chooses. But Mr. Arum, sir, will not see him. I will show the doctor into the bedroom—I can do no more than that."
Then he clasped his hands together, and raised his eyes to Heaven. A wild torrent of prayer came from his lips. My suspicions were almost carried away by the earnest force of it. And when the man had finished he pressed his hands to his face, and cried like a child.
I left him, and said a few words to Audrey Pinson. While I was talking to Brike, and listening to the outburst of religious forces, she had asked her uncle if he would see me. Jacob Arum had refused, so there was nothing left for me but to take my departure.
Two days later the summons came from Brent Lodge. I was just going to bed, when a servant brought in a hastily scribbled note from Turton.
"Saltby is away," he wrote, "called to a case of childbirth right out in the marshes. I am going up at once. They think Arum is dead. Come as quickly as possible to Brent Lodge."
Five minutes later the car was at the door, and I went out on my short journey. It was a beastly night—the wind blowing half a gale from the east, and the rain, cold as ice, coming down in torrents. The hood gave but little protection, and I was glad of my fur coat, for dress clothes were no more than tissuepaper on a night like this.
"You must drive as fast as you can," I said to the chauffeur, "but don't take any risks. I don't want to walk."
But that was just what I had to do, after all. A hundred yards from the lodge gates, the car came to a standstill. We spent two minutes in trying to locate the trouble, and then I decided to walk. It was not much over half a mile to Brent Lodge. I told the chauffeur to follow me when he'd got the engine running again.
One does not walk quickly in a fur coat, even on a cold night, and though a car can deal with storm and darkness, a man on foot is handicapped by having to grope his way through pools of water, without even a glimpse of light to guide him.
The village street was as dark as the marshland beyond it, and only the riding lights of a few smacks betrayed the existence of a creek. And even when I reached the long wall of Brent Lodge I wasted a minute in trying to find the door. It was open, and I stumbled toward a glimpse of light in the hall.
But it was not until I was inside the house, and the door had shut out the wind and rain, that I received the impression of something evil and unholy in the atmosphere of the place. As I stood there in my dripping coat, I could not hear a sound. The drawing-room door was open, but there was no light in the room. Save for the lamp burning in the hall, there did not seem to be any light at all. No doubt Brike and Turton and Audrey Pinson were upstairs with the dead or dying man.
I experienced a feeling of awkwardness—of being where I ought not to be. I did not quite know whether I ought to grope my way up to the room where I had seen Arum for the first and only time in my life, or to wait until someone came down to look for me.
I took off my coat, and then, shivering with the cold, put it on again. A door opened, and a glow of light streamed across the landing. I saw a shadow against the light, and then, quite suddenly, there came the booming of a tremendous voice.
I could hear the words: "Oh, Lord, if it be Thy Will to give him back to us. ." and then the door closed, and Turton emerged from the darkness. He came slowly down the stairs, and told me to take the hall lamp into the drawing-room.
"I'm glad you've come," he said, when he had closed the door. "The poor old chap is dead. Of course, I had no medicine—no stethoscope or anything. I gave him brandy, but he could not swallow it. He's dead right enough—curse that fool Saltby—I think you'd better fetch him in your car."
I explained that the car had broken down. And it did not seem to me that Saltby could be of any use if Arum were dead.
"You've not left that girl upstairs alone with—" I began.
"No, no!" Turton replied. "I persuaded her to go to her bedroom. Will you come upstairs? I think we'd better stay here until Saltby comes."
"Yes, but I'll stay in this room. Do you hear that crazy nigger shouting and groaning? I couldn't stand that. I should want to kick him."
"Still, we ought to know what is going on," Turton insisted. "I think I'd better see. Perhaps I can calm him down a bit. It's terrible for that poor girl."
He struck a match and, lit all the candles in the chandelier; then he picked up the lamp in his hand.
"This is the darkest house I was ever in," he said.
When he had left the room I lit a cigarette. My nerves had never been quite what they should be since the war. The roaring of the wind, and the whining of it in the chimney, and the rain beating against the shuttered windows, and that howling negro upstairs produced the sort of effect that shatters all power of thought.
I felt dazed and stupid and very cold. And this pandemonium of sound was horrible—in a house where there should have been silence. I longed for a sight of Audrey Pinson—something fresh and sweet in this abode of queer men and strange noises. The dead man, Brike, even old Turton were fantastic and grotesque.
It was even possible that Brike, at that very moment, was performing his rites and incantations to bring the dead to life again. No, Turton must have been wrong about that. The nigger was praying in an ecstasy of religious madness.
Turton entered the room.
"Door locked," he said. "Can't get in—can't make that fool hear, I suppose. I don't think he's in the room where poor Arum died. He's in the bedroom beyond. I thought I heard the squawk of a fowl, but I wouldn't swear to that. But he's singing the song of the witch-doctors all right. I know it well. I've left the lamp in the hall." Turton spoke with triumph in his eyes. "If only one could see," he said. "I'd give anything to see what's going on."
I suggested that he should break the door open, but Turton would not hear of it.
"Of course, he'd stop at once," he said. "What about the windows? Is there a ladder anywhere?"
I lost my temper.
"Look here, Turton!" I said sharply. "You seem to forget there's a dead man in the house, and a girl crying upstairs. This isn't the time for experiments."
The door opened suddenly, and Audrey Pinson walked unsteadily into the room. Her face was white and her hair disordered, and she pressed her fingers to her ears.
"Stop him—stop the brute!" she cried. "I can't stand it—I can't stand it!"
I led her to a chair. I could see that she had been crying, but there were no tears in her eyes now. She moved her hands and caught hold of my arm.
"It is horrible!" she whispered. "And my poor uncle—"
There was the sound of dancing overhead, and the clapping of hands. It seemed as though there must be several people in the room above. The chandelier rocked, and a lighted candle fell on the floor. I picked it up, and the sounds suddenly ceased. There was nothing to be heard but the roaring of the wind, and the swish of the rain on the windows.
"Thank Heaven," I said in a low voice. Turton did not speak. He dashed
