Part 8

This remark referred to the upholstering of the room, which was in the Early English style. Stooping down he drew a pair of list slippers over his indiarubber shoes. With swift, cat-like steps he strode across the floor and left the room. He was evidently familiar with his ground. The burglar's profession, to be profitably practised, entails no inconsiderable labour. It is quite an error to suppose that the burglar has only to stroll along the street and break into the first house which catches his eye. Not at all. Such a course is altogether unprofessional. Persons who do that kind of thing get what they deserve--"stir," and plenty of it. A really professional man, an artist--such, for example, as Mr. Bennett--works on entirely different lines. He had had this little job in his mind's eye for the last three months. Acacia Villa presented an almost ideal illustration of _the_ promising crib to crack. Did he rush at it on that account? Quite the other way. He prepared his ground. He discovered, what all the world--in that neighbourhood--knew already, that it was occupied by a single lady and a solitary maid. That fact alone would have induced some men to make a dash at it before unscrupulous competitors had had an opportunity to take the bread out of their mouths. But Mr. Bennett was made of other stuff.

It was situated in a lonely suburb, and in a lonely portion of the lonely suburb. It stood in its own grounds. There was not a dog about the place. There was not a shutter to a window. There was no basement to the house--you had only to step from the ground to the window-sill, and from the window-sill into the house. These facts would have been so many extra inducements to the average burglar to "put up" the place at once.

But Mr. Bennett looked at the matter from a different standpoint. He did not ask if he could crack the crib--he had never yet encountered one which had mastered him--but whether the crib was really worth the cracking. The very defencelessness of the place was against it--in his eyes, at any rate--at first. People who have anything very well worth stealing do not, as a rule, leave it at the mercy of the first individual who passes by--though there are exceptions to the rule. Mr. Bennett discovered that there was one, and the discovery revealed the _artist_ in the man.

The occupant of Acacia Villa was a Miss Cecilia Jones. Mr. Bennett had never seen Miss Cecilia Jones. Nobody--or hardly anybody--ever had. There appeared to be a mystery about Miss Cecilia Jones. But Mr. Bennett had seen the maid, and not only seen her, but promised to marry her as well. This was a promise which he never made to any woman unless actually compelled: the present had been a case of actual compulsion.

The maid's name was Hannah--Miss Hannah Welsh. She was not young, and she was not good-looking. Mr. Bennett was partial to both youth and beauty. It went against the grain to court Miss Welsh. But he found that courtship was an absolutely indispensable preliminary. After he had encircled her waist a few times with his arm, and tasted the nectar of her lips--also a few times--Miss Welsh began gradually to unbend. But the process was very gradual. She was the most reticent of maids. He had not only to present her with several presents--the proceeds of the exercise of his profession--he had not only to promise to marry her, he had not only to name the day, but he had even to buy--or steal: the words were synonymous with him--the wedding-ring, before all the tale was told. When he had actually tried the ring on Miss Welsh's finger--to see if it would fit--then, and only then, he heard all there was to hear.

Miss Jones was queer--not mad exactly, but peculiar. She had quarrelled with all her relatives. She was rich. She was full of crotchets. She distrusted all the world, particularly bankers. To such a length had she carried her want of confidence that she had realised all her fortune, turned it into specie, and kept it in the house. It was at this point that Miss Welsh's conversation became interesting to Mr. Bennett.

"Keeps it in the house, does she? In notes, I suppose?"

"Then you suppose wrong. She won't have nothing to do with notes--trust her. It's all in gold and diamonds."

"Diamonds! How do you know they're diamonds?"

Miss Welsh glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. The conversation was carried on in the back garden at Acacia Villa, which was extensive and secluded. The time was evening, that season which is popularly supposed to be conducive to sentimental intercourse.

"Perhaps I know as much about diamonds as here and there a few."

Her tone was peculiar, almost suggestive. For an instant Mr. Bennett meditated making a clean breast of it, and asking Miss Welsh to come in on sharing terms. But he had an incurable objection to collaboration. Besides, in this case sharing terms would probably mean that he would have to go through the form, at any rate, of making her his wife.

"Where does she keep them? In a safe, I hope."

He did not hope so, though he said he did. At the very best, a safe, to a professional man, means the wasting of valuable time.

"She keeps them in her bedroom, in the chest of drawers, in a red leather box, in the little top drawer on the left-hand side."

Mr. Bennett felt a glow steal all over him. He began to conceive quite a respect for Miss Cecilia Jones.

"And the gold--where does she keep that?"

"In tin boxes. There are ten of them. There are a thousand sovereigns in each. There are five boxes on each side of the chest of drawers." Mr. Bennett possessed considerable presence of mind, but he almost lost it then. Ten thousand pounds in sovereigns! He would never regret the affection he had lavished on Miss Welsh--never, to his dying day. _Would_ it be a bad speculation to marry her? But no; the thought was rash. He would reward her, but in quite a different way. He made a rapid calculation. Ten thousand sovereigns would weigh, roughly, about 130 pounds avoirdupois. He might turn them into a sack--fancy, a sackful of money! But 130 pounds was no light weight to carry far. He must have a vehicle at hand. What a convenience a "pal" would be! But he had worked single-handed so far, and he would work single-handed to the end.

When he had ascertained his facts he acted on them at once, thus revealing the artist again. Spare no pains in making sure that the crib is worth the cracking, _then_ crack it at once. On the night following this conversation the crib was cracked: he had arranged for the marriage to take place on the next day but one--or Miss Welsh thought he had--so that if he wished to avoid a scandal he really had no time to lose. We have seen him enter the house. Now we understand how it was he knew his ground.

He paused for an instant outside the drawing-room door: it was through the drawing-room window he had effected an entrance. All was still. He moved up the staircase two steps at a time. There was not a stair that creaked. At the top he paused again. From information received, to adopt a phrase popular in an antagonistic profession, he was aware that Miss Jones slept in the front bedroom.

"There's three bedrooms on the first floor. When you gets to the top of the stairs you turns to the left, and if you goes straight on you walks right into Miss Jones's room."

Mr. Bennett turned to the left. He went straight on. Outside Miss Jones's door he paused again. The critical moment had arrived. He felt that all his properties were in order--a bottle and a sponge in his right-hand pocket, a revolver in his left, a stout canvas bag fastened round his body beneath his coat. The lantern was shut. He opened it sufficiently to enable him to see what sort of handle there was on the door. Having satisfied himself on that point he closed it again.

Then he proceeded to effect an entrance into Miss Jones's bedroom.

He took the handle firmly in his hand. It turned without the slightest sound. The door yielded at once.

"Not locked," said Mr. Bennett beneath his breath. "What a stroke of luck!"

Noiselessly the door moved on its hinges. He opened it just wide enough to enable him to slip inside. When he was in he released the handle. Instantly the door moved back and closed itself without a sound.

"Got a spring upon the door," Mr. Bennett told himself--always beneath his breath. "Uncommonly well oiled they must keep it too."

The room was pitchy dark. He listened acutely. All was still as the grave. He strained his ears to catch Miss Jones's breathing.

"A light sleeper!"

A very light sleeper. Strain his ears as he might he could not catch the slightest sound. Mr. Bennett hesitated. As an artist he was averse to violence. In cases of necessity he was quite equal to the occasion, but in cases where it was not necessary he preferred the gentler way. And where a woman was in question, under hardly any provocation would he wish to cut her throat. He had chloroform in his pocket. If Miss Jones was disagreeable he could make his peace with that. But if she left him unmolested should he stupefy her still? He decided that while she continued to sleep she should be allowed to sleep, only it would be well for her not to wake up too soon.

He moved across the room. Instinctively, even in the thick darkness, he knew the position of the chest of drawers. He reached it. He quickly discovered the little top drawer on the left-hand side.

In a remarkably short space of time he had it open. Then he began to search for the red leather box. He gleamed the lantern into the drawer so that its light might assist his search.

While he was still engaged in the work of discovery, suddenly the room was all ablaze with light.

"Thank you. I thought it was you."

A voice, quite a musical voice, spoke these words behind his back. Mr. Bennett was, not unnaturally, amazed. The sudden blaze of light dazzled his eyes. He turned to see who the speaker was.

"Don't move, or I fire. You will find I am a first-rate shot."

He stared. Indeed, he had cause to stare. A young lady--a distinctly pretty young lady--was sitting up in bed holding a revolver in her hand, which she was pointing straight at him.

"This room is lighted by electricity. I have only to press a button, it all goes out." And, in fact, it all went out; again the room was dark as pitch. "Another, it is alight again." As it was--and that with the rapidity of a flash of lightning.

Mr. Bennett stood motionless. For the first time in his professional career he was at a loss, not only as to what he ought to say, but as to what he ought to do. The young lady was so pretty. She had long, fair hair, which ranged loose upon her shoulders; a pair of great big eyes, which had a very curious effect on Mr. Bennett as they looked at him; a sweet mouth; through her rosy lips gleamed little pearl-like teeth; and a very pretty--and equally determined--nose and chin. She had on the orthodox nightdress, which, in her case, was a gorgeous piece of feminine millinery, laced all down the front with the daintiest pink bows. Mr. Bennett had never seen such a picture in his life.

"I am Miss Cecilia Jones. You are Mr. Bennett, I presume--George Bennett--'My George,' as Hannah says. Hannah is a hypnotic subject. When I am experimenting on her the poor dear creature tells me everything, you know. I wonder if I could hypnotise you."

Mr. Bennett did not know what she meant. He was only conscious of the most singular sensation he had ever experienced. To assist his understanding, possibly, Miss Jones gave a practical demonstration of her meaning. With her disengaged hand she made some slight movements in the air, keeping her eyes fixed on Mr. Bennett all the while. Mr. Bennett in vain struggled to escape her gaze. Suddenly he was conscious that, as it were, something had gone from him--his resolution--his freedom of will--he knew not what.

Miss Jones put down her hand.

"I think that you will do. How do you feel?"

"Very queer."

Mr. Bennett's utterance was peculiar. He spoke as a man might speak who is under the influence of a drug, or as one who dreams--unconsciously, without intention, as it were.

"Oh, they always do feel like that at first. Are you considered a good burglar as a rule?"

"As a rule."

Mr. Bennett hesitatingly put up his hand and drew it across his brow. It was the hand which held the lantern. When the lantern touched his skin he found that it was hot. He let it fall from his hand with a clatter to the floor. Miss Jones eyed him keenly all the time.

"I see you are not quite subjective yet, but I think that you will do. And of course I can always complete the influence if I will. It only illustrates what I have continually said--that it is not necessarily the lowest mental organisations that traffic in crime. I should say that yours was above rather than below the average. Have you yourself any ideas upon that point?"

As he answered Mr. Bennett faintly sighed.

"None!"

Miss Jones smiled, and as she smiled he smiled too, though there was this feature about Mr. Bennett's smile--there was not in it any sense of mirth. Miss Jones seemed to notice this, for she smiled still more. Immediately Mr. Bennett's smile expanded into a hideous grin. Then she burst into laughter. Mr. Bennett laughed out too.

"After all, you are more subjective than I thought you were. I don't think I ever had a subject laugh quite so sympathetically before."

As Miss Jones said this--which she did when she had done laughing--she turned and adjusted the pillows so as to form a support to her back. Against this she reclined at ease. She placed the revolver on the bolster at her side. From a receptacle in the nature of a tidy, which was fastened to the wall above her head, she drew a small leather case. From this she took a cigarette and a match. With the most charming air imaginable she proceeded to light the cigarette and smoke.

Mr. Bennett watched all her movements, feeling that he must be playing a part in a dream. It was a perceptible relief when she removed her eyes from his face, though they were such pretty eyes. Yet, although she was not looking at him, he felt that she saw him all the time--he had a hideous impression that she even saw what was passing in his mind.

"I wouldn't think about my revolver. You won't be able to fire it, you know."

He had been thinking about his revolver: a faint notion had been growing up in his mind that he would like to have just one shot at her. Miss Jones made this remark in the most tranquil tone of voice, as she was engaged in extinguishing the match with which she had lighted her cigarette.

"And I wouldn't worry about that chloroform--it is chloroform, isn't it?--in the right-hand pocket of your coat."

As she said this Miss Jones threw the extinguished match from her on to the bedroom floor. A great cloud of horror was settling down on Mr. Bennett's brain. Was this fair creature a thing of earth at all? Was she a witch or a fairy queen? Mr. Bennett was a tolerably well-educated man, and he had read of fairy queens. He gave a sudden start. Miss Jones had lighted the cigarette to her satisfaction, and had fixed her eyes upon his face again.

"I suppose you were hardly prepared for this sort of thing?"

"Hardly."

The word came from Mr. Bennett's stammering lips.

"When you heard about the defencelessness of Acacia Villa, and about Miss Jones--who was peculiar--and that sort of thing, you doubtless took it for granted that it was to be all plain sailing?"

"Something of the kind."

Not the least odd part of the affair was that Mr. Bennett found himself answering Miss Jones without the least intention of doing anything of the sort.

"Those diamonds you were looking for are at the bottom of the drawer--at the back. Just get them out and bring them here. In a red leather case--you know."

Mechanically Mr. Bennett did as he was told. When his back was turned to the lady, and he ceased to be compelled to meet her eyes, quite a spasm of relief went over him. A faint desire was again born within his breast to assert his manhood. The lady's quiet voice immediately interposed.

"I wouldn't worry myself with such thoughts if I were you. You are quite subjective."

He was subjective, though still Mr. Bennett had not the faintest notion what she meant. He found the red leather box. He brought it to her on the bed. He came so close to her that she puffed the smoke between her rosy lips up into his face.

"It is not locked. It opens with a spring, like this."

She stretched out her hand. As she did so she grazed slightly one of his. He trembled at her touch. She pressed some hidden spring in the box and the lid flew open. It was full of diamonds, which gleamed and sparkled like liquid light.

"Not bad stones, are they? There's a hundred thousand pounds' worth at the least. There are the tin boxes, you see. Five on either side the chest of drawers." Mr. Bennett followed the direction of Miss Jones's hand--he saw them plainly enough. "A hundred thousand pounds' worth of diamonds in your hand, ten thousand pounds in front of you--not bad plunder for a single night's work. And only a young woman to reckon with--it is not twelve months since I turned twenty-one. Yet I don't think you will get much out of this little job--do you?"

The tears actually stood in Mr. Bennett's eyes.

"I don't think I shall," he moaned.

"And yet there is no magic about it--not the least. It is simply an illustration of the latest phase in scientific development." Miss Jones leaned back against the pillows, enjoying her cigarette with the etherealised satisfaction of the true lover of the weed. With her left hand--what a little white and dainty hand it was!--she toyed with her long, fair hair. "At an extremely early age I discovered that I could exercise at will remarkable powers over my fellow-creatures. I lost no opportunity to develop those powers. At twenty-one I became my own mistress. I realised my fortune--as Hannah told you--and retired to Acacia Villa. You understand I had ideas of my own. I was peculiar, if you choose to have it so. I continued to develop my powers. I experimented upon Hannah. Now I am experimenting upon you. I am enjoying this experiment very much indeed. I hope you are enjoying it a quarter as much as I am--are you?" Some slightly inarticulate remark dropped from Mr. Bennett, which was apparently to the effect that he was not.

"I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps you will enjoy it more a little later on. Now, what shall I do with you? I know."

Miss Jones pressed a little ivory button, which was one of a row set in a frame of wood against the wall.

"That rings an electric bell in Hannah's room. I often ring her down in the middle of the night to be experimented on. She comes directly. Here she is, you see."

There was a slight tapping against the bedroom door.

"Come in!" exclaimed Miss Jones.

The door opened and Miss Welsh came in. She was not exactly in full dress. Mr. Bennett, who through it all was conscious in a horrid, nightmare sort of way, thought that he had never seen anyone look so extremely unprepossessing as Miss Welsh looked in disarray. The instant she was inside the room Miss Jones raised her hand. Miss Welsh stood still. Miss Jones turned to Mr. Bennett.

"I have her entirely under control. Some of the results I have obtained with her are really quite remarkable. But you shall see for yourself and judge." The young lady addressed Miss Welsh.

"Well, Hannah, here is Mr. Bennett, you see."

It was evident that Miss Welsh did see. She seemed struggling to give expression to her feelings in speech. Miss Jones went calmly on--

"He is here on business--he is committing burglary, in fact. You were right in supposing that was his profession. The mistake you made was in imagining that he would have shared the spoil with you. I think, Mr. Bennett, I am right in saying that you would not have given Hannah much?"

"Not a sou."

"Probably you did not even intend to marry her?"

"I would have seen her hung first."

Mr. Bennett made this plain statement with quite curious ferocity. Miss Welsh rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of what we will suppose, for courtesy's sake, was her nightdress.

"That makes nine of 'em," she said.

"That makes nine of them, as Hannah says. Hannah, Mr. Bennett, is a woman of experience. She has had nine promises of marriage, but not one of them came off. But I don't think, Hannah, that you ever had a promise from a burglar before?"

"Never before."

"Then, at least, that is a new experience, and a new experience is so precious. Is there any remark you would like to make, Hannah, appropriate to the occasion?"

For a moment it did not appear as though there were. Then it seemed that there at least was one.

"I should like to scratch his eyes out," observed the damsel--ætat forty-five or so.

Miss Cecilia smiled. Mr. Bennett immediately smiled too. But there was this difference--that while the lady's smile was a thing of beauty, the gentleman's was a peculiar ghastly grin.

Miss Jones remarked Mr. Bennett's facial contortions with an appearance of considerable interest.

"I never had them smile _quite_ so sympathetically before. In that respect, Mr. Bennett, you are unique. Charmed to have met you, I am sure." The young lady knocked the ash off her cigarette with her dainty finger and turned her attention to Miss Welsh. "I don't think, Hannah, that we will have any scratching out of eyes."

When she had thus delivered herself Miss Jones reclined in silence for some moments on her pillows, discharging the smoke of her cigarette through her delicate pink nostrils. When she spoke again it was to the gentleman she addressed herself.

"Mr. Bennett, would you mind closing that box of diamonds and replacing them in the drawer?"

Mr. Bennett shut the box with a little snap and carried it across the room. There was something odd about his demeanour as he did this--an appearance as though he were not engaged in the sort of labour which physics pain. Miss Welsh, standing as though rooted to the ground, followed him with her eyes. The expression of her countenance was one of undisguised amazement. Her face was eloquent with a yearning to relieve herself with words. When Mr. Bennett put the box back where he had found it and shut the drawer she gave a kind of gasp. From Mr. Bennett there came a distinctly audible groan. "Turn round, Mr. Bennett, and look at me." Mr. Bennett did as he was bidden. He was not altogether a bad-looking young man--his chief fault, from the physiognomist's point of view, lay in the steely tint of his clear blue eyes. Miss Jones's great big orbs seemed to rest upon him with a certain degree of pleasure. "I need scarcely point out to you that the burglary is a failure. The principal cause of failure is that you are too subjective. You have quite one of the most subjective organisations I have yet encountered. The ideal criminal must keep himself abreast with the advance of science. In failing to do so, Mr. Bennett, you have been guilty of a blunder which, in your case, is certainly worse than crime. You are a dreadful example of the burglar's blunder. I might label you, preserve you in your hypnotic state, and use you as an illustration of a lecture I am now preparing. But I have other views, and it is not impossible I may encounter you again. Go to my writing-table. You will find a sheet of foolscap paper. Write what I dictate."

Mr. Bennett went to the writing-table. He found the sheet of foolscap paper. "Write, in good, bold characters:--

"_I am George Bennett_, _The Burglar_. _For further particulars apply at Acacia Villa_."

Mr. Bennett wrote as she dictated, displaying the above legend in a striking round hand right across the sheet of paper. Miss Jones addressed Miss Welsh: