Читать книгу Paul Quentin - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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It was an exciting moment for John Dugdale. He did not know whether to be glad or sorry. It was nice to be successful. It was good to feel that he had started so well in his quest. But, on the other hand, the spirit of adventure was strong upon him, and it looked as if his new occupation were over almost as soon as it had begun. He did not doubt that this was the Dragon Vase. He could identify it by the little claws which he already knew of. He was struck by its rare beauty and the richness of its colouring.

And yet the whole affair was puzzling to a degree. How came the vase here, and why was it exposed in this careless manner? Here was a priceless work of art placed on a pedestal in a prominent spot, as if it were some piece of ordinary earthenware worth a few shillings. The servants must have known its value. They must have had rigid instructions not to touch it. Every visitor to the house with any pretension to taste must have noticed that marvellous specimen of the ceramic art. Moreover, they would have talked about it. It must have been a matter of common knowledge that Miss Pearson possessed this treasure. There was no reason why it should not have been alluded to in a score of papers and magazines.

And yet Paul Quentin's secretary, Grenadus, had spoken of the Dragon Vase as if it had been spirited away from some collection and hidden by the thief. Dugdale had heard of such things. He had read of instances in which rich men otherwise of the highest integrity had deliberately stolen curiosities from private and public collections, and had hoarded them away for their own delectation. Grenadus had hinted as much. He had impressed upon Dugdale the extreme need for caution. Indeed, Dugdale had been warned that he was to make no inquiries which could lead anybody to guess at the object of his search.

Yet here, undoubtedly, was the very vase he was looking for, exposed where everyone could see it. Dugdale laid his hand upon the gleaming paste; he could feel the sharp edges of the brushwork. He stood in fascinated astonishment and admiration. Then he bethought him that this was neither the time nor the opportunity for a close examination of the vase. The young man lay prostrate at his feet, white and unconscious. A few yards away Dr Prince was still struggling with his bonds. Any action on Dugdale's part would have to be postponed. Prince was safe and Miss Pearson had recovered her self-possession. Therefore, it was obviously Dugdale's duty to attend to the injured man.

He raised his head and a queer, inchoate murmur came from the stranger's lips. He was dressed in the livery of a servant, but, as far as Dugdale could judge, he did not look like a man who had passed his life in a menial capacity. The features were good, though perhaps a little effeminate. Still, there was a well-bred look upon them and a certain suggestion of insolence filled the pair of grey eyes which opened presently and regarded Dugdale vacantly.

"You will get into trouble," the young man muttered. "There is certain to be a bother, and if there is don't blame me. Mind, I did my best."

The rest of the speech was incoherent, but Dugdale noted the refined and delicate way in which the words were enunciated. Still, it was part and parcel of Dugdale's strange adventure and he was long past astonishment of any kind. All he could do was to unfasten the young man's collar, and place him in a more comfortable position.

Beyond this he could do little. Any hasty movement might prove fatal. He resolved to leave the servant till he could procure assistance. He resolutely put all thoughts of the Dragon Vase out of his mind. There was plenty to do before he could turn his mind in that direction again. He hastened back into the drawing-room. Miss Pearson stood by the fireplace. Prince lay on his back still tugging at the cords that bound him.

"Well?" Miss Pearson asked. There was a touch of apprehension in her voice. "What have you found?"

"I hardly know," Dugdale murmured. "There is a young man behind the curtains, one of your servants, who is in a critical state."

Mary Pearson looked at the speaker in a dazed way as if trying to follow what he was saying. She was more than alarmed, and Dugdale thought she was trying to conceal something.

"A servant of mine?" she faltered. "Wounded!"

"Yes," Dugdale replied impatiently. "A young footman, I should say. Quite a handsome lad. I suppose he came to your help, and got the worst of it."

"Oh, yes," Mary Pearson said. She was speaking mechanically. "He came to my assistance, of course. He could do nothing else. It would have been cowardly, wouldn't it?"

The girl shivered from head to foot as she finished. The dull look in her eyes cleared away. She laid a pair of trembling hands upon Dugdale's shoulders. He could feel their warm pressure; he could catch the glint in the beautiful eyes. He thrilled from head to foot with sudden admiration for this lovely woman.

"I implore you to help me," she said passionately. "Don't ask questions. Try to think the best of me. It must be amazing to you that a girl in my position should be without friends. I dare say you think you have dropped in upon a set of lunatics! You might think worse than that. But all this is capable of explanation, and I shall be able to satisfy you when the time comes. It is imperative that we should have a doctor at once. That poor young—young fellow lying yonder must be attended to without delay. I am not afraid to stay here alone. I can use that revolver if the occasion arises. You will meet someone who will direct you to the nearest doctor. Oh, don't stay. Please don't stay. There is no occasion to worry on my account."

"You are very brave," Dugdale said, "but I am afraid I can't do what you require. I could not leave you alone in this house with that madman. I should never cease to blame myself if anything happened to you. I must not go."

"Oh, indeed, you must, you must. You don't realise what delay may mean. And if anything happened to my poor—that is, to my servant—I should never a know moment's peace again."

Dugdale shook his head slowly. He was accustomed to act in a crisis. He knew what it was to take his life in his hands. To a certain extent Fate had made him master of the position. He was not going to act impulsively. He stood rapidly summing up the situation in his mind. He was trying to ignore the beautiful pleading eyes bent upon him, when suddenly there came a knocking at the front door, and a man's voice was heard calling to know if anyone were on the premises. A cry of delight broke from Mary Pearson's lips.

"Oh, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. "How very fortunate! That is dear old Dr Harper himself. Will you ask him to come in?"

Dugdale returned with a man of some fifty years of age, tall, vigorous and athletic. This was an ally after his own heart.

"What on earth is the matter, my dear child?" Harper cried. "What has become of all your servants? There is not a soul at the lodge, and I have been ringing the front-door bell for nearly ten minutes. I got back to London this evening quite unexpectedly, to find an urgent message from you awaiting me."

"But you sent Dr Prince," Miss Pearson exclaimed.

"Indeed, I didn't. Dr Prince is at my house now. It was he who gave me the message. He might easily have taken my place, but I suppose he didn't like to."

Mary Pearson laughed unsteadily. Now that all danger was past she was weak and exhausted. She contrived to take Harper by the arm, and direct his attention to the dark figure of the madman who lay upon the carpet still struggling with the bonds that held him.

"Then who is this?" the girl demanded. "What is he doing here? He came to my house saying that you were in town and that he had taken your place for the time. He told me that he was your friend, Dr Prince."

Dr Harper screwed a glass in his eye and bent over the black figure lying there as if it were some new and interesting specimen of animal life the like of which he had never seen before.

"He is no friend of mine," he said slowly. "He is a total stranger. Add to that, he is not in the least like Prince. Now, my good man, give an account of yourself. What are you doing here? Who are you?"

The man on the floor cast a murderous glance at the speaker, but made no reply. He was grinding his teeth together savagely. His exertions had brought out the great veins on his forehead until they looked like knotted whip-cord. Harper turned to Miss Pearson for an explanation.

"Remarkable!" he said. "Incomprehensible! The poor man looks like a lunatic. And yet there seems to be method in his madness. And he must know me, or he could not have used my name. What does it mean, Miss Pearson?"