“I don’t like the look of this at all!” he said as he got down from the bookcase. “It seems to me that we might be kept here for a long time.”
Miss Wickham showed more astonishment than fear.
“But why should anyone want to keep us here for any time?” she asked. “What’s it mean?”
“I wish I knew!” exclaimed Viner. He pulled out his watch and made a mental note of the time. “We’re being kept much longer than we should be in any ordinary case,” he remarked.
“Of course!” admitted Miss Wickham. “Well past three o’clock, isn’t it? If we’re delayed much longer, Mrs. Killenhall will be too late for the bank.”
“What bank?” asked Viner.
“My bank. I always give Mrs. Killenhall a check for the weekly bills every Friday, and as we were coming through the City to get here, she said, just before we left home, that I might as well give her the check and she could call and cash it as we drove back. And,” concluded Miss Wickham, “the bank closes at four.”
Viner began to be suspicious.
“Look here!” he said suddenly. “Don’t think me inquisitive, but what was the amount of the check you gave her?”
“There was no amount stated,” replied Miss Wickham. “I always give her a blank check—signed, of course—and she fills in the amount herself. It varies according to what she wants.”
Without expressing any opinion on the wisdom of handing checks to other people on this plan, Viner turned to Miss Wickham with a further question.
“Do you know anything about Mrs. Killenhall’s movements this morning?” he asked. “Did she go out anywhere?”
“Yes,” replied Miss Wickham. “She went to the police-court, to hear the proceedings against Mr. Hyde. She wanted me to go, but I wouldn’t—I dislike that sort of thing. She was there all the morning.”
“So was I,” said Viner. “I didn’t see her. But the place was crowded.”
“And she was veiled,” remarked Miss Wickham. “Naturally, she didn’t want people to see her in a place like that.”
“Do you know whether she went to the previous sitting? I mean when Hyde was brought up the first time?” inquired Viner. “I remember there were some veiled ladies there—and at the coroner’s inquest, too.”
“She was at the coroner’s inquest, I know,” replied Miss Wickham. “I don’t know about the other time.”
Viner made no remark, and Miss Wickham suddenly lowered her voice and bent nearer to him.
“Why?” she asked. “Are you—suspecting Mrs. Killenhall of anything, Mr. Viner?”
Viner gave her a quick glance.
“Are you?” he said in low tones.
Miss Wickham waved a hand towards the anteroom.
“Well!” she whispered. “What’s it look like? She brings me down here in a hurry, on a message which I myself never heard nor saw delivered in any way; after I get here, you are fetched—and here we are! And—where is she?”
“And—possibly a much more pertinent question,” said Viner, “where is this Dr. Martincole? Look here: this is a well-furnished room; those pictures are good; there are many valuable things here; yet the man who practises here is only in attendance for an hour or two in an afternoon, and once a week for rather longer in the evening. He can’t earn much here; certainly an East End doctor could not afford to buy things like this or that. Do you know what I think? I think this man is some West End man, who for purposes of his own has this place down here—a man who probably lives a double life, and may possibly be mixed up in some nefarious practices. And so I propose, as we’ve waited long enough, to get out of it, and I’m going to smash that window and yell as loud as I can—somebody will hear it!”
Miss Wickham pointed to a door in the oak panelling, a door set in a corner of the room, across which hung a heavy curtain of red plush, only halfdrawn.
“There’s a door there,” she remarked, “but I suppose it’s only a cupboard.”
“Sure to be,” said Viner. “However, we’ll see.” He went across, drew the curtain aside, tried the door, looked within, and uttered an exclamation. “I say!” he called back. “Stairs!”
Miss Wickham came across and looked past his shoulder. There was certainly the head of a staircase before him, and a few stairs to be seen before darkness swallowed up the rest—but the darkness was deep and the atmosphere that came up from below decidedly musty.
“Are you going down there?” she asked. “I don’t like it!”
“It seems our only chance,” answered Viner. He looked back into the room, and seeing some wax candles standing on a writing-table, seized one and lighted it. “Come along!” he said. “Let’s get out of this altogether.”
Miss Wickham gathered up her skirts and followed down the stairs, Viner going cautiously in front, with the light held before him in such a fashion that he could see every step. At a turn in the stairway he came across a door, and opening it, saw that it stood at the end of a narrow passage running through the house; at the farther end of the passage he recognized an oak cabinet which he had noticed when Mrs. Killenhall first admitted him.
“I see how these people, whoever they are, manage matters,” he remarked over his shoulder as he led his companion forward. “This place has a front and a back entrance. If you don’t want to be seen, you know, well, it’s convenient. We’re approaching the back—and here it is.”
The stairs came to an end deep down in the house, terminating in a door which Viner, after leaving his silver-sticked candle, only blown out, on the last step, carefully opened. There before
