are you, a builder or a hartist?"
"Nothing of the kind; I'm a gentleman without a profession, Mrs. Gwynn, and one who will not permit you to be compromised; one who will protect you from the slightest suspicion of anything unpleasant."
"I don't know what you're a-driving at," said Mrs. Gwynn, still as white as death, and glancing furiously.
"Come, Mrs. Gwynn, you're a sensible woman. You do know perfectly. You have maintained a respectable character."
"Yes, sir!" said Donica Gwynn, and suddenly burst into a paroxysm of hysterical tears.
"Listen to me: you have maintained a respectable character, I know it: nothing whatever to injure that character shall ever fall from my lips; no human being – but two or three just as much interested in concealing all about it as you or I – shall ever know anything about it; and Sir Jekyl Marlowe has consented to take it down, so soon as the party at present at Marlowe shall have dispersed."
"Lady Alice – I'll never like to see her again," sobbed Donica.
"Lady Alice has no more suspicion of the existence of that door than the Pope of Rome has; and what is more, never shall. You may rely upon me to observe the most absolute silence and secrecy – nay, more, if necessary for the object of concealment – so to mislead and mystify people, that they can never so much as surmise the truth, provided– pray observe me —provided you treat me with the most absolute candour. You must not practise the least reserve or concealment. On tracing the slightest shadow of either in your communication with me, I hold myself free to deal with the facts in my possession, precisely as may seem best to myself. You understand?"
"Not Lady Alice, nor none of the servants, nor – nor a creature living, please."
"Depend on me," said Varbarriere.
"Well, sure I may; a gentleman would not break his word with such as me," said Donica, imploringly.
"We can't spend the whole day repeating the same thing over and over," said Varbarriere, rather grimly; "I've said my say – I know everything that concerns you about it, without your opening your lips upon the subject. You occupied that room for two years and a half during Sir Harry's lifetime – you see I know it all. There! you are perfectly safe. I need not have made you any promise, but I do – perfectly safe with me – and the room shall vanish this winter, and no one but ourselves know anything of that door – do you understand? —provided– "
"Yes, sir, please – and what do you wish to know more from me? I don't know, I'm sure, why I should be such a fool as to take on so about it, as if I could help it, or was ever a bit the worse of it myself. There's been many a one has slep' in that room and never so much as knowd there was a door but that they came in by."
"To be sure; so tell me, do you recollect Mr. Deverell's losing a paper in that room?"
"Well, I do mind the time he said he lost it there, but I know no more than the child unborn."
"Did Sir Harry never tell you?"
"They said a deal o' bad o' Sir Harry, and them that should a' stood up for him never said a good word for him. Poor old creature! – I doubt if he had pluck to do it. I don't think he had, poor fellow!"
"Did he ever tell you he had done it? Come, remember your promise."
"No, upon my soul – never."
"Do you think he took it?"
Their eyes met steadily.
"Yes, I do," said she, with a slight defiant frown.
"And why do you think so?"
"Because, shortly after the row began about that paper, he talked with me, and said there was something a-troubling of him, and he wished me to go and live in a farm-house at Applehythe, and keep summat he wanted kep safe, as there was no one in all England so true as me – poor old fellow! He never told me, and I never asked. But I laid it down in my own mind it was the paper Mr. Deverell lost, that's all."
"Did he ever show you that paper?"
"No."
"Did he tell you where it was?"
"He never said he had it."
"Did he show you where that thing was which he wanted you to take charge of?"
"Yes, in the press nigh his bed's head."
"Did he open the press?"
"Ay."
"Well?"
"He showed me a sort of a box, and he said that was all."
"A little trunk of stamped red leather – was that like it?"
"That was just it."
"Did he afterwards give it into anybody's charge?"
"I know no more about it. I saw it there, that's all. I saw it once, and never before nor since."
"Is there more than one secret door into that room?" pursued Varbarriere.
"More than one; no, never as I heard or thought."
"Where is the door placed with which you are acquainted?"
"Why? Don't you know?"
"Suppose I know of two. We have discovered a second. Which is the one you saw used? Come!"
Parenthetically it is to be observed that no such discovery had been made, and Varbarriere was merely fishing for information without disclosing his ignorance.
"In the recess at the right of the bed's head."
"Yes; and how do you open it? I mean from the green chamber?"
"I never knowd any way how to open it – it's from t'other side. There's a way to bolt it, though."
"Ay? How's that?"
"There's an ornament of scrowl-work, they calls it, bronze-like, as runs down the casing of the recess, shaped like letter esses. Well, the fourteenth of them, reckoning up from the bottom, next the wall, turns round with your finger and thumb; so if anyone be in the green chamber, and knows the secret, they can stop the door being opened."
"I see – thank you. You've been through the passage leading from Sir Harry's room that was – Sir Jekyl Marlowe's room, at the back of the house, to the secret door of the green chamber?"
"No, never. I know nothink o' that, no more nor a child."
"No?"
"No, nothink at all."
Varbarriere had here been trying to establish another conjecture.
There was a pause. Varbarriere, ruminating darkly, looked on Donica Gwynn. He then closed his pocket-book, in which he had inscribed a few notes, and said —
"Thank you, Mrs. Gwynn. Should I want anything more I'll call again; and you had better not mention the subject of my visit. Let me see the pictures – that will be the excuse – and do you keep your secret, and I'll keep mine."
"No, I thank you, sir," said Donica, drily, almost fiercely, drawing back from his proffered douceur.
"Tut, tut – pray do."
"No, I thank you."
So he looked at the pictures in the different rooms, and at some old china and snuff-boxes, to give a colour to his visit; and with polite speeches and dark smiles, and a general courtesy that was unctuous, he took his leave of Donica Gwynn, whom he left standing in the hall with a flushed face and a sore heart.
CHAPTER IV
A Story of a Magician and a Vampire
The pleasant autumn sun touched the steep roofs and mullioned windows of Marlowe Manor pleasantly that morning, turning the thinning foliage of its noble timber into gold, and bringing all the slopes and undulations of its grounds into relief in its subdued glory. The influence of the weather was felt by the guests assembled in the spacious breakfast-parlour, and gay and animated was the conversation.
Lady