Читать книгу The Doll Story MEGAPACK ® - Frances Hodgson Burnett - Страница 8

THE DOLL, by Edmund Glasby

Who knew what horrors the doll had seen through the centuries?

“It never ceases to surprise me just how much rubbish someone can collect over the course of a lifetime.” Stanley Jones sipped from his cup of tea, surrounded by chests and boxes of various shapes and sizes, most of which had now been packed with antique child’s toys; spinning tops, garishly-painted marionettes, hand-crafted wooden animals, small drums, and the like. Faint rays of sunlight shone in through the small attic window, filtering through the thin cloud of dust motes, which were suspended in the musty air.

“Me too,” replied Michael Hargreaves. “Although that said, according to Briggs, some of this stuff could well be worth a bob or two.” He pointed to a pile of heaped paintings, which rested on a chair nearby. “Take that lot there, for instance. Although they may look a bit tatty, and I for one don’t like the look of them, I daresay someone will pay through the nose for them at the auction.”

Jones finished his tea, got up from his chair, and walked over to examine the paintings. Removing a rag from a pocket in his brown overalls, he reached down and wiped free the layer of dust which had accumulated on the topmost painting. It was an old-fashion oil painting, a landscape, featuring a majestic yet dark and foreboding castle set atop a densely-wooded mountain. The thunderous brooding skies augmented its sinister appearance.

“What do you think?” asked Hargreaves, getting up and walking over.

“I’m just seeing if I can find a signature.” Jones rubbed his rag around the edge of the painting and then along the ornately-carved frame. “Doesn’t seem to be any.”

“Still hoping to find a long-lost da Vinci?”

“I’d be so lucky.” Jones returned his rag to his pocket. “How long have we now been in this business? Ten, eleven years? You would have thought in all those years of clearing out some of these old houses, we would have come across something of value. The one and only time I ever found something of any real worth was that Edwardian chest of drawers—”

“The one from the old Fitzwilliam place? I remember. Didn’t one of the heirs turn up to claim it or something?”

“That’s right. Beats me how he hadn’t learned of the old man’s demise earlier. After all, his obituary had been in all of the papers. Besides, Briggs is usually very thorough checking up on whether or not there are any living next of kin.” Jones removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

Hargreaves leaned forward and accepted the cigarette the other offered. He inhaled it quickly into lighting, then scowled down at it, rolling it absently between his fingers. “You know, there are times when I’ve been tempted to pocket a little something or other. After all, it’s not really like stealing, is it? I mean, who’s going to miss the odd necklace or a few rings? It’s not as if the old man who lived here kept an inventory of all his worldly possessions, now is it? And as you said yourself, some of this might fetch a—” He stopped abruptly upon hearing the sounds of a door slamming downstairs and the sound of heavy footsteps coming closer.

They glanced guiltily at each other and tried to look busy.

A few seconds later the door to the small attic room was flung open and Peter Briggs stepped inside. He was a short, slightly fat man in his late fifties; balding and bespectacled, his forehead wrinkled by worry frowns. In his right hand he held a clipboard, and he carried about him an air of officiousness.

Jones stubbed out his cigarette and jumped to attention. “We’re getting there, boss,” he said. “This is the last room in the house. We’ve packed up all of the pieces from the two large rooms downstairs, and we’ve got most of the furniture outside waiting for the delivery van. It was a struggle getting that piano down from the upstairs bedroom, but we managed it.”

Stepping further into the room, Briggs flung his disapproving look around the cluttered attic room. He ran the fingers of his right hand over a thick layer of dust on one of the nearby crates before looking at both of his workmen. “I want all of this lot out of here by this evening. Do you think you can do that?”

“I think we can manage that, boss,” answered Jones. He indicated to where an array of unsorted clutter lay scattered haphazardly in the far corner of the room: the iron frame of a child’s bed, a broken rocking-horse, several small chairs, and other miscellaneous pieces of dated furniture. “It’s just a case of getting that lot packed and then shifting what’s up here outside.”

“Well then, jump to it,” said Briggs. “The sooner we’ve done this house clearance, the better. There’s something about this place that just doesn’t feel right.”

There was something in the way that his foreman had made this declaration that made Hargreaves uneasy. It was an admittance of what he himself had been feeling for the past week ever since he had set foot in the old house. Although as a level-headed, practical man, it was something he had not dared confide to any of the others. Now, after what Briggs had said, he thought it was time to raise certain issues.

“You’re not the only one who thinks there’s something not quite right going on here,” he said.

“What’s that?” asked Briggs. He looked up at Hargreaves.

“Well, it’s just that I too have had the feeling that there’s something, what shall I say, slightly spooky going on here. It’s not something I’ve mentioned before for fear that either of you would think that I’m beginning to lose my marbles or something.” Hargreaves looked to Jones for some kind of support, but saw only blankness in his weary-looking face before continuing: “It’s worse up here in the attic. At times, when I’ve been up here on my own, I, well—”

“Well, what?” inquired Briggs. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Hargreaves looked uncomfortable. He bit his lower lip and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He looked down at his scuffed shoes for a moment before looking up. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’m sure I’ve heard the sound of a child whimpering, crying almost. It’s very faint, and I’m not sure if it’s just the sound of the wind blowing through the eaves or what, but it sure has scared the hell out of me. I don’t know about either of you, but I also get the feeling that it’s much colder up here than it is downstairs. Don’t you feel it?”

A little chill shivered down Brigg’s spine, and he felt a sudden nervous tenseness shudder through his whole body, forming a tight knot of fear in his stomach. He had worked in the removal and acquisition business for over thirty years, and had been in countless houses, private homes, and mansions across the country throughout his career, and he had to admit there had been a few instances when the fearful realization that he was handling the treasures and personal effects of the recently deceased had made him distinctly uneasy. At such times, he had had to wrestle hard with his own conscience to dismiss the belief that what he was making a living from could be viewed by some as nothing more than legalized grave-robbing. It was undeniable that there was a certain ghoulish element to the entire business.

“I don’t feel anything. I think this is just a load of nonsense.” In an act of purposefulness, Jones put on his workmen’s gloves. “The sooner we get this stuff into crates and get it outside, the sooner the job will be done. I’ll admit there is some weird stuff here, but I don’t believe in ghosts. Never have. Never will.”

“I bet you would if something were to walk through that wall over there,” said Briggs, trying to a inject a little joviality into a topic which was becoming increasingly macabre. He pointed to a portion of wall close to the old bricked-up fireplace. “I must say, when I first came up here, a few days ago, I half-expected to find a coffin or two up here.”

“I’d rather you didn’t talk like that,” complained Hargreaves. “This place gives me the creeps enough as it is. He must have been a bit of a weird one to have lived here all alone. And that raises another thing—why would an old man, whom you’ve already told us had no family, have child’s toys and things up here?”

“Beats me.” Briggs consulted his clipboard. “According to all the details, Mr. von Shaffer was to all extents and purposes a bit of a hoarder. It could be that he collected some of these things. Though why he would want to stick them all up here in this room, away from everything else, is a bit of a mystery. A bit like the man himself. From what little I’ve pieced together, it would appear that he came over from Germany or Austria sometime during the reign of Victoria, although I’ve been unable to ascertain any true records pertaining to him. Consequently, I’ve been unable to track down any surviving relatives who may be entitled to a share of some of his possessions. Similarly, like so many foreigners, he left no will, no one to whom he bequeathed any of this.” He gave an encompassing wave of his hand. “Anyhow, it looks as though you’re nearly done up here. We’ll get that lot in the corner cleared out, and I’ll put it all down in the inventory and then we’ll get it packed up and—” He shivered uncontrollably as the almost undetectable sound of a child crying emanated from the far corner before being cut abruptly short. Eyes wide, he stood stock still.

“Did you hear that?” hissed Hargreaves, staring wildly.

“Hear what?” Following the other’s gaze, Jones glanced around. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No headless wraiths materializing out of the floorboards, or hideous, fanged corpse-faces at the window.

“It was—only the wind,” said Briggs, uncertainly. His face had gone several tones paler. Relax, he told himself, relax. The idea that anything could be wrong was utterly ludicrous, totally ridiculous. He felt a little tremor of fear pass through him. It was almost as if there was something—some presence—in the room with them. And that whatever it was, it had neither shape nor substance. Rather, it was a feeling, an impression of looming malevolence that touched his mind with a finger of ice. Thoughts clashed inside his head, and he felt the sudden deathly silence pull at him. He tried to steady himself. “Come on, let’s hurry this up. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’ll be away from here.”

“Right you are, boss.” Oblivious to the nervous actions of his companions, Jones started towards the untidy heap of child’s toys and furniture that had been tucked away in the shadowy corner of the attic room. The wooden boards of the floor creaked under his heavy feet and a sprinkling of dust fell from the raftered ceiling.

Reluctantly, Hargreaves walked over to assist. They soon got their usual working rhythm going, with Jones clearing the bric-a-brac and handing it to the other, who would then take it over to Briggs. It was then the foreman’s duty to record a reasonable description and assessment of the item before it was finally packed up. And, whereas Jones worked with a cold efficiency, the other two men were edgy, occasionally stopping to look and listen, straining their senses for the undetectable.

There were no repeats of the eerie sound that had scared them earlier, and, after half an hour, they had managed to clear away and log everything, with only the iron framework of the child’s bed remaining. In a somewhat cavalier attitude, Jones reached down and hauled it to one side, the metal legs scraping across the floor. It was a cumbersome piece of furniture, and it took both himself and Hargreaves to manhandle it across the room. In the process of doing so, one of the struts of the framework snagged on Hargreaves’s chest, ripping open the front of his overalls and dislodging the pencil he kept in his breast pocket.

With a grunt, he lowered the bed to the floor, walked around Jones and looked down to see where his pencil had gone. It could not be seen, and his first guess was that it had rolled underneath one of the packing crates.

“Are you all right, Mike? That looks like quite a nasty scratch you got there.” Jones nodded to where the child’s bed had snagged the other.

“Eh?” With some level of surprise, Hargreaves looked at the ragged tear on his chest and saw that a small puddle of blood was spreading on his white undershirt. He put his fingers to the dampness. “It’s just a scratch. I think I’ll live.” He looked down again, eyes searching. “Can’t seem to see my pencil. Pass me your torch, will you, and I’ll see if it’s rolled under one of the crates.”

He went down on bended knees and pointed the torch beam to the floor. He traced the line of the narrow beam back and forth, seeing where their footprints had scuffed over the dust-covered floorboards. He went down to almost eye level with the floor and looked under several of the crates. It was as he was about to give up searching, that he saw a small anomaly in the woodwork, an almost imperceptible raised board that clearly signified the presence of a small, cunningly concealed trapdoor. “Stan! Come and have a look at this.”

“What is it?” asked Jones, crouching down to get a better look.

“Looks like some kind of compartment. Get me a screwdriver and I’ll try and prize the lid up.”

Briggs had now stepped over, intrigued as to what this find might reveal. There had been talk that von Shaffer had been a very wealthy man, and it stood to reason that he could have secreted his personal fortune away somewhere in a place such as this. And Briggs was the kind of man who was not adverse to making a little extra profit if and when the opportunity arose. It would be easy enough to fob his two underlings off with a few pounds, telling them that he was going to turn the remainder over to the state, whereas in reality he would see to it that he was the sole beneficiary. His greedy mind had temporarily forgotten about his unease.

With the use of a screwdriver, Hargreaves succeeded in levering up the square wooden lid. Brushing away a fairly large spider which had crawled out from underneath, he directed the torch beam into the shallow cavity beyond. The light revealed a small, rectangular, leather casket of some description. It was sealed by brass clasps and a peculiar-looking lock.

“Well, get it out,” ordered Briggs impatiently, signalling with his hands. “Let’s have a look at it.”

Gingerly, Hargreaves reached in and lifted it free from the cavity in which it had been deposited. It was not particularly heavy, but as he raised it something inside seemed to shift, almost causing him to drop it in alarm. Hurriedly, he placed it on top of one of the crates.

Briggs cast his appraising eye over the container. It was certainly old. Far older than any of the other things they had already found in the attic. He reckoned it to be older than anything he had ever come across before. The leather was cracked and discolored in places, the bindings showing signs of rust amongst their intricate designs. There was a strange smell coming from it as well. He ran the tips of the fingers of his right hand across it, wincing inexplicably at the age-old feel.

“Don’t ask me why, but I’ve a bad feeling about this box,” Hargreaves said, taking a step or two back from it. “To my mind it’s clear that whoever hid it up here do so for a reason. I think this is something that was meant to remain hidden.”

“Absolute nonsense,” sneered Jones derisively. “It could be filled with doubloons or precious jewellery. It’s undoubtedly the safe-box the old man stored his money in. Give me the screwdriver and I’ll see if I can get the blasted thing open.” With a sudden movement, he snatched the screwdriver out of Hargreaves’ hand and thrust it into the narrow dividing line between the box and its lid.

“Just be careful how you handle that thing,” admonished Briggs. “The box alone looks like it could be worth several hundred pounds. I’ve never seen anything quite as intricate or as old as that. It doesn’t look British. Probably eastern European.”

Wiggling the screwdriver back and forth, Jones slowly began to force the lid up. With a protesting screech of tortured metal the brass clasps broke free. The lock was proving harder to jimmy open and sweat was beginning to pop out on Jones’ forehead. “Nearly…there. Just a little—” And then, suddenly, the lid sprang open almost as though whatever lay inside wanted to get out.

Eagerly, the three men gathered around the small leather casket and peered inside.

* * * *

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” said the bald-headed auctioneer from his podium. Pushing his horn-rimmed spectacles back on his head, he glanced down at the small slip of paper, which contained the necessary information regarding the next item. He read from it: “Lot number ninety-seven.” He cleared his throat as his assistant, who stood nearby, delicately lifted what at first glance appeared to be a very small child, but was in fact a rather scary-looking doll dressed in a very old and tattered white lace dress.

The assistant held it at arms’ length as though loath to handle the doll. There was a look of mild disgust on his face. One could have been forgiven for attributing his facial expression to downright fear or revulsion.

Seated towards the rear of the small gathering of antique collectors, Briggs could feel the sweat pop out on his forehead. His hands felt clammy and he shifted uneasily in his chair. He still wasn’t sure what compulsion had brought him to the auction.

The auctioneer went on: “What we have here is a fine example of an early seventeenth-century mid-European doll. No doubt she would have been the prized possession of a young girl of some standing, as can be deduced from the style and the elegance of her clothing. One would like to think she may have even graced the hands of a young countess at sometime in the past. The lot also includes an as yet untranslated diary, probably written by the doll’s owner, as well as an accompanying small silver crucifix on a silver chain.”

Briggs swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Can we start the bidding at—shall we say, a hundred pounds?” The auctioneer’s gaze panned around the seated crowd. For a moment there was nothing but silence. “Very well, can we say eighty pounds?”

Still no interest.

The auctioneer frowned and puckered his lips. It had on the whole been a very slow day, and he himself was not overly fond of the doll, which had sat on display in a cabinet in the auction room for the past ten days; consequently, he was not all that surprised that no one seemed to want it. It had filled him with a sense of unease whenever he had been close to it, and he would be glad to be rid of it, for a sensible price at least. “Seventy pounds, then. Sixty-five?”

“I will purchase the doll for sixty pounds.”

Heads turned around in the auction hall, and the auctioneer shifted his gaze to the tall, gaunt figure stood to one side. He was dressed in a long black raincoat and his accent was clearly not English, German perhaps.

Briggs eyed the stranger intently, noting what appeared to be a leering smile of triumph on his lean features and a mocking glint in his close-set eyes. For some inexplicable reason, he suddenly had the compulsive thought that it would be dangerous for the doll to fall into the hands of this man. Without fully knowing why, he raised his hand and said: “Seventy.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the rain-coated man riposted: “Eighty.”

Briggs threw him a swift, disapproving glance. A little muscle was beginning to twitch uncontrollably in his left cheek, as a little imp of apprehension began to nag at his innermost thoughts. There was clearly something he found disturbing about the other individual who he had not noticed previously in the auction hall. It was as though he had just mysteriously arrived for that one lot only.

“It would appear that we have finally got some interest in this antique piece,” announced the auctioneer. “Are there any advances on eighty pounds?” His eyes flicked around the seated crowd. He reached for his gavel. “Going once—”

“Ninety pounds,” blurted Briggs. It was more than he could afford, but the compulsion to ensure that the doll did not go into the other’s keep compelled him to make the offer.

“One hundred,” came the stranger’s cold, accented reply as a muttered hush went through the auction hall. It was clear that some of the other bargain hunters and antique collectors had now gotten wind of the possibility that the doll was far more valuable than their previous assessments had ascertained. It was not unusual for two seasoned bidders to compete against one another if they were privy to specialized knowledge regarding the true worth of a given piece.

“One hundred and ten!” rang out a woman’s voice from the front row. Someone new had now entered the bidding arena.

Hope for a good outcome sprung in the auctioneer. He would not be surprised if this developed into a full-blown bidding war, and in which case the doll could well reach something in the region of two hundred pounds. His shock was visible when, the tall, thin man with the raincoat said rather nonchalantly:

“In order to speed up the inevitable, I will purchase the doll for five hundred pounds.”

A great murmuring came from the gathered crowd. This was something none of them had anticipated. It was completely unheard of. Five hundred pounds for an old doll, a tatty notebook containing an untranslated account, and a small silver crucifix!

Briggs’ eyes narrowed. There was something mighty suspicious going on here; something that he felt he had to get to the bottom of. Was it possible that the man who had just made the astonishing bid was a friend or indeed relative of von Shaffer, the old man in whose house the doll had been found? With that thought going through his head, he was only dimly aware of the auctioneer bringing down his gavel to seal the bid.

* * * *

Later that afternoon, Briggs sat behind his desk finishing off some paperwork. There was still quite a lot of cataloguing to do regarding the von Shaffer property. Although most had been auctioned off, albeit at a slight loss, there had been sufficient interest in some of the general paintings and objets d’art to have made it quite worthwhile. Then, of course, there had also been the doll, the sale of which had played strongly on his mind.

There had to be more to it. It did not stand to reason that someone would pay such a price for something, which at face value at least, was rather inferior. After all, it was just a doll. The small diary—if indeed that is what it was—would not fetch much, and the tiny silver crucifix which had on first discovery been found draped over the doll’s head could be worth no more than twenty pounds at current prices. So why had the foreigner been willing to pay whatever sum was required in order to procure the doll?

Determination overcame Briggs. He had to find out more. He had to.

Consulting his small notebook, he found the phone number for the auction hall and made the call. After four rings the phone on the other side was picked up.

“Reids’ auction house. How can I help you?”

“Is that you, Malcolm? It’s Briggs here.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Briggs. A fairly good morning’s work, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, yes. I’m enquiring after one of the lots from the von Shaffer sale—”

“The doll, by chance?” interrupted the other.

“Yes, the doll. I realize that it’s rather an unusual question, but do you by chance have any information on the buyer? Name, address, nationality?”

There was a moment’s pause. Then: “You don’t think there’s anything fishy going on do you?” asked the auctioneer. “The gentleman in question did seem a trifle odd, and I’ve never seen him at any of the auctions here before, although, that said, young Harvey, my assistant, said that he’d seen him looking through the accompanying diary on two occasions. Regardless, he did pay good money, and it was clear that he had his heart set on owning the doll. Heavens knows why, for I found it rather—creepy—if I do say so myself.”

“Creepy?” A cold shiver went through Briggs. For some terrible reason he felt the sudden urge to look over his shoulder to ensure that the doll was not crawling its way across the carpet towards him.

“Well, you know what it’s like. Certain objects can instill a sense of general unease, I suppose. It was something about the doll’s face, I guess. Like some of those old portraits where the eyes seem to follow you around the room no matter where you go. There was also a small cross-shaped burn in the dress, which I don’t suppose you noticed. At first, I thought it might have been a reaction of the silver from the crucifix oxidizing onto the fabric of the dress. Had we been able to analyze this under a microscope, we would have been able to find out for sure. To my eye, believe it or not, it looked more like a burn mark. Anyway, it’s someone else’s now. Although I don’t know why it should have fetched so much.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out. Any information you can provide would be kept in the strictest confidence, of course.”

“Hmm. It is against all regulations and company policy.”

“Please, Malcolm. You help me out with this one, and I’ll see that your company gets a bigger share of the proceeds from our next house clearance.”

There came a resigned sigh from the other side of the phone. “Very well, Mr. Briggs. Bear with me for a minute or two while I get the necessary documentation.”

Briggs removed a pen from a drawer and waited.

After a few minutes break, the phone was picked up again. “Here we are. All right, Mr. Briggs, here are the details you seek. The buyer was a Mr. Lagur Thorko.” He spelled the name out to the other. “A Hungarian collector of antiquities. The address given is number one hundred and nineteen Warwick Close, here in the city. No phone number.”

Briggs jotted down the details. “I appreciate your assistance, Malcolm.”

“Yes, well, let’s not make a habit of prying into private buyers’ details, shall we? Oh, by the way, just on the off chance you’re going out to see him, you might want to swing round to the auction hall first.”

“Why’s that?” asked Briggs.

“Well it would appear that in his haste to get away with his new acquisition, he forgot to take the little silver crucifix with him. If you were to deliver it, it would save me from having to do so.”

* * * *

It was raining heavily and the sky was dark as Briggs turned his car into Warwick Close. The tall houses on either side appeared abandoned, and some of them showed signs of great decrepitude, with missing slates and broken or boarded-up windows featuring predominantly. No lights could be seen in any of the windows, and he had seen no other cars or pedestrians for about the past five minutes, leading him to the belief that this part of the city was shunned for some reason or another. Why anyone who could afford to pay five hundred pounds for a ghastly-looking antique doll would desire to take up residence in such a rundown district was beyond him. It didn’t seem right at all.

He strained his eyes in order to discern the house numbers that were barely visible on his right-hand side. The houses seemed to increase in their level of general dilapidation the further he went. He had lived in the city all of his life, and had fortunately never been aware of this part before. It would come as no surprise to find that no one lived here anymore.

Passing a small and obviously long-forgotten and clearly neglected cemetery on his left, its outer boundary delineated by a length of spiked iron railing, he soon drew up outside number one hundred and nineteen. From the car window he peered up at the rambling house. Straining his eyes, he could make out what appeared to be flickering candlelight in one of the upstairs rooms.

He opened the door of his car and stepped out. He shivered, plucking at the lapels of his raincoat, feeling the rain soaking through the thin cloth. Completely isolated, standing in a part of the city that was completely foreign to him, he felt very insecure and frightened, mentally debating with himself whether or not he had made a wise judgment in venturing out here alone. Would it not have been better had he come accompanied by either Hargreaves or Jones, or perhaps even Malcolm Reid, the auctioneer, for that matter?

Desperately, he tried to pull himself together. What was the damn matter with him anyway? He had a valid reason to be there—to return some of the buyer’s property, and perhaps he could find an explanation for the unease he had felt since he had first set eyes on the doll. Instinctively, the fingers of his right hand clenched around the small silver crucifix in his pocket.

He reached the tall iron gates of the house. For a long moment he stood hesitant, swaying against the growing wind, peering at the gloomy structure with its turreted towers, probing at the darkening sky. It would be easy, he thought, for a house such as this to earn a reputation for being haunted. All it would take would be for a person to see this place as he now saw it, with the witch’s moon now climbing up behind the rearing outer walls, and that strange, eerie light coming from the upper window.

He began to hope that the owner would not be in; that being the case, he would rapidly get back into his car and drive home, along sanely-lit streets inhabited by normal, living people. Yet, an unsettling notion in his brain told him there was someone in, and that that someone was even now spying on him from a darkened window, watching his every move, deliberating on the purpose of his visit.

Mustering up his courage, Briggs pushed open the gates and walked up the short drive to the front door. He reached out a hand to knock, then drew it back sharply as it swung open on noiseless hinges, revealing the yawning blackness of the entrance. His heart contracted rapidly for a moment, and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. Then he sucked in a deep breath, fingered the little crucifix in his pocket for assurance, and stepped through into the interior of the house. Now that he was inside, he saw that there was, indeed, a faint glow coming from the top of the stairs directly in front of him. The house smelled of age-old dust, rising damp, and neglect, smells which, due to his profession, he was quite acquainted with.

On the landing above, a shadowy figure appeared, silhouetted against the candlelight, the eldritch glow at his back like an unholy halo about him.

“Good evening.”

Briggs felt his heart leap. For a moment it felt as though his throat had dried up completely and that he had lost the power of speech. He swayed on his feet, and the feeling that the man’s voice held a slightly hypnotic quality dulled his mind for a moment, blanking out any other thoughts. It had sounded cold yet mellow.

The tall figure began to descend the stairs, his cast shadow unnaturally long and menacing.

With a strong conscious effort, Briggs shook his head free of the strange spell the other had on him. “Mr. Thorko, I—I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Peter Briggs, and I’ve—”

“You’ve come to return something of mine? I knew you would.” Thorko was nearly at the bottom of the stairs now, and in the shadowy light from above, his features looked even more cadaverous than they had when Briggs had first seen him. He was dressed in a relatively well-tailored dark suit that, combined with his macabre demeanor and appearance, did little to calm Briggs’ nerves. The man could have just stepped from a coffin or a funeral parlor.

I knew you would, Briggs didn’t like the sound of that. Nervously, he gently chewed his lower lip. He was trembling slightly. Somehow, he found the strength of will to reply: “Yes, that’s right.” His fingers tightened around the crucifix in his pocket. Although he had never been a believer in the existence of vampires, he was half-expecting the man before him with the central European accent to suddenly sprout fangs and leap at him or else turn into a bat. But that’s preposterous, he told himself fiercely, trying to shake away the frightening thoughts. He removed the crucifix on its little chain from his pocket and held it out on his upturned palm.

Although he had expected the other to suddenly recoil from the sight of it, he was pleasantly surprised to note just a flicker of indifference in the other’s eyes.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Briggs, I did not forget it. I merely chose not to take it.” Something diabolical and malignant glinted in the other’s dark eyes. “You see, I have no need of it. Now that I have her, such trinkets are no longer necessary. You may dispose of it as you see fit.”

Her? Was he referring to the doll? Briggs stared at him uncertainly. He was about to say something when suddenly the door behind him swung shut.

A cruel smile creased itself into being on Thorko’s face. It was not a pleasant sight.

“What the devil’s going on here?” shouted Briggs. He turned towards the door and tried the handle. It was locked!

“Now there’s a question,” demurred Thorko, “and one which I think should be answered. After all, you’re going to play a significant part in tonight’s activities. But first—”

“Not likely.” Briggs flung his weight at the door. It pained his shoulder but did not budge. He turned. “Now, I’m telling you—”

“You’re telling me?” Thorko’s eyes flared a deep crimson.

The strength seemed to sap from Briggs’ limbs, and he had to steady himself against a wall to prevent himself from collapsing as his left knee buckled under him. Dark thoughts pervaded his mind, and he felt as though he was falling through a swirling red mist, filled with unseen, yet horrible creatures. There were the faint sounds of people screaming, of people being sadistically tortured and killed. Gritting his teeth, he somehow managed to hold on to some vestige of sanity, and he was vaguely aware that the other was guiding him, effortlessly, slowly upstairs towards that dimly-lit room from which the candlelight emanated.

The other was talking, the words barely heard: “Had you taken the time to study my notebook, and had you been able to read Old Hungarian, you might have saved yourself a lot of trouble, Mr. Briggs. You see, I wrote that a long time ago. In the late summer of 1614, to be exact.”

They were near the landing now, and Briggs felt as though he had been drugged or something. He was struggling to keep his eyes open.

“I remember well my dungeon study in Csejthe Castle, where I would instruct my countess and her dark sisters in Black Magic. Elizabeth had been such an apt and willing student, eager to embrace all that I could teach.”

They were now at the door to the candlelit room.

Briggs felt bile rise to his throat. Somehow, he had to fight against this draining, compelling authority, which the other seemed to have over him. His will was fading fast. Through eyes that could hardly comprehend what they were seeing, he stared forward as Thorko steered him into the room. It was almost as though he was seeing with his mind’s eye, as opposed to his natural vision. The scene before him distorted and wavered.

A ghastly, hellish glow had suffused the entire room from some source near the ceiling. A crazy pattern had been painted on the smooth wooden floorboards, and a great carved altar had been installed at the far end of the room. Over it hung a grotesque, snake-like monstrosity crushing an inverted cross in its awesome coils.

Through weakened vision, Briggs could see the small shape of the doll lying in the center of the peculiar markings on the floor.

“For too long she has been lost, buried away in secret places by those who sought to contain her. But now her time will come again, Mr. Briggs, and I will see her returned to her ancestral lands.” Thorko stretched an almost skeletal hand out to where the doll lay. “My lady, Countess Bathory. In the final days as she was confined to her quarters and her sisters in witchcraft, Dorottya and Darvulia Szenter and Erzi Majorva were burnt at the stake, I managed to fashion the doll from one of her favorite playthings, in which I could contain her soul. Through the blood of countless virgins, she had managed to prolong her youthful appearance, but it was only I who could ensure that she survived her imprisonment. Starved of the means to prolong her life, she pleaded with me so that I could ensure her revenge. Once your blood is offered to her, she will awaken and bathe in the blood of many once more.”

Reason and clarity tried in vain to come to the fore within Briggs’ mind. This was impossible. It defied all that he had ever believed in. How could this be real? It was a nightmare. One from which he had to wake, and soon.

He was being dragged, slowly and yet with a strength of devilish purposefulness, towards the altar. Atop which he could see a large sacrificial knife and a goblet of pure silver. He tried to scream out loud, but his cry was reduced to nothing more than a whimpering sigh as he saw Thorko now standing over him, the glinting weapon held aloft.…

* * * *

Ron Sturgess and John Wilson entered the small room at the top of the narrow flight of stairs. It was cramped and dingy, and there was a peculiar odor, a repugnant stench, emanating from somewhere. What visible furniture they could see was either torn or broken, and a few rats scampered away in all directions.

“What a tip,” commented Sturgess, kicking aside an overturned chair. “Why is it we always find the worst rooms are at the top? It’s as though this place has been used as a communal junkyard.”

“What I find more surprising,” added Wilson, “is the fact that some property developer reckons he can make a go of these old buildings. I guess he’ll probably knock most of them down and then rebuild. That would make some sense, I guess.”

Sturgess sniffed at the foul air. “Phew. It certainly stinks. You’d think that something died up here.”

“Could be that something did,” commented Wilson with a wry grin. “If my memory serves me right, it was in one of these houses, maybe the very one we’re in, that some fella was supposed to have vanished some three years ago. He too was in the removal business, I seem to recall. Or maybe it was something to do with reclaiming old property? Anyhow, I seem to think it was old Malcolm Reid, the auctioneer, who informed the police that this is where the missing man had last gone.”

Sturgess raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking, right?” he asked out of morbid curiosity.

“No. I remember reading about it in the papers. The police came out, but couldn’t find anything. Not a trace.” Wilson advanced further into the small attic room, assessing just how much work would be involved with clearing all of the visible junk. “The house had been rented by some Bulgarian, but by the time the police had come to question him he had fled the country. They put out a photograph of him along with his daughter taken at the airport, but somehow they managed to get out of the country. One rumor had it that there was some suspicion of espionage what with the Eastern bloc connection. Something to do with a doll which may’ve had top secret documents hidden in it.”

“Sounds dodgy to me.” Sturgess wasn’t that interested. He struggled his way through the obstacle of heaped furniture towards the back of the room. “Anyhow, I reckon we’ve certainly got our work cut out getting this lot downstairs and outside. I reckon it’s going to be at least a day’s work.” Ungainly, he clambered over the remains of an old bed in order to get at the wardrobe that stood leaning against the far wall. He turned to his workmate. “The stink’s worse from over here. Hell! Just imagine if his dead body’s inside.”

Wilson gave a grim smile. “Well, are you going to open it?”

Sturgess pondered the question for a moment or two, uncertainty rising within him. Then, marshaling his courage, he stepped to one side and opened the wardrobe door. It was with some relief that no corpse fell out from it. “Hah!” he laughed harshly. “There’s nothing but old coats.” It was only as he took a step back that his right foot contacted with a loose floorboard causing it to swing up. In shocked surprise, he glanced down at the space beneath it, and saw with mind-numbing horror the desiccated and rat-gnawed face of the late Peter Briggs staring up at him. From what remained of his mouth protruded a length of fine silver chain.

THE DOLL’S GHOST, by F. Marion Crawford

It was a terrible accident, and for one moment the splendid machinery of Cranston House got out of gear and stood still. The butler emerged from the retirement in which he spent his elegant leisure, two grooms of the chambers appeared simultaneously from opposite directions, there were actually housemaids on the grand staircase, and those who remember the facts most exactly assert that Mrs. Pringle herself positively stood upon the landing. Mrs. Pringle was the housekeeper. As for the head nurse, the under nurse, and the nursery maid, their feelings cannot be described. The head nurse laid one hand upon the polished marble balustrade and stared stupidly before her, the under nurse stood rigid and pale, leaning against the polished marble wall, and the nursery-maid collapsed and sat down upon the polished marble step, just beyond the limits of the velvet carpet, and frankly burst into tears.

The Lady Gwendolen Lancaster-Douglas-Scroop, youngest daughter of the ninth Duke of Cranston, and aged six years and three months, picked herself up quite alone, and sat down on the third step from the foot of the grand staircase in Cranston House.

“Oh!” ejaculated the butler, and he disappeared again.

“Ah!” responded the grooms of the chambers, as they also went away.

“It’s only that doll,” Mrs. Pringle was distinctly heard to say, in a tone of contempt.

The under nurse heard her say it. Then the three nurses gathered round Lady Gwendolen and patted her, and gave her unhealthy things out of their pockets, and hurried her out of Cranston House as fast as they could, lest it should be found out upstairs that they had allowed the Lady Gwendolen Lancaster-Douglas-Scroop to tumble down the grand staircase with her doll in her arms. And as the doll was badly broken, the nursery-maid carried it, with the pieces, wrapped up in Lady Gwendolen’s little cloak. It was not far to Hyde Park, and when they had reached a quiet place they took means to find out that Lady Gwendolen had no bruises. For the carpet was very thick and soft, and there was thick stuff under it to make it softer.

Lady Gwendolen Douglas-Scroop sometimes yelled, but she never cried. It was because she had yelled that the nurse had allowed her to go downstairs alone with Nina, the doll, under one arm, while she steadied herself with her other hand on the balustrade, and trod upon the polished marble steps beyond the edge of the carpet. So she had fallen, and Nina had come to grief.

When the nurses were quite sure that she was not hurt, they unwrapped the doll and looked at her in her turn. She had been a very beautiful doll, very large, and fair, and healthy, with real yellow hair, and eyelids that would open and shut over very grown-up dark eyes. Moreover, when you moved her right arm up and down she said “Pa-pa,” and when you moved the left she said “Ma-ma,” very distinctly.

“I heard her say ‘Pa’ when she fell,” said the under nurse, who heard everything. “But she ought to have said ‘Pa-pa.’”

“That’s because her arm went up when she hit the step,” said the head nurse. “She’ll say the other ‘Pa’ when I put it down again.”

“Pa,” said Nina, as her right arm was pushed down, and speaking through her broken face. It was cracked right across, from the upper corner of the forehead, with a hideous gash, through the nose and down to the little frilled collar of the pale green silk Mother Hubbard frock, and two little three-cornered pieces of porcelain had fallen out.

“I’m sure it’s a wonder she can speak at all, being all smashed,” said the under nurse.

“You’ll have to take her to Mr. Puckler,” said her superior. “It’s not far, and you’d better go at once.”

Lady Gwendolen was occupied in digging a hole in the ground with a little spade, and paid no attention to the nurses.

“What are you doing?” enquired the nursery-maid, looking on.

“Nina’s dead, and I’m diggin’ her a grave,” replied her ladyship thoughtfully.

“Oh, she’ll come to life again all right,” said the nursery-maid.

The under nurse wrapped Nina up again and departed. Fortunately a kind soldier, with very long legs and a very small cap, happened to be there; and as he had nothing to do, he offered to see the under nurse safely to Mr. Puckler’s and back.

* * * *

Mr. Bernard Puckler and his little daughter lived in a little house in a little alley, which led out off a quiet little street not very far from Belgrave Square. He was the great doll doctor, and his extensive practice lay in the most aristocratic quarter. He mended dolls of all sizes and ages, boy dolls and girl dolls, baby dolls in long clothes, and grown-up dolls in fashionable gowns, talking dolls and dumb dolls, those that shut their eyes when they lay down, and those whose eyes had to be shut for them by means of a mysterious wire. His daughter Else was only just over twelve years old, but she was already very clever at mending dolls’ clothes, and at doing their hair, which is harder than you might think, though the dolls sit quite still while it is being done.

Mr. Puckler had originally been a German, but he had dissolved his nationality in the ocean of London many years ago, like a great many foreigners. He still had one or two German friends, however, who came on Saturday evenings, and smoked with him and played picquet or “skat” with him for farthing points, and called him “Herr Doctor,” which seemed to please Mr. Puckler very much.

He looked older than he was, for his beard was rather long and ragged, his hair was grizzled and thin, and he wore horn-rimmed spectacles. As for Else, she was a thin, pale child, very quiet and neat, with dark eyes and brown hair that was plaited down her back and tied with a bit of black ribbon. She mended the dolls’ clothes and took the dolls back to their homes when they were quite strong again.

The house was a little one, but too big for the two people who lived in it. There was a small sitting-room on the street, and the workshop was at the back, and there were three rooms upstairs. But the father and daughter lived most of their time in the workshop, because they were generally at work, even in the evenings.

Mr. Puckler laid Nina on the table and looked at her a long time, till the tears began to fill his eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles. He was a very susceptible man, and he often fell in love with the dolls he mended, and found it hard to part with them when they had smiled at him for a few days. They were real little people to him, with characters and thoughts and feelings of their own, and he was very tender with them all. But some attracted him especially from the first, and when they were brought to him maimed and injured, their state seemed so pitiful to him that the tears came easily. You must remember that he had lived among dolls during a great part of his life, and understood them.

“How do you know that they feel nothing?” he went on to say to Else. “You must be gentle with them. It costs nothing to be kind to the little beings, and perhaps it makes a difference to them.”

And Else understood him, because she was a child, and she knew that she was more to him than all the dolls.

He fell in love with Nina at first sight, perhaps because her beautiful brown glass eyes were something like Else’s own, and he loved Else first and best, with all his heart. And, besides, it was a very sorrowful case. Nina had evidently not been long in the world, for her complexion was perfect, her hair was smooth where it should be smooth, and curly where it should be curly, and her silk clothes were perfectly new. But across her face was that frightful gash, like a sabre-cut, deep and shadowy within, but clean and sharp at the edges. When he tenderly pressed her head to close the gaping wound, the edges made a fine grating sound, that was painful to hear, and the lids of the dark eyes quivered and trembled as though Nina were suffering dreadfully.

“Poor Nina!” he exclaimed sorrowfully. “But I shall not hurt you much, though you will take a long time to get strong.”

He always asked the names of the broken dolls when they were brought to him, and sometimes the people knew what the children called them, and told him. He liked “Nina” for a name. Altogether and in every way she pleased him more than any doll he had seen for many years, and he felt drawn to her, and made up his mind to make her perfectly strong and sound, no matter how much labor it might cost him.

Mr. Puckler worked patiently a little at a time, and Else watched him. She could do nothing for poor Nina, whose clothes needed no mending. The longer the doll doctor worked, the more fond he became of the yellow hair and the beautiful brown glass eyes. He sometimes forgot all the other dolls that were waiting to be mended, lying side by side on a shelf, and sat for an hour gazing at Nina’s face, while he racked his ingenuity for some new invention by which to hide even the smallest trace of the terrible accident.

She was wonderfully mended. Even he was obliged to admit that; but the scar was still visible to his keen eyes, a very fine line right across the face, downwards from right to left. Yet all the conditions had been most favorable for a cure, since the cement had set quite hard at the first attempt and the weather had been fine and dry, which makes a great difference in a dolls’ hospital.

At last he knew that he could do no more, and the under nurse had already come twice to see whether the job was finished, as she coarsely expressed it.

“Nina is not quite strong yet,” Mr. Puckler had answered each time, for he could not make up his mind to face the parting.

And now he sat before the square deal table at which he worked, and Nina lay before him for the last time with a big brown paper box beside her. It stood there like her coffin, waiting for her, he thought. He must put her into it, and lay tissue paper over her dear face, and then put on the lid, and at the thought of tying the string his sight was dim with tears again. He was never to look into the glassy depths of the beautiful brown eyes anymore, nor to hear the little wooden voice say “Pa-pa” and “Ma-ma.” It was a very painful moment.

In the vain hope of gaining time before the separation, he took up the little sticky bottles of cement and glue and gum and color, looking at each one in turn, and then at Nina’s face. And all his small tools lay there, neatly arranged in a row, but he knew that he could not use them again for Nina. She was quite strong at last, and in a country where there should be no cruel children to hurt her she might live a hundred years, with only that almost imperceptible line across her face to tell of the fearful thing that had befallen her on the marble steps of Cranston House.

Suddenly Mr. Puckler’s heart was quite full, and he rose abruptly from his seat and turned away.

“Else,” he said unsteadily, “you must do it for me. I cannot bear to see her go into the box.”

So he went and stood at the window with his back turned, while Else did what he had not the heart to do.

“Is it done?” he asked, not turning round. “Then take her away, my dear. Put on your hat, and take her to Cranston House quickly, and when you are gone I will turn round.”

Else was used to her father’s queer ways with the dolls, and though she had never seen him so much moved by a parting, she was not much surprised.

“Come back quickly,” he said, when he heard her hand on the latch. “It is growing late, and I should not send you at this hour. But I cannot bear to look forward to it anymore.”

When Else was gone, he left the window and sat down in his place before the table again, to wait for the child to come back. He touched the place where Nina had lain, very gently, and he recalled the softly tinted pink face, and the glass eyes, and the ringlets of yellow hair, till he could almost see them.

The evenings were long, for it was late in the spring. But it began to grow dark soon, and Mr. Puckler wondered why Else did not come back. She had been gone an hour and a half, and that was much longer than he had expected, for it was barely half a mile from Belgrave Square to Cranston House. He reflected that the child might have been kept waiting, but as the twilight deepened he grew anxious, and walked up and down in the dim workshop, no longer thinking of Nina, but of Else, his own living child, whom he loved.

An undefinable, disquieting sensation came upon him by fine degrees, a chilliness and a faint stirring of his thin hair, joined with a wish to be in any company rather than to be alone much longer. It was the beginning of fear.

He told himself in strong German-English that he was a foolish old man, and he began to feel about for the matches in the dusk. He knew just where they should be, for he always kept them in the same place, close to the little tin box that held bits of sealing-wax of various colors, for some kinds of mending. But somehow he could not find the matches in the gloom.

Something had happened to Else, he was sure, and as his fear increased, he felt as though it might be allayed if he could get a light and see what time it was. Then he called himself a foolish old man again, and the sound of his own voice startled him in the dark. He could not find the matches.

The window was grey still; he might see what time it was if he went close to it, and he could go and get matches out of the cupboard afterwards. He stood back from the table, to get out of the way of the chair, and began to cross the board floor.

Something was following him in the dark. There was a small pattering, as of tiny feet upon the boards. He stopped and listened, and the roots of his hair tingled. It was nothing, and he was a foolish old man. He made two steps more, and he was sure that he heard the little pattering again. He turned his back to the window, leaning against the sash so that the panes began to crack, and he faced the dark. Everything was quite still, and it smelt of paste and cement and wood-filings as usual.

“Is that you, Else?” he asked, and he was surprised by the fear in his voice.

There was no answer in the room, and he held up his watch and tried to make out what time it was by the grey dusk that was just not darkness. So far as he could see, it was within two or three minutes of ten o’clock. He had been a long time alone. He was shocked, and frightened for Else, out in London, so late, and he almost ran across the room to the door. As he fumbled for the latch, he distinctly heard the running of the little feet after him.

“Mice!” he exclaimed feebly, just as he got the door open.

He shut it quickly behind him, and felt as though some cold thing had settled on his back and were writhing upon him. The passage was quite dark, but he found his hat and was out in the alley in a moment, breathing more freely, and surprised to find how much light there still was in the open air. He could see the pavement clearly under his feet, and far off in the street to which the alley led he could hear the laughter and calls of children, playing some game out of doors. He wondered how he could have been so nervous, and for an instant he thought of going back into the house to wait quietly for Else. But instantly he felt that nervous fright of something stealing over him again. In any case it was better to walk up to Cranston House and ask the servants about the child. One of the women had perhaps taken a fancy to her, and was even now giving her tea and cake.

He walked quickly to Belgrave Square, and then up the broad streets, listening as he went, whenever there was no other sound, for the tiny footsteps. But he heard nothing, and was laughing at himself when he rang the servants’ bell at the big house. Of course, the child must be there.

The person who opened the door was quite an inferior person, for it was a back door, but affected the manners of the front, and stared at Mr. Puckler superciliously under the strong light.

No little girl had been seen, and he knew “nothing about no dolls.”

“She is my little girl,” said Mr. Puckler tremulously, for all his anxiety was returning tenfold, “and I am afraid something has happened.”

The inferior person said rudely that “nothing could have happened to her in that house, because she had not been there, which was a jolly good reason why;” and Mr. Puckler was obliged to admit that the man ought to know, as it was his business to keep the door and let people in. He wished to be allowed to speak to the under nurse, who knew him; but the man was ruder than ever, and finally shut the door in his face.

When the doll doctor was alone in the street, he steadied himself by the railing, for he felt as though he were breaking in two, just as some dolls break, in the middle of the backbone.

Presently he knew that he must be doing something to find Else, and that gave him strength. He began to walk as quickly as he could through the streets, following every highway and byway which his little girl might have taken on her errand. He also asked several policemen in vain if they had seen her, and most of them answered him kindly, for they saw that he was a sober man and in his right senses, and some of them had little girls of their own.

It was one o’clock in the morning when he went up to his own door again, worn out and hopeless and broken-hearted. As he turned the key in the lock, his heart stood still, for he knew that he was awake and not dreaming, and that he really heard those tiny footsteps pattering to meet him inside the house along the passage.

But he was too unhappy to be much frightened anymore, and his heart went on again with a dull regular pain, that found its way all through him with every pulse. So he went in, and hung up his hat in the dark, and found the matches in the cupboard and the candlestick in its place in the corner.

Mr. Puckler was so much overcome and so completely worn out that he sat down in his chair before the work-table and almost fainted, as his face dropped forward upon his folded hands. Beside him the solitary candle burned steadily with a low flame in the still warm air.

“Else! Else!” he moaned against his yellow knuckles. And that was all he could say, and it was no relief to him. On the contrary, the very sound of the name was a new and sharp pain that pierced his ears and his head and his very soul. For every time he repeated the name it meant that little Else was dead, somewhere out in the streets of London in the dark.

He was so terribly hurt that he did not even feel something pulling gently at the skirt of his old coat, so gently that it was like the nibbling of a tiny mouse. He might have thought that it was really a mouse if he had noticed it.

“Else! Else!” he groaned right against his hands.

Then a cool breath stirred his thin hair, and the low flame of the one candle dropped down almost to a mere spark, not flickering as though a draught were going to blow it out, but just dropping down as if it were tired out. Mr. Puckler felt his hands stiffening with fright under his face; and there was a faint rustling sound, like some small silk thing blown in a gentle breeze. He sat up straight, stark and scared, and a small wooden voice spoke in the stillness.

“Pa-pa,” it said, with a break between the syllables.

Mr. Puckler stood up in a single jump, and his chair fell over backwards with a smashing noise upon the wooden floor. The candle had almost gone out.

It was Nina’s doll voice that had spoken, and he should have known it among the voices of a hundred other dolls. And yet there was something more in it, a little human ring, with a pitiful cry and a call for help, and the wail of a hurt child. Mr. Puckler stood up, stark and stiff, and tried to look round, but at first he could not, for he seemed to be frozen from head to foot.

Then he made a great effort, and he raised one hand to each of his temples, and pressed his own head round as he would have turned a doll’s. The candle was burning so low that it might as well have been out altogether, for any light it gave, and the room seemed quite dark at first. Then he saw something. He would not have believed that he could be more frightened than he had been just before that. But he was, and his knees shook, for he saw the doll standing in the middle of the floor, shining with a faint and ghostly radiance, her beautiful glassy brown eyes fixed on his. And across her face the very thin line of the break he had mended shone as though it were drawn in light with a fine point of white flame.

Yet there was something more in the eyes, too; there was something human, like Else’s own, but as if only the doll saw him through them, and not Else. And there was enough of Else to bring back all his pain and to make him forget his fear.

“Else! My little Else!” he cried aloud.

The small ghost moved, and its doll-arm slowly rose and fell with a stiff, mechanical motion.

“Pa-pa,” it said.

It seemed this time that there was even more of Else’s tone echoing somewhere between the wooden notes that reached his ears so distinctly, and yet so far away. Else was calling him, he was sure.

His face was perfectly white in the gloom, but his knees did not shake anymore, and he felt that he was less frightened.

“Yes, child! But where? Where?” he asked. “Where are you, Else?”

“Pa-pa!”

The syllables died away in the quiet room. There was a low rustling of silk, the glassy brown eyes turned slowly away, and Mr. Puckler heard the pitter-patter of the small feet in the bronze kid slippers as the figure ran straight to the door. Then the candle burned high again, the room was full of light, and he was alone.

Mr. Puckler passed his hand over his eyes and looked about him. He could see everything quite clearly, and he felt that he must have been dreaming, though he was standing instead of sitting down, as he should have been if he had just waked up. The candle burned brightly now. There were the dolls to be mended, lying in a row with their toes up. The third one had lost her right shoe, and Else was making one. He knew that, and he was certainly not dreaming now. He had not been dreaming when he had come in from his fruitless search and had heard the doll’s footsteps running to the door. He had not fallen asleep in his chair. How could he possibly have fallen asleep when his heart was breaking? He had been awake all the time.

He steadied himself, set the fallen chair upon its legs, and said to himself again very emphatically that he was a foolish old man. He ought to be out in the streets looking for his child, asking questions, and enquiring at the police stations, where all accidents were reported as soon as they were known, or at the hospitals.

“Pa-pa!”

The longing, wailing, pitiful little wooden cry rang from the passage, outside the door, and Mr. Puckler stood for an instant with white face, transfixed and rooted to the spot. A moment later his hand was on the latch. Then he was in the passage, with the light streaming from the open door behind him.

Quite at the other end he saw the little phantom shining clearly in the shadow, and the right hand seemed to beckon to him as the arm rose and fell once more. He knew all at once that it had not come to frighten him but to lead him, and when it disappeared, and he walked boldly towards the door, he knew that it was in the street outside, waiting for him. He forgot that he was tired and had eaten no supper, and had walked many miles, for a sudden hope ran through and through him, like a golden stream of life.

And sure enough, at the corner of the alley, and at the corner of the street, and out in Belgrave Square, he saw the small ghost flitting before him. Sometimes it was only a shadow, where there was other light, but then the glare of the lamps made a pale green sheen on its little Mother Hubbard frock of silk; and sometimes, where the streets were dark and silent, the whole figure shone out brightly, with its yellow curls and rosy neck. It seemed to trot along like a tiny child, and Mr. Puckler could almost hear the pattering of the bronze kid slippers on the pavement as it ran. But it went very fast, and he could only just keep up with it, tearing along with his hat on the back of his head and his thin hair blown by the night breeze, and his horn-rimmed spectacles firmly set upon his broad nose.

On and on he went, and he had no idea where he was. He did not even care, for he knew certainly that he was going the right way.

Then at last, in a wide, quiet street, he was standing before a big, sober-looking door that had two lamps on each side of it, and a polished brass bell-handle, which he pulled.

And just inside, when the door was opened, in the bright light, there was the little shadow, and the pale green sheen of the little silk dress, and once more the small cry came to his ears, less pitiful, more longing.

“Pa-pa!”

The shadow turned suddenly bright, and out of the brightness the beautiful brown glass eyes were turned up happily to his, while the rosy mouth smiled so divinely that the phantom doll looked almost like a little angel just then.

“A little girl was brought in soon after ten o’clock,” said the quiet voice of the hospital doorkeeper. “I think they thought she was only stunned. She was holding a big brown-paper box against her, and they could not get it out of her arms. She had a long plait of brown hair that hung down as they carried her.”

“She is my little girl,” said Mr. Puckler, but he hardly heard his own voice.

He leaned over Else’s face in the gentle light of the children’s ward, and when he had stood there a minute the beautiful brown eyes opened and looked up to his.

“Pa-pa!” cried Else, softly, “I knew you would come!”

Then Mr. Puckler did not know what he did or said for a moment, and what he felt was worth all the fear and terror and despair that had almost killed him that night. But by and by Else was telling her story, and the nurse let her speak, for there were only two other children in the room, who were getting well and were sound asleep.

“They were big boys with bad faces,” said Else, “and they tried to get Nina away from me, but I held on and fought as well as I could till one of them hit me with something, and I don’t remember anymore, for I tumbled down, and I suppose the boys ran away, and somebody found me there. But I’m afraid Nina is all smashed.”

“Here is the box,” said the nurse. “We could not take it out of her arms till she came to herself. Should you like to see if the doll is broken?”

And she undid the string cleverly, but Nina was all smashed to pieces. Only the gentle light of the children’s ward made a pale green sheen in the folds of the little Mother Hubbard frock.