The Heads of Cerberus | Page 3

you will not take my hand! Did you get my letter, and is this a surprise visit? You're welcome, however you've come!"
But the other shrank still closer against the door, while his pallid face grew actually gray. "May I--may I sit down?" he gasped. He was swaying like a drunken man, and his knees seemed to have no strength left in them.
"Sit down! But you may indeed." Trenmore sprang instantly to help him to the nearest chair, one arm about his shoulder in a gentle, kindly pressure. "Tell me now, did you really get my letter?"
"What letter?"
"Then you did not. What ails you, man? You're white as the banshee herself! Is it bad hurt you are, and you not telling me?"
"No-yes. A trifle. It is not that."
"What, then? Have you been ill? Here, take a drop o' the brandy, lad. That's it. A fool could see you're a deathly sick man this minute."
Trenmore's voice was tender as only a woman's or an Irishman's can be; but Drayton shrank away as if its kindness only hurt him the more.
"Don't speak that way!" he cried harshly, and buried his face in his hands.
Very wonderingly, his host laughed and again put his arm about the other's bowed shoulders. "And why not, then?" he asked gently. "I should, perhaps, like to know why you bolt into my room in the early morn, bang to my door behind yourself, and then try to repel my hospitable reception; but you need tell me nothing. For me 'tis enough that you're here at all, whom I've been wanting to see this long while more than any other lad in the world."
"Stop it, I say!" cried Drayton, and raised his head abruptly. His pale face had flushed deeply, and he seemed to flinch at the sound of his own words. "I can't-can't take your welcome. I came here as a thief, Terry Trenmore! And for no other reason."
The Irishman's blue eyes flashed wide.
"A thief?" He laughed shortly. "And pray what of mine did you wish to steal, friend Bobby? Name the thing and it's yours!"
"Terry, I'm not off my head, as you think. Haven't any such excuse. I tell you, I'm a thief. Plain, ugly t-h-i-e-f, thief. I entered this particular house only because I found a way in. I didn't know it was your house."
In the midst of speech Drayton paused and started suddenly to his feet. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "I had half forgotten. Terry, I wasn't the only-er-burglar here last night!"
"And what are you meaning now?"
"Your safe was opened!"
Ere he could finish the sentence Trenmore had turned, crossed the room, and was pushing aside a silken curtain, hung from ceiling to floor, near the bed. It disclosed a squared, nickeled-steel door, set flush with the wall. After a moment's scrutiny he turned a freshly bewildered face to his visitor. "Broken open? But it's not! My poor boy, you are out of your mind this morning. It's a doctor you are needing."
"No, no. I don't mean that one. I mean the safe upstairs, in the small room at the front."
"Is there one there?" queried Trenmore. "I didn't know of it."
"What! This isn't your own place, then?"
The giant shook his head, smiling. "For why would you be expecting to find Terence Trenmore tied to a house of his own? It belongs to my cousin, on the mother's side, whom I'll be glad for you to know, though he's not here now. But you say there's been robbery done above-stairs?"
"I'm not exactly sure. There was something so strange about it all. Come up there with me, Terry, and look for yourself."
Either because of the brandy he had swallowed, or because the first shame and shock of confession were over, Drayton seemed to have recovered some measure of strength. He led the way upstairs to the front bedroom, and answered the Irishman's question with a slow gesture toward the violated safe. Trenmore stood thoughtfully over the neglected pile of papers and more or less valuable jewelry, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his bathrobe, brows drawn in a reflective scowl. "And what," he asked, "were they like, these queer thieves that left their plunder behind them?"
"I didn't see them."
"What?"
Drayton's boyish, sensitive mouth quivered. "If you don't believe me, I can't blame you, of course. By Heaven, I think it would be a relief if you would call in the police, Terry, and end the whole rotten affair that way. I wish with all my heart that they'd put me where they put my partner, poor old Warren!"
"And where is that? It's riddles you're talking."
"First in jail and now in his grave," answered Drayton grimly.
The Irishman flung back his great, black-maned head angrily--
"Bobby, my boy, we've had enough of that make of talk! I can see with half an