“The truth often is melodramatic,” said Christopher. “I’ve discovered that lately. Things happen in real life that would be sneered at by the critics as preposterous.”
“This thing that is happening to us is preposterous,” said Miss Chester. “People come to our house, perhaps for dinner or lunch, or perhaps for several days. But which ever it may be, during one of the meals – always the last if they’re having more than one – every piece of jewellery they may be wearing, and all the money in their pockets and purses – except small silver and copper – disappear mysteriously.”
“Perhaps not mysteriously,” suggested Christopher. “You mentioned having engaged new servants. One of them may be an expert thief.”
“Of course, that was our first idea,” said the girl. “But it would be impossible for the most expert thief, even a conjurer, to pull ladies’ rings from their fingers, unfasten clasps of pearl dog-collars, take off brooches and bracelets or belts with gold buckles, and remove studs from shirt-fronts or sleeve-links from cuffs, without the knowledge of the persons wearing the things.”
“Yes, that would be impossible,” Christopher admitted.
“Well, that is what happens at Wood House every day, and has been happening for the last fortnight. People sit at the table, and apparently everything goes on in the most orderly way; yet at the end of the meal their valuables are gone.”
“It sounds like a fairy story,” said Christopher.
“Or a ghost story,” amended Sidney Chester.
Christopher did not smile, for the girl’s childish face looked so distressed that to make light of what was tragedy to her would have been cruel. The ghost theory, however, he was not ready to entertain.
“I think the explanation will turn out to be more prosaic,” he said. “It would be difficult for ghosts to make jewellery and money invisible as well as themselves.”
“Yes,” replied Miss Chester, seriously.
“So we must turn our attention elsewhere.”
“Ah, but where?”
“I suppose that’s what you want me to find out?”
“Exactly. And I wouldn’t let you come to Wood House until I’d told you the story. Whatever It is that works the mischief there mustn’t know that you are different from any other tourist. You’re prepared now. I want you to watch, to set your wits to work to find out the mystery. Of course, you must leave your valuables in care of the landlord here. You’ll motor over this evening, won’t you, and say you wish to have a room?”
“With pleasure,” said Christopher. “And I’ll do my best to help.”
“Thanks for taking an interest. Then I’ll go now. I shall just be able to ride home in time for dinner.”
“But there are questions still which I’d better ask you,” said Christopher; “as we’re not to have any private communication at Wood House. How many indoor servants have you?”
“Three housemaids, one dear old thing who has been with us for years, and two young girls lately got in – one from London, one from our own neighbourhood; a butler we’ve had since I can remember, two new footmen from London, and an old cook-housekeeper, who has had two assistants since we opened as an hotel. That’s all, except a stray creature or two about the kitchen. I must tell you, too, that with the new servants we had the best of references. They’ve been with us for two months now, and the mystery only began, as I said, a fortnight ago. The first thing that happened was when a rich American family, doing a motor tour round England, came to stop for a night, and were so delighted with the place that they made up their minds to stay from Saturday to Monday. On Sunday night at dinner the two girls and their mother lost jewellery worth thousands, and Mr Van Rensalaer, the father, was robbed of five hundred pounds in notes – all he had with him except his letter of credit, which wasn’t taken. You can imagine how they felt – and how we felt. Of course, we sent for a detective, but he could discover nothing. He said it was the queerest affair he ever heard of. Not a jewel, not a penny has ever been recovered; and at least twenty people who have come to us since have suffered in the same way.”
“Still, they come. You haven’t lost your clients?” said Christopher.
“Not yet; for though most of those who arrive have read about the mystery in the papers (if they haven’t, we feel obliged to warn them) they don’t believe the stories. They think the thing must have been planned to work up a sensation, and they’re so certain things stolen will come back, though they’re enchanted with the house at first, before the Thing happens. Just now we’re getting crowds who come to try and ferret out the mystery, or because they’ve made bets that they won’t lose anythying. But soon the sort of people we want will stop away, and we shall get only vulgar curiosity-mongers; then, when we cease to be a nine days’ wonder, there’ll be nobody, and we shall have to give up. That’s what I look forward to, and it will break my heart.”
“Something will have to be done,” said Christopher – puzzled, but anxious to be encouraging. “Have you no guest who has been with you several weeks?”
“One,” the girl returned, half reluctantly, as if she guessed his reason for putting this question. “It’s – a man.”
“A young man?”
“Yes, a young man.”
“How long has he been in the house?”
“Several weeks. He’s painting a picture, using the King’s room, as we call it, for a background – the room Charles II had when an ancestor of ours was hiding him, and would dart down into a secret place underneath whenever a dangerous visitor arrived.”
“Oh, an artist?”
“Not a professional. He-”.
“Can’t you remember how long he has been with you?”
“Between three weeks and a fortnight.” The girl blushed, her white face lovely in its sudden flush of colour. “I see what’s in your mind. But there’s nothing in that, I assure you. The merest coincidence. You don’t look as if you were ready to believe me, but you will when I tell you that it’s Sir Walter Raven, the man I’m engaged to marry. When I wrote him about our scheme he didn’t like the idea, but soon I let him know what a success it was proving. I even hinted that I might think over the resolution I’d made not to marry him for years, because, after all, I mightn’t have to be a burden. He was so excited over the letter that he left his ranch in charge of his partner and came over at once. It was a great surprise to see him, but – it was a very agreeable one. He’s been my one comfort – except, of course, our dear cousins – since the evil days began.”
“He hasn’t been able to throw any light on the problem?”
“No, though he’s tried in every way.”
“Does he know you’ve sent for me?”
“I haven’t told him, because it would seem as if I couldn’t trust him to get to the bottom of the mystery. You see, though he’s tremendously clever, he isn’t that sort of man. He’s been in the Army, and used to drift along, amusing himself as he could, until he met me, and decided to go to work. He’s different from you.”
“Not so different as she thinks,” Christopher said to himself; only he had been driven from amusement to work by a reason less romantic, and, unlike Sir Walter Raven, had not met the right woman yet, but he expected to find her some day.
“When you’ve got hold of a clue, as I feel you will,” Sidney Chester went on, “then I’ll tell Sir Walter, and he’ll be delighted. Till then, though, you shall be for him, as for everybody else except myself, a guest in the house, like other guests. Luckily, we can give you a place to keep that famous car of yours. We’ve had part of the stables made into a garage. Now, have you asked me everything?”