He rose and walked up and down agitatedly.
“No—no; absolutely not,” he muttered. “It simply can’t be. … Why should Von Blon lie to us about her?”
We all knew what was in his mind. Even Heath sensed it at once, for, though he did not speak German, the titles of the two German books—especially the latter—needed no translation to be understood. Hysteria and twilight sleep! Hysterical paralysis and somnambulism! The gruesome and terrible implication in these two titles, and their possible relation to the sinister tragedies of the Greene mansion, sent a chill of horror over me.
Vance stopped his restless pacing and fixed a grave gaze on Markham.
“This thing gets deeper and deeper. Something unthinkable is going on here.—Come, let us get out of this polluted room. It has told us its gibbering, nightmarish story. And now we will have to interpret it—find some glimmer of sanity in its black suggestions.—Sergeant, will you draw the curtains while I straighten these books? We’d best leave no evidence of our visit.”
XIX
Sherry and Paralysis
(Wednesday, December 1; 4:30 p.m.)
When we returned to Mrs. Greene’s room the old lady was apparently sleeping peacefully and we did not disturb her. Heath gave the key to Nurse O’Brien with instructions to replace it in the jewel-case, and we went downstairs.
Although it was but a little past four o’clock, the early winter twilight had already descended. Sproot had not yet lighted the lamps, and the lower hall was in semidarkness. A ghostly atmosphere pervaded the house. Even the silence was oppressive, and seemed fraught with the spirit of commination. We went straight to the hall table where we had thrown our coats, eager to get out into the open air.
But we were not to shake the depressing influence of the old mansion so quickly. We had scarcely reached the table when there came a slight stirring of the portières of the archway opposite to the drawing-room, and a tense, whispered voice said:
“Mr. Vance—please!”
We turned, startled. There, just inside of the reception-room, hiding behind the heavy draperies, stood Ada, her face a patch of ghastly white in the gathering gloom. With one finger placed on her lips for silence, she beckoned to us; and we stepped softly into the chill, unused room.
“There’s something I must tell you,” she said, in a half-whisper, “—something terrible! I was going to telephone you today, but I was afraid. …” A fit of trembling seized her.
“Don’t be frightened, Ada,” Vance encouraged her soothingly. “In a few days all these awful things will be over.—What have you to tell us?”
She made an effort to draw herself together, and when the tremor had passed she went on hesitantly.
“Last night—it was long after midnight—I woke, and felt hungry. So I got up, slipped on a wrap, and stole downstairs. Cook always leaves something in the pantry for me. …” Again she stopped, and her haunted eyes searched our faces. “But when I reached the lower landing of the stairs I heard a soft, shuffling sound in the hall—far back, near the library door. My heart was in my mouth, but I made myself look over the banister. And just then—someone struck a match. …”
Her trembling began afresh, and she clutched Vance’s arm with both hands. I was afraid the girl was going to faint, and I moved closer to her; but Vance’s voice seemed to steady her.
“Who was it, Ada?”
She caught her breath and looked about her, her face the picture of deadly fear. Then she leaned forward.
“It was mother! … And she was walking!”
The dread significance of this revelation chilled us all into silence. After a moment a choked whistle escaped Heath; and Markham threw back his head like a man shaking himself out of an encroaching spell of hypnosis. It was Vance who first recovered himself sufficiently to speak.
“Your mother was near the library door?”
“Yes; and it seemed as though she held a key in her hand.”
“Was she carrying anything else?” Vance’s effort at calmness was only half successful.
“I didn’t notice—I was too terrified.”
“Could she, for instance, have been carrying a pair of galoshes?” he persisted.
“She might have been. I don’t know. She had on her long Oriental shawl, and it fell down about her in folds. Maybe under the shawl. … Or she might have put them down when she struck the match. I only know I saw her—moving slowly … there in the darkness.”
The memory of that unbelievable vision completely took possession of the girl. Her eyes stared, trance-like, into the deepening shadows.
Markham cleared his throat nervously.
“You say yourself it was dark in the hall last night, Miss Greene. Perhaps your fears got the better of you. Are you sure it might not have been Hemming or the cook?”
She brought her eyes back to Markham with sudden resentment.
“No!” Then her voice took on its former note of terror. “It was mother. The match was burning close to her face, and there was a terrible look in her eyes. I was only a few feet from her—looking straight down on her.”
Her hold on Vance’s arm tightened, and once more her agonized gaze turned to him.
“Oh, what does it mean? I thought—I thought mother could never walk again.”
Vance ignored her anguished appeal.
“Tell me this, for it’s very important: did your mother see you?”
“I—don’t know.” Her words were scarcely audible. “I drew back and ran softly up the stairs. Then I locked myself in my room.”
Vance did not speak at once. He regarded the girl for a moment, and then gave her a slow, comforting smile.
“And I think your room is the best place for you now,” he said. “Don’t worry over what you saw;
