The Bungalow Mystery (32 page)

Standing there in the damp and the cold Cynthia felt an eerie sense of horror, against which she struggled in vain. Loud though her knock had sounded in her own ears there was no sign of response of any kind. The same stillness prevailed; even the rustling of the wind amid the trees had ceased, not a leaf seemed astir.

Cynthia stepped back and looked up at the house. It was apparently all in darkness. With the thought that possibly her cousin might be away and the place shut up or left to a caretaker, she determined to find her way to the back. Clinging to the wall she managed to turn the corner of the house. As she did so there was a loud clamorous barking inside, and she saw that a distant window was lighted up. With some difficulty she found another door. Knocker or bell there was none, but with the handle of her umbrella she thumped loudly again and again.

Meanwhile the drippings of the eaves fell upon her shoulders, with a great splash on her hat—her only hat, Cynthia reflected forlornly as she attempted to protect herself. It seemed to her that she had stood there for an eternity, feeling in her nervous terror as though the darkness around was filled with living things—things that whispered together and gibed at her. When at length she caught the sound of heavy, lagging footsteps coming down the passage the dog howled more loudly. Cynthia felt a sudden pang of swift unreasoning terror—something seemed to whisper to her to run away, to hide herself while yet there was time; but she was no coward, and in spite of her terrors she stood her ground as the door was slowly unbarred and unbolted. Then her heart beat quicker as it was opened a foot or two, and, by the light of a dim, flickering lamp suspended above, she saw a man's face—a white, scared face, with a certain defiance underlying its ghastly pallor.

“What is wanted? Who are you?” a voice inquired roughly; but in spite of the abrupt words the intonation was that of a gentleman.

Cynthia gathered up her courage. 

“This is Lady Hannah Gillman's house, is it not?” she asked in her clear girlish voice. “I want to see her. She asked me to come. I am her cousin, Cynthia Densham.”

“You are—what?” There was an accent of amazement, not unmixed, as Cynthia fancied, with fear.

“Cynthia Densham—Lady Hannah's cousin,” she repeated impatiently. “Is she here?”

There was a pause, a long-strained silence, then the answer came in a harsh rasping tone:

“Yes, she is here, but she does not receive strangers.”

“Her own cousin, though!” Cynthia began indignantly. “At least you will let me in? Don't you understand—she has asked me to stay with her.”

The man made no motion to open the door wider; instead, Cynthia fancied that he moved as though about to close it.

“You are making some mistake. Lady Hannah never receives visitors; she has no wish for them. It is impossible for you to come in.”

This time the desire to shut the door was unmistakable, and Cynthia put out her hands in desperation.

“You cannot mean it? I dare not stay out here in the cold. You must let me see my cousin; she asked me to come—she wrote to me!”

“She wrote to you—when?”

“A fortnight ago at least. The letter was delayed—I only had it the day before yesterday; but she said she wanted me to come to her at once.”

“What—she wrote before? I cannot believe it!”

There was an indescribable change in the man's voice. He stopped short. Cynthia felt in her pocket.

“Yes, here it is!” she cried, drawing out the letter.

He glanced at the envelope in her hand; then a curious tremor shook him. The lamp above him flickered and went out.

“Wait a minute!” he said brusquely, and turned abruptly down the passage.