The Silver Bullet. Fergus Hume

after a few minutes had passed. "Has a Borgian banquet taken place here? The guests seem to be dead. Hai! the whole thing is damnable."

      "Don't let yourself go," said the doctor roughly squeezing the little man's arm, "wait and see the upshot."

      Again and again they rang the bell, and themselves heard its imperative summons: but no one appeared. Then they took their courage in both hands, and stepped into the house. Passing through the crimson curtains, they found themselves in a wide corridor enamelled green, with velvet carpet and more light-bearing statues. On either side were doors draped with emerald silk. Herrick led the way through one of these, for Joyce, rendered timorous by the adventure would not take the initiative.

      In the first room, an oval table was set out for a solitary meal. The linen was bleached as the Alpine snow, the silver antique, the crystal exquisite, the porcelain worth its weight in gold. An iridescent glass vase in the centre was filled with flowers, but these drooped, withered and brown. The bread also was stale, the fruits were shrivelled from their early freshness. Magnificently furnished and draped, the room glowed in splendour, under innumerable electric lights. But the intruders had eyes only for that sumptuous table, with its air of desolation, and its place set for one. Anything more sinister can scarcely be conceived.

      "No one has sat down to this meal," said Herrick lifting the covers of the silver dishes, "it has stood here for hours, if not for days. Let us see if we can find the creature for whom it was intended."

      "Perhaps you expect to find the Beast that loved Beauty, since you call him a creature," said Robin hysterically. "Here is wine."

      Dr. Jim went to the sideboard, whereon were ranged decanters of Venetian glass containing many different vintages. Passing over these he selected a pint bottle of champagne. "We must make free of our position," he said, unwiring this, "afterwards we can apologise."

      "Ugh!" cried Robin as the cork popped with a staccato sound in the silence. "How gruesome; give me a glass at once Jim."

      "I don't know if it is good for you in your present state," replied the doctor brimming a goblet, "however the whole adventure is so queer, that an attack of nerves is excusable. Drink up."

      Robin did so, and was joined by Jim. They finished the bottle, and felt exhilarated, and more ready to face the unknown. Again Herrick led the way to further explorations. Adjacent to the dining-room, they discovered a small kitchen, white-tiled and completely furnished. "Our hermit cooks for himself," declared Dr. Jim, eying the utensils of polished copper. "This is not a servant's kitchen: also it is off the dining-room."

      Robin made no reply, but followed his friend, his large eyes becoming larger at every fresh discovery. They entered a drawing-room filled with splendid furniture, silver knick-knacks, costly china, and Eastern hangings of great price. There was a library stored with books in magnificent bindings, and with tables piled with latter-day magazines, novels and newspapers. "Our hermit keeps himself abreast of the world," commented Jim.

      Then came a picture gallery, but this was on a second storey and lighted from the roof. Treasures of art ancient and modern glowed here under the radiance of the light, which illuminated every room. A smoking-room fashioned like a ship's cabin: a Japanese apartment, crammed with the lacquer work, and stiff embroideries of Yeddo and Yokahama; a shooting gallery; a bowling alley; a music room, containing a magnificent Erard. Finally a dozen bedrooms furnished with taste and luxury. To crown all they discovered a gymnasium fitted up completely even to foils and boxing gloves: and a huge bathroom. This last was throughout of white marble, with a square pool of water in the centre. "What a pond to bathe in!" cried Jim enviously, for he was hot and dusty. "Our hermit is an ancient Roman; he understands how to enjoy life. Come along Robin!"

      But by this time they had explored almost the whole of the wonderful house. There remained the back premises, but on entering, they found nothing but darkness and dirt, squalor and coldness. The hermit's attention to his mansion stopped short at the servant's door. "And I don't believe he has any servants," declared Joyce. "How the deuce does he keep all this clean?"

      The doctor shook his head. He hardly knew what to say. The situation was beyond him. A palace in the wilderness, with an open door inviting thieves! Crammed with treasures, brilliant with light, uninhabited, deserted. Was there ever anything so wonderful? He had to pinch himself to make sure that he was awake. "We have got into the world of the fourth dimension: the fairy-land of the Arabian Nights. What do you think Joyce?"

      "I think we had better climb up to the tower," said Robin with unusual common sense, "It is the only place we have left unexplored. There is a light there too; Aladdin may be aloft."

      Herrick shook his head. "He would have heard the bell. However come along. We must find someone."

      With some difficulty they discovered the staircase leading to the tower. It was narrow but straight, and not so steep as might have been expected. At the top Herrick--leading as usual--was confronted by a closed door of plain deal. It was not locked however, and having knocked without receiving a reply he opened it. Joyce at his heels peeped over his shoulder and beheld a small square room with windows on all four sides, and a large central globe burning in the ceiling. In contrast to the rest of the house, this room was absolutely bare. Blank walls, Chinese matting on the floor, a camp bedstead in one corner, a deal table without a covering in another, and two cane chairs. No anchorite could have had a more ascetic cell.

      Herrick took in the scene at a glance, took in also, its--to him--central feature, the body of a man lying face downwards, near the bed. Joyce saw the corpse also, and remained at the door, shaking and white.

      "Murder or suicide?" Jim asked himself as he turned over the dead.

      That, which had once been a man, was in evening dress. In the finest of linen and jewellery, the most immaculate of clothes, it lay under the scrutinising eye of Dr. Herrick. A lean evil face, with a hook nose, scanty grey hair cut short and a long moustache carefully trimmed. The left hand gripped a revolver; the shirt front over the heart was covered with blood, and a stream, coagulated and black, streaked the matting.

      "In God's name?" cried Joyce not daring to enter, "what is it?"

      "It was once the owner of this house I suppose," said Herrick grimly. "Now, it is a piece of carrion. Suicide apparently. Dead over twenty-four hours. Shot through the heart. A steady hand to do that. H'm, left-handed too. Is it suicide, or murder? Here's a damnable discovery to cap the adventure," said Dr. Jim gravely.

      From the doorway came a gasp, a tittering laugh. Jim had just time to spring forward when Joyce lunged into his arms. The long expected nerve-storm had come at last.

       CHAPTER II

      DE MORTUIS NIL NISI MALUM

      "And sunsets fire, the Saxham spire,

       My guide post unto heaven."

      So sang midway in the last century a local poet, who died long since and passed, poems and all, into oblivion. But the famous spire in its copper sheathing still catches the sunlight, and glows in the centre of Saxham, a veritable pillar of fire. Those natives who have emigrated, enlisted as soldiers, taken situations in London and elsewhere, shipped before the mast, as some have done, always remember church and spire. The children recall its ruddy blaze when they read Exodus.

      Saxham was not a large place. It might have contained a couple of hundred inhabitants, probably less, and these principally agricultural labourers. They worked on the farms and estates which dotted the vast alluvial plain stretching to Beorminster. As the city, like that one mentioned in the Bible, is set upon a hill, the twin towers of the cathedral and Bishop Gandolf's spire can easily be seen from Saxham. But the villagers prefer their own spire and their own parson, rarely venturing the three miles to Beorminster. Those who do go, always return to their beloved hamlet, more convinced than ever as to the superiority of their birthplace. A sturdy stubborn set of rustics, these men and women of Saxham.

      The topography of the country as set down in Herrick's map, showed that Saxham was almost the centre