“I suppose you’ll give your watch and money to your chauffeur before you sit down for the last meal?” laughed an American girl who had arrived some days before in her motor-car.
“No, I sha’n’t,” replied Sir Henry Smithson, valiantly. “I don’t believe in this nonsense. I’ll show you what I have got on me, and as I am now so shall I be when I go into the dining-hall.”
With this he displayed a gorgeous repeater, with his monogram and crest in brilliants; indicated a black pearl scarf-pin, turned a sapphire and diamond ring set in aluminium on a fat finger, and jingled a store of coins his pocket, which he announced to be gold, amounting to fifty pounds. “I’ve a few notes, too,” said he, “and I expect to have them just the same when I finish my lunch as when I go in.”
“Well, we shall all lunch at the same time, and watch,” remarked the American girl.
The paying guests at Wood House either breakfasted in their own rooms or in a cheerful morning room, more modern than most parts of the quaint old house; therefore, Christopher Race had not seen the dining-hall of which Miss Chester had spoken. He did not join in the conversation with the brewer; nevertheless, when he saw that gentleman swaggering to luncheon, he followed at a distance, everybody else moving in the same direction at the same time.
It was, indeed, a beautiful room, this dining-hall which Sidney Chester had praised. It was wainscoted to the ceiling in old oak carved in the exquisite linen fold pattern, and though it was worm-eaten and showed signs of excessive age, Christopher, who called himself a judge of antiquities, thought the panelling would be almost worth its weight in gold.
The tables for guests were arranged somewhat oddly, probably, Christopher supposed, with a view to showing off the room and its furniture to advantage. The tables were small, of a size to accommodate parties of from two to eight persons, and ranged along two sides of the dining-hall, placed against one of the walls. In the middle of the room stood a huge old refectory table, with carved sides and legs, and leaves to draw out, a splendid specimen of the Tudor period; but no plates were laid upon this. It was used as a serving table; and against the wall on the right of the door, as one entered from the great hall, was a magnificent oak sideboard, loaded with handsome pieces of ancient silver.
Christopher had a table to himself at the end of the long room, and Sir Henry Smithson sat at a larger one not far away. He had invited the American girl, her chaperon, and Sir Walter Raven to share with him his farewell meal, and much champagne flowed. There was a good deal of talk and laughter at that and other tables, but the luncheon was served by the butler and two footmen in ceremonious style, Mr Morley Chester unostentantiously superintending behind a screen which hid the door used by the servants. Not one of the three ladies of the Chester family was in the room.
All went on in the most orderly manner, and the food was good, as well as nicely served, though it struck Christopher that it was rather long between courses. He ate with good appetite until the meal was drawing to an end, when he began to realize that he was tired, and would be glad to get into the garden and smoke a cigarette. He liked the smell of the old oak which came to him from the panelled wall, yet he thought that the fresh air would be pleasant.
Suddenly, as Christopher was beginning upon biscuits and cheese, Sir Henry Smithson sprang up in his chair, exclaiming, “By Jove!”
Then came a clatter of voices at his table, both ladies there crying out in consternation.
“What has happened?” asked Morley Chester, coming out from behind the screen, while Sir Walter Raven sat looking pale and concerned, and the mild-faced butler saved himself from dropping a bottle of port.
“Everything has gone!” ejaculated Miss Reese, the American. “His watch and chain – his ring – his scarf-pin – and -”
“And my money,” finished Sir Henry Smithson.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” stammered Mr Chester. “I begged you to be careful.”
“Oh, I’ve got myself to blame, I suppose,” broke in the brewer. He gave a rough laugh, but it did not sound genuine. “Who on earth would have thought such things could be? Well, seeing’s believing. This is the queerest house I was ever in. It’s bewitched.”
“So we are beginning to think,” said Chester, deeply mortified. “I can’t begin to express my regret -”
“My own fault,” said Sir Henry. “I’ll say no more about it – for the present. But I wouldn’t be sorry to see that repeater of mine again. If you don’t mind I’ll send a detective down on this business.”
Chester assured him that he would like nothing better, and that he only hoped the detective might be more successful than others they had already had at their own expense. People left their tables and crowded round Sir Henry, who was, indeed, shorn of the jewellery he had displayed before luncheon. No one seemed to doubt his word that it had disappeared during the meal without his knowledge, but Christopher made a mental note to write up to town for information concerning the brewer’s character. He was a responsible man by reputation, but he might have eccentricities. He might wish to draw attention to himself by pretending to be a victim of the mystery.
Presently, after the dining-hall had been searched in vain for trace of the lost treasures, Sir Henry Smithson went off in his motor, a sadder and a wiser man.
After this, whenever any guest was about to leave the house, history repeated itself, except in one or two instances where precaution had been considered the better part of valour, and no jewellery or money brought into the dining-hall for the last meal.
Meanwhile Christopher had had a look into the two private sitting-rooms, which were separated from the dining-hall only by one long, narrow room used of late as a kind of office. He even ordered dinner in one of them, but nothing happened during the meal.
“I believe people do it themselves when nobody is looking,” Christopher thought that night, meditating in his own room. “Can it be that there is some supernatural influence in this old house which puts people into an hysterical state, hypnotizes them, so to speak, and makes them do abnormal things?”
Certain it was that he had grown nervous and, as he expressed it, “jumpy.” He suffered from headache, an ailment he had scarcely known before; slept fitfully, starting awake, often with the fancy that he heard a sound in his bedroom. When he dreamed, it was always of old oak and the smell of oak. He felt dull and disinclined to think for long on any subject. In the mornings when he got up there were lines under his eyes, and he had little appetite. Either he imagined it, or the Morley Chesters and their cousin Sidney also looked ill. Perhaps this was not surprising, as the mystery in the house caused them constant anxiety, but Sir Walter Raven was losing his sunburnt tint, and it seemed to Christopher more or less the same with the butler and footman, and all the guests who remained longer than three or four days at Wood House. He was the last man to dwell on ghostly fancies, yet after he remained for a week at the place without being able to earn a penny of the money Miss Chester had offered, he was half ready to credit the idea that the house was haunted.
“If anybody had been doing conjuring tricks I should have had the wit to discover it by this time,” he reflected. But if there was anything material to discover, professionals were no more successful than the amateur. There was a new footman in the dining-room, and Morley Chester whispered to Christopher one day that he was a detective in the employ of Sir Henry Smithson.