“Yes, let us go to the inn. Let us get back to humanity.” Malone and Roxton turned away, but the clergyman stood fast. He had drawn a crucifix from his pocket.
“You can go,” said he. “I am going back.”
“What! Into the house?”
“Yes, into the house.”
“Padre, this is madness! It will break your neck. We were all like stuffed dolls in its clutch.”
“Well, let it break my neck. I am going.”
“You are not! Here, Malone, catch hold of him!”
But it was too late With a few quick steps, Mr. Mason had reached the door, flung it open, passed in and closed it behind him. As his comrades tried to follow, they heard a creaking clang upon the further side. The padre had bolted them out. There was a great slit where the letter-box had been. Through it Lord Roxton entreated him to return.
“Stay there!” said the quick, stern voice of the clergyman. “I have my work to do. I will come when it is done.” A moment later he began to speak. His sweet, homely, affectionate accents rang through the hall. They could only hear snatches outside, bits of prayer, bits of exhortation, bits of kindly greeting. Looking through the narrow opening, Malone could see the straight, dark figure in the candlelight, its back to the door, its face to the shadows of the stair, the crucifix held aloft in its right hand.
His voice sank into silence and then there came one more of the miracles of this eventful night. A voice answered him. It was such a sound as neither of the auditors had heard before — a guttural, rasping, croaking utterance, indescribably menacing. What it said was short, but it was instantly answered by the clergyman, his tone sharpened to a fine edge by emotion. His utterance seemed to be exhortation and was at once answered by the ominous voice from beyond. Again and again, and yet again came the speech and the answer, sometimes shorter, sometimes longer, varying in every key of pleading, arguing, praying, soothing, and everything save upbraiding. Chilled to the marrow, Roxton and Malone crouched by the door, catching snatches of that inconceivable dialogue. Then, after what seemed a weary time, though it was less than an hour, Mr. Mason, in a loud, full, exultant tone, repeated the “Our Father.” Was it fancy, or echo, or was there really some accompanying voice in the darkness beyond him? A moment later the light went out in the left-hand window, the bolt was drawn, and the clergyman emerged carrying Lord Roxton’s bag. His face looked ghastly in the moonlight, but his manner was brisk and happy.
“I think you will find everything here,” he said, handing over the bag.
Roxton and Malone took him by either arm and hurried him down to the road.
“By Jove! You don’t give us the slip again!” cried the nobleman. “Padre, you should have a row of Victoria Crosses.”
“No, no, it was my duty. Poor fellow, he needed help so badly. I am but a fellow-sinner and yet I was able to give it.”
“You did him good?”
“I humbly hope so. I was but the instrument of the higher forces. The house is haunted no longer. He promised. But I will not speak of it now. It may be easier in days to come.”
The landlord and the maids stared at the three adventurers in amazement when, in the chill light of the winter dawn, they presented themselves at the inn once more. Each of them seemed to have aged five years in the night. Mr. Mason, with the reaction upon him, threw himself down upon the horsehair sofa in the humble coffee-room and was instantly asleep.
“Poor chap! He looks pretty bad!” said Malone. Indeed, his white, haggard face and long, limp limbs might have been those of a corpse.
“We will get a cup of hot tea into him,” Lord Roxton answered, warming his hands at the fire, which the maid had just lit. “By Jove! We shall be none the worse for some ourselves. Well, young fellah, we’ve got what we came for. I’ve had my sensation, and you’ve had your copy.
“And he has had the saving of a soul. Well, we must admit that our objects seem very humble compared to his.”
They caught the early train to London, and had a carriage to themselves. Mason had said little and seemed to be lost in thought. Suddenly he turned to his companions. “I say, you two, would you mind joining me in prayer?” Lord Roxton made a grimace. “I warn you, padre, I am rather out of practice.”
“Please kneel down with me. I want your aid.”
They knelt down, side by side, the padre in the middle. Malone made a mental note of the prayer.
“Father, we are all Your children, poor, weak, helpless creatures, swayed by Fate and circumstance. I implore You that You will turn eyes of compassion upon the man, Rupert Tremayne, who wandered far from You, and is now in the dark. He has sunk deep, very deep, for he had a proud heart which would not soften, and a cruel mind, which was filled with hate. But now he would turn to the light, and so I beg help for him and for the woman, Emma, who, for the love of him, has gone down into the darkness. May she raise him, as she had tried to do. May they both break the bonds of evil memory which tie them to earth. May they, from to-night, move up towards that glorious light which sooner or later shines upon even the lowest.”
They rose from their knees.
“That’s better!” cried the padre, thumping his chest with his bony hand, and breaking out into his expansive, toothsome grin. “What a night! Good Lord, what a night!”1
1. Vide Appendix.
9. Which Introduces Some Very Physical Phenomena
Malone seemed destined to be entangled in the affairs of the Linden family, for he had hardly seen the last of the unfortunate Tom before he became involved in a very much more unpleasant fashion with his unsavoury brother.
The episode began by a telephone ring in the morning and the voice of Algernon Mailey at the far end of the wire.
“Are you clear for this afternoon?”
“At your service.”
“I say, Malone, you are a hefty man. You played Rugger for Ireland, did you not? You don’t mind a possible rough-and-tumble, do you?”
Malone grinned over the receiver.
“You can count me in.”
“It may be really rather formidable. We shall have possibly to tackle a prize-fighter.”
“Right-o!” said Malone, cheerfully.
“And we want another man for the job. Do you know any fellow who would come along just for the sake of the adventure. If he knows anything about psychic matters, all the better.”
Malone puzzled for a moment. Then he had an inspiration.
“There is Roxton,” said he. “He’s not a chicken, but he is a useful man in a row. I think I could get him. He has been keen on your subject since his Dorsetshire experience.”
“Right! Bring him along! If he can’t come, we shall have to tackle the job ourselves. Forty-one, Belshaw Gardens, S.W. Near Earl’s Court Station. Three p.m. Right!”
Malone at once rang up Lord Roxton, and soon heard the familiar voice.
“What’s that, young fellah? A scrap? Why, certainly. What . . . I mean I had a golf match at Richmond Deer Park, but this sounds more attractive . . . What? Very good. I’ll meet you there.”
And so it came about that at the hour of three, Mailey, Lord Roxton and Malone found themselves seated round the fire in the comfortable drawing-room of the barrister.