. Young man—I beg your pardon, you do not like being called young man.”
“By Mr. Hopkins,” qualified David.
“Thank you,” smiled Mr. Maltby. “Personally, I should like to be called a young man by anybody. Still, I will avoid the phrase, in case you retaliate by calling me old man.”
“My name is David Carrington.”
“Well, Mr. Carrington, we have met in a most extraordinary situation, and it is this extraordinary situation that is causing me to pay no attention to my temperature. I am sorry to have missed Charles the First, but, do you know, I find that old chap up on the wall there equally interesting? In fact, I find this entire house interesting, though so far I have seen little of it—there goes another sneeze, and another cup—yes, and I am quite ready to contract pneumonia or any other physical complaint to discover its secret.”
“Secret?” repeated David.
“You do not agree with me that it has a secret?” inquired Mr. Maltby.
“You mean, everybody being out, and the fires going?”
“Is that all?”
“No. The bread-knife on the floor.”
“The bread-knife on the floor. Most important, that!... Yet, of course, it may be.... And that is all?”
David frowned.
“You know, sir,” he said, “I think you and I might get on quite well if you’d be a bit more explicit.”
“I have the same idea, Mr. Carrington,” answered Mr. Maltby. “But I can only be explicit on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“That you do not pass on what I tell you without my permission.”
David hesitated. “I don’t like giving blind promises,” he said.
“I don’t like exacting them,” replied Mr. Maltby. “You are under no obligation to give this one.”
“Only I won’t hear what you’ve got to tell me if I don’t?” The old man shook his head. “All right, I agree. No, wait a moment. Why am I privileged?”
“Because I may need some help before we leave this place. I may need some one to talk to—to think aloud to. You seem to me the best person for that office.”
“Thanks. Well, sir, it’s a bargain.”
Mr. Maltby walked slowly round the hall. In his little tour he opened doors, looked up the stairs, and returned to the fire. Then he said:
“You have just heard about a tragedy on the train.”
“We all heard about that,” answered David.
“A bad tragedy. One that is going to affect us uncomfortably. But the tragedy on the train is not the only tragedy. Oh, no.” He turned his head and glanced at the picture over the mantelpiece. The figure of paint appeared to be listening to the figure of flesh and blood. “There is another tragedy, and it may be that this other tragedy is going to affect us even more uncomfortably. You see, the horror on the train, great though it may turn out to be—as yet I know little about it—will not compare, I am certain, with the horror that exists here, in this house. Tell me, Mr. Carrington, am I just spinning melodramatic words to you, or do you feel the horror in this house?”
“I—I’m not sure,” replied David unconvincingly.
“I am to accept that?”
“No.”
“Then try again.”
“Yes, I do feel it.”
“I knew you did,” answered Mr. Maltby. “We all feel it, but not in the same degree, or in the same way. Perhaps there is one exception at the moment. Mr. Hopkins. So far he has felt little beyond his own misery. But he will feel it, too, in due course, for all his pooh-poohs. It would not surprise me at all if he is the first to crumble.... Your mind is rebelling against all this,” the old man challenged suddenly. “You are saying to yourself, ‘Oh, nonsense! This is just nerves! I am being influenced by that silly spook-spouting old idiot Mr. Maltby.’ Let us examine that theory, then, to dismiss it. Did you begin to feel something strange about this house after I arrived, or before?”
“Before,” admitted David.
“Then I cannot be responsible.”
“It wouldn’t seem so.”
“When did you first feel it?”
“I suppose, pretty well as soon as I entered.”
“Were your sensations general, or did any particular thing strike you? We will exclude such items as bread-knives.”
“Yes, one thing did strike me.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t seem any good telling you, since you appear to know everything in advance.”
“Of all there is to know, I know very little in advance. What struck you?”
“Well, that picture over the fireplace.”
“In what way did it strike you?”
“I don’t know. Sorry if that’s not satisfactory.”
“Shall I put a suggestion into your head?”
“Please do.”
“Did it strike you that the old fellow in the picture was watching you? Listening to you?”
“But, of course, that was ridiculous!”
“Absolute nonsense. Well, what else struck you? You were coming down the stairs as I arrived. I caught a glimpse of your face. You were not very happy.”
“I’d had a bit of a shock.”
“Yes?”
“When you saw me coming down those stairs I was returning from my second ascent of them. I’d been poking round a bit before, and the first time I’d found a door locked. Top room. It worried me, because I thought I heard sounds behind it, but I got no reply when I knocked.”
“What sort of sounds?” inquired Mr. Maltby.
“Nothing very distinct. Somebody moving, that was the impression. And then silence.”
“Did