Round the Fire Stories

THE SEALED ROOM

A solicitor of an active habit and athletic tastes who is compelled byhis hopes of business to remain within the four walls of his office fromten till five must take what exercise he can in the evenings. Hence itwas that I was in the habit of indulging in very long nocturnalexcursions, in which I sought the heights of Hampstead and Highgate inorder to cleanse my system from the impure air of Abchurch Lane. It wasin the course of one of these aimless rambles that I first met FelixStanniford, and so led up to what has been the most extraordinaryadventure of my lifetime.

One evening—it was in April or early May of the year 1894—I made my wayto the extreme northern fringe of London, and was walking down one ofthose fine avenues of high brick villas which the huge city is for everpushing farther and farther out into the country. It was a fine, clearspring night, the moon was shining out of an unclouded sky, and I,having already left many miles behind me, was inclined to walk slowlyand look about me. In this contemplative mood, my attention was arrestedby one of the houses which I was passing.

It was a very large building, standing in its own grounds, a little backfrom the road. It was modern in appearance, and yet it was far less sothan its neighbours, all of which were crudely and painfully new. Theirsymmetrical line was broken by the gap caused by the laurel-studdedlawn, with the great, dark, gloomy house looming at the back of it.Evidently it had been the country retreat of some wealthy merchant,built perhaps when the nearest street was a mile off, and now graduallyovertaken and surrounded by the red brick tentacles of the Londonoctopus. The next stage, I reflected, would be its digestion andabsorption, so that the cheap builder might rear a dozeneighty-pound-a-year villas upon the garden frontage. And then, as allthis passed vaguely through my mind, an incident occurred which broughtmy thoughts into quite another channel.

A four-wheeled cab, that opprobrium of London, was coming jolting andcreaking in one direction, while in the other there was a yellow glarefrom the lamp of a cyclist. They were the only moving objects in thewhole long, moonlit road, and yet they crashed into each other with thatmalignant accuracy which brings two ocean liners together in the broadwaste of the Atlantic. It was the cyclist’s fault. He tried to cross infront of the cab, miscalculated his distance, and was knocked sprawlingby the horse’s shoulder. He rose, snarling; the cabman swore back athim, and then, realizing that his number had not yet been taken, lashedhis horse and lumbered off. The cyclist caught at the handles of hisprostrate machine, and then suddenly sat down with a groan. “Oh, Lord!”he said.

I ran across the road to his side. “Any harm done?” I asked.

“It’s my ankle,” said he. “Only a twist, I think; but it’s prettypainful. Just give me your hand, will you?”

He lay in the yellow circle of the cycle lamp, and I noted as I helpedhim to his feet that he was a gentlemanly young fellow, with a slightdark moustache and large, brown eyes, sensitive and nervous inappearance, with indications of weak health upon his sunken cheeks. Workor worry had left its traces upon his thin, yellow face. He stood upwhen I pulled his hand, but he held one foot in the air, and he groanedas he moved it.

“I can’t put it to the ground,” said he.

“Where do you live?”

“Here!” he nodded his head towards the big, dark house in the garden. “Iwas cutting across to the gate when that confounded cab ran into me.Could you help me so far?”

It was easily done. I put his cycle inside the gate, and then Isupported him down the drive, and up the steps to the hall door. Therewas not a light anywhere, and the place was as black and silent as if noone had ever lived in it.

“That will do. Thank you very much,” said he, fumbling with his key inthe lock.

“No, you must allow me to see you safe.”

He made some feeble, petulant protest, and then realized that he couldreally do nothing without me. The door had opened into a pitch-darkhall. He lurched forward, with my hand still on his arm.

“This door to the right,” said he, feeling about in the darkness.

I opened the door, and at the same moment he managed to strike a light.There was a lamp upon the table, and we lit it between us. “Now, I’m allright. You can leave me now! Good-bye!” said he, and with the words hesat down in the arm-chair and fainted dead away.

It was a queer position for me. The fellow looked so ghastly, thatreally I was not sure that he was not dead. Presently his lips quiveredand his breast heaved, but his eyes were two white slits and his colourwas horrible. The responsibility was more than I could stand. I pulledat the bell-rope, and heard the bell ringing furiously far away. But noone came in response. The bell tinkled away into silence, which nomurmur or movement came to break. I waited, and rang again, with thesame result. There must be some one about. This young gentleman couldnot live all alone in that huge house. His people ought to know of hiscondition. If they would not answer the bell, I must hunt them outmyself. I seized the lamp and rushed from the room.

What I saw outside amazed me. The hall was empty. The stairs were bare,and yellow with dust. There were three doors opening into spaciousrooms, and each was uncarpeted and undraped, save for the grey webswhich drooped from the cornice, and rosettes of lichen which had formedupon the walls. My feet reverberated in those empty and silent chambers.Then I wandered on down the passage, with the idea that the kitchens, atleast, might be tenanted. Some caretaker might lurk in some secludedroom. No, they were all equally desolate. Despairing of finding anyhelp, I ran down another corridor, and came on something which surprisedme more than ever.

The passage ended in a large, brown door, and the door had a seal of redwax the size of a five-shilling piece over the keyhole. This seal gaveme the impression of having been there for a long time, for it was dustyand discoloured. I was still staring at it, and wondering what that doormight conceal, when I heard a voice calling behind me, and, runningback, found my young man sitting up in his chair and very muchastonished at finding himself in darkness.

“Why on earth did you take the lamp away?” he asked.

“I was looking for assistance.”

“You might look for some time,” said he. “I am alone in the house.”

“Awkward if you get an illness.”

“It was foolish of me to faint. I inherit a weak heart from my mother,and pain or emotion has that effect upon me. It will carry me off someday, as it did her. You’re not a doctor, are you?”

“No, a lawyer. Frank Alder is my name.”

“Mine is Felix Stanniford. Funny that I should meet a lawyer, for myfriend, Mr. Perceval, was saying that we should need one soon.”

“Very happy, I am sure.”

“Well, that will depend upon him, you know. Did you say that you had runwith that lamp all over the ground floor?”

“Yes.”