“Who is Mendoza—the deposed star?”
The other nodded.
“Stella Mendoza—not a bad girl and not a good girl,” he said. “I’ve been wondering why Penne always gave us permission to use his grounds for shooting, and now I know. I tell you that that house holds a few secrets!”
Michael smiled faintly.
“One, at least, of them will be revealed tonight,” he said. “I am going to explore Griff Towers, and I do not intend asking permission of Sir Gregory Penne. And if I can discover what I believe is there to be discovered, Gregory Penne will sleep under lock and key this night!”
XIX
The Midnight Visit
Michael Brixan had had sent down to him from town a heavy suitcase, which contained precious little clothing. He was busy with its contents for half an hour, when the boots of the hotel announced the arrival of the motorcycle that had been hired for him.
With a canvas bag strapped to his back, he mounted the machine, and was soon clear of the town, swerving through the twisting lanes of Sussex until he arrived at the Dower House, behind which he concealed his machine.
It was eleven o’clock when he crossed the fields to the postern gate, on the alert all the time for the soft-footed Bhag. The postern was closed and locked—a contingency for which he was prepared. Unstrapping his bag, he took therefrom a bundle of rods, and screwed three together. To the top he fastened a big, blunt hook, and, replacing the remainder of the rods, he lifted the hook till it rested on the top of the high wall, tested its stability, and in a few seconds had climbed his “ladder” and had jumped to the other side.
He followed the path that he had taken before, keeping close to the bushes, and all the time watching left and right for Penne’s monstrous servant. As he came to the end of the hedge, the hall door opened and two men came out. One was Penne, and for a moment he did not recognize the tall man by his side, until he heard his voice. Mr. Sampson Longvale!
“I think she will be all right. The wounds are very peculiar. It looks almost as if she had been scratched by some huge claw,” said Longvale. “I hope I have been of assistance, Sir Gregory, though, as I told you, it is nearly fifty years since I engaged in medical work.”
So old Longvale had been a doctor! Somehow this news did not surprise Michael. There was something in the old man’s benevolence of countenance and easy manner which would have suggested a training in that profession, to one less analytical than Michael Brixan.
“My car will take you down,” he heard Sir Gregory say.
“No, no, thank you; I will walk. It is not very far. Good night, Sir Gregory.”
The baronet growled a good night and went back into the dimly-lit hall, and Michael heard the rattle of chains as the door was fastened.
There was no time to be lost. Almost before Mr. Sampson Longvale had disappeared into the darkness, Michael had opened his canvas bag and had screwed on three more links to his ladder. From each rod projected a short, light, steel bracket. It was the type of hook-ladder that firemen use, and Michael had employed this method of gaining entrance to a forbidden house many times in his chequered career.
He judged the distance accurately, for when he lifted the rod and dropped the hook upon the sill of the little window, the ladder hung only a few inches short of the ground. With a tug to test the hook, he went up hand over hand, and in a few seconds was prying at the window sash. It needed little opening, for the catch was of elementary simplicity, and in another instant he was standing on the step of a dark and narrow stairway.
He had provided himself with an electric torch, and he flashed a beam up and down. Below, he saw a small door which apparently led into the hall, and, by an effort of memory, he remembered that in the corner of the hall he had seen a curtain hanging, without attaching any importance to the fact. Going down, he tried the door and found it locked. Putting down his lantern, he took out a leather case of tools and began to manipulate the lock. In an incredibly short space of time the key turned. When he had assured himself that the door would open, he was satisfied. For the moment his work lay upstairs, and he climbed the steps again, coming to a narrow landing, but no door.
A second, a third and a fourth flight brought him, as near as he could guess, to the top of the tower, and here he found a narrow exit. Listening, after a while he heard somebody moving about the room, and by the sound they made, he supposed they wore slippers. Presently a door closed with a thud, and he tried the handle of the wicket. It was unlocked, and he opened it gently a fraction of an inch at a time, until he secured a view of the greater part of the chamber.
It was a small, lofty room, unfurnished with the exception of a low bed in one corner, on which a woman lay. Her back was toward him, fortunately; but the black hair and the ivory yellow of the bare arm that lay on the coverlet told him that she was not European.
Presently she turned and he saw her face, recognizing her immediately as the woman whose face he had seen in the picture. She was pretty in her wild way, and young. Her eyes were closed, and presently she began crying softly in her sleep.
Michael was halfway in the room when he saw
