'I had almost forgotten,' she replied, with a far-away look; 'but I remember, now, that there was a fusty smell, like decaying leaves. I thought a whiff of eau-de-Cologne would freshen the air.'
My room was on the south-west front of Abbots Hold. It was one of those in the Georgian wing, and an ugly stone balcony stretched along before it. Beneath this balcony ran a sort of arcade behind which iron-barred windows belonging to the domestic quarters faced on sloping lawns. Above were these fine, spacious rooms reserved for guests, and the prospect was magnificent. Next to me was Nayland Smith; then there was a vacant room, and then Rima's.
On entering I did not turn up the light. There was a private plant in Abbots Hold installed by Sir Lionel. But, groping my way across, I raised the blind and looked out.
Opening the trench window, I inhaled the fragrance of moist loam and newly wetted leaves. Away on the right I had a view of a comer of the terrace; directly before me the ground dropped steeply to a belt of trees bordering the former moat; beyond, it rose again, and two miles away, upstanding weirdly beyond distant park land, showed a ruined tower, one of the local land- marks, and a relic of Norman days.
At first my survey of the prospect was general and vague; indeed, I had opened the window more to enjoy the coolness of the night air and to think about Rima than for any other reason. But now, suddenly, my entire interest became focused upon the ruined tower rising ghostly above surrounding trees.
Clearly visible against a stormy backing, one little point of light high up in the tower appeared and disappeared like a winking eye! I clenched my teeth, craning out and watching intently. A code message was being transmitted from the tower! For a while I watched it, but I had forgotten Morse, and the dots and dashes defeated me. Then came inspiration: someone in Abbots Hold must be receiving this message!
Instant upon the birth of the theory, I acted.
The geography of the neighbourhood, which I knew fairly well, told me that this message could only be intended for Abbots Hold. Neglectful of the fact that the leaves were drenched with rain, I quickly got astride of the ledge and began to climb down the ivy to the shrubbery beneath.
I dropped into wet bushes without other mishap than the saturating of my dinner kit, and keeping well within the shadow of the house I began to work my way round in the direction of the terrace. I passed the dining- room, glancing up at the rooms above it, and proceeded. The whole house was in darkness.
Below the terrace I paused, looking again toward the distant tower.
The top remained just visible above the trees... and there, still coming and going, was the signal light!
I stepped out farther from the building, cautiously looking upward to the left.
'Ah!' I muttered.
Dropping down upon the sloping lawn, its turf still wet from the recent downpour, I crept farther northward, until I could obtain a clear view of the study window.
The room was in darkness, but the curtains were not drawn. A light, probably that of an electric torch, was coming and going, dot and dash, in the chief's study! I came to the end of the terrace, and taking advantage of a bank of rhododendrons, crept farther away from the house, until I could see, not merely the reflection, but the actual light being operated.
Faintly as it glowed in the darkness, I could detect the figure of one who held it.... And at first I was loth to credit what I saw.
The legend of Abbots Hold; Rima's fears; memories--dreadful memories--of my own, must certainly, I determined, be influencing my imagination.
The man signalling to that other on the distant tower--for man I assumed the signaller to be--was wrapped in a sort of cowl ... his head so enveloped in the huge hood that in the dim reflection of the torch it was quite impossible to detect his features.
'Good God!' I muttered. 'What does this mean!'
Stooping below the level of the bushes, I turned. Regaining the shelter of the terrace, I ran for twenty paces. Then, leaping into the shrubbery, I located the thick branch of ivy which was a ladder to my window, and began to climb up again, my heart beating very fast, and my thoughts racing far ahead of physical effort.
Scrambling over the stone balustrade, I stepped towards the open french window of my room....
Out of the shadows into the moonlight a figure moved.
It was Nayland Smith!
3
'Ssh! Speak quietly, Greville!'
I stared in amazement, standing there breathing heavily by the open window, then:
'Why!' I asked in a low voice. 'What's happened? '
'Close the window,' said Smith.
I obeyed, and then, turning:
'Did you see me climbing up?' I asked.
'No. I heard you. I was afraid to show myself. I was expecting someone else! But you are bursting with news. Tell me.'
Quickly I told him of the light beyond the valley--of the cowled figure in the study.
'Too late to trap him now. Sir Denis!' I finished, starting for the door.
He grabbed my arm.
'Not too late!' he rapped. 'Here he is!'
I threw a quick and startled glance around the room, as:
'Where?' I demanded.
There!'
Nayland Smith pointed to my bed.
Amazed to the verge of losing control, I stared at the bed. A rough, camel-hair garment lay there.... I moved, touched it.
Then I knew.
'It's the robe of a Lama monk!'
Nayland Smith nodded grimly.
'Together with a certain sandbag,' he said, 'it has formed part of my baggage since that eventful meeting of the Council of Seven at el-Kharga! '
'But-- '
'Why did I play ghost? Very simple. I suspected that some member of the house- hold was in league with the enemy. I believe, now, I was wrong. But I knew that wherever my private inquiries led me, no one would challenge the hooded monk of Abbots Hold! '
'Good enough,' I admitted. 'But you were signalling from the study! '
'I was!' Nayland Smith rapped. 'I was signalling to Wey-mouth who was watching the tower.'
To Weymouth! '
'Exactly! Weymouth reported in that way to me--as had been arranged; and I gave him certain instructions in return.'
I looked him squarely in the face, and:
'Does the chief know that Superintendent Weymouth is standing by?' I asked.
'He does not!' Nayland Smith smiled, and my anger began to melt. That rather takes the wind out of your angry sails, Greville!' He grasped my shoulder. 'I don't trust Barton!' he added.
'What! '
'I don't trust you.... Both have been under the influence of Fah Lo Suee. And to-night I don't trust Rima!'
I had dropped down on to the bed, but now I started up. Into the sudden silence, like a growling of angry beasts, came an echo of thunder away eastward.
'What the devil do you mean? '
'Ssh!' Nayland Smith restrained me; his gaze was compelling. 'You heard me say tonight that I had had my first glimpse of the ghost? '
'Well? '
'It was true. The ghost slipped through my fingers. But the ghost was Fah Lo Suee!... Don't raise your voice. I have a reason for this. Just outline to me, without any reserva- tion, what took place from the time that you left Barton's study to the time that you said good night to Rima.'
