Within That Room!. John Russell Fearn

at all at the moment! Your face is dirty, your hair’s straggling, your shoes and stockings are covered in dust—”

      Vera elevated her nose, picked up her bag and began to limp on. She had hardly covered five yards before the young man had caught up to her. He was pretty tall, she noticed, and had merry blue eyes, which, with his dark hair, gave him a vaguely Irish appearance.

      “Sorry,” he apologised. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you do look all in. If you’re willing to trust a young man with quite honest intentions I can help you on your way. I’m going through to Little Twiddleford, if the darn car will hold out. The name is Dick Wilmott, formerly of the R.A.F. At the moment I’m getting together a radio sales and repair connection.”

      “In this one-eyed hole?”

      “No. I have a small shop over in Godalming—but I give Bertha an airing most evenings to keep her battery charged. That’s Bertha,” he added, nodding to the car. “She’s lost her beauty and streamlining, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to ride in her.”

      “Well, I like your line better than the awful stuff I was handed by the stationmaster here. I’m Vera Grantham—of Manchester.”

      They shook hands frankly, then they both smiled at each other.

      “Sir Galahad offers a new type of charger,” Dick Wilmott said, bowing low. “Which reminds me: I need a battery charger, too. Anyway, let me help you, madam.”

      He took her bag and put it in the back of the car. The upholstering was bursting out, Vera noticed, and there were spare radio parts cluttering up the floor.

      “Hmmm—four-seater!” she remarked dryly.

      “Two and room for junk,” he corrected. “Allow me....”

      He held the front side door open for her, gingerly, as though afraid it might drop off, and she sank down thankfully in the worn seat. On another moment he had scrambled in beside her and stretched long legs towards the clutch and accelerator pedals.

      “Where to?” he inquired.

      “That place up behind the trees there—Sunny Acres. And if you say ‘Poor girl’, or something like, that I shan’t blame you.”

      “Why should I?” He started the noisy engine.

      “Only that I’m apparently going with my life in my hands in visiting Sunny Acres. The place is supposed to be haunted.”

      “Is it? I wouldn’t know. As I told you, I belong to Godalming. One thing I will say, though—you look too nice a girl to be in a backwoods dump like this. Or maybe you’ve got relations at Sunny Acres?”

      “No. I’ve just taken over the ownership.”

      The car wobbled as Dick Wilmott nearly lost his grip on the steering wheel.

      “You own it?”

      “It was left to me,” Vera explained things briefly.

      “So that’s how it is? Well, jolly good luck to you. I’d be inclined to sell and get rid of the place. Go and live somewhere cheerful instead of trying to exist in a hole like this. Still, that’s for you to decide. Hello, this looks like a road to the castle.”

      He branched off on to a narrow side-road leading between hawthorn hedges, and up to massive wrought iron gates. On the stone pillars supporting them the words ‘Sunny Acres’ had been chiselled—long ago. By this time weather had nearly eroded them.

      Dick hopped out and opened the gates, then drove up the drive with its overhanging beech and elm trees to the portico outside the front door. To Vera, studying the place, there was an oppressive aspect about it. It was huge, thickly cloaked in ivy, and the battlements were obviously those of a castle. Even the rounded watchtowers with their slits of windows were there. The remainder of the windows seemed to be diamond-shaped and mullioned, some of them being stained glass.

      “Not far from the Middle Ages,” Dick commented; then he stopped the car’s noisy engine and climbed out to hammer on the massive front door with a griffin knocker. For some reason the reverberation sounded as if he had thumped the lid of a coffin.

      Slowly Vera alighted, trying to make up her mind whether she liked the place or not. She tried to convince herself that it was the dying evening light that made everything so depressing, or maybe it was the overgrown trees, or perhaps her fatigue. But deep in her heart she knew it was none of these things. It was an elusive quality which she could only associate with—dread. Sunny Acres, despite its name, somehow crawled with a vague portent of evil.

      Abruptly the door was opened and a woman gowned completely in black stood looking out. She was uncommonly tall for a woman, very white-skinned, with her dark, shining hair drawn into a trim bun at the back of her head. In a striking kind of way she was handsome, a strongly hooked nose creating a masculine aspect. Her features were impassive.

      “Well?” she inquired, in a mellow if uncompromising voice.

      “I’m Vera Grantham.”

      This seemed to animate the woman at once.

      “Oh, Miss Grantham—of course! I am sorry.”

      “This is Mr. Wilmott,” Vera said. “He was good enough to give me a lift.”

      “I see. Come in, won’t you? I’ll have my husband carry in your bag.”

      “I’ll do it,” Dick volunteered, and going back to the car he lifted out the suitcase and then followed Vera and the woman into the hall.

      The hall was broad, square, and gloomy. There were two mullioned windows that permitted faded light to drift through the glint indifferently upon armory, and innumerable brass plaques. In the sombre distances a huge staircase loomed. The floor was apparently composed of granite, roughened on the surface, and practically covered with costly rugs and mats lying at various angles.

      Instinctively Vera crossed her arms and gripped opposite shoulders. She gave a troubled little smile.

      “Cold, isn’t it?” she said.

      “Central heating is not installed, Miss Grantham,” Mrs. Falworth explained calmly. “Naturally, a residence of this size does become chilly, even in summer, especially so late in the evening.”

      “Well, having got you this far,” Dick Wilmott said, “I think I’ll be off. Glad to have been able to help you.”

      Vera looked at him with unintentional longing.

      “You really have to go? You couldn’t stay and have a little refreshment?”

      “I’m afraid not. Thanks all the same. I simply must hop over to Little Twiddleford, and then I’ve got to get back to Godalming. I don’t want to leave it too late in case that battery of mine dies on me when I light up. Glad to have met you.” He hesitated, and said: “You can always reach me at my shop in Gordon St., Godalming, or you can ring Godalming 72.”

      He took Vera’s slender hand in a broad palm and squeezed her fingers generously. Then, whistling to himself, he swung out through the front doorway and went down to his car. Vera stood listening with a sinking heart to the fading noise of his old wreck. When he had gone, Mrs. Falworth closed the front door and pushed across the heavy bolts.

      “I do not think there will be any more callers tonight, Miss,” she said gravely, hovering black-gowned and impersonal in the now intensified shadows.

      “No, I suppose not,” Vera said, making an effort to get a grip on herself. “I’d like to freshen up. I’ve been doing a good deal of traveling.”

      “I am sure you have, miss. If you will come this way? I will have my husband bring up your bag afterward.”

      Vera followed the tall figure across the hall and up the broad staircase. The steps were of polished stone with a carpet running down the center. Everything was massive. There were great stone pillars supporting the cupola that formed the