The House of Whispers

"Why?"

"Because, being in love, she may become seized with a sentimental fit. This ends generally in a determination of self-sacrifice; and in such case she would tell the truth in defiance of you, and would be heedless of her own danger."

Flockart drew a long breath. What this man said was, he knew within his own heart, only too true of the girl towards whom they had been so cruel and so unscrupulous. His had been a lifelong scheme, and as part of his scheme in conjunction with the woman who was Sir Henry's wife, it had been unfortunately compulsory to sacrifice the girl who was the blind man's right hand.

Yes, Gabrielle was deeply in love with Walter Murie—the man upon whom Sir Henry now looked as his enemy, and who would have exposed him to the Greek Government if the blind man had not been too clever. The Baronet, after his daughter's confession, naturally attributed her curiosity to Walter's initiative, the more especially that Walter had been in Paris, and, it was believed, in Athens also.

The pair were, however, now separated. Krail, in pursuit of his diligent inquiries, had actually been in Woodnewton, and seen the lonely little figure, sad and dejected, taking long rambles accompanied only by a farmer's sheep-dog. Young Murie had not been there; nor did the pair now correspond. This much Krail had himself discovered.

The problem placed before Flockart by his shabby friend was a somewhat disconcerting one. On the one hand, Lady Heyburn had urged him to leave the Riviera, without giving him any reason, and on the other, he had the ever-present danger of Gabrielle, in a sudden fit of sentimental self-sacrifice, "giving him away." If she did, what then? The mere suggestion caused him to bite his nether lip.

Krail knew a good deal, but he did not know all. Perhaps it was as well that he did not. There is a code of honour among adventurers all the world over; but few of them can resist the practice of blackmail when they chance to fall upon evil days.

"Yes," Flockart said reflectively, as at Krail's suggestion they turned and began to descend the steep hill towards Ospedaletti, "perhaps it's a pity, after all, that the girl left Glencardine. Yet surely she's safer with her aunt?"

"She was driven from Glencardine!"

"By her father."

"You sacrificed her in order to save yourself. That was but natural.

It's a pity, however, you didn't take my advice."

"I suggested it to Lady Heyburn. But she would have nothing to do with it. She declared that such a course was far too dangerous."

"Dangerous!" echoed the shabby man. "Surely it could not have placed either of you in any greater danger than you are in already?"

"She didn't like it."

"Few people do," laughed the other. "But, depend upon it, it's the only way. She wouldn't, at any rate, have had an opportunity of telling the truth."

Flockart pulled a wry face, and after a silence of a few moments said, "Don't let us discuss that. We fully considered all the pros and cons, at the time."

"Her ladyship is growing scrupulously honest of late," sneered his companion. "She'll try to get rid of you very soon, I expect."

The latter sentence was more full of meaning than the speaker dreamed. The words, falling upon Flockart's ears, caused him to wince. Was her ladyship really trying to rid herself of his influence? He laughed within himself at the thought of her endeavouring to release herself from the bond. For her he had never, at any moment, entertained either admiration or affection. Their association had always been purely one of business—business, be it said, in which he made the profits and she the losses.

"It would hardly be an easy matter for her," replied the easy-going, audacious adventurer.

"She seems to be very popular up at Glencardine," remarked the foreigner, "because she's extravagant and spends money in the neighbourhood, I suppose. But the people in Auchterarder village criticise her treatment of Gabrielle. They hear gossip from the servants, I expect."

"They should know of the girl's treatment of her stepmother," exclaimed Flockart. "But there, villagers are always prone to listen to and embroider any stories concerning the private life of the gentry. It's just the same in Scotland as in any other country in the world."

"Ah!" continued Flockart, "in Scotland the old families are gradually decaying, and their estates are falling into the hands of blatant parvenus. Counter-jumpers stalk deer nowadays, and city clerks on their holidays shoot over peers' preserves. The humble Scot sees it all with regret, because he has no real liking for this latter-day invasion by the newly-rich English. Cotton-spinners from Lancashire buy deer-forests, and soap-boilers from Limehouse purchase castles with family portraits and ghosts complete."

"Ah! speaking of the supernatural," exclaimed Krail suddenly, "do you know I had a most extraordinary and weird experience when at Glencardine about three weeks ago. I actually heard the Whispers!"

Flockart stared hard at the man at his side, and, laughing outright, said, "Well, that's the best joke I've heard to-day. You, of all men, to be taken in by a mere superstition."

"But, my dear friend, I heard them," said Krail. "I swear I actually heard them! And I—well, I admit to you, even though you may laugh at me for being a superstitious fool—I somehow anticipate that something uncanny is about to happen to me."

"You're going to die, like all the rest of them, I suppose," laughed his friend, as they descended the dusty, winding road that led to the palm-lined promenade of the quiet little Mediterranean watering-place.

CHAPTER XXIV

"WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK"

On their left were several white villas, before which pink and scarlet geraniums ran riot, with spreading mimosas golden with their feathery blossom, for Ospedaletti makes a frantic, if vain, bid for popularity as a winter-resort. Its deadly dullness, however, is too well known to the habitué of the Riviera; and its casino, which never obtained a licence, imparts to it the air of painful effort at gaiety.

"Well," remarked the shabby man as they passed along and out upon the sea-road in the direction of Bordighera, "I always looked upon what the people at Auchterarder said regarding the Whispers as a mere myth. But now, having heard them with my own ears, how can I have further doubt?"

"I've listened in the Castle ruins a good many times, my dear Krail," replied the other, "but I've never heard anything more exciting than an owl. Indeed, Lady Heyburn and I, when there was so much gossip about the strange noises some two years ago, set to work to investigate. We went there at least a dozen times, but without result; only both of us caught bad colds."

"Well," exclaimed Krail, "I used to ridicule the weird stories I heard in the village about the Devil's Whisper, and all that. But by mere chance I happened to be at the spot one bright night, and I heard distinct whisperings, just as had been described to me. They gave me a very creepy feeling, I can assure you."

"Bosh! Now, do you believe in ghosts, you man-of-the-world that you are, my dear Felix?"

"No. Most decidedly I don't."

"Then what you've heard is only in imagination, depend upon it. The supernatural doesn't exist in Glencardine, that's quite certain," declared Flockart. "The fact is that there's so much tradition and legendary lore connected with the old place, and its early owners were such a set of bold and defiant robbers, that for generations the peasantry have held it in awe. Hence all sorts of weird and terrible stories have been invented and handed down, until the present age believes them to be based upon fact."

"But, my dear friend, I actually heard the Whispers—heard them with my own ears," Krail asserted. "I happened to be about the place that night, trying to get a peep into the library, where Goslin and the old man were, I believe, busy at work. But the blinds fitted too closely, so that I couldn't see inside. The keeper and his men were, I knew, down in the village; therefore I took a stroll towards the ruins, and, as it was a beautiful night, I sat down in the courtyard to have a smoke. Then, of a sudden, I heard low voices quite distinctly. They startled me, for not until they fell upon my ears did I recall the stories told to me weeks before."

"If Stewart or any of the under-keepers had found you prowling about the Castle grounds at that hour they might have asked you awkward questions," remarked Flockart.

"Oh," laughed the other, "they all know me as a visitor to the village fond of walking exercise. I took very good care that they should all know me, so that as few explanations as possible would be necessary. As you well know, the secret of all my successes is that I never leave anything to chance."

"To go peeping about outside the house and trying to took in at lighted windows sounds a rather injudicious proceeding," his companion declared.

"Not if proper precautions are taken, as I took them. I was weeks in that terribly dull Scotch village, but nobody suspected my real mission. I made quite a large circle of friends at the 'Star,' who all believed me to be a foreign ornithologist writing a book upon the birds of Scotland. Trust me to tell people a good story."

"Well," exclaimed Flockart, after a long silence, "those Whispers are certainly a mystery, more especially if you've actually heard them. On two or three occasions I've spoken to Sir Henry about them. He ridicules the idea, yet he admitted to me one evening that the voices had really been heard. I declared that the most remarkable fact was the sudden death of each person who had listened and heard them. It is a curious phenomenon, which certainly should be investigated."

"The inference is that I, having listened to the ghostly voices, am doomed to a sudden and violent end," remarked the shabby stranger quite gloomily.

Flockart laughed. "Really, Felix, this is too funny!" he said. "Fancy your taking notice of such old wives' fables! Why, my dear fellow, you've got many years of constant activity before you yet. You must return to Paris in the morning, and watch in patience."

"I have watched, but discovered nothing."

"Perhaps I'll come and assist you; most probably I shall."

"No, don't! As soon as you leave San Remo Sir Henry will know, and he might suspect."

"Suspect what?"

"That you are in search of the truth, and of fortune in consequence."

"He believes in me. Only the other day I had a letter from him written in Goslin's hand, repeating the confidence he reposes in me."