Gordon Craig | Page 3

It was dark enough when I got there, and began seeking the number. I followed the block twice in uncertainty, so many of the houses were dark, but finally located the one I believed must be 108. It was slightly back from the street, a large stone mansion, surrounded by a low coping of brick and with no light showing anywhere. I was obliged to mount the front steps before I could assure myself this was the place. The street was deserted, except for two men talking under the electric light at the corner, and the only sound arose from the passing of a surface car a block away. The silence and loneliness got upon my nerves, but, without yielding, I followed the narrow cement walk around the corner of the house. Here it was dark in the shadow of the wall, yet one window on the first floor exhibited a faint glow at the edge of a closely drawn curtain. Encouraged slightly by this proof that the house was indeed occupied, I felt my way forward until I came to some stone steps, and a door. I rapped on the wood three times, my nerves tingling from excitement. There was a moment's delay, so that I lifted my hand again, and then the door opened silently. Within was like the black mouth of a cave, and I involuntarily took a step backward.
"This you, Craig?"
"Yes," I answered, half recognizing the cautious voice.
"All right then--come in. There is nothing to fear, the floor is level."
I stepped within, seeing nothing of the man, and the door was closed behind me. The sharp click of the latch convinced me it was secured by a spring lock.
"Turn on the light," said the voice at my side sharply. Instantly an electric bulb glowed dazzling overhead, and I blinked, about half blinded by the sudden change.
CHAPTER II
THE CASE OF PHILIP HENLEY
It was a rather narrow hallway and, with the exception of a thick carpet underfoot, unfurnished. Neale, appearing somewhat more slender in evening clothes, smiled at me genially, showing a gold-crowned tooth.
"Did not chance to hear your motor," he said easily, taking a cigarette case from his vest pocket. "You are a little late; what was it, tire trouble?"
"I came afoot," I answered, not overly-cordial. "It was farther across town than I supposed."
"Well, you 're here, and that is the main point. Have a cigarette. No?" as I shook my head. "All right, there are cigars in the room yonder--the second door to your left."
I entered where he indicated. It was a spacious apartment, evidently a library from the book-shelves along the walls, and the great writing table in the center. The high ceiling, and restful wall decorations were emphasized by all the furnishings, the soft rug, into which the feet sank noiselessly, the numerous leather-upholstered chairs, the luxurious couch, and the divan filling the bay-window. The only light was under a shaded globe on the central table, leaving the main apartment in shadows, but the windows had their heavy curtains closely drawn. The sole occupant was a man in evening dress, seated in a high-backed leather chair, facing the entrance, a small stand beside him, containing a half-filled glass, and an open box of cigars. Smoke circled above his head, his eyes upon me as I entered. With an indolent wave of one hand he seemingly invited me to take a vacant chair to the right, while Neale remained standing near the door.
This new position gave me a better view of his face, but I could not guess his age. His was one of those old-young faces, deeply lined, smooth-shaven, the hair clipped short, the flesh ashen-gray, the lips a mere straight slit, yielding a merciless expression; but the eyes, surveying me coldly, were the noticeable feature. They looked to be black, not large, but deep set, and with a most peculiar gleam, almost that of insanity, in their intense stare. Even as he lounged back amid the chair cushions I could see that he was tall, and a bit angular, his hand, holding a cigar, evidencing unusual strength. He must have stared at me a full minute, much as a jockey would examine a horse, before he resumed smoking.
"He will do very well, Neale," he decided, with a glance across at the other. "Possibly a trifle young."
"He has roughed it," returned the other reassuringly, "and that means more than years."
The first man laughed rather unpleasantly, and emptied his glass.
"So I have discovered. Have a cigar, or a drink, Craig?"
"I will smoke."
He passed me the box, watching me while I lighted the perfecto, Neale crossing to the divan.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"I thought about that. What part of the country do you hail from?" and I noticed now a faint Southern accent in the drawl of