The Midnight Guest

A hansom pulled up in front of 799, Park Lane, and a slim figure of a woman, dressed in deep mourning, ran up the broad flight of marble steps leading to the house. Her features were closely concealed by a thick veil, so that the footman who answered the ring could make nothing of the visitor. Her voice was absolutely steady as she asked to see Lord Ravenspur at once.

“That is impossible, madam,” the footman protested; “his lordship is not yet down, and besides⁠—”

“There is no ‘besides’ about it,” the visitor said, imperiously; “it is a matter of life and death.”

Once more the servant hesitated. There was something about this woman that commanded his respect. The hour was still early for Park Lane, seeing that it was barely nine o’clock, and the notable thoroughfare was practically deserted. From the distance came the hoarse cries of a number of newsboys who were racing across the Park. One of them came stumbling down Park Lane, filling the fresh spring atmosphere with his shouts. Evidently something out of the common had happened to bring these birds of ill omen westward at so early an hour. With the curiosity of his class the footman turned to listen.

“Terrible murder in Fitzjohn Square! Death of Mr. Louis Delahay, the famous artist! Artist found dead in his studio! Full details!”

The well-trained servant forgot his manners for the moment.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, “it can’t be true. Why, Mr. Delahay was a great friend of my master up to the last day or two⁠—”

“I remember the picture perfectly well,” one of the guests remarked. “It was the study of a woman. Do you recollect my coming in one night and you asked me my opinion of it?”

“I think I can remember it,” Ravenspur said.

“Well, it was a superb piece of work,” the first speaker went on; “anything more fascinating than the woman’s face I don’t recollect seeing. I don’t know who your model was, Ravenspur, but you had a rare find in her.”

“I had no model,” Ravenspur explained. “The face was more or less an ideal one⁠—composite, if you like, but resembling nobody in particular. However, the thing was a great loss to me, and I have never ceased to regret it. That is why I always keep this place locked up; even when the room is cleaned out, I am always present to see that nothing is disturbed. It is a whim of mine.”

As he spoke Ravenspur switched on the electric lights, until the whole of the beautiful apartment glowed to the illumination of the shaded lamps. The studio itself was circular in shape, and finished in a great dome of stained glass. The floor was littered with rare old Persian carpets, and lounges from all parts of the world were dotted about here and there. Round the walls was an almost unique collection of armour. From the centre of the floor rose a fine acacia tree, the vivid green foliage of which seemed to suffer nothing from being cut off from the outer light and air.

Time was going on. A dozen clocks in different parts of the house struck twelve. As Ravenspur stood by the table, his moody eyes still bent upon the photographs, there was a sudden click and snap, and the whole place was plunged in darkness. The thing was so quick and unexpected that something like a cry of alarm broke from Ravenspur’s lips. It all came to him in a flash that the tragedy of Fitzjohn Square was going to be repeated with himself in the role of the victim. This is just what had happened the previous evening, only there had been nothing to try his nerves then as they were being strained to breaking point now. Shaking and agitated in every limb he made his way across to where the switches were, but there was nothing wrong with them. He could hear no commotion in the house, such as would naturally follow the extinguishing of the light. Indeed, underneath the doorway he could see by the slit of light that the electrics in the corridor were still working.

The full horror of it was almost more than he could bear. A wild desire for light and companionship came upon him. His unsteady hand fumbled at the latch, which seemed in some way to have gone wrong, for the door refused to open. Ravenspur was breathing thickly and heavily. But he was sufficiently in possession of his faculties to realise that he was no longer alone in the room. He could distinctly hear someone breathing close to him. Then he caught the sound of a low chuckle.

“Not so fast,” a voice hissed in his ear; “I haven’t come all this way for the benefit of your society to lose you like this. You needn’t worry about the door, because you can’t escape in that way.”

“Well, sir, if you like to put it like that,” the witness said humbly. “On the night of the murder about a quarter past one, I was in the Square gardens watching through the railings at the corner of John Street. I could see perfectly well what was going on because there is a large electric arc light where John Street and the Square adjoin. As I said, it was just about a quarter past one, because I looked at my watch to see what the time was. It was nearly time for me to leave, as my instructions⁠—”

The witness broke off abruptly, and glanced about the room with the air of a man who has recognised an acquaintance whom he had not expected to see. His rambling attentions were recalled by the coroner in a few sharp words.

“I am sure I beg your pardon. As I said, I was waiting there till my time was up, and I saw Mr. Delahay come round the corner. He stood there just a moment. As far as I could gather he seemed to be troubled about something. I was too far off to hear what he was saying, but it seemed to me⁠—”

“What are you talking about?” the coroner interrupted. “Do you mean to say that Mr. Delahay was talking to himself?”

“Oh, dear no, sir; he was talking to his companion.”

“Companion! That is the first we have heard of that. Was the companion a man or a woman, might I ask?”

The speaker’s English was good enough, but Vera did not fail to detect the foreign accent behind it. She was becoming afraid now. Her heart was beating faster. She turned to see if assistance might not be at hand. But the thick belts of shrubs cut off all sounds. She could hear absolutely nothing in the direction of the house. And then there was another cause for fear. Surely she could hear something creeping stealthily through the bushes. She listened again, and the footsteps seemed to grow closer. Then the bushes parted, and a great black head and a pair of gleaming eyes emerged, followed by a long, heavy body that crept up to Vera’s side and rubbed against her dress. A cry of thankfulness escaped her.

“Bruno!” she panted. “How did you get here?”

Then she remembered the dog had followed them from Park Lane. He had been tied up by Walter in the shrubbery, and the broken cord attached to his collar told the rest of the story. The great hound lifted his head. The glittering amber-coloured eyes were turned on the stranger, and a deep growl came from the depths of the dog’s throat. The small man in evening dress stepped back.

“That dog is very dangerous,” he stammered.

“Not while I am here,” Vera said coldly, “though, perhaps if he met you here alone you might have cause for uneasiness. And now, sir, will you be so good as to tell me your name?”

“Amati,” the stranger said sullenly. “But what does it matter? You have made up your mind by this time whether you are coming with me or not. You know perfectly well, from the letter in your possession, that I am a messenger from your mother.