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THE SILVER BULLET






---------------------------
BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE SILENT HOUSE IN PIMLICO
THE BISHOP'S SECRET
THE CRIMSON CRYPTOGRAM
THE GOLDEN WANG-HO
THE TURNPIKE HOUSE
A TRAITOR IN LONDON
WOMAN--THE SPHINX
THE JADE EYE

----------------------------
John Long, Publisher, London






THE SILVER BULLET


BY
FERGUS HUME



London
John Long
13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket






THE SILVER BULLET




CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE IN THE PINE WOOD


"We had better lie down and die," said Robin peevishly. "I can't go a
step further," and to emphasise his words he deliberately sat.

"Infernal little duffer," growled Herrick. "Huh! Might have guessed
you would Joyce." He threw himself down beside his companion and
continued grumbling. "You have tobacco, a fine night, and a heather
couch of the finest, yet you talk as though the world were coming to
an end."

"I'm sure this moor never will," sighed Joyce, reminded of his
cigarettes, "we have been trudging it since eight in the morning, yet
it still stretches to the back-of-beyond. Hai!"

The pedestrians were pronouncedly isolated. A moonless sky thickly
jewelled with stars, arched over a treeless moor, far-stretching as
the plain of Shinar. In the luminous summer twilight, the eye could
see for a moderate distance, but to no clearly defined horizon; and
the verge of sight was limited by vague shadows, hardly definite
enough to be mists.

The moor exhaled the noonday heats in thin white vapour, which shut
out from the external world those who nestled to its bosom. A sense of
solitude, the brooding silence, the formless surroundings, and above
all, the insistence of the infinite, would have appealed on ordinary
occasions to the poetical and superstitious side of Robin's nature.
But at the moment, his nerves were uppermost. He was worn-out,
fractious as a child, and in his helplessness could have cried like
one. Herrick knew his friend's frail physique and inherited neurosis:
therefore he forebore to make bad worse by ill advised sympathy.
Judiciously waiting until Joyce had in some degree soothed himself
with tobacco, he talked of the common-place.

"Nine o'clock," said he peering at his watch; "thirteen hour's
walking. Nothing to me Robin, but a goodish stretch to you. However we
are within hail of civilization, and in England. A few miles further
we'll pick up a village of sorts no doubt. One would think you were
exploiting Africa the way you howl."

He spoke thus callously, in order to brace his friend; but Joyce
resented the tone with that exaggerated sense of injury peculiar to
the neurotic. "I am no Hercules like you Jim," he protested sullenly;
"all your finer feelings have been blunted by beef and beer. You can't
feel things as I do. Also," continued Robin still more querulously,
"it seems to have escaped your memory, that I returned only last night
from a two day's visit to Town."

"If you _will_ break up your holiday into fragments, you must not
expect to receive the benefit its enjoyment as a whole would give you.
It was jolly enough last week sauntering through the Midlands, till
you larked up to London, and fagged yourself with its detestable
civilization."

Joyce threw aside his cigarette and nervously began to roll another.
"It was no lark which took me up Jim. The letter that came to the
Southberry Inn was about--her business."

"Sorry old man. I keep forgetting your troubles. Heat and the want of
food make me savage. We'll rest here for a time, and then push on. Not
that a night in the open would matter to me."

Joyce made no reply but lying full length on the dry herbage, stared
at the scintillating sky. At his elbow, Herrick, cross-legged like a
fakir, gave himself up to the enjoyment of a disreputable pipe. The
more highly-strung man considered the circumstances which had placed
him where he was.

Two months previously, Robin Joyce had lost his mother, to whom he had
been devotedly attached: and the consequent grief had made a wreck of
him. For weeks he had shut himself up in the flat once brightened by
her presence to luxuriate in woe. He possessed in a large degree that
instinct for martyrdom, latent in many people, which searches for
sorrow, as a more joyous nature hunts for pleasure. The blow of Mrs.
Joyce's death had fallen unexpectedly, but it brought home to Robin,
the knowledge--strange as it may sound--that a mental pleasure can be
plucked from misfortune. He locked himself in his room, wept much, and
ate little; neglected his business of contributor to several
newspapers, and his personal appearance. Thus the pain of his loss
merged itself in that delight of self-mortification, which must have
been experienced by the hermits of the Thebiad. Not entirely from
religious motives was the desert made populous with hermits in the
days of Cyril and Hypatia.

Herrick did not realize this transcendental indulgence, nor would he
have understood it, had he done so. Emphatically a sane man, he would
have deemed it a weakness degrading to the will, if not a species of
lunacy. As it was, he merely saw that Robin yielded to an unrestrained
grief detrimental to his health, and insisted upon carrying him off
for a spell in the open air. With less trouble than he anticipated,
Robin's consent was obtained. The mourner threw himself with ardour
into the scheme, selected the county of Berks as the most inviting for
a ramble; and when fairly started, showed a power of endurance amazing
in one so frail.

Jim however being a doctor, was less astonished than a layman would
have been. He knew that in Joyce a tremendous nerve power dominated
the feebler muscular force, and that the man would go on like a
blood-horse until he dropped from sheer exhaustion. The collapse on
the moor did not surprise him. He only wondered that Robin had held
out for so many days.

"But I wish you had not gone to London," said Herrick pursuing aloud
this train of thought.

"I had to go," replied Joyce not troubling to query the remark. "The
lawyer wrote about my poor mother's property. In my sorrow, I had
neglected to look after it, but at Southberry Junction feeling better,
thanks to your open air cure, I thought it wise to attend to the
matter."

Then Joyce went on to state with much detail, how he had caught the
Paddington express at Marleigh--their last stopping place--and had
seen his lawyer. The business took some time to settle; but it
resulted in the knowledge that Joyce found himself possessed of five
hundred a year in Consols. "Also the flat and the furniture," said
Robin, "so I am not so badly off. I can devote myself wholly to novels
now, and shall not have to rack my brains for newspaper articles."

Herrick nodded over a newly-filled pipe. "Did you sleep at the flat?"

"No, I went up on Tuesday as you know, and slept that night at the
Hull Hotel, a small house in one of the Strand side streets. Last
night, I joined you at Southberry."

"And it is now Thursday," said Herrick laughing. "How particular you
are as to detail Robin. Well, Southberry is a goodish way behind us
now and Saxham is our next resting place. Feel better?"

"Yes, thanks. In another quarter of an hour, I shall make the attempt
to reach Saxham. But we are so late, I fear no bed----"

"Oh, that's alright. We can wake the landlord, I calculate we have only
three miles."

"Quite enough too. By the way Jim, what did you do, when I left you?"

In the semi-darkness Herrick chuckled. "Fell in love!" said he.

"H'm! You lost no time about it. And she?"

"A daughter of the gods, divinely tall; dark hair, creamy skin,
sea-blue eyes the figure and gait of Diana, and--"

"More of the Celt than the Greek," interrupted Joyce, "blue eyes,
black hair, that is the Irish type. Where did you see her?"

"In Southberry Church, talking to a puny curate, who did not deserve
such a companion. Oh, Robin, her voice! like an Eolian harp."

"It must possess a variety of tones then Jim. Did she see you?"

Herrick nodded and laughed again. "She looked and blushed. Beauty drew
me with a single hair, therefore I thrilled responsive. Love at first
sight Robin. Heigh-ho! never again shall I see this Helen of
Marleigh."

"Live in hope," said Joyce, springing to his feet. "Allons, mon ami."

The more leisurely Herrick rose, markedly surprised at this sudden
recuperation. "Wonderful man. One minute you are dying, the next
skipping like a two year old. Hysterical all the same," he added as
Joyce laughed.

"Those three miles," explained the other feverishly, "I feel that I
have to walk them, and my determination is braced to breaking point."

"That means you'll collapse half way," retorted the doctor unstrapping
his knapsack. "Light a match. Valerian for you my man."

Robin made no objection. He knew the value of Valerian for those
unruly nerves of his, at present vibrating like so many harp-strings,
twangled by an unskilful player. His small white face looked smaller
and whiter than ever in the faint light of the match; but his great
black eyes flamed like wind-blown torches. The contrast of Herrick's
sun-tanned Saxon looks, struck him as almost ludicrous. Joyce needed
no mirror to assure him of his appearance at the moment. He knew only
too well how he aged on the eve of a nerve storm. For the present it
was averted by the valerian; but he knew and so did Herrick, that
sooner or later it would surely come.

"We must get on as fast as possible," said Herrick, the knapsack again
on his broad back. "Food, drink, rest; you need all three. Forward!"

For some time they walked on in silence. Robin was so small, Dr. Jim
so large, that they looked like the giant and dwarf of the old fairy
tale on their travels. But in this case it was the giant who did all
the work. Joyce was a pampered, lazy, irresponsible child, in the
direct line of descent from Harold Skimpole. If Jim Herrick must be
likened to another hero of romance, Amyas Leigh was his prototype.

The shadows melted before them, and closed in behind, and still there
was nothing but plain and mist. At the end of two miles a dark bulk
like a thunder-cloud, loomed before them. It stretched directly across
their path. "Bogey," laughed Robin.

"A wood," said the more prosaic Jim, "this moor is fringed with
pine-woods: remember the forest we passed through this morning."

"In the cheerful sunshine," shuddered Joyce. "I don't like woodlands
by night. The fairies are about and goblins of the worst. Ha! Yonder
the lantern of Puck. Oberon holds revel in the wood."

"Puck must be putting a girdle round the earth then Robin," said
Herrick and stared at the white starry light, which beamed above the
trees.

"Hecate's torch," cried Joyce, "a meeting of witches," and he began to
chant the gruesome rhymes of the sisterhood, as Macbeth heard them.
"The scene is a blasted heath too," said he.

By this time the moon was rising, and silver shafts struck inward to
the heart of the pines. The aerial light vanished behind the leafy
screen, as the travellers came to a halt on the verge of the
undergrowth.

"We must get through," said Dr. Jim, "or if you like Robin, we can
skirt round. Saxham village is just beyond I fancy."

"Let us choose the bee-line," murmured Joyce. "I want a bed and a meal
as soon as possible. This part of the world is unknown to me. You
lead."

"I don't know it myself. However here's a path. We'll follow it to the
light. That comes from a tower of sorts. Too high up for a house."

With Herrick as pioneer, they plunged into the wood, following a
winding path. In the gloom, their heads came into contact with boughs
and tree-trunks but occasionally the moon made radiant the secret
recesses, and revealed unexpected openings. The path sometimes passed
across a glade, on the sward of which Joyce declared he saw the
fairies dancing: and anon plunged into a cimmerian gloom suggestive of
the underworld. No wind swung the heavy pine-boughs; the wild
creatures of the wood gave no sign, made no stir: yet the explorers
heard a low persistent swish-swurr-swish, like the murmur of a dying
breeze. It came from no particular direction, but droned on all sides
without pause, without change of note. Herrick heard Robin's
hysterical sob, as the insistent sound bored into his brain. He would
have made some remark; but at the moment they emerged into a open
space of considerable size. Here, ringed by pines, loomed a vast grey
house, with a slim tower. In that tower burned the steady light
outshining even the moon's lustre. But what was more remarkable still,
was the illumination of the mansion. Every window radiated white fire.

"Queer," said Robin halting on the verge of the wood, "not even a
fence or a wall: a path or an outhouse. One would think that this was
an inferior Aladdin's palace dropped here by some negligent genii. All
ablaze too," he added wonderingly; "the owner must be giving a ball."

"No signs of guests anyhow," returned Herrick as puzzled as his
companion. "H'm! Queer thing to find Versailles in a pine wood.
However it may afford us a bed and a supper."

It was certainly strange. The circle of trees stopped short of the
building at fifty yards. On all sides stretched an expanse of shorn
and well-kept turf, pathless as the sea. In its midst the mansion was
dropped--as Joyce aptly put it--unexpectedly. A two-storey Tudor
building, with battlements, and mullioned windows, terraces and
flights of shallow steps: the whole weather-worn and grey in the
moonlight, over-grown with ivy, and distinctly ruinous. The
dilapidated state of the house, contrasted in a rather sinister manner
with the perfectly-kept lawn. Also another curious contrast, was the
tower. This tacked on to the western corner, stood like a lean white
ghost, watching over its earthly habitation. Its gleaming stone-work
and sharp outlines showed that it had been built within the last
decade. A distinct anachronism, which marred the quaint antiquity of
the mediæval mansion.

"He must be an astrologer," said Joyce referring to the owner, "or it
may be that the tower is an inland pharos, to guide travellers across
that pathless moor. A horrible place," he muttered.

"Why horrible?" asked Dr. Jim as they crossed the lawn.

Robin shuddered, and cast a backward glance. "I can hardly explain.
But to my mind, there is something sinister in this lonely mansion,
ablaze with light, yet devoid of inhabitants."

"We have yet to find out if that is the case Robin. Hullo! the door is
open," and in the strong moonlight they looked wonderingly at each
other.

The heavy door--oak, clamped with iron--was slightly ajar. Herrick
bent upon consummating the adventure, pushed it slightly open. They
beheld a large hall with a tesselated pavement, and stately columns.
Between these last stood black oak high-backed chairs upholstered in
red velvet: also statues of Greek gods and goddesses, holding aloft
opaque globes, radiant with light. A vast marble staircase with wide
and shallow steps, sloped upwards, and on either side of this, from
the height of the landing fell scarlet velvet curtains, shutting in
the hall. The whiteness of the marble, the crimson of the draperies,
the brilliance of the light; these sumptuous furnishings amazed the
dusty pedestrians. It was as though, on a lonely prairie, one should
step suddenly into the splendours of the Vatican.

"The palace of the Sleeping Beauty," whispered the awe-struck Robin.
"Who can say romance is dead, when one can stumble upon such an
adventure."

Herrick shared Robin's perplexity: but of a more practical nature, he
addressed himself less to the romance than to the reality. Seeing no
one, hearing nothing, he touched an ivory button, that glimmered a
white spot beside the door. Immediately a silvery succession of
sounds, shrilled through the--apparently--lonely house. "Electric
bells, electric light. The hermit of this establishment is
up-to-date."

"He is also deaf, and has no servants," said Joyce impatiently after a
few minutes had passed. "Has a Borgian banquet taken place here? The
guests seem to be dead. Hai! the whole thing is damnable."

"Don't let yourself go," said the doctor roughly squeezing the little
man's arm, "wait and see the upshot."

Again and again they rang the bell, and themselves heard its
imperative summons: but no one appeared. Then they took their courage
in