The House of Strange Secrets: A Detective Story

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE HORRORS OF DURLEY DENE

  "You must excuse me, Doctor," shouted Laurence, when he learned theterrible tidings contained on the slip of paper; "my father has beenmurdered! I must go this moment." And he rose, so saying, and dartedtowards the door.

  "Stop him, for Heaven's sake!" shrieked Meadows to the dark-facedservant who stood in the doorway. And so it was that young Carringtonfound his passage blocked, and himself flung violently back with suchforce as one would hardly expect from a medium-sized man like themysterious doctor's servant.

  "Escort Mr. Carrington to the door," ordered Meadows, adding toLaurence, "Forgive me for such treatment. Go at once withHorn--er--Smith; I heartily sympathise with you--that is," was hisstrange remark, "if you are not deceiving me with an idle story."

  But the young man hardly heard the other's muttered words and farewell.In an agony of dismay and horror at the awful intelligence, he draggedthe man-servant from the room.

  "Guide me to the door," he cried hoarsely, "and quick."

  In the weird darkness outside the well-lighted room in which theinterview had taken place he was more than helpless in his anxioushaste. He charged headlong against the walls and balustrades, the manswearing angrily at him as he clung to his arm.

  "Steady, you fool," the guide shouted, "or I shall leave you toyourself, and then----"

  But Laurence knew only too well that without the man's guidance he couldnot hope to find his way out of the house of gloom, for he had made thealarming discovery that he had used his last vesta to light his pipeafter dinner. So he calmed himself as best he could, and permitted theman to lead him downstairs.

  In the hall Carrington found himself stopped short.

  "Come on, let me out, quick!" he exclaimed, horrified to find that thejanitor had gripped his shoulders with the strength of a vice.

  "All in good time, my pretty," replied the other, and in the darkness,which corresponded to the biblical description of that which "could befelt," the young man thought he had never heard words pronounced in sucha diabolical tone. "What would you say if I refused to let you go, myson? Ha, ha, you're in my power. Struggle as you may, I have got you assafe as if you were in Dartmoor, and, what's more, I shan't let you gountil you make it worth my while."

  He laughed coarsely and brutally. In the black gloom, and judging by hisvoice, he might have been some fiend from the nether world. Was thereever such a strange house and such strange inhabitants, thoughtLaurence, as he struggled to free his hand for one moment, so that hemight seize the pistol with which to silence the man's demands and toassist his own departure to the home where he was so greatly needed.

  There was no denying that Laurence Carrington was a fairly strong man,yet in the hands of this strange guide he seemed as helpless as a rat.

  With anything but good grace he offered the servant half a sovereign ifhe would instantly open the front door for him and offer no furthermolestation.

  "Make it a thick 'un," whispered the man, with something like a leer;"make it a sov., mister, and you shall go free."

  "You scoundrel!" cried Laurence, "I shall report your conduct to yourmaster."

  "Ha, ha! D'yer think I care?" replied the rascal; "he's no more to methan that." He snapped his fingers loudly.

  "All right, let me out of the door, and I'll give you a sovereign."

  "That I won't, unless you give me your word of honour as a gentlemanthat you don't produce any firearms," replied the man, with a dig atLaurence's ribs which caused the latter to lounge out with his knee atwhere he imagined the other to be.

  "All right, I promise."

  "There you are, then. Fork out the gold boy."

  Laurence fumbled in his pocket on his arms being released, and produceda coin from his pocket--the first he laid hands on--and passed it toSmith. As he did so, a sound broke upon the grave-like stillness of thishouse of mystery--a sound that seemed to rise from the basement orcellars, a long-drawn, terrible cry--the unnatural, nay, fiendish shriekof a person in the agonies of death.

  And simultaneously the door opened, and Laurence found himself thrusthurriedly out into the night.

  Before he could turn, or could realise the meaning of that awful sound,the door clanged upon him.

  Then once more there was silence, unbroken save by the sudden hoot of anowl in a distant tree.