The Threshold of Fear

Auckland Star, Volume LV, Issue 188, 9 August 1924, Page 28

The Threshold of Fear

By ARTHUR J. REES,

CHAPTER XXI. The b\<! car soon left the moors behind and swept along the front to my friend's hotel. He ordered dinner immediately. When we had finished, we proceeded tc the empty smoking-room, and here, a! we sat looking out on St. Michael's ilount and the sea, I related my strange experience at Charmingdene. Starting at the outset, I told him everything from besfinning to end. lit heard mc throughout in silence, but 1 observed that he allowed his cigar to go out. and held it unlighted in his hand until I had made an end of my tale. When I had finished, he merely said: "Oh, this is most interesting. Now, what do you propose to do?" I told him, and he nodded his head. Then he asked a question. "What did the tapping of this drum pound like—as you heard it? Can you describe it to mc?" "At Jfirst a faint but unmistakable tap. barely audible in the darkness. The tups came at intervals when I first heard them, then louder, in a continuous though muffled roll, as they came nearer the house. There was something indescribably weird and strange about the sound. It seemed to transport one out of England into an African jungle, or perlmps the more mystical East." "Sonic Eastern nations, notably the Arabs, have strange notions of death which closely correspond to this idea of the heating drum," Cohvyn responded. "But the thought of death stalking I abroad through the English countryside at night, like some phantom Arab crossing the desert on a phantom camel, is, altogether too Eastern and allegorical for a sober-minded land like ours. Death, in overcrowded Kngland, is more in the nature of a juggernaut car. for ever i crushing victims beneath its wheels. ■ Death comes for all of us. but not with j the beating of drums. We must look Ito a human agency for the explanation lof all this." j •"The human agency is that infernal scoundrel who employed mc, Colonel Cravt-nall," I said bitterly. "The only question is, can it be sheeted home to him ?'' Cohvyn looked nt mc curiously. "Why do you suspect him ?" he asked. "Why?" I echoed in surprise. "It seems plain enough to mc. In the first place, this drum-beating happened while he was supposed to be away in London, and thus he was able to act with perfect freedom, and free from the scrutiny of any of the members of his household. Through being lost on the moors, I was brought into this thing, and the whole story told to mc. I promised Edward Chesworth and his sister that I would help them all I could, and watch for this infernal drummer on the moors. The Colonel, on his return, finds out this, and the first thing he does is to discharge mc, and get mc out of the way. Surely you do not want clearer proof than that.'" "Proof of what?" asked my companion, selecting another cigar. "Proof that he is seeking to destroy his nephew by some particularly horrible and mysterious njethod of murder which I do not in the least understand," I returned. "In the first place, he tried to smooth mc over-to win mc to his side as it were—by inviting mc to dine with him at St. Just. When he found I knew too much he went on the other tack, and discharged mc from his employ. "On the other hand, his invitation to dinner may have been nothing more than the woud-be friendly act of a! gentleman who finds he has a man of Ins own class in his employ," Colwvn replied. "By all means let us keep an eye upon the Colonel, but let u 3 not be unduly prejudiced against him merely because you have taken a violent dislike to him." , I realised the justice of this rebuke ' and remained silent. Cohvyn sat for fc oke bought. Then he. "The medical attendant-the doctor' who spoke to you about suggestionism— what is his name?" i "Ponhyrn Dr.' Penhyrn," T replied. >■ p'uent Ve 7 aUentivC t0 his " n 4py patient, who seems fond of him and almost clings to him." ' . "£° - YOU ha PP en to k ™" where the i s r C p S? " crvant - this *■« ~>- " .Somewhere in the back of the house downstairs," I said, staring at j Quite out of sight nnd hearing of the patient's bedroom upstairs ?•' i " Yes," I said ;" i n any case she couldn't hear anything that went on up. ! stairs. She is almost totally deaf » ' Cohvyn seemed to have no "more ques- ! turns to put. For some minutes he sat! > in silence, broodingly, like a man in in- I head! " g At ' ength I,C raised his J "Haldam," he said, solemnly, " this ' > is a sinister business, and it goes very j { deep I believe we arc face to face with ; • something unusual and quite unique in ' the record of crime— something which ! fills mc with awe. But I begin to see . < •• - a light. Now, will you be 1 guided m this affair entirely by mc, and ' leave matters in my hands ? " < "Yes," I said, promptly, "only too ' gladly, Cohvyn." ( " That is well," he replied. " Firstly, ' then, I have come to the conclusion that 5 the drum of Death will not beat again k on the moors io-night. At least one 5 more night will be allowed to elapse. It ) may beat, but Ido not think so. But J whether it does or not, you must leave 5 mc to-night to handle this business \ alone." In spite of my promise, I could not ) forbear littering a protest. "But I promised Miss Chesworth I would watch over her brother on the t moors to-night," I said. . " I will watch for you," he replied. \ " Haldham," he went on, with the same 0 solemnity that had impressed mc before, c " in this matter you have promised to j be guided by mc. This is a dark and If. deadly business, and we must leave a nothing to chance. In a few minutes I; t vant you to go down to Penzance sta- j t tion with your suit-case, and catch the d night train back to London." | t " What for ? " I exclaimed in aston- vi ishment. "I am not going back to i London. ,, • v " You arc going part of the way only." ! o he replidd, "and for a special reason you T will ask at the booking-office for a tic- ! a ket for the whole journey.- That pie- j C caution may not be^necessary.. but it is '' ti just as well to be on the safe side, in Twenty milea up thgrline is * email way- j fe

Author of "The Moon Rock," "Island of Destiny," Etc.

jside station called St. Qdd, at which the ,] j train makes a brief pause. \ You will ■ s alight there, and put up at the hotel for ... the night. In the morning I will come 0 for you in the car." .8 I did not in the least understand • s anything of this, but puzzled though I • 0 : was I was quite content to trust everything in Colwyn's hands. I said so, and n ; lie uttered a brief word of thanks. Then, c ! with a glance at his watch, he rose to 1 his feet. o' '"I think we had better be off. You d have the train to catch, and I have some5. thing else to do. But before you go, will : you tell mc what Colonel Gravenall is -, like?" ] "Tall and thin, with a liverish brown 1. skin and glittering eyes—a typical Anglo-Indian, in fact." n "And Dr. Pcnhryn?" v ' "Grey-eyed and clean-shaven, with a face of great strength and the torso of c a giant, but he falls away in the legs; «. a giant on dwarf's legs, in fact." t "Thanks!" Colwyn smiled. "You have - a gift for compact description. I should c recognise either man in a crowd. Ung fortunately, you cannot give a descript tion of the leading personage in this c drama." '~ "The leading personage —do you mean Edward Chesworth?" c "Xo, he's more in the nature of a li sacrifice than a personage. I was thinkf ing of Death. "Whatever Death's anatomical struc- ? ture may be like," he went on, gravely. c "he's not likely to bo dwarfish in the - legs. He would never cover the ground S of his day's work if he was. But come, 1 let us go." i. We walked out of the smoking-room 3 together. In the corridor, Colwyn. Haid r good-bye to mc, and, as he turned away, •■ pressed a card into my hand. "Look at i it in the train," he said. J I walked along to the station in 1 ample time for the train. After buying a magazine at the bookstall, I installed 1 myself in an empty third-class compart--1 ment. Just as the train was sliding >' away from the platform I thought of j > the card Colwyn had gi\on mc, and, read it by the light of the smoky lamp, j T H was a message in the nature of a reminder—a few quickly written words: " "The name of your station is St. Odd." I tl ' J CHAPTER XXII. Colywn came for mc early Uie follow-, ' ins; day, walking briskly into the din?yi ' coffee-room of the hotel at St. Odd, ' where I was drearily endeavouring to j ! kill time with the current number, of the : ■ '"St. Odd Gazette," and had, indeed, read ' ' its six bits of local news and page of stodgy local advertisements again and j again. Colwyn'e greeting was calm and 1 his face non-committal, but something' 1 told mc that he had important news to I 1 impart. I was framing an anxious. • , question when he shook his head. ! "Xot here, Haldham," he interposed, j quickly. "Let us go outside." ; We went out into the unsightly town, j I Xot until we were beyond it, and in a ' I secluded part of the hills, did Colwyn say anything of the events of the night, j "I stayed up late," he said, "but Death ' ' i did not parade. He is to come tc-night instead." ■ I His words thrilled mc, brief as they were, for I gathered from them that he had made discoveries about this terrible thing. 1 looked at him eagerly. "You have discovered nothing, then?" I said. "I have found out everything," was his I j unexpected reply; "the whole hellish. damnable thing." He spoke with a feeling unusual in him. "By heaven's help we are going to trap a very wicked and. atrocious scoundrel in his own net j to-night. I have left my car in a, garage at the other end of the town, and when I have told you what I pro- | pose to do I want you to drive mc across I country by some devious route near the spot where you used to take Edward . Chesworth and his sister at night. You I will leave mc there, and then take the car away—anywhere, so Ion? as you ] give Charmingdene and that part of the ' j moors a wide berth. Keep botli the car I : and yourself well out of sight until about , eight o'clock to-night, and then take it! back, without lights, and hide it in a spot . on tbe moors not far from Charminu'dene, , j where it cannot possibly be seen.' , i Behind The Oysters would be a good • place," I'•suggested. "Very well; so long as you can reach \ it quickly from the hill behind Charming- , I dene. After hiding the car you will ; watch and listen on that hill until you , hear the beating of Death's drum. You must wait until the beating drum comes , i as near as it intends to come to Charm- , ! ingdene, which will not be near «nough j for you to g-et at grips with it, unless j T s<m much mistaken. If Viss C'heswjrth needs you she will make the agreed signal from her window." My look must have showed my aston- ' ishment at this, for he added, with a ' smile: ' "I have seen her. Late last niiht I left a note in your name at your ex- f temporised post-office, and she was wait- A ing for mc at The Oysters this morning. ! ' She gave a start at seeing a stranger, .but j ( I was soon able to reassure her that I i f was there as her friend. Undoubtedly '' she is a brave and intelligent girl. I ' told her all that was neces.-ary for her ' to know, and she has promised to carry out her share in the drama of to-nkht c to the letter. When her brother hears s the drum and wants to leave the hcuse f she is" to toll him the truth; that you 1 and I are keeping guard over him out- r side, and that he is perfectly safe. I Should the assurance fail to calm him, 1' and slie finds herself unable to cope r with him single-handed, she is to raise t the blind as a signal for you. You will s go into the house, and restrain Edward d Chesworth by force, if required— v though I do not at all think that it t will be. The important thing to re- t member is that he must on no t account be permitted to leave the house. "JJext, you will leave the house for b the spot where you hide the car, and n you will drive slowly and quietly, and t without lights, to where the road end-s vi on the cliff. There you will wait until I -n come. I think that is all." ii A dark and puzzling obscurity veiled s> these directions, but I knew by Colwyn's it abstracted manner and clouded brow n that it was useless to question him just c; then. I briefly said I would follow his si directions to the letter. He nodded , ti thanks and we returned to the town and I went to the garage for the car. | d During the journey to the cliffs he 11 was singularly silent, even for him, ana j pi 9n the way thither he spoke but once. I S] That was to ask how 10n.7 it would take ! ir i walker to reach the deserted pit fro n ' v I'harmingdene across the moors. I said S' that by fast walking it could be done A n an hour and a quarter—perhaps a I si ew minutes lesa. ? oi

"And the distance is four times as long by read?" he asked.

"A good twenty miies," I replied. "The road winds in and out like a snake."

lie said nothing , more until we we;c about half a mile away from the fingerpost, when he asKed mc to step the ear. As he was about to get down lie turned to mc and said:

Haldham"—his voice was very earnest indeed —"here is a final word. When you drive along the road to-night keep a sharp lookout for anyone you see, whether afoot or in a car. You are not likeiy to, but I want you to be on tlie watch, if you do see a running figure, don't let it escape, but bring it ibaok with you in the car." "Who would it be;' , I ventured to ask. "Death." was his enigmatic reply. Then he gave mc a parting smile. "These matters shall he made clear to-night, I promise you." And with that he got down and set on this walk across the moors. 1 carried out his directions carefully for the remainder of tlie day. About eight o'clock I drove cautiously down to The Oysters, and found a capital hiding place for the car in a hallow behind those dark and gloomy stonee. That done, I walked up the hill and looked in the direction of the house. It appeared desolate and silent, and was in darkness save for one faint glimmer of light from a window in the rront. Making a wide and cautious detour, I ultimately found myself on the moors at the back of the garaue. Beneath mc was the house, da.k and silent, with one shrouded light burning •upstairs from the window which I knew to be Edward Chesworth's room. In his state of fear, I think I should have taken my chance of going to bed and trying to snatch some sleep. Of what avail to sit there, a huddled frightened figure (so I pictured him), listening like a starting hare to every whisper of sound? I was oppressed with Edward's fears, but then my English heritage of common sense stepped in and sent my mind reeling back towards sanity. To allow myself to think thus was too absurd— so common sense reminded mc. It meant, if I did not take myself in hand, that I was allowing myself to become the victim of the same hallucination which had placed poor Edward Cbesworth in peril of his life. Leaning thoughtftuily against my tree. I looked at the whole matter from another point. If Colonel Gravenall was at the bottom of this infernal business, why had he gone away? Or, from another point of view, why had he returned? His absence was really more in keeping with my theory of bis villainy than was his presence at Charm - ingd"ene that night; if, indeed, he actually was there. If he chose to masquerade as Death, for some mysteri- j mis hidden purpose of his own, surely he could have done it more effectually from outside than by returning home. «-here his absence in the night would be immediately known? On the other hand, Eleanor was likely to watch closely over her brother upstairs; and the servant was out of sight and hearing in the back kitchen, like a deaf n-oman shut up in a cold grave. The Colonel's absence and the beating of a lrum were little likely to trouble her. In all these questions, pro and eon, I *ould find no answer which satisfied my reason and common sense. In this nystcry, as always, I wandered in comaletestand most bewildering mental fog. [ wandered with both hands outitretehed as it were. Ad then I thought if Colwyn, and wondered what he was loing. Somehow I did not feel very lopeful. In the bleak shelter of the tree I •emained until another hour or more iad passed away. Actually I had no dea of the lapee of time, for, of course, [ dared not strike a match to look at ny watch. All I knew of the passing >f time was that the darkness around ne seemed to grow deeper and deeper, lowing like a tide. I seemed to behold lark waters about mc, mounting noiseessly, seeking to encompass mc like — he fancy came unhidden—like a black •iver of death. They flowed towards ne, rising higher, until my middle was >assed, and so gradually upward until he shadowy river touched my dry lips. The water of Death. The flavour was litter indeed. It was just then I gave a violent ;tart, staring into the darkness about ne. I had nearly dropped asleep leanng against that tree, with the halfonscious thought that I was encomiassed by the waters of Death. But I .•as wide awake now, completely aware f myself and my surroundings; of the hive'ring cold, the faint sight of the find in the tree, and the shadowy outinc of the gloomy moors. But it was ione of these things that had startled ie into wakefulness, but that other and lore sinister sound which, was the eason for my vigil there. At first I thought a dream still held ie, because at the moment I could ather no sound, though, subconsciously, was sure I had heard it the moment efore. Then it came again, so faint as o be almost inaudible save to the tense training of a rapt listening ear; faint, udeed, but unmistakable; the distant nd rhymthmic throb of some kind of rum.

! I listened more keenly. How far off it seemed, throbbing away out there somewhere in the darkness, though, try as T would, I could not discover the direction of the sound. Kising and falling, the dim hollow cadence rolled faintly across the moors, tremulous, insistent, continuous, as the unseen drummer beat his unwearied tattoo. Fo/ a while I could not detect its coming any nearer. Certainly, there seemed no appreciable difference in the faint volume of the sound. Then, as 1 listened, it began to grow louder to my ear; not much at first, but bit by bit the beats became more distinct. At length I could distinguish the quick rattle of stick on parchment instead of the first muffled and blurred kind of sound. And by that I knew that the drum was not far away. The drummer was coming closer; approaching from tbe moors up the long slope of the hill to where I was standing beneath the tree.

There was a thrill in that knowledge, but I etood quite still, looking out from my point of vantage with a fair semblance : of courage and calm. As I waited the only thought in mc was whether they had- yet heard the drum in the house. It might be that the sound was "not yet audible to them as it was to mc, out there on the open moors. Fervently I hoped such was the caee. The house was still dark and silent, as it had been during , the whole time of my watch. It was then, with the roll of the drum drawing steadily nearer 'to where I stood by the tree, that a loud cry pealed from the house. I had already spread myself for the moment of leaping out from my shelter to grapple the unseen foe, when I heard the cry. Swinging round, I looked down 'the hill. At first the house seemed dark and silent as before. Then a light shot out irom the window of 'the room on,

which my eyes had been fixed—flaring out like a beacon, and dying away in the darkness of the hill. 'Once—twice— thrice; it came, ar.d I had a momentary glimpse of a slim white hand on the window as the 'blind was lowered and raised. It was the signal—the signal we had agreed on if Eleanor needed my aid. The next moment I was racing down'the hill.

As I reached the bottom the beating of the drum ceased.

It was then that another light gushed forth, this time from a quickly opened door of the house. Silhouetted against its radiance in the surrounding blackness I saw the figure of a girl. I was Eleanor Che3worth, looking anxiously forth into the night.

I went across the courtyard quickly. She heard my footstep and looked round. Her dark eyes met mine with a thankful glance. "You have come quickly," she said, softly.

I ran from the hilltop at your signal, , ' I responded, seeking to recover my breath. "Tell mc what is wrong. You need mc?"

"Not now, I am glad to say," she murmured in response. "I did not think I would be able to manage Edward at first, but ho became quiet instantly when the beating of the drum ceased. He even smiled when I told him that Mr. Colwyn was with you. It seemed to help him so much. He was so calm and confident that I was able to run down to you. But no'v I must go back. I dare not leave him alone."

She was about to go, then turned impulsively to mc again.

"Thank you for coining so promptly, and for all you have done. To-morrow, Mr. Colwyn says, you will tell us all. Good-night."

She was gone this time without another word, and I heard ■ the door gently close. Quickly I walked away from the house and up the hill in the darkness to The Oysters, and the spot where I had secreted the car. Starting the engine, I scrambled in, and took the car gently : acroes the nioors to the road.

At length I knew I was nearing the last stretch of road which ended in the lonely finger-post and the abrupt fall to the cruel rocks and the ocean. As I topped the last hill which brought into vision 'thr long line of cliffs I heard more distinctly the menacing murmur of the sea.

I heard something else: a far more menacing sound—incredible and unbelievable, but unmistakable, too —the quick rat-tat-tat of a drum. More sharp and distinct it sounded in my ears as the car sped on, and I make no shame in confessing that at that moment a chill of horror seized mc like ague as I sat in niy driving-seat. For a space of time—short. bu£ immeasurably long—T fully believed that the phantom of Death was abroad, coming from out of the darkness to that lonely road to meet mc and my rushing car. But T did not slacken down. I drove on mechanically, in—l admit—a sweating agony of fear. (To be continued Saturday next.)