The Red House Mystery | Page 4

anywhere for Mr. Mark's brother.
She came into the house. As she passed the housekeeper's room on her way to the hall,
the door opened suddenly, and a rather frightened face looked out.
"Hallo, Aud," said Elsie. "It's Audrey," she said, turning into the room.
"Come in, Audrey," called Mrs. Stevens.
"What's up?" said Audrey, looking in at the door.
"Oh, my dear, you gave me such a turn. Where have you been?"
"Up to the Temple."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Hear what?"
"Bangs and explosions and terrible things."
"Oh!" said Audrey, rather relieved. "One of the men shooting rabbits. Why, I said to
myself as I came along, 'Auntie's partial to a nice rabbit,' I said, and I shouldn't be
surprised if--"
"Rabbits!" said her aunt scornfully. "It was inside the house, my girl."
"Straight it was," said Elsie. She was one of the housemaids. "I said to Mrs.
Stevens--didn't I, Mrs. Stevens?--'That was in the house,' I said."
Audrey looked at her aunt and then at Elsie.
"Do you think he had a revolver with him?" she said in a hushed voice.
"Who?" said Elsie excitedly.
"That brother of his. From Australia. I said as soon as I set eyes on him, 'You're a bad lot,
my man!' That's what I said, Elsie. Even before he spoke to me. Rude!" She turned to her
aunt. "Well, I give you my word."
"If you remember, Audrey, I always said there was no saying with anyone from
Australia." Mrs. Stevens lay back in her chair, breathing rather rapidly. "I wouldn't go out
of this room now, not if you paid me a hundred thousand pounds."
"Oh, Mrs. Stevens!" said Elsie, who badly wanted five shillings for a new pair of shoes,
"I wouldn't go as far as that, not myself, but--"
"There!" cried Mrs. Stevens, sitting up with a start. They listened anxiously, the two girls

instinctively coming closer to the older woman's chair.
A door was being shaken, kicked, rattled.
"Listen!"
Audrey and Elsie looked at each other with frightened eyes.
They heard a man's voice, loud, angry.
"Open the door!" it was shouting. "Open the door! I say, open the door!"
"Don't open the door!" cried Mrs. Stevens in a panic, as if it was her door which was
threatened. "Audrey! Elsie! Don't let him in!"
"Damn it, open the door!" came the voice again.
"We're all going to be murdered in our beds," she quavered. Terrified, the two girls
huddled closer, and with an arm round each, Mrs. Stevens sat there, waiting.








CHAPTER II
Mr. Gillingham Gets Out at the Wrong Station
Whether Mark Ablett was a bore or not depended on the point of view, but it may be said
at once that he never bored his company on the subject of his early life. However, stories
get about. There is always somebody who knows. It was understood--and this, anyhow,
on Mark's own authority--that his father had been a country clergyman. It was said that,
as a boy, Mark had attracted the notice, and patronage, of some rich old spinster of the
neighbourhood, who had paid for his education, both at school and university. At about
the time when he was coming down from Cambridge, his father had died; leaving behind
him a few debts, as a warning to his family, and a reputation for short sermons, as an
example to his successor. Neither warning nor example seems to have been effective.

Mark went to London, with an allowance from his patron, and (it is generally agreed)
made acquaintance with the money-lenders. He was supposed, by his patron and any
others who inquired, to be "writing"; but what he wrote, other than letters asking for more
time to pay, has never been discovered. However, he attended the theatres and music
halls very regularly--no doubt with a view to some serious articles in the "Spectator" on
the decadence of the English stage.
Fortunately (from Mark's point of view) his patron died during his third year in London,
and left him all the money he wanted. From that moment his life loses its legendary
character, and becomes more a matter of history. He settled accounts with the
money-lenders, abandoned his crop of wild oats to the harvesting of others, and became
in his turn a patron. He patronized the Arts. It was not only usurers who discovered that
Mark Ablett no longer wrote for money; editors were now offered free contributions as
well as free lunches; publishers were given agreements for an occasional slender volume,
in which the author paid all expenses and waived all royalties; promising young painters
and poets dined with him; and he even took a theatrical company on tour, playing host
and "lead" with equal lavishness.
He was