The Four Faces | Page 7

you come with me?"
"Good heavens, Jack!" I exclaimed, "what an extraordinary thing to do.
But what will you say when you get there? Supposing he does live
there--or, for that matter, supposing he doesn't--what reason will you
give for calling at the house?"
"Oh, I'll invent some reason quick enough, but I want someone to be

with me. Will you come? Will you or won't you?"
I glanced up at the clock. It wanted twenty minutes to eleven.
"Do you mean now? Do you intend to go at this time of the night?"
"I intend to go at once--as fast as a taxi will take me there," he
answered.
I paused, undecided. It seemed such a strange thing to do, under the
circumstances; but then, as I knew, Jack Osborne had always been fond
of doing strange things. Though a member of Brooks's, he was
unconventional in the extreme.
"Yes, I will," I said, the originality of the idea suddenly appealing to
me. In point of fact I, too, mistrusted this man Gastrell. Though he had
looked me so straight in the eyes when, two hours before, he had
calmly assured me that I was mistaken in believing him to be "his
namesake in Geneva," as he put it; still, as I say, I felt convinced he
was the same man.
"Good," Osborne answered in a tone of satisfaction. "Come, we will
start at once."
A strange feeling of repressed excitement obsessed me as our taxi
passed up Bond Street, turned into Oxford Street, then to the right into
Orchard Street, and sped thence by way of Baker Street past Lord's
cricket ground and up the Finchley Road. What would happen when we
reached Maresfield Gardens? Would the door be opened by a stolid
footman or by some frigid maidservant who would coldly inform us
that "Mr. Gastrell was not at home"; or should we be shown in, and, if
we were shown in, what excuse would Jack Osborne make for calling
so late at night? I cannot say that I felt in the least anxious, however,
for Osborne is a man who has knocked about the world and seen many
queer sides of life, and who never, under any circumstances, is at a loss
how to act.
I glanced at my watch as our taxi turned into Maresfield Gardens. It

was ten minutes past eleven. At the house indicated half-way up the hill
the taxi suddenly pulled up.
Osborne got out and pressed the electric bell-push. As I looked up at
the windows, I noticed that nowhere was any light visible. Nor was
there a light in the ground-floor windows.
"I believe everybody is in bed," I said to him, when the bell remained
unanswered. Without replying, he pressed the push again, and kept his
finger on it.
Still no one came.
"We'd better call to-morrow," I suggested, when he had rung a third
time with the same result.
The words had hardly left my lips, when we heard the door-chain rattle.
Then the bolts were pulled back, and a moment later the door was
carefully drawn open to the length of its chain.
Inside all was darkness, nor was anybody visible.
"What do you want?" a woman's voice inquired.
The voice had a most pleasant _timbre_; also the speaker was
obviously a lady. She did not sound in the least alarmed, but there was
a note of surprise in the tone.
"Has Mr. Gastrell come home yet?" Osborne asked.
"Not yet. Do you want to see him?"
"Yes. He dined at Brooks's Club this evening with Lord Easterton.
Soon after he had left, a purse was found, and, as nobody in the club
claimed it, I concluded that it must be his, so I have brought it back."
"That is really very good of you, Mr. Osborne," the hidden speaker
answered. "If you will wait a moment I will let you in. Are you alone?"

"No, I have a friend with me. But who are you? How do you know my
name?"
There was no answer. The door was shut quietly. Then we heard the
sound of the chain being removed.
By the time Jack Osborne had paid our driver, and dismissed the taxi,
the door had been opened sufficiently wide to admit us. We entered,
and at once the door was shut.
We were now in inky blackness.
"Won't you switch on the light?" Osborne asked, when a minute or so
had elapsed, and we remained in total darkness.
Nobody answered, and we waited, wondering. Fully another minute
passed, and still we stood there.
I felt Osborne touch me. Then, coming close to me, he whispered in my
ear:
"Strike a match, Mike; I haven't one."
I felt in my pockets. I had not one either. I was about