I, Spy - 6 Espionage & Detective Books in One Edition. Frederic Arnold Kummer

cries aroused the house. Li Min must have re-entered the house just after I retired to my room. I did not look into the hallway of the west wing. I avoided doing so purposely, as I did not wish to humiliate my father by letting him know that I had seen him on the roof. Of course I was deceived by the long coat and cap. My father is of about the same height as Li Min, and I had been so accustomed to seeing him in that particular coat and cap—he invariably wore them when walking about the grounds—that I felt no doubt whatever as to his identity. Had I found you in London, Mr. Morgan, I should have told you everything and been guided by your advice."

      "I wish you had found me there," I said, "but, as it is, everything has turned out well. Only I am sorry that you should have had to undergo such a terrible experience."

      "Oh, it wasn't so bad. They gave me a very comfortable room at the police station in London, and the matron was extremely kind. I might have enjoyed the experience thoroughly, had I not been so terribly worried about my father." The dark shadow which fell across her face reminded me forcibly of the suffering she had undergone. I hastened to change the subject.

      "Sometime I hope to show you London and my studio under different circumstances," I said. "I've got a lot of interesting old things there that I've picked up. You must surely come."

      "Oh, I should love to. And your pictures! You must show me those, too."

      "I'll be glad to. We will get up a party, some time. I've lots of delightful friends among the painters and musical people. You'd like them, I know."

      "It's the life I've always dreamed of," she said, her cheeks flushing with excitement. "I've been to so many places, Rome and Paris, and Vienna and Cairo, and the East, you know, but I really know very little about them. The outside I have seen, of course, but the real life—that I have missed. And now we are stuck down here, where we don't know anybody, because father fancies it is good for his health. I suppose it is, but it isn't real, joyous living. I hardly feel alive."

      "But you go to London, don't you? Your father spoke of his house there."

      "Oh, yes, we are there a great deal, but father's friends are mostly professors of Assyriology and Egyptology, and people of that sort, and they come and stay for hours and talk about scarabs and hieroglyphics and mummies, and all that sort of thing. Sometimes I feel almost as though I were about to become a mummy myself."

      She certainly did not look it, with her wonderful color, heightened by the firelight and her large and brilliant eyes. I could not help looking deep into them as I replied.

      "We must prevent that, at all costs. Let me show you what it is to really live."

      "Isn't that rather a large order? And we have known each other for so short a time, too." She laughed nervously, but did not seem displeased at my remark.

      "I think the experiences of the past week have caused us to know each other very well," I said, gravely, "and I hope you may think as much of the friendship which has come to us as I do."

      "Are we then really friends?" she said slowly. "I never had a man friend—nor very many of any sort, I fear. We have always moved about so much from place to place."

      I regretted my choice of words. I could readily believe that she would not find it easy to have a man friend, for he would at once proceed to fall head over heels in love with her, as I had done. "Perhaps not friends," I said, and, as I did so, I placed my hand over hers, which lay beside me upon the leather seat of the settle. "At least not friends only. I suppose, Miss Temple, that you will be very much surprised, when I tell you that I have never thought of you in that way. I have always dreamed, all my life, of a woman like you, who would be close beside me, and share all my hopes and dreams, and be the cause of them all as well, and be glad of my successes and not think the less of me because of my failures. But a woman to be all that must be more than a man's friend, Miss Temple—she must be his wife."

      The color flooded her cheeks as I said this, but she did not draw away her hand. "A woman would have to be very greatly loved by a man, and love him very greatly in return, to be all that to him," she said.

      "I can only speak for myself, Miss Temple—Muriel. I love you very greatly, so much indeed, that I am telling you of it now—when I have the opportunity—instead of waiting, as no doubt you think I should. But, were I to wait, I do not know what trick of fate might intervene to prevent me. Your father might suddenly be seized with the idea of going to India, or Japan, or somewhere else, and I should be unable to tell you what has been singing in my heart ever since the first moment I saw you. We have passed through much trouble, you and I, and that has brought us closer to each other than years of formal acquaintanceship might ever have done. I want you—I need you—I love you, and I shall always love you." I drew her to me, unresisting. "Do you love me, dear?" I said, and, when she put her arms about my neck and her head upon my breast I knew what her answer was, and that I had found my heart's desire.

      It must have been half an hour later when Major Temple burst into the library, in a great state of excitement. We heard him coming along the hall, and I had made up my mind to ask his consent to our marriage as soon as he came in. I failed to do so, because he seemed much excited, and asked us at once if we had seen anything of Boris, his favorite mastiff. He had missed the dog that morning, before setting out for Exeter he said, but his mind was so troubled by the prospect of the hearing, and his daughter's arrest, that he gave the matter but scant thought. He had suddenly realized, a few moments ago, while writing some letters in his study, that the dog was not in his favorite place upon the hearthrug and that in fact he had not seen him since his return from Exeter. He made inquiries at once, but none of the servants had seen the dog since the day before. I remembered at once the howling that I had heard during the night and spoke of it. The Major thought for a moment, then raised his head with a sudden look of comprehension. "Don't you remember, Mr. Morgan, that Boris was with us when we made our examination of the green room last night? I do not recollect seeing him after that. We all left the room very hurriedly, you will remember, having just learned that my daughter could not be found. The poor fellow has no doubt been locked in there ever since, and it was his howls that you heard. Wait until I see if I can find another key—there are two about the house somewhere. Sergeant McQuade has the one usually left in the door."

      He disappeared for a few moments, then returned with several keys upon a wire ring. "One of these will open it, I think," he said, and lead the way to the green room, Muriel and I following him. "Poor dog," he said as we hastily ascended the stairs, "he must be dying for food, or a drink of water."

      Upon our arrival at the door, Major Temple tried several of the keys before finding one that would open it. At last the lock turned, however, and he attempted to push open the door. It refused to open, and felt, he said, as though some heavy object had been placed against it, upon the inside of the room. I went to his assistance and by pushing with our united strength forced the door inward sufficiently to allow us to enter. The Major took a candle from the room occupied by myself, across the hall, and we squeezed our way into the room with some difficulty, Muriel remaining outside. What was our astonishment to see lying upon the floor, his head close to the door, as though struck down in an effort to escape, the Major's mastiff, Boris, stone dead, his eyes wide open and staring, his mouth distended and still covered with foam, his face wearing an expression of intense fear. It was a horrible sight, and we looked at each other in alarm. "My God," said the Major—"this room is accursed. Let us go." He started for the door.

      "Shall I come in?" we heard Muriel asking from the hall without.

      "No—no!" the Major commanded. "We will be with you in a moment." He motioned to me to go ahead, and he followed me and closed the door.

      "What is the matter?" asked his daughter as she saw our startled faces. "Isn't Boris there?"

      "Yes, he is there." The Major's tone was grave and solemn. "He is there, Muriel, and he is dead. I do not know what is the secret of that room, but I shall never enter it again." He turned from us, and lead the way down the hall.

      "Dead!" said Muriel, turning to me. "Is it really true?"

      I assured her that it was.

      She glanced at me with a scared sort of a look. "Do you