“Antony Ferrara,” he said, “have you read the Harris Papyrus?”
Ferrara dropped his glove, stooped and recovered it, and smiled faintly.
“No,” he replied. “Have you?” His eyes were nearly closed, mere luminous slits. “But surely,” he continued, “this is no time, Cairn, to discuss books? As my poor father’s heir, and therefore your host, I beg of you to partake—”
A faint sound made him turn. Just within the door, where the light from the reddening library windows touched her as if with sanctity, stood Myra Duquesne, in her night robe, her hair unbound and her little bare feet gleaming whitely upon the red carpet. Her eyes were wide open, vacant of expression, but set upon Antony Ferrara’s ungloved left hand.
Ferrara turned slowly to face her, until his back was towards the two men in the library. She began to speak, in a toneless, unemotional voice, raising her finger and pointing at a ring which Ferrara wore.
“I know you now,” she said; “I know you, son of an evil woman, for you wear her ring, the sacred ring of Thoth. You have stained that ring with blood, as she stained it—with the blood of those who loved and trusted you. I could name you, but my lips are sealed—I could name you, brood of a witch, murderer, for I know you now.”
Dispassionately, mechanically, she delivered her strange indictment. Over her shoulder appeared the anxious face of Mrs. Hume, finger to lip.
“My God!” muttered Cairn. “My God! What—”
“S—sh!” his father grasped his arm. “She is asleep!”
Myra Duquesne turned and quitted the room, Mrs. Hume hovering anxiously about her. Antony Ferrara faced around; his mouth was oddly twisted.
“She is troubled with strange dreams,” he said, very huskily.
“Clairvoyant dreams!” Dr. Cairn addressed him for the first time. “Do not glare at me in that way, for it may be that I know you, too! Come, Rob.”
“But Myra—”
Dr. Cairn laid his hand upon his son’s shoulder, fixing his eyes upon him steadily.
“Nothing in this house can injure Myra,” he replied quietly; “for Good is higher than Evil. For the present we can only go.”
Antony Ferrara stood aside, as the two walked out of the library.
IV
At Ferrara’s Chambers
Dr. Bruce Cairn swung around in his chair, lifting his heavy eyebrows interrogatively, as his son, Robert, entered the consulting-room. Half-Moon Street was bathed in almost tropical sunlight, but already the celebrated physician had sent those out from his house to whom the sky was overcast, whom the sun would gladden no more, and a group of anxious-eyed sufferers yet awaited his scrutiny in an adjoining room.
“Hullo, Rob! Do you wish to see me professionally?”
Robert Cairn seated himself upon a corner of the big table, shaking his head slowly.
“No, thanks sir; I’m fit enough; but I thought you might like to know about the will—”
“I do know. Since I was largely interested, Jermyn attended on my behalf; an urgent case detained me. He rang up earlier this morning.”
“Oh, I see. Then perhaps I’m wasting your time; but it was a surprise—quite a pleasant one—to find that Sir Michael had provided for Myra—Miss Duquesne.”
Dr. Cairn stared hard.
“What led you to suppose that he had not provided for his niece? She is an orphan, and he was her guardian.”
“Of course, he should have done so; but I was not alone in my belief that during the—peculiar state of mind—which preceded his death, he had altered his will—”
“In favour of his adopted son, Antony?”
“Yes. I know you were afraid of it, sir! But as it turns out they inherit equal shares, and the house goes to Myra. Mr. Antony Ferrara”—he accentuated the name—“quite failed to conceal his chagrin.”
“Indeed!”
“Rather. He was there in person, wearing one of his beastly fur coats—a fur coat, with the thermometer at Africa!—lined with civet-cat, of all abominations!”
Dr. Cairn turned to his table, tapping at the blotting-pad with the tube of a stethoscope.
“I regret your attitude towards young Ferrara, Rob.”
His son started.
“Regret it! I don’t understand. Why, you, yourself brought about an open rupture on the night of Sir Michael’s death.”
“Nevertheless, I am sorry. You know, since you were present, that Sir Michael has left his niece—to my care—”
“Thank God for that!”
“I am glad, too, although there are many difficulties. But, furthermore, he enjoined me to—”
“Keep an eye on Antony! Yes, yes—but, heavens! he didn’t know him for what he is!”
Dr. Cairn turned to him again.
“He did not; by a divine mercy, he never knew—what we know. But”—his clear eyes were raised to his son’s—“the charge is none the less sacred, boy!”
The younger man stared perplexedly.
“But he is nothing less than a—”
His father’s upraised hand checked the word on his tongue.
“I know what he is, Rob, even better than you do. But cannot you see how this ties my hands, seals my lips?”
Robert Cairn was silent, stupefied.
“Give me time to see my way clearly, Rob. At the moment I cannot reconcile my duty and my conscience; I confess it. But give me time. If only as a move—as a matter of policy—keep in touch with Ferrara. You loathe him, I know; but we must watch him! There are other interests—”
“Myra!” Robert Cairn flushed hotly. “Yes, I see. I understand. By heavens, it’s a hard part to play, but—”
“Be advised by me, Rob. Meet stealth with stealth. My boy, we have seen strange ends come to those who stood in the path of someone. If you had studied the subjects that I have studied you would know that retribution, though slow, is inevitable. But be on your guard. I am taking precautions. We have an enemy; I do not pretend to deny it; and he fights with strange weapons. Perhaps I know something of those weapons, too, and I am adopting—certain measures. But one defence, and the one for you, is guile—stealth!”
Robert Cairn
