Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips Oppenheim

the young man replied obstinately.

      The door of the room was suddenly opened, and Dominey entered with the missing gun under his arm. Middleton rose to his feet at once and laid down his pipe. Surprise kept him temporarily silent.

      “I want you to come this way with me for a moment,” his master ordered.

      The keeper took up his hat and stick and followed. Dominey led him to where the tracks had halted on the gravel outside Rosamund’s window and pointed across to the Black Wood.

      “What do you make of those?” he enquired.

      Middleton did not hesitate. He shook his head gravely.

      “Was anything heard last night, sir?”

      “There was an infernal yell underneath this window.”

      “That was the spirit of Roger Unthank, for sure,” Middleton pronounced, with a little shudder. “When he do come out of that wood, he do call.”

      “Spirits,” his master pointed out, “do not leave tracks like that behind.”

      Middleton considered the matter.

      “They do say hereabout,” he confided, “that the spirit of Roger Unthank have been taken possession of by some sort of great animal, and that it do come here now and then to be fed.”

      “By whom?” Dominey enquired patiently.

      “Why, by Mrs. Unthank.”

      “Mrs. Unthank has not been in this house for many months. From the day she left until last night, so far as I can gather, nothing has been heard of this ghost, or beast, or whatever it is.”

      “That do seem queer, surely,” Middleton admitted.

      Dominey followed the tracks with his eyes to the wood and back again.

      “Middleton,” he said, “I am learning something about spirits. It seems that they not only make tracks, but they require feeding. Perhaps if that is so they can feel a charge of shot inside them.”

      The old man seemed for a moment to stiffen with slow horror.

      “You wouldn’t shoot at it, Squire?” he gasped.

      “I should have done so this morning if I had had a chance,” Dominey replied. “When the weather is a little drier, I am going to make my way into that wood, Middleton, with a rifle under my arm.”

      “Then as God’s above, you’ll never come out, Squire!” was the solemn reply.

      “We will see,” Dominey muttered. “I have hacked my way through some queer country in Africa.”

      “There’s nowt like this wood in the world, sir,” the old man asserted doggedly. “The bottom’s rotten from end to end and the top’s all poisonous. The birds die there on the trees. It’s chockful of reptiles and unclean things, with green and purple fungi, two feet high, with poison in the very sniff of them. The man who enters that wood goes to his grave.”

      “Nevertheless,” Dominey said firmly, “within a very short time I am going to solve the mystery of this nocturnal visitor.”

      They returned to the house, side by side. Just before they entered, Dominey turned to his companion.

      “Middleton,” he said, “you keep up the good old customs, I suppose, and spend half an hour at the ‘Dominey Arms’ now and then?”

      “Most every night of my life, sir,” the old man replied, “from eight till nine. I’m a man of regular habits, and that do seem right to me that with the work done right and proper a man should have his relaxation.”

      “That is right, John,” Dominey assented. “Next time you are there, don’t forget to mention that I am going to have that wood looked through. I should like it to get about, you understand?”

      “That’ll fair flummox the folk,” was the doubtful reply, “but I’ll let ‘em know, Squire. There’ll be a rare bit of talk, I can promise you that.”

      Dominey handed over his gun, went to his room, bathed and changed, and descended for breakfast. There was a sudden hush as he entered, which he very well understood. Every one began to talk about the prospect of the day’s sport. Dominey helped himself from the sideboard and took his place at the table.

      “I hope,” he said, “that our very latest thing in ghosts did not disturb anybody.”

      “We all seem to have heard the same thing,” the Cabinet Minister observed, with interest,—“a most appalling and unearthly cry. I have lately joined every society connected with spooks and find them a fascinating study.”

      “If you want to investigate,” Dominey observed, as he helped himself to coffee, “you can bring out a revolver and prowl about with me one night. From the time when I was a kid, before I went to Eton, up till when I left here for Africa, we had a series of highly respectable and well-behaved ghosts, who were a credit to the family and of whom we were somewhat proud. This latest spook, however, is something quite outside the pale.”

      “Has he a history?” Mr. Watson asked with interest.

      “I am informed,” Dominey replied, “that he is the spirit of a schoolmaster who once lived here, and for whose departure from the world I am supposed to be responsible. Such a spook is neither a credit nor a comfort to the family.”

      Their host spoke with such an absolute absence of emotion that every one was conscious of a curious reluctance to abandon a subject full of such fascinating possibilities. Terniloff was the only one, however, who made a suggestion.

      “We might have a battue in the wood,” he proposed.

      “I am not sure,” Dominey told them, “that the character of the wood is not more interesting than the ghost who is supposed to dwell in it. You remember how terrified the beaters were yesterday at the bare suggestion of entering it? For generations it has been held unclean. It is certainly most unsafe. I went in over my knees on the outskirts of it this morning. Shall we say half-past ten in the gun room?”

      Seaman followed his host out of the room.

      “My friend,” he said, “you must not allow these local circumstances to occupy too large a share of your thoughts. It is true that these are the days of your relaxation. Still, there is the Princess for you to think of. After all, she has us in her power. The merest whisper in Downing Street, and behold, catastrophe!”

      Dominey took his friend’s arm.

      “Look here, Seaman,” he rejoined, “it’s easy enough to say there is the Princess to be considered, but will you kindly tell me what on earth more I can do to make her see the position? Necessity demands that I should be on the best of terms with Lady Dominey and I should not make myself in any way conspicuous with the Princess.”

      “I am not sure,” Seaman reflected, “that the terms you are on with Lady Dominey matter very much to any one. So far as regards the Princess, she is an impulsive and passionate person, but she is also grande dame and a diplomatist. I see no reason why you should not marry her secretly in London, in the name of Everard Dominey, and have the ceremony repeated under your rightful name later on.”

      They had paused to help themselves to cigarettes, which were displayed with a cabinet of cigars on a round table in the hall. Dominey waited for a moment before he answered.

      “Has the Princess confided to you that that is her wish?” he asked.

      “Something of the sort,” Seaman acknowledged. “She wishes the suggestion, however, to come from you.”

      “And your advice?”

      Seaman blew out a little cloud of cigar smoke.

      “My friend,” he confessed, “I am a little afraid of the Princess. I ask you no questions as to your own feelings with regard to her. I take it for granted that as a man of honour it will