Called Back. Martin Edwards

rose. As I could think of nothing better to do I stood motionless.

      ‘Walk this way—straight on—four paces,’ said the voice. I obeyed. The third step brought me in collision with the wall. No doubt this was an extra test as to the truth of my statement.

      A hand was placed upon my shoulder and I was guided to a chair. ‘Now, sir,’ said the speaker who had before addressed me, ‘tell us, in as few words as possible, who you are—how and why you came here. Be quick, we have no time to spare.’

      I well knew they had no time to spare. They had much to do—much to hide. Oh, for the gift of sight for one moment! I would purchase it, even if the price were years of darkness!

      Shortly and simply as I could, I told them what had brought me into such straits. The only thing I concealed was my true name. Why should these assassins know it? If I revealed it they might set a watch upon me and at any moment their safety demanded it I might share the fate of him who lay within a few feet of my chair. So I gave a fictitious name, but everything else I told them was true.

      All the while I was speaking I heard that distressing sound at the other end of the room. It drove me nearly mad. I believe, could I have made sure of reaching through my darkness and catching one of those men by the throat, with the certainty of crushing life out of him, I should have done so, even had such an act sealed my own fate.

      When my explanation was over another whispered consultation took place. Then the spokesman demanded the key which had so nearly cost me my life. I suppose they tried it and found it acted as I said. It was not returned to me, but I heard the voice once more.

      ‘Fortunately for you we have decided to believe your tale. Stand up.’ I did so and was led to another part of the room and again placed in a chair. As, after the manner of the blind, I stretched out my hands, I found I was in a corner of the room, my face turned to the angle of the walls.

      ‘If you move or look around,’ said the voice, ‘our belief in your blindness will vanish.’

      It was impossible to misunderstand the grim threat conveyed by the last words. I could only sit quiet and listen with all my ears.

      Yes, they had much to do. They moved about busily and rapidly. I heard cupboards and drawers opened. I detected the sound of papers being torn and the smell of papers burning. I heard them raise some dead weight from the floor—heard a sound as of rent cloth and linen—heard the jingle of money, even the tick of a watch as it was drawn forth from somewhere and laid on the table near me. Then I felt a breath of air and knew that the door had been opened. I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs—the steps of men bearing a weighty burden, and I shuddered as I thought what that burden must be.

      Before the last task was completed the woman’s moan had ceased. For some time it had been growing fainter and only sounding at recurring intervals. Now I heard it no longer. This cessation was a great relief to my overwrought nerves, but my heart grew sick as I thought it may be there were two victims instead of one.

      Although at least two men must have borne that weight away, I knew I was not left alone. I heard someone throw himself into a chair with a half weary sigh and guessed he had been left to guard me. I was longing to make my escape—longing to wake and find I had been dreaming. The suspense or the nightmare was growing unbearable. I said, without turning my head, ‘How long am I to be kept amid these horrors?’

      I heard the man move in his chair, but he made no answer. ‘May I not go?’ I pleaded. ‘I have seen nothing. Put me out into the street—anywhere. I shall go mad if I stay here longer.’

      Still no answer. I said no more.

      By and by the absent men returned to their companion. I heard the door close after them. Then came more whispers, and I heard the drawing of a cork and the jingle of glasses. They were refreshing themselves after the night’s dark work.

      Presently a curious odour—that of some drug—was perceptible. A hand was laid on my shoulder and a glass full of some liquid was placed between my fingers.

      ‘Drink,’ said the voice—the only voice I had heard.

      ‘I will not,’ I cried, ‘it may be poison.’

      I heard a short harsh laugh and felt a cold metallic ring laid against my forehead.

      ‘It is not poison; it is an opiate and will do you no harm. But this,’ and as he spoke I felt the pressure of the little iron circlet, ‘this is another affair. Choose!’

      I drained the glass and was glad to feel the pistol moved from my head. ‘Now,’ said the spokesman, taking the empty glass from my hand, ‘if you are a wise man, when you awake tomorrow you will say, “I have been drunk or dreaming.” You have heard us but not seen us, but remember we know you.’

      He left me and in a short time, do what I would to struggle against it, heavy drowsiness came over me. Thoughts grew incoherent and reason seemed leaving me. My head fell first on one side, then on the other. The last thing I can remember is a strong arm encircling me and keeping me from tumbling out of my chair. Whatever the drug was, its action was strong and swift.

      For hours and hours it held me senseless, and when at last its power faded and my mind, struggling back to a clouded sort of consciousness, made, after many attempts, the fact apparent to me that I was lying on a bed, and, moreover, as I found by stretching out my arms and feeling around, my own bed, is it to be wondered at that I said to myself, ‘I have dreamed the most frightful dream that ever came to a tormented mind’? After this effort of mind I sank back once more in a semi-conscious state, but fully persuaded I had never quitted my bed. My relief at this discovery was immense.

      Yet if my mind grew easy, I cannot say the same for the body. My head seemed preparing to split in two; my tongue was dry and parched. These unpleasant facts became more and more noticeable as consciousness gradually returned. I sat up in the bed and pressed my hands to my throbbing brows.

      ‘Oh, dear heart!’ I heard my old nurse say. ‘He is coming round at last.’ Then another voice—a man’s voice, soft and bland.

      ‘Yes, your master will soon be well again. Kindly let me feel your pulse, Mr Vaughan.’

      A soft finger was laid upon my wrist.

      ‘Who is it?’ I asked.

      ‘I am Doctor Deane, at your service,’ said the stranger.

      ‘Have I been ill? How long? How many days?’

      ‘A few hours only. There is nothing to be alarmed at. Lie down again and keep quiet for a while. Are you thirsty?’

      ‘Yes, I am dying with thirst—give me water.’

      They did so. I drank greedily, and felt somewhat relieved.

      ‘Now, nurse,’ I heard the doctor say, ‘make him some weak tea, and when he wants anything to eat let him have it. I will look in again later on.’

      Doctor Deane was shown out, and old Priscilla, returning to my bedside, patted and punched the pillows to make me more comfortable. By this time I was wide awake and the experiences of the night were coming back to me with a distinctness and detail far above those of a recalled dream.

      ‘What is the time?’ I asked.

      ‘Nigh upon noon, Master Gilbert.’ Priscilla spoke in a sorrowful, injured manner.

      ‘Noon! what has been the matter with me?’

      The old servant was weeping. I could hear her. She made no answer, so I repeated my question.

      ‘Oh, Master Gilbert!’ she sobbed, ‘how could you do it? When I came into the room and saw the empty bed I thought I should have dropped.’

      When she saw the empty bed! I trembled. The horrors of the night were real!

      ‘How could you do it, Master Gilbert?’ continued Priscilla. ‘To go out without a word, and wander half over London, all alone and not able to see a thing!’

      ‘Sit