CHAPTER XXIX

MARGARET PAYS A CALL

The next morning, between eleven o'clock and noon, Margaret went out visiting. She had paid much attention to her costume, more than she was wont to do. Her mind travelled back to the day on which she had been repulsed from Cuthbert Grahame's door; she endeavoured to recall what on that occasion she had worn. Women have a mnemonic system of their own; with them clothes and events are inseparably associated. They recall one by a reference to the other. Miss Wallace had no difficulty in recollecting precisely what garments she had worn; she had even a fair perception of how she had looked in them. She made it her immediate purpose to look again as much as possible as she had looked then. Almost providentially, as it seemed, the dress itself was still in existence, hidden away at the bottom of a box. She had never worn it since. First, because, although cheap enough, it was fashioned of very delicate material, and the hot water which had been poured upon her had blotched it here and there with stains which she had found it impossible to attempt to conceal. Then it was connected with an episode which, whenever she saw it, would instantly recur. The recurrence afforded her no pleasure. As, after excavating it, she surveyed its many creases, she meditated.

"It almost looks as if, from the first, I had preserved it with a particular end in view, with the intention of producing it, when the mathematical moment arrived, as what the French call a _pièce de conviction_. It's ages behind the fashion, but that will only serve to impress its significance more forcibly on her."

She contrived something in the way of head-gear which was reminiscent of the hat she had worn that day. Her nimble fingers reproduced the various trifles which in a woman's attire are of such capital importance; she even dressed her hair in a fashion which was obsolete. When, fully costumed, she surveyed herself in a looking-glass, it seemed to her that the results were most surprising.

"Wonderful how the modes do change! It is not so many years ago, and I am sure that then I was up-to-date; but now I look as if I had come out of the ark; I might be in fancy-dress. I shall have to take a cab; I should never dare to walk through the streets like this; they'd take me for a guy. When Mrs. Gregory Lamb sees me, if she's still in anything like the state of mind which that charming husband of hers described last night, it won't be wonderful if she takes me for a ghost."

She put in a portfolio certain drawings which she had risen at a very matutinal hour to make; the portfolio she placed beneath her arm, and, thus equipped, she sallied forth upon her errand. The street in which she had her lodging being of modest pretensions, was but little frequented by cabs. She had a five minutes' walk before she found one. And during that short promenade she was the object of so much attention, especially from the females as she passed, that she was glad when, seated in a hansom, she was at least partially concealed by the friendly apron.

She found the door of Mrs. Lamb's residence in Connaught Square wide open. On the steps stood a shabbily dressed man, with his hands in his trouser pockets, an ancient bowler pressed tightly down upon his head, and a clay pipe between his lips. When Margaret addressed him he moved neither his hat, nor himself, nor his pipe.

"Is Mrs. Lamb in?"

"From what the governor told me I shouldn't be surprised but what she's gone back to bed."

Margaret considered the man's words. His manner was not exactly rude, it was peculiar.

"Which is her bedroom?"

"That's more than I can tell you. I ain't been upstairs myself. I've got a bad leg, and ain't too fond of going up and down stairs, especially when there ain't no need of it. But you'll find it somewhere that way, I expect."

"May I ask who you are?"

"Me?" Taking his pipe out, the man drew the back of his hand across his lips. "I'm representing the landlord; that's what I am."

"Representing the landlord? Do you mean that you're a bailiff?"

"A bailiff--that's it! I'm in possession; three quarters' rent--nearly four. My governor was only just in time. Seems there's a bill of sale on the furniture. They came up with their vans as my governor was going over the place; wanted to clear everything out, they did. Of course my governor soon put a stopper on that. There was a bit of a talk. I shouldn't be surprised if they was to pay my governor out. It's a queer business from what I hear."

"Please let me pass, I want to see Mrs. Lamb."

The man drew well back into the house.

"Certainly; any lady can see Mrs. Lamb for what I care. I expect you'll find her somewhere about upstairs."

As she ascended the staircase Miss Wallace indulged in inward comments.

"The house looked very different the night before last; nobody would have guessed then that the shadow of ruin was already hovering over it. She must be a curious person to give a party to all that crowd of people when she knew that at any hour the brokers might be in for rent. And to talk of financing Harry's play! and paying him three hundred a year for doing nothing! But then she is a curious person. The house looks as if nothing had been touched in it since Mrs. Lamb's reception came to a premature conclusion--it smells like it too. What have we here? What a state of things!"

She glanced into the drawing-rooms, which remained in a state of amazing confusion. Mounting to the floor above she found herself confronted by two closed doors.

"I wonder if one of these is her bedroom. I'll try this."

She turned the handle of the door which was directly in front of her, softly, and walked right in. It was the lady's bedroom, and the lady was in bed. Margaret had entered so quietly that apparently not the slightest sound had informed the mistress of the house that any one was there. The girl stood still.

"Pah! what an atmosphere! I'd sooner have every pane of glass broken than breathe air like this. I shouldn't think the windows have been open for days." She glanced at the bed. "Is she asleep?--at this hour?--with the broker's man downstairs?"

Laying her portfolio on a small table, she moved closer to the bed. Its occupant continued motionless. The girl, leaning forward, touched her, lightly, on the shoulder. Still no sign of life. The girl exchanged the light touch for a sudden, vigorous grip, giving the shoulder a wrench which must have roused the soundest sleeper. The woman started up in bed.

"Luker! is that you?" she cried.

When freshly roused from slumber, she saw who it was; her first impression seemed to be that she was still the victim of some haunting dream. Speechless, she stared at the girl, drawing farther and farther back the longer she stared. Her whole frame--her pose, her limbs, the muscles of her face--seemed to become rigid, set, as if she were afflicted by some new and awful form of tetanus. She appeared to be incapable of twitching a lip or of moving an eyelid. Even when Margaret spoke she persisted in her fixed and dreadful glare, as if she were some unpleasant statue.

"I am Margaret Wallace--as you are aware. I am she whom you drove from Cuthbert Grahame's door, pretending you were Nannie Foreshaw. These are the clothes I was wearing when you drove me away with lies and with hot water. See--here are the stains of that hot water still. Your sin has found you out; judgment is pronounced; your punishment has already begun. Between you and me it is a duel to the death. It is your choice, not mine, but since you have forced it on me, I will fight you to the end, and I shall win. I know all about you--who you are, what you've done. I know that you were already a wife when you pretended to marry Cuthbert Grahame; that you committed bigamy. I know that you got that will from him by means of a trick. I know that so soon as you had got it you murdered him. You snatched the pillows from under his head--see! like that!" She caught up the two pillows which lay upon the bolster and dropped them on the floor. "Can't you hear the noise he makes in trying to breathe? He's choking. You've only to leave him like that for a little while, and he'll be dead. And you left him! I know--I know."

The woman listened to the hot, eager words which streamed from the girl's lips as if the speaker were some supernatural visitor, and the accusations were being hurled at her from on high; and still she never moved a muscle, she even seemed to cease to breathe.

"You see!--we are in Cuthbert Grahame's bedroom, you and I. I know it as well as you do--better--and you know it very well. You'll never forget it--never!--to the last moment of your life. There is the mantelpiece; it is made of wood--carved wood. It is old; old as the house itself; beautifully carved. You see there are two wooden pillars, one on either side, carved so that they stand out. You are quite right in supposing that there is something about them which you ought to see, to understand. I have come to tell you--to show you--what it is."

Taking from her portfolio two drawings she held first one and then the other in front of the motionless woman.

"I have made a drawing of the mantelpiece, just as you see it, and as I see it, and as it is. Is it not like it? Here are the two side-posts; but here"--exchanging one drawing for the other--"is only one of them. That is a picture of the pillar which is on the left-hand side of the mantelpiece as you stand in front of it--you will remember, on the left-hand side. I have written down an exact description of it in case you should forget, because there is only one thing which you will never forget, and that is on the bed. Look closely at the drawing; it represents the pillar exactly. This long, slender part, which runs from here to here, is called the shaft. You hold it with both hands, or, as you are very strong, you will perhaps be able to manage with one, and you turn it right round in its socket--completely round. It will probably be a little stiff, as it has not been touched for so long; but you'll find that you'll be able to make it move. This narrow piece at the top is called the neck. After you have turned the column you pull it to the left. It slides in two grooves. It may be a little stiff, like the column, but if you push, or pull, hard enough, and long enough, it will yield. This still narrower piece near the foot of the column, just above the plinth--the plinth in the bottom of a column is called the _torus_, or the _tore_ (_torus_ is a Latin word which architects use, and it just means swelling)--when you have turned the pillar, and slipped the neck, you get as firm a grip on the top of the torus as you can, give a smart jerk, and it will fall over on a hinge. Have you ever read _The Arabian Nights?_ You don't look as if you had read anything. If you haven't, you never will; you'll never have a chance. But I suppose you've heard of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves; the cave in which they kept their treasure; the password, 'Open Sesame,' which caused the cave to open. All these man[oe]uvres of which I have been telling you--turning the shaft, sliding the neck, pulling forward the torus--are the 'Open Sesame' which will lead you to the place where the treasure is--greater treasure than was in the cave of the forty thieves. These performances which you will have gone through will have unlocked, unbolted and unbarred. All that remains is that you slide that whole side of the mantelpiece to the left. You'll have no difficulty. Behind you'll discover a cupboard, deep though narrow, going far back into the wall, with shelves laden with treasures. On those shelves is the quarter of a million of money--I daresay more--which once was Cuthbert Grahame's, waiting for some one to carry it away! Here are the two drawings which are the key to the riddle. I present them to you freely. They were made specially for you. Although the broker's man is in for rent, and the bill of sale men clamour at the door, and you are penniless, and ruin stares you in the face--ruin utter and complete--though your need of it's so great, you'll not get that money which is hidden in the mantelpiece--you'll not dare! you'll not dare! Because the bed still stands in the room--you can see it now!--the bed on which you murdered Cuthbert Grahame; and Cuthbert Grahame still lies on it--you can see him too!--waiting and watching for you to return to where you threw the pillows on the floor--waiting and watching for you. You'll not dare go back into that room again, because in it the dead hand is waiting to grip you by the throat. And after to-morrow it will be too late--Cuthbert Grahame's money will be there no longer. Here are the drawings. I will leave them with you, as I said. You will be able to study them at your leisure, conscious of who is looking over your shoulder."

Margaret laid the drawings on the coverlet. With her portfolio again beneath her arm she quitted the room, as noiselessly as she had entered. All the time Mrs. Gregory Lamb had not moved or spoken a word.