Chapter XX

_The Blind Terror_

For three days I wandered in a phantasmagoric wilderness, my principal

obsession making me identify myself with that pair of Hebrew spies

staggering under the weight of those enormous grapes; would we never

lose sight of Rahab's scarlet cord, and be again in safety and quiet!

Then the confusion in my head cleared away, and I saw that it was really

Betty who sat by my bed and not "Black Jack" Thaneford.

* * * * *

Yes, John Thaneford lies quiet and still in S. Saviour's

churchyard--with his forefathers and mine--and enmity should end at the

edge of the grave. God knows that each one of us needs forgiveness, both

human and divine, for the deeds done in the flesh.

* * * * *

This morning I am allowed to sit up. Betty is busy at her household

accounts, and Little Hugh is playing on the floor with blocks and tin

soldiers. What a tremendous big chap he is! Perhaps a trifle shy of me

at present, but time will soon put that to rights.

* * * * *

A beautiful day, and I am feeling almost if not quite myself. To-morrow

I am to get up, and Chalmers Warriner is coming to dinner.

* * * * *

It is a long and well nigh incredible story to which I have been

listening this evening. But it explains everything and clears up

everything, and the shadow that has hung over "Hildebrand Hundred" for

so long has finally fled away; never, thank God! to return.

* * * * *

_Imprimis_, let me register full and frank confession of my unutterable

folly in ever doubting Betty; or, for that matter, my dear friend

Chalmers Warriner. And the explanation was so absurdly simple--the

secret engagement between Warriner and Hilda Powers. Of course, Betty

had been Hilda's confidante and could not betray her even to

re-establish a foolish husband's peace of mind. The ridiculous side of

the affair lay in the fact that there had been no particular reason for

keeping the engagement under cover, outside of Hilda's whim to have the

announcement delayed until after the marriage of her elder sister Eva.

Anyhow it _had_ been a secret and Betty had kept it loyally, even to her

own hurt. Moreover, she may have detected other traces of the green-eyed

monster in my make-up, and had decided that I needed a salutary lesson.

Let it go at that.

Of course, the mere statement of fact was enough to untangle the whole

coil; explained at once was the confidential understanding which

certainly had existed between my wife and my friend; also Warriner's

appearance at Stockbridge (where Hilda was already Betty's guest), and

all the other straws that seemed to show which way the wind blew, and

yet were nothing but straws, hopelessly light-minded and wholly

irresponsible. I made my amends humbly enough, and they were generously

accepted; we will say no more about it.

Dinner was over, and we were taking our coffee on the front portico. It

was a perfect June night, the heavens a sable pall studded with

innumerable star-clusters, the little vagrant breezes redolent of new

mown hay, a nightingale singing in a nearby boscage. An atmosphere of

heavenly peace and quiet that I must needs disturb with the blunt

question:

"And now what was it that killed John Thaneford?"

Chalmers Warriner threw away the butt of his cigar. "What was it that

killed all the Hildebrands throughout two generations?" he retorted.

"Yardley and Randall and Horace and Richard, and Francis Graeme? The

answer to the one question is the answer to them all. And, finally,

there was Eunice Trevor, who went voluntarily to meet the invisible

angel of death--a brave woman if there ever was one! Of course you

remember the unfinished letter which she left behind her. There was a

particular paragraph in it that impressed me, and I copied it down in my

note-book." He pulled out the little volume and began to read:

... moreover, I believe that the heart of the Terror beats in this

very place--the library of "Hildebrand Hundred." Something is in

this room, something eternally menacing and eternally patient. It

may be in one year or it may be in three and fifty years, but in

the end it will surely claim its own. Yes, something is here, the

something for which I myself am waiting; but, search as you will,

you shall not find the Terror; you must await its coming. At least

you may be certain that it will not fail to keep tryst.

"It must be evident," continued Chalmers, "that Eunice Trevor was aware

of the very real danger attendant upon the occupation of the room we

call the library at 'Hildebrand Hundred.' But she did not know what was

the nature of that danger; in the same breath she speaks of the peril as

being eternally menacing and eternally patient--a contradiction in

terms. How could the Terror be always ready to strike, and yet, in one

case at least, wait half a century for the opportunity? This discrepancy

bothered me from the very first; but let me explain myself more exactly;

I made some other notes at the time."

Warriner ruffled the leaves of his note-book, and began again:

"Eunice Trevor gives a list of the owners of the 'Hundred,' together

with the dates of their succession and death, running back to 1860, when

Yardley Hildebrand succeeded his father, Oliver; Yardley himself dying a

year later under mysterious circumstances. At least I assume that they

were mysterious, for Effingham has assured me that he died alone and

while engaged in looking over some papers in the then newly completed

library. The list continues with Randall and Horace and Richard

Hildebrand, and ends with Francis Graeme. Now for Miss Trevor's

comments:

"As we analyze these dates and periods we come upon some curious

coincidences, and also upon some marked discrepancies. Yardley

Hildebrand reigned for one brief year, and the same is true of

Randall Hildebrand and of Francis Graeme. But Horace Hildebrand

enjoyed three full years of sovereignty, while Richard was

Hildebrand of the "Hundred" for no less a period than fifty-three

years. Yet all five went to their death along an unfrequented road,

and no man can say of a certainty what was the essential damnation

of their taking-off. They died, and they died alone--here in this

very room where I sit waiting, waiting."

Warriner lit a fresh cigar.

"Making due allowance for feminine hyperbole," he said judicially, "and

for the writer's excited state of mind, we arrive at certain definite

facts. Here are six deaths--seven if we include that of John

Thaneford--and all of them happening under apparently natural but really

abnormal conditions. The constant factors in the series of equations are

the _locale_ and the general circumstances--an unattended death and no

visible cause for dissolution. The period is a variable quantity--from

one to over fifty years. We therefore may conclude justifiably that Miss

Trevor was wrong in her assertion about something deadly and menacing

being always in the room, ready to spring upon its prey. Under that

hypothesis the apartment would quickly have become impossible for human

occupancy. The alternative theory is that, granting certain conditions,

the lethal agent might enter the room and accomplish its deadly

purpose, and then immediately withdraw. Finally, this agency might be

human or purely mechanical in character. You see what I'm driving at.

From the first, I believed that the attack was delivered from without,

while Betty and Eunice held that it was what the police call an inside

job."

"And neither theory was wholly right nor wholly wrong," observed Betty.

"Perfectly," rejoined Warriner. "As usual, the truth lay in the middle

distance. Now you go on, Betty; this is your part of the story."

"My part of the story!" echoed Betty deprecatingly. "I'm not an author;

I'm merely the amanuensis, the typist, if you please."

"Mock modesty," proclaimed Warriner. "Even now we would still be

standing before a closed door were it not for Betty and her master-key."

"Yes, my master-key," scoffed Betty. "Only it doesn't seem very clever

of me to have carried it all these months without ever thinking to use

it."

"Perhaps you couldn't find your pocket," suggested Chalmers.

"Enough of this bush-beating and persiflage," I commanded severely.

"Will you go on and tell me, Betty?"

"Well," began my wife obediently, "we had been warned away from the

'Hundred,' but you were obstinate and wouldn't budge; you had to be

saved in spite of yourself.

"Of course I was right in going North immediately after the Midsummer

Night's ball at 'Powersthorp.' Little Hugh really needed the change, and

I wanted to be able to call at will on Chalmers for assistance in

working out my problem. I couldn't do so if I stayed on at the

'Hundred,' even by means of correspondence. I don't suppose, Hugh, that

I need to particularize any further in this direction?"

I mumbled something unintelligible, and, to add to my discomfiture,

Warriner actually laughed. Never mind; I deserved it all.

"I could feel reasonably easy in my mind," went on Betty, "since I knew

that the library had been dismantled and locked up. Besides, I had your

solemn promise that you would not attempt to enter it for any purpose."

"I forgot," I murmured.

"That sounds like honest penitence, and I can forgive you--now. But I

shall never be able to forget the afternoon your letter came with its

calm announcement that you had been in the room to see about the

damaged window; yes, and would probably have to go again.

"That letter reached Stockbridge at ten o'clock in the morning of

Thursday, the twenty-first. Fifteen minutes later an express train left

for New York, and Chalmers and I were the passengers on it, leaving

Hilda to follow with the nurse and the baby. At the first opportunity I

sent you a telegram. Did you receive it?"

My thoughts went back to the yellow telegraphic sheet clutched in John

Thaneford's black-knuckled hands, and held up before my helpless eyes.

"Yes, it came," I answered slowly, "but too late to be of any use."

"I was afraid of that," said Betty, "but we were leaving no stone

unturned. We were missing connections all the way down, and I knew that

the trap was ready for springing. And someone else knew it, too--John

Thaneford."

"But," I objected, "Eunice expressly says that John Thaneford did not

know the secret; except perhaps in part."

"What did he mean then by stupefying you with whiskey, and placing you,

bound and helpless, in the big swivel-chair?" put in Warriner.

I was silent.

"Finally," continued Warriner, "it seemed certain that something had

gone wrong with the working of the machinery, whatever it was. Whereupon

he started for you--you remember--with bare hands."

Ah, yes, I remembered.

"Unquestionably, Thaneford was carrying out a perfectly definite plan of

procedure. He knew what ought to have happened."

"But it didn't happen," I protested. "I'm here and very much alive."

"It did, and it didn't," retorted Warriner. "John Thaneford is dead."

"You mean--you mean----" I boggled.

"Yes, the Terror had entered the room; don't you recall how close I kept

to the wall when I was trying to reach you? But it had become a blind

Terror, and John Thaneford got in its way."

"But how and why?" I asked helplessly.

"Betty, it's your turn again," said Warriner, settling back in his

chair.