The Silent House

The Silent House, by Fergus Hume

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Title: The Silent House
Author: Fergus Hume
Release Date: August 17, 2006 [EBook #19069]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE SILENT HOUSE
BY FERGUS HUME
New York C. H. DOSCHER
Copyright, 1907, by C. H. DOSCHER

[Illustration: I have ample time at my command, and I shall only be too happy to place it and myself at your service]

CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I--The Tenant of the Silent House 1
II--Shadows on the Blind 10
III--An Unsatisfactory Explanation 20
IV--Mrs. Kebby's Discovery 29
V--The Talk of the Town 38
VI--Mrs. Vrain's Story 47
VII--The Assurance Money 56
VIII--Diana Vrain 65
IX--A Marriage That Was a Failure 74
X--The Parti-Coloured Ribbon 83
XI--Further Discoveries 93
XII--The Veil and Its Owner 101
XIII--Gossip 111
XIV--The House in Jersey Street 121
XV--Rhoda and the Cloak 131
XVI--Mrs. Vrain at Bay 141
XVII--A Denial 151
XVIII--Who Bought the Cloak? 160
XIX--The Defence of Count Ferruci 169
XX--A New Development 179
XXI--Two Months Pass 187
XXII--At Berwin Manor 196
XXIII--A Startling Theory 206
XXIV--Lucian Is Surprised 215
XXV--A Dark Plot 224
XXVI--The Other Man's Wife 233
XXVII--A Confession 241
XXVIII--The Name of the Assassin 252
XXIX--Link Sets a Trap 262
XXX--Who Fell into the Trap 272
XXXI--A Strange Confession 282
XXXII--The Confession (continued) 291
XXXIII--What Rhoda Had to Say 301
XXXIV--The End of It All 310

THE SILENT HOUSE

CHAPTER I
THE TENANT OF THE SILENT HOUSE
Lucian Denzil was a briefless barrister, who so far departed from the traditions of his brethren of the long robe as not to dwell within the purlieus of the Temple. For certain private reasons, not unconnected with economy, he occupied rooms in Geneva Square, Pimlico; and, for the purposes of his profession, repaired daily, from ten to four, to Serjeant's Inn, where he shared an office with a friend equally briefless and poor.
This state of things sounds hardly enviable, but Lucian, being young and independent to the extent of ��300 a year, was not dissatisfied with his position. As his age was only twenty-five, there was ample time, he thought, to succeed in his profession; and, pending that desirable consummation, he cultivated the muses on a little oatmeal, after the fashion of his kind. There have been lives less happily circumstanced.
Geneva Square was a kind of backwater of the great river of town life which swept past its entrance with speed and clamour without disturbing the peace within. One long, narrow street led from a roaring thoroughfare into a silent quadrangle of tall grey houses, occupied by lodging-house keepers, city clerks and two or three artists, who represented the Bohemian element of the place. In the centre there was an oasis of green lawn, surrounded by rusty iron railings the height of a man, dotted with elms of considerable age, and streaked with narrow paths of yellow gravel.
The surrounding houses represented an eminently respectable appearance, with their immaculately clean steps, white-curtained windows, and neat boxes of flowers. The windows glittered like diamonds, the door-knobs and plates shone with a yellow lustre, and there were no sticks, or straws, or waste paper lying about to mar the tidy look of the square.
With one exception, Geneva Square was a pattern of all that was desirable in the way of cleanliness and order. One might hope to find such a haven in some somnolent cathedral town, but scarcely in the grimy, smoky, restless metropolis of London.
The exception to the notable spotlessness of the neighborhood was No. 13, a house in the centre of the side opposite to the entrance. Its windows were dusty, and without blinds or curtains, there were no flower-boxes on the ledges, the steps lacked whitewash, and the iron railings looked rusty for want of paint. Stray straws and scraps of paper found their way down the area, where the cracked pavement was damp with green slime. Such beggars as occasionally wandered into the square, to the scandal of its inhabitants, camped on the doorstep; and the very door itself presented a battered, dissolute appearance.
Yet, for all its ill looks and disreputable suggestions, those who dwelt in Geneva Square would not have seen it furbished up and occupied for any money. They spoke about it in whispers, with ostentatious tremblings, and daunted looks, for No. 13 was supposed to be haunted, and had been empty for over twenty years. By reason of its legend, its loneliness and grim appearance, it was known as the Silent House, and formed quite a feature of the place. Murder had been done long ago in one of its empty, dusty rooms, and it was since then that the victim