The key

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Tower Room . i

II. Morning. 7

CHAPTER I The Tower Room

A PEACEFUL night, serene and calm. A late ^ September moon, broad and silver-white, float¬ ing in a spacious sky of deepest azure. Peace—peace everywhere; on silent farm and harvested fields, on wooded hills and softly murmuring brooks, on still deep pools—on white, empty roads, on broad lawns of great estates, on widespread roofs of far-spaced houses where here and there a lonely light still gleamed and twinkled.

And of all the homes of luxury and wealth on Bernard Ridge, so far as the moon could tell, none seemed more at peace than Tower Hall. The great octagonal tower, from which it took its name, rose sheer above a precipice of quarried stone and was serenely reflected in the deep, dark pool at its base. The wide, low stone facade of the house shone faintly in the silver light, the lawns and perfumed gardens were quiet with the stillness of perfect peace.

So far the moon could see, as she gazed down with her age-old eyes upon the sleeping earth. She could look but a little way through the glass of the tower roof, and could see nothing at all through the high, narrow slits let into the thick masonry of the upper walls, the only windows that the tower contained. Could the moon have seen what was passing in the tower room; could she have watched all through that night; could she have told the things she saw to those who would have given much—to one who would have given almost life itself—to hear there would have been no need to write this story.

“And what if I refuse!” The tone was low and angry. The speaker, a tall, sallow man with iron-gray hair, brought his thin, nervous hand down on the long table in front of him with a soft but deter¬ mined thud.

“ But you won’t, you can’t refuse, Gilbert. Think what it means! Consider-”

“I tell you I’m angry with you, Curtis. Angry to the soul! Haven’t I always been decent, more than decent to you? Haven’t I looked out for you through thick and thin? Haven’t I paid all your gambling debts and other debts no matter how discreditable? Even if we have quarrelled over them—even if I have balked and threatened, I’ve always protected you—because you were of my blood—for the sake of our name—and because, care¬ less and extravagant, and worse, as I knew you to be, I thought you always told me the truth, and to thar extent I trusted you. ” Gilbert Fane’s eyes were

THE TOWER ROOM hard and bitter as he looked across the table at the tall, well-made, debonair figure of his younger brother. “I paid the woman once—handsomely— and you told me she was dead. Oh, Curtis, Curtis, Fve always believed in your honesty to me at least. And there was so much at stake. Honour—the name of Fane to be bandied about in the yellow papers. God!”

“But I thought, myself, she was dead, Gilbert. Honestly I did! You must believe me.” Curtis Fane stretched out his long, slender, well-tended hands in appeal. There was pleading, too, in his handsome dark brown eyes. He leaned toward his brother. “It's a large sum, I know, but I am sure I can silence her this time for ever. Til write out a paper for her to sign. We should have done it before, but the girl appeared honest enough, and it did seem only square to do something for her, in the circum¬ stances-” He broke off and glanced sidewise at

his brother’s angry averted face. “Think how proud Denise is, Gilbert. Think what it will mean to your wife—and little Stuart—any stain on the name, any-”

Gilbert Fane made a furious gesture as if sweep¬ ing something aside. “It’s the name I care about, Curtis, as you ought to know by this time. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“But think, only think-” Curtis interrupted.

“Oh, my God, I am thinking,” said Gilbert Fane, furiously. “But you lied to me, Curtis! You lied to me! You knew the woman wasn’t dead. You’ll

have to prove to me- No! by everything that’s

holy! She’ll get no more money from me till I know you’re telling the truth. I’ll find out for myself. I’ll settle with her and be rid of her. I should have done it in the first place instead of trusting you.”

“But you can’t do that, Gilbert.” Curtis’s voice was almost a cry. “Think of Denise if she should ever hear! Give me the money, Gilbert. Give me the money and you keep out of this. It’s the best way. Believe me-”

“I won’t give you the money, Curtis, and that’s my last word,” said Gilbert Fane, rising to his feet and rapping the shining top of the table. “You bungled the affair before and you’ve lied to me. I can see it in your eyes. Look at me! Did you really believe Margaret Stacy was dead? Or was it only because you needed money, as usual, and thought the good news would make me generous?”

“You’re unjust to me, Gilbert. You really are.” The deep, charming voice failed to carry conviction to the brother’s mind. “Of course, I always want money. My allowance isn’t nearly enough for a man of my tastes, as I’m always telling you. I need money now, I’m perfectly frank and honest with you, old man* I always have been; and as to Margaret Stacy’s death-”

“You lied to me, Curtis,” said the older man with cold brutality. “That’s plain—and I don’t know how many times you have lied to me before. You’ll

THE TOWER ROOM get no more money from me for any purpose. I don’t know yet what I’ll do about this affair—but you’ve broken faith with me in spite of all I’ve done for you, and I’m through with you. Understand! You can shift for yourself. You knew how keenly I felt about this matter and you deliberately deceived me in cold blood, and for money. I’m through with you,” he repeated. “Your allowance stops from to-night.”

“Damn you!” cried^ Curtis, furiously. “You’ll

be sorry for this. I’ll make you sorry. I’ll-

What if I did know the woman was alive ? I thought it would be a relief to you to think she was dead. I did it all in kindness! I was sure we’d never hear from her again. And you were relieved. You were glad. You’ve been glad any day these nine years. It would have been rough if anything had come out when you were about to marry Denise, and I thought-”

“You thought you’d get more money out of me and you did. Let that satisfy you,” retorted Gilbert roughly.

“And you really mean you’re through?”—the reckless voice was tense and strained—“that after all these years we’ve been together you’re going to chuck me out, neck and crop? Don’t do it, Gilbert! Don’t, for your own sake! I tell you I’m desperate. >fou can’t mean what you say!”

“ I’m not in the habit of eating my words.” Gilbert gazed at him coldly, then turning deliberately he picked up a thick sheaf of bank-notes, bound together with a stout rubber band, which lay at one end of the table. They had evidently come directly from the bank, for the several denominations were compactly secured by pinned paper slips. Removing the rub¬ ber band, he selected one package and threw it contemptuously across the table. “There’s the five hundred I promised to give you for the saddle horse you wanted,” he said. “You can use it for travelling expenses, if you prefer.” And added, in an icy tone, “It’s late. You’ll have a busy day to-morrow. You’d better get to bed.”

Curtis Fane, with lowered head and set jaw, looked long at his brother. Then his slender nervous fingers closed on the little bundle of bank-notes; without shifting his glance, he folded them together and shoved them into the pocket of his dinner jacket, but spoke no word.

There was an ugly silence in the great octagonal room. The air, overheated from prematurely lighted fires, was heavy and oppressive. The gloom in the upper spaces of the tower seemed to stir and threaten. In the lesser dark below huge stands of arms, of every clime, of every age, shone dimly in the light re¬ flected from the one circle of brilliance which showed the faces of the two brothers gazing at each other— and there was not a murderous weapon in all the great collection, not one, more murderous than the look in the eyes of Curtis Fane.

Chapter II

A LOW but peremptory knocking on a white- ^ panelled door.

Curtis Fane stirred uneasily on his hot pillow and then with a convulsive start came to full conscious¬ ness.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s only me, James, sir. May I speak with you a moment?”

“Yes. Come in.”

An apologetic hand rattled the knob, but the door remained closed.

“Oh—I forgot. Wait a minute,” said Curtis, springing out of bed. “What is it, James?” he added as, unlocking and opening the door, he caught sight of the servant’s perturbed face. “You look-”

“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Curtis,” in¬ terrupted the man, anxiously, “and I came straight to you, sir.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Curtis, impatiently. “Quite right, James. But what is it? You-”

“It’s the master, Mr. Gilbert, sir. I went to his room just now with his coffee, prompt at eightthirty as always—and he wasn’t there, sir.”

“What!” cried Curtis, in apparent surprise. “You don’t mean that he-”

“He couldn’t have been to his room at all, I think, sir. His bed hasn’t been slept in, nor his night things touched. They’re just as they were laid out for him last night. I don’t know what to think, sir, and-”

“Queer,” said Curtis, slowly, with an odd look in his eyes.

He stretched out his hand and picked up a dressing gown which lay across a chair. Automatically, the valet took it from him and held it while he shpped it on.

“You’ve looked downstairs?” asked Curtis, after a moment’s silence. “He isn’t in the tower?”

“The tower door’s locked, sir, and Mr. Gilbert’s nowhere in the house.”

Curtis Fane looked at the man and the man looked at him. Both faces were filled with anxiety.

“It’s such an unusual thing, sir,” the valet con¬ tinued. “It’s such an unusual thing, as you know, that I got scared, sir, and came straight up to you.”

“Right, James. You did quite right. It is damned queer,” said Curtis Fane, his lean brows knitting in a heavy frown. With a quick motion he caught up a carafe which stood on a table by the head of the bed, poured out a glass of water with a hand that shook a little, drank it at a gulp, and added, “My brother seemed perfectly well last night.”

“Was he in the tower room when you saw him last, sir?” James asked, eagerly.

If there was a slight hesitation in the answer, the valet failed to notice it. “Yes,” Curtis replied. “Yes. He was in the tower and appeared perfectly well when I left him. He may have fallen asleep. We’d better go down and see. I’m sure there’s noth¬ ing to be alarmed about,” he added, as together they quickly traversed the upper hall and reached the top of the stair.

The beautiful carved Elizabethan stairway in its leisurely descent passed around three sides of a broad hall and ended opposite a great carved stone fire¬ place. From the top of the stair the entire stone-paved hall could be seen. It was still and empty at this early morning hour and the feet of the two men echoed in the spacious stillness as they ran down the polished stairs.

Without an instant’s pause, they turned to the right at the foot of the steps and came upon a tall, dark, closed door.

Instinctively their voices sank to a whisper.

“I knocked before, sir,” James volunteered, “but not too loud for fear of disturbing the house.”

“He’s surely asleep,” insisted Curtis, in a husky voice. “He may wake up at any minute.”

He tried the door as he spoke. It was fast-locked. He stooped and peered through the keyhole.

“Can’t see a thing,” he muttered.

“No, sir, I couldn’t either. The key must be in the lock.” Clearly James was intensely alarmed.

“Well, we’ll probably get the devil if he’s only just o asleep,” said Curtis under his breath, “but here goes.”

He raised his hand and knocked upon the panel, first quietly and then, as there was no answer, no faint¬ est stirring within the tower, louder and still louder.

“What’s up? My God, what in hell’s the matter, Curtis?”

The voice was controlled and deliberate, not at all in keeping with the ejaculatory profanity of the words. It came from the upper reaches of the stair¬ way, startling, with its suddenness, the two men at the door. Looking up quickly they saw an odd figure running down the steps toward them. It was a man well above the average height and of indeter¬ minate age. He might have been under thirty, he might have been over forty. His was the type which looks quaintly old in youth and quaintly young even in extreme old age. A well-worn dressing gown wrapped his thin body, and above it, supported by a thin but muscular neck, was an innocent-looking tanned face from which a pair of mild brown eyes peered through large, highly magnifying spectacles. His head was crowned with a thick mass of rumpled, curly yellow hair.

“What in hell’s the matter?” he repeated, soberly, as he reached the foot of the stair. “You’re making noise enough to wake the dead.”

Curtis Fane’s convulsive shudder was quickly controlled. James Haggerty, the valet, all but crossed himself. He was the first to speak.

ii

“Mr. Gilbert didn’t go to his room last night, Mr. Matchem—at least, he didn’t sleep there-”

“And James couldn’t find him in the house, Tom, and became alarmed,” added Curtis, hurriedly. “The tower door’s locked—not that that’s unusual, of course.”

“Hush.” The last comer spoke in a guarded voice. “Denise-”

All three men looked swiftly up and across the broad hall. Descending the stairs with a light, uneven tread was a slender, dark woman, graceful and young. Her small head with its smooth, soft bands of blue-black hair was carried proudly, but there was a sense of anxiety—alarm, perhaps—in the entire figure as she hastened swiftly toward them.

“Tom—Curtis—what is it? What are you doing here? Where is Gilbert?”

The voice was low and deep for a woman, with a curious vibration that somehow made one think of colour, rich colour, rather than sound.

“Who was knocking so loudly?” she insisted, as the three men hesitated. “And why-”

“We don’t know quite what to think, Denise,” said Tom Matchem, in his slow, quiet way as he met her at the foot of the stair. “There’s nothing to be alarmed at, of course.” He spoke with almost a drawl, but there was a strong, reassuring pressure in the touch of his hand on her arm. “James is so used to Gilbert’s regular habits that he was a little disturbed at not finding Gilbert in his room and

got Curtis fussed as the devil, and-”

“Gilbert not in his room?’’ cried Denise in sur¬ prise. She had been married nine years or more, and never had she known her husband to leave his room before nine o’clock in the morning. She turned her small, pale oval face from one to the other and there was a strange enigmatic look in her sea-green, sea-blue eyes. They came to rest on the face of her husband’s cousin and secretary, Thomas Matchem. “Tell me the truth, Tom,” she said, “I can bear anything that I know. Why were you knocking? Why are you all alarmed about Gilbert ?”

“I’ve just come down,” answered Tom, quietly. “I heard the knocking, too. It looks as if Gilbert must have slept in the tower last night. James can’t

find him about the house--”

The mistress looked swiftly toward the valet for corroboration. The man replied as if she had spoken.

“I’ve been all over the house, madam, except in the tower,” with an almost imperceptible jerk of his head in the direction of the door. “ Since very early in the morning the maids have been at work in all the rooms that are open, and none of them have seen Mr. Gilbert. I knocked on the tower door as soon as I found he hadn’t slept in his room last night, and I couldn’t

get an answer. Then I went over the house-”

“You said you came right up to me,” interrupted Curtis, quickly.

“I meant I came right up as soon as I felt there was i3 reason to be frightened, if you please, sir/’ said the valet, smoothly. “Of course, I would have looked the house over first, Mr. Curtis.” There was just a hint of reproach in the man’s voice.

“I suppose so. Quite right, James.” Curtis Fane turned a concerned face toward his sister-in-law and his cousin. “What do you think we ought to do?” he asked. “If he’s in there, we can’t make him hear-”

Thomas Matchem suddenly stepped close to the door and, bending down so that his lips were almost touching the keyhole, he called, “Gilbert!” and again still louder: “Gilbert, are you there? Wake up! Gilbert!”

There was no answer save an eerie echo from the hall: “ G-i-l-b-e-r-t !”

Then Thomas Matchem shook the handle of the door and banged on it with his fist. His hand was thin, but strong and hard, and the noise the other men had made was as nothing in comparison.

A group of servants had long since gathered at the far end of the corridor which led from the square hall, but they were too well trained to come nearer. They waited now, with curious, frightened eyes.

Tom banged again, and again called loudly:

“Gilbert!”

“Could he possibly sleep after that?” whispered Denise, tightly clenching her two slender white hands, one within the other.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” muttered Curtis,

H

“but the tower door is thick, Denise, and the

walls-If he were very sound asleep--”

“Oh,” cried Denise, with a gasping intake of the breath, “I can’t bear—I can’t bear this suspense! And Stuart may hear. He was ill last night. Don’t” —catching Thomas Matchem’s arm as he was about to knock again “—don’t do it again, Tom. Wait a minute. Let us think. ”

At her command there was instant silence in the great grave house. It would be a dark day outside, for little light came through the tall, narrow mullioned windows on the landing of the stair, and where they stood, in the shadow of the heavy balustrade, it was almost dark: not so dark, however, but that one pair of eyes, at least, noted how white the girl’s face was and how tightly she bit her scarlet lips.

After a long moment Denise Fane spoke, and there was a quiet authority in her controlled voice:

“There can be no possible doubt that Mr. Fane is not in any other part of the house, James?”

“None, madam.” The valet’s tone carried con¬ viction. “He didn’t sleep in his room last night

at all, and- I think, myself, if you’ll excuse

me, madam-”

“That will do, James.”

The valet was elderly—had been with Mr. Gilbert “since his first evening suit,” as he would have told you—and inwardly he resented the tone of his young mistress (“Too young for Mr. Gilbert, entirely”), but he gave no sign.

i5

Denise turned sharply from the servant and faced the two other men who waited anxiously.

“Of course, Gilbert didn’t leave the house last night,” she said. “He was in the tower room late. You were with him, Curtis. How did he seem? Was he well?”

“I—yes, he was well—at least he seemed so to me,” replied Curtis, swiftly. “ But why do you say it was late, Denise? It couldn’t have been. I am sure it was still quite early when I left him. Why do you say it was late?” he repeated, insistent, almost angry.

She looked at him sharply. “It seemed late to me.” Her words were hurried, troubled. “I came down at eleven. Stuart seemed a little feverish and I thought it might be well to send for a doctor. I opened the door a little way and saw you and Gilbert talking together. You seemed very much occupied, and I knew”—wearily—“that Gilbert would say that it was only a mother’s absurd alarm and refuse to call the doctor at that time of night. It was just eleven.”

At this repetition of the hour, Thomas Matchem raised his eyes, glanced at her keenly, dropped his eyes again, but said nothing. Denise went on:

“I heard the clock strike as I closed the door. I went back to Stuart and didn’t see Gilbert again. You were with him after I went upstairs, Curtis, and you say he seemed all right—then?”

“Well, he certainly seemed quite himself,” said

Curtis, slowly, with an odd sidelong look at Denise. Was he wondering how much of his conversation with his brother she had heard? Or what was it that gave his eyes that sinister gleam? It was gone in a flash and he went on: “Of course, one can never tell, with a heart like his-”

Thomas Matchem swiftly put his hand on his cousin’s arm: “Shut up, Curt,” he said. “No use

to- 99 Turning, he continued, in a louder tone,

“We’ll take a hack at the door, Denise. If Gil¬ bert’s asleep, that’ll wake him, and if he’s fainted— or—or anything—we’ll have to break the lock, since Gilbert’s never trusted any one with a key to this room. Get an axe, James, will you, and be as quick as you can.”

The valet, glad of action, hurried through the hall and in a surprisingly short time returned with an axe, which appeared oddly incongruous in his soft, plump white hands.

Tom Matchem’s quizzical mouth turned up with an odd quirk as he saw the valet address the axe to the door.

“Give it to me, James,” he said, “and stand back all of you. Denise, stand a little farther back, please. Now-”

With a wide swing of his disproportionately long arms, with a strength of which no one would have thought him capable, Tom sent the axe crashing against the lock. He waited after the first re¬ sounding, reverberating blow—and listened.

1 7

No sound within the locked room. He raised the axe again and blow after blow rained on the stout door. At last the lock gave with such suddenness that he almost fell into the room beyond. He kept his balance by catching hold of a heavy portiere which hung partly across the door. Swiftly, he swung it back out of the way.

“Gilbert!” he cried: “Gilbert!”

The huge room was gray and still. Heavy storm clouds obscured the light from the glass roof high above his head. Faint rays only filtered through the narrow slits far up on the wall, and otherwise there was no light at all save a yellow gleam that ran along the edge of a heavy purple velvet curtain, drawn partly across the far side of the room.

The Others followed as Thomas Matchem swiftly ran across the floor.

“Gilbert,” he cried again, and caught the heavy curtain in his hand.

As he did so, his body stiffened and he seemed to grow inches taller. He stood thus with hand half raised for an instant. Then slowly he turned. His face was gray-white.

“Take Denise away, Curtis,” he said, in a voice no one had ever heard him use before. “Take her away. It’s—all—over! ”

CHAPTER III The Shadow of Death

A STRANGE gasping sigh, almost a cry, broke ^ from Denise Fane’s parted lips.

“Tom, Tom! You can’t mean-” she started

forward. “He may have fainted! You can’t mean that Gilbert is-”

A few quick strides and Tom was beside her. Gently grasping her cold hands in his he said solemnly:

“He’s gone, Denise. There is no hope—none. There is nothing that you or any of us can do now. Take her away, Curtis.” He caught his cousin’s eye, and holding his gaze firmly fixed, with a slight but imperative gesture motioned them away. “Find Martha and then come back,” he added, hurriedly. “Come back as quickly as you can. But find Mar¬ tha first. Don’t leave Denise alone.”

There was a strange look in Curtis Fane’s quickly averted face. It was only a flash that Tom caught, but it struck him at the time and he was to remem¬ ber it later. ... A look of fear—horror—a dawning comprehension of what lay behind the velvet curtain? He could not be sure, and he had much to think of at the moment.

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

He watched Denise as Curtis supported her from the room, and then turned to James Haggerty, the valet, who stood near by, a wild look on his hand¬ some old face.

“We’ll have to get Doctor Holmes, James, at once,” he said, “and after that-”

“Then heisn’t really dead, sir?” cried James, eagerly. “There’s some hope if it’s a doctor you’re want¬ ing-”

Thomas Matchem shook his head.

“No, James. He’s gone. But we must have a doctor. Telephone for Doctor Holmes and see if he can come over at once. Go as fast as you can.”

The old man’s face was a study of emotions. He gulped quickly, passed a trembling hand across his white face, and recovered himself sufficiently to obey.

Left alone, Thomas Matchem stood stock still in the middle of the great octagonal room. He looked about him at the high stone walls, pierced far up on each side with a group of narrow windows. Between the windows the space was filled with the famous col¬ lection of arms and armour of which Gilbert Fane had been so proud. Below, except where there was a huge fireplace, shelves containing rare and valuable books filled five sides of the room to a height of at least twelve feet from the floor. The space enclosed by the three remaining walls could, at will, be cut off from the rest of the room by the heavy curtains, now partly drawn, behind one of which a light still burned, its rays falling upon- Thomas Matchem

shuddered at the thought of what lay there, so still and awful. He controlled himself with an effort and his eyes travelled about the room.

He knew that the walls of the space, partly hidden by the curtain, were completely filled with carefully wrought drawers of steel (almost like those of a safety vault) where were kept the most valuable things in Gilbert Fane’s great collections—priceless books and manuscripts, coins of every age and coun¬ try, rare gems-

“Walls of stone and steel,” thought Thomas Matchem to himself, “and one locked door. . . .

And yet-”

At the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall with¬ out he moved nearer to the door.

“Doctor Holmes is in and will come at once, sir,” said James, advancing a little way into the room. “Is there anything more that I can do? Shall I-”

“Here’s Mr. Curtis now,” interrupted Matchem. “You’d better wait—here, near the door.”

As Curtis Fane appeared, Tom met him and, taking him firmly by the arm, led him halfway across the great room and out of earshot of the old servant before he spoke.

“It’s worse than I could tell you before Denise,” he said in a hushed voice. “You’ll need all your strength, Curt, to bear this. God help us all—it looks like-”

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

“For God’s sake, speak, man,” cried Curtis. “What is it? Isn’t it enough that Gilbert’s dead— dead. What more-?”

“Murder,” whispered Matchem. “It looks—it must be murder, Curtis.”

Fane reeled and caught at a chair for support. Fearfully, he glanced sidewise at the concealing cur¬ tain. Then he slipped down into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

“Tell me,” he said in a choking voice, “tell me what has happened.”

“I can’t tell you that, Curt. My God! How could it have happened ? The door was locked and there’s no other way of getting into this room—no possible way.”

“Of course not,” muttered Fane. “And it can’t be—what you say. It must have been his heart. It’s been weak for years. What makes you think-?”

“Come and see,” said Thomas Matchem in an awed voice. “Come and see for yourself.”

For several moments the stricken brother re¬ mained seated, his face still covered by his hands. Then, as Matchem’s hand fell on his arm, he made a visible effort and rose.

Slowly, together, they crossed the wide silent room and approached the purple hanging. Softly they stepped, as if fearing to wake a sleeper. How still it was! How frightfully, ominously still!

They passed the curtain’s edge.

Curtis Fane’s strangled cry rang through the room. One look, and he had turned, and clutching Matchem’s arms in both his hands, he buried his face on his cousin’s shoulder.

Tom held him in a grip of steel.

“Hold up, Curt,” he whispered. “Hold up, old man. . . . God help us all,” he added, rever¬

ently. Then slowly his eyes turned from the bowed head of the younger brother to the bowed head of the brother who had gone to his account.

Prone upon the library table it was, the face halfturned, the eyes wide open, staring, horrible, filled with a look of fear and of anguish. The arms were spread wide upon the table top, the hands rigid and set like claws, though they grasped nothing. The body rested partly in a chair, was partly supported by the table, as if the man had been standing and had sunk and fallen forward. The upper portion of the body was clothed in a fine thin shirt that had once been white—was white still save where a broad red stain had spread from a heavy-hiked dagger stand¬ ing almost upright in the wound it had ruthlessly made.