The Terror. Martin Edwards

of curtains, his face was not too pleasant, she thought. It was a hard face, angular, wasted. The dark eyes which surveyed her were not his least unpleasant feature. His voice was gentle enough—gentle to the point of unctuousness. Instinctively she had disliked him the first time they had met; her second impression of him did not help her to overcome her prejudice.

      ‘I saw you come up. Mr Fane was driving you.’ There was a gentle reproach in his tone. ‘A curious young man, Mr Fane—given, I fear, to the inordinate consumption of alcoholic beverage. “Oh,” as the prophet said, “that a man should put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains!”’

      ‘I can testify,’ interrupted Mr Goodman staunchly, ‘that Mr Fane is perfectly sober. He drove me with the greatest care and skill. I think he is a very excitable young man, and one may often do him an injustice because of his peculiar mannerisms.’

      The reverend gentleman sniffed. He was obviously no lover of Fane, and sceptical of his virtues. Yet he might find no fault with Ferdie, who came into the lounge soon after tea was served, and would have sat alone if Goodman had not invited him to the little circle which included himself, Mrs Elvery and Mary. He was unusually quiet, and though many opportunities presented themselves he was neither flippant nor aggressive.

      Mary watched him furtively, more than interested in the normal man. He was older than she had thought; her father had made the same discovery. There was a touch of grey in his hair, and though the face was unlined it had the setness of a man who was well past his thirties, and possibly his forties.

      His voice was deep, rather brusque. She thought she detected signs of nervousness, for once or twice, when he was addressed, he started so violently as to spill from the cup of tea which he held in his hand.

      She saw him after the party had dispersed. ‘You’re very subdued today, Mr Fane.’

      ‘Am I?’ He made an attempt at gaiety and failed. ‘It’s funny, parsons always depress me. I suppose my conscience gets to work, and there’s nothing more depressing than conscience.’

      ‘What have you been doing all day?’ she asked.

      She told herself she was not really interested. The question was one of the commonplaces of speech that she had employed a dozen times with guests.

      ‘Ghost-hunting,’ he said, and when he saw her pale he was instantly penitent. ‘Sorry—terribly sorry! I was being funny.’

      But he had been very much in earnest; she realised that when she was in the privacy of her own room, where she could think without distraction. Ferdie Fane had spent that day looking for the Terror. Was he himself the Terror? That she could not believe.

       CHAPTER XII

      NIGHT came—the dreary night with its black mysteries and its suggestive horrors.

      The telephone in the deserted lounge rang shrilly. Cotton came from some mysterious recess in a hurry to answer it. He heard Hallick’s voice and winced painfully. He did not like Hallick, and wondered how soon this officer of Scotland Yard, with the resources at his disposal, would discover his own unsavoury antecedents.

      ‘I want to speak to Dobie,’ said Hallick’s voice.

      ‘Yes, sir; I’ll call him.’

      There was no need to call Sergeant Dobie; he was at Cotton’s elbow.

      ‘Is that for me?’

      Cotton passed him across the instrument.

      ‘Yes, sir?…’ He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the interested Cotton. ‘Hop it,’ he said under his breath, and Cotton withdrew reluctantly.

      ‘Have you found anything further?’ asked Hallick.

      ‘Nothing, sir. Another spent cartridge—you saw one of them before you left.’

      There was a long pause at the other end of the wire, and then Hallick spoke again.

      ‘I’ve got an idea something may happen tonight. You have my private telephone number?…Good! Call me if anything happens that has an unusual appearance. Don’t be afraid of bringing me down on a fool’s errand. I shall have a car waiting, and I can be with you in an hour.’

      Dobie hung up the receiver as Mr Goodman came ambling into the lounge. He wore his black velvet smoking jacket; his old pipe was gripped between his teeth. Dobie was on his way to the door when the tea merchant called him back.

      ‘You’re staying with us tonight, aren’t you, Mr Dobie?…Thank goodness for that!’

      ‘You’re nervous, are you, sir?’ smiled Dobie, and Goodman’s good-natured face reflected the smile.

      ‘Why, yes, I am a little—raw. If anybody had told me I should get jumpy I should have laughed.’

      He took out his cigar case and offered it to the detective, who chose one with considerable care.

      ‘There’s no new clue, I suppose?’ said Goodman, making himself comfortable at the end of the settee.

      ‘No, sir,’ said Dobie.

      Goodman chuckled.

      ‘If you had any you wouldn’t tell me, eh? That isn’t one of the peculiar weaknesses of Scotland Yard officers, that they wear their—I won’t say hearts, but their brains, upon their sleeves. You didn’t find the gentleman who did the shooting yesterday? I ask you because I have been in town all day, and was a little disappointed when I came back to find that apparently nothing had happened.’

      ‘No, we haven’t found the shooter,’ said Dobie.

      Neither of them saw the door open, nor the pale face of Mr Partridge peeping through.

      ‘I was at Scotland Yard today,’ said Goodman; ‘and I had a chat with Mr Hallick. A nice man.’

      ‘Very,’ agreed Dobie heartily.