The Empty House and Other Ghost Stories
Shorthouse made appropriate answers to these remarks, but his mind was
really engaged in taking stock of Mr. Sidebotham's old-time partner. So
far there was no sign of mental irregularity and there was certainly
nothing about him to suggest violent wrong-doing or coarseness of
living. On the whole, Mr. Sidebotham's secretary was most pleasantly
surprised, and, wishing to conclude his business as speedily as
possible, he made a motion towards the bag for the purpose of opening
it, when his companion interrupted him quickly--
"You are Mr. Sidebotham's _private_ secretary, are you not?" he asked.
Shorthouse replied that he was. "Mr. Sidebotham," he went on to explain,
"has entrusted me with the papers in the case and I have the honour to
return to you your letter of a week ago." He handed the letter to
Garvey, who took it without a word and deliberately placed it in the
fire. He was not aware that the secretary was ignorant of its contents,
yet his face betrayed no signs of feeling. Shorthouse noticed, however,
that his eyes never left the fire until the last morsel had been
consumed. Then he looked up and said, "You are familiar then with the
facts of this most peculiar case?"
Shorthouse saw no reason to confess his ignorance.
"I have all the papers, Mr. Garvey," he replied, taking them out of the
bag, "and I should be very glad if we could transact our business as
speedily as possible. If you will cut out your signature I--"
"One moment, please," interrupted the other. "I must, before we proceed
further, consult some papers in my laboratory. If you will allow me to
leave you alone a few minutes for this purpose we can conclude the whole
matter in a very short time."
Shorthouse did not approve of this further delay, but he had no option
than to acquiesce, and when Garvey had left the room by the private door
he sat and waited with the papers in his hand. The minutes went by and
the other did not return. To pass the time he thought of taking the
false packet from his coat to see that the papers were in order, and the
move was indeed almost completed, when something--he never knew
what--warned him to desist. The feeling again came over him that he was
being watched, and he leaned back in his chair with the bag on his knees
and waited with considerable impatience for the other's return. For more
than twenty minutes he waited, and when at length the door opened and
Garvey appeared, with profuse apologies for the delay, he saw by the
clock that only a few minutes still remained of the time he had allowed
himself to catch the last train.
"Now I am completely at your service," he said pleasantly; "you must, of
course, know, Mr. Shorthouse, that one cannot be too careful in matters
of this kind--especially," he went on, speaking very slowly and
impressively, "in dealing with a man like my former partner, whose mind,
as you doubtless may have discovered, is at times very sadly affected."
Shorthouse made no reply to this. He felt that the other was watching
him as a cat watches a mouse.
"It is almost a wonder to me," Garvey added, "that he is still at large.
Unless he has greatly improved it can hardly be safe for those who are
closely associated with him."
The other began to feel uncomfortable. Either this was the other side of
the story, or it was the first signs of mental irresponsibility.
"All business matters of importance require the utmost care in my
opinion, Mr. Garvey," he said at length, cautiously.
"Ah! then, as I thought, you have had a great deal to put up with from
him," Garvey said, with his eyes fixed on his companion's face. "And, no
doubt, he is still as bitter against me as he was years ago when the
disease first showed itself?"
Although this last remark was a deliberate question and the questioner
was waiting with fixed eyes for an answer, Shorthouse elected to take
no notice of it. Without a word he pulled the elastic band from the blue
envelope with a snap and plainly showed his desire to conclude the
business as soon as possible. The tendency on the other's part to delay
did not suit him at all.
"But never personal violence, I trust, Mr. Shorthouse," he added.
"Never."
"I'm glad to hear it," Garvey said in a sympathetic voice, "very glad to
hear it. And now," he went on, "if you are ready we can transact this
little matter of business before dinner. It will only take a moment."
He drew a chair up to the desk and sat down, taking a pair of scissors
from a drawer. His companion approached with the papers in his hand,
unfolding them as he came. Garvey at once took them from him, and after
turning over a few pages he stopped and cut out a piece of writing at
the bottom of the last sheet but one.
Holding it up to him Shorthouse read the words "Joel Garvey" in faded
ink.
"There! That's my signature," he said, "and I've cut it out. It must be
nearly twenty years since I wrote it, and now I'm going to burn it."
He went to the fire and stooped over to burn the little slip of paper,
and while he watched it being consumed Shorthouse put the real papers in
his pocket and slipped the imitation ones into the bag. Garvey turned
just in time to see this latter movement.
"I'm putting the papers back," Shorthouse said quietly; "you've done
with them, I think."
"Certainly," he replied as, completely deceived, he saw the blue
envelope disappear into the black bag and watched Shorthouse turn the
key. "They no longer have the slightest interest for me." As he spoke he
moved over to the sideboard, and pouring himself out a small glass of
whisky asked his visitor if he might do the same for him. But the
visitor declined and was already putting on his overcoat when Garvey
turned with genuine surprise on his face.
"You surely are not going back to New York to-night, Mr. Shorthouse?" he
said, in a voice of astonishment.
"I've just time to catch the 7.15 if I'm quick."
"But I never heard of such a thing," Garvey said. "Of course I took it
for granted that you would stay the night."
"It's kind of you," said Shorthouse, "but really I must return to-night.
I never expected to stay."
The two men stood facing each other. Garvey pulled out his watch.
"I'm exceedingly sorry," he said; "but, upon my word, I took it for
granted you would stay. I ought to have said so long ago. I'm such a
lonely fellow and so little accustomed to visitors that I fear I forgot
my manners altogether. But in any case, Mr. Shorthouse, you cannot catch
the 7.15, for it's already after six o'clock, and that's the last train
to-night." Garvey spoke very quickly, almost eagerly, but his voice
sounded genuine.
"There's time if I walk quickly," said the young man with decision,
moving towards the door. He glanced at his watch as he went. Hitherto he
had gone by the clock on the mantelpiece. To his dismay he saw that it
was, as his host had said, long after six. The clock was half an hour
slow, and he realised at once that it was no longer possible to catch
the train.
Had the hands of the clock been moved back intentionally? Had he been
purposely detained? Unpleasant thoughts flashed into his brain and made
him hesitate before taking the next step. His employer's warning rang in
his ears. The alternative was six miles along a lonely road in the
dark, or a night under Garvey's roof. The former seemed a direct
invitation to catastrophe, if catastrophe there was planned to be. The
latter--well, the choice was certainly small. One thing, however, he
realised, was plain--he must show neither fear nor hesitancy.
"My watch must have gained," he observed quietly, turning the hands back
without looking up. "It seems I have certainly missed that train and
shall be obliged to throw myself upon your hospitality. But, believe me,
I had no intention of putting you out to any such extent."
"I'm delighted," the other said. "Defer to the judgment of an older man
and make yourself comfortable for the night. There's a bitter storm
outside, and you don't put me out at all. On the contrary it's a great
pleasure. I have so little contact with the outside world that it's
really a god-send to have you."
The man's face changed as he spoke. His manner was cordial and sincere.
Shorthouse began to feel ashamed of his doubts and to read between the
lines of his employer's warning. He took off his coat and the two men
moved to the armchairs beside the fire.
"You see," Garvey went on in a lowered voice, "I understand your
hesitancy perfectly. I didn't know Sidebotham all those years without
knowing a good deal about him--perhaps more than you do. I've no doubt,
now, he filled your mind with all sorts of nonsense about me--probably
told you that I was the greatest villain unhung, eh? and all that sort
of thing? Poor fellow! He was a fine sort before his mind became
unhinged. One of his fancies used to be that everybody else was insane,
or just about to become insane. Is he still as bad as that?"
"Few men," replied Shorthouse, with the manner of making a great
confidence, but entirely refusing to be drawn, "go through his
experiences and reach his age without entertaining delusions of one kind
or another."
"Perfectly true," said Garvey. "Your observation is evidently keen."
"Very keen indeed," Shorthouse replied, taking his cue neatly; "but, of
course, there are some things"--and here he looked cautiously over his
shoulder--"there are some things one cannot talk about too
circumspectly."
"I understand perfectly and respect your reserve."
There was a little more conversation and then Garvey got up and excused
himself on the plea of superintending the preparation of the bedroom.
"It's quite an event to have a visitor in the house, and I want to make
you as comfortable as possible," he said. "Marx will do better for a
little supervision. And," he added with a laugh as he stood in the
doorway, "I want you to carry back a good account to Sidebotham."
II
The tall form disappeared and the door was shut. The conversation of the
past few minutes had come somewhat as a revelation to the secretary.
Garvey seemed in full possession of normal instincts. There was no doubt
as to the sincerity of his manner and intentions. The suspicions of the
first hour began to vanish like mist before the sun. Sidebotham's
portentous warnings and the mystery with which he surrounded the whole
episode had been allowed to unduly influence his mind. The loneliness of
the situation and the bleak nature of the surroundings had helped to
complete the illusion. He began to be ashamed of his suspicions and a
change commenced gradually to be wrought in his thoughts. Anyhow a
dinner and a bed were preferable to six miles in the dark, no dinner,
and a cold train into the bargain.
Garvey returned presently. "We'll do the best we can for you," he said,
dropping into the deep armchair on the other side of the fire. "Marx is
a good servant if you watch him all the time. You must always stand over
a Jew, though, if you want things done properly. They're tricky and
uncertain unless they're working for their own interest. But Marx might
be worse, I'll admit. He's been with me for nearly twenty years--cook,
valet, housemaid, and butler all in one. In the old days, you know, he
was a clerk in our office in Chicago."
Garvey rattled on and Shorthouse listened with occasional remarks thrown
in. The former seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to and the sound
of his own voice was evidently sweet music in his ears. After a few
minutes, he crossed over to the sideboard and again took up the decanter
of whisky, holding it to the light. "You will join me this time," he
said pleasantly, pouring out two glasses, "it will give us an appetite
for dinner," and this time Shorthouse did not refuse. The liquor was