STOKES CORVIN stared at the man who had come to answer the door. A tall, cadaverous fellow in the dress of a servant, the man looked like a living corpse. His face was white above the dark collar of his coat. His eyes stared like those of a waxwork figure.
“Whom do you wish to see?” questioned the servitor.
“I am Stokes Corvin,” announced the visitor. “I want to meet Mr. Jarvis Raleigh.”
“Step in,” ordered the servant.
Stokes Corvin obeyed. The cadaverous man beckoned to the cab driver. In gingerly fashion, the fellow alighted from his sedan and brought Corvin’s bags to the doorway. Turning, he hastened back into his car. He was driving away when the servant closed the door.
While Stokes Corvin watched, the cadaverous man pressed home three huge bolts. Walking directly past the visitor, the servant opened an inner door and stood there. He spoke in a hollow tone:
“I shall return. Wait here until I have announced your arrival to Mr. Raleigh.”
Stepping through the inner door, the servant bolted it from the other side. Again, Stokes Corvin had evidence of triple bolting. With a shrug of his shoulders, he stared about the odd room in which he stood.
The turret served as a huge entry to the house. It was lighted by two bulbs set in brackets, one on each side of the inner door. As he stared at the wall, Stokes Corvin observed that they were of stone. Windowless, they went upward like the smooth bore of a rounded tunnel. Gazing upward, Corvin saw the thin crossbeams that supported the turret itself.
Fully forty feet in height, and some fifteen feet in diameter, the turret formed a room of ample proportions. Yet its forbidding atmosphere made it a place of gloom. The walls were plain and severe. The only decorations appeared upon the floor. Stokes Corvin studied them with interest.
The floor was of stone, fitted with tiles of various colors. A double-circled border followed the circumference of the floor. Within this appeared a succession of odd, tiled characters which Corvin recognized as Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Four lines came from the outer circle, joining in the center of the floor so that they formed a huge X. These were cut by concentric circles, to form new borders. The one within the Egyptian inscription bore the twelve signs of the zodiac, three to each quadrant.
These were exquisitely formed by unglazed tiles.
The innermost decoration represented a compass. It showed the four main points upon the cross lines that formed the X.
While Stokes Corvin was engaged in interested study, he heard the drawing of bolts. He looked up as the inner door opened. He saw the cadaverous servant, motioning for him to enter.
The visitor obeyed.
STOKES CORVIN found himself in a curious corridor. It was the junction point of three passages. Two came in from the front, like the arms of an inverted Y. Straight ahead was the main hallway itself.
A step led up to each of the three passages. On the one in front of Corvin stood a queer, stoop-shouldered individual, who held his hands together against his hunched-in chest. The step gave him a stature which he did not actually possess. His eyes, sharp as those of a snake, were staring directly toward Stokes Corvin.
“Another guest.” The man on the step cackled the greeting in disdainful fashion. “A new pauper to share my humble abode. Welcome, Stokes Corvin, to Montgard.”
“You are Jarvis Raleigh?” questioned Corvin. He eyed the man as he spoke and estimated his age as nearly fifty.
“Yes.” The reply was almost a sneer. “I am Jarvis Raleigh. I am the reluctant host to guests who are unwelcome. This” — he jabbed a scrawny finger toward the servant — “is Quarley, my one retainer. I received word from Lockwood that you were coming. Quarley will show you to your room.”
The cadaverous servant stooped to pick up two bags that Corvin had carried in. There was a third that Quarley left for Corvin himself. The newcomer picked it up. Jarvis Raleigh, his hands still clasped, stepped aside to let them pass.
“I am sorry,” he announced ironically, “that my other guests are not here to meet you. They have retired early. I shall introduce you to them tomorrow.”
Quarley had shot the bolts of the inner front door during the conversation between Jarvis Raleigh and Stokes Corvin. The master of Montgard glanced to make sure that the house was locked. Then, with slow stride, he followed after the two who were walking along the central passage.
There was a flight of stairs at the end of the long hall. Quarley led the way with Corvin following. They reached the second hall, where Stokes Corvin glimpsed darkened passages. They continued up a gloomy flight of steps to the third floor. One passage here was illuminated by a single electric light. Quarley entered a room and Stokes Corvin followed.
The place was furnished in antiquated style. It possessed no electric lights; the wiring, apparently, had been confined to the lower floors. Candles, mounted in wall brackets, served as the mode of illumination.
Stokes Corvin looked about him. He turned to see Quarley slinking from the room. The servant closed the big oak door behind him. Corvin’s forehead furrowed as he heard the servant slide a bolt upon the other side.
There was a key in the door. Corvin stepped over and turned it. He smiled as he did so. If he were to be locked in his room, he might as well lock others out. Removing coat and vest, the newcomer to Montgard shrugged his shoulders and approached the window.
SMALL panes with dividing bars between. Examining them, Stokes Corvin noted that they were rods of steel. He tried a pane. It revolved in its metal frame. At least ventilation was obtainable.
Stokes Corvin extracted a cigarette from his pocket. He lighted it from a candle; then blew out the various flames to plunge the room in darkness. Puffing at the cigarette, he approached the window and stood there, smoking, while he surveyed the dim sky above the trees which surrounded the curious old house.
The howl of a dog came from some spot on the ground below. Silence; then an answering howl from another portion of the grounds. A dry laugh came from Stokes Corvin. This was adventure, of a sort.
The cigarette sped downward like a meteor as Corvin snapped it through the opened window pane. Corvin saw it reach the dark ground and lie there like a glowing ember. The speck of light died. Stokes Corvin walked across the room.
His shoes thudded on the floor. The springs creaked as Corvin flung himself, still clothed, upon the bed. Minutes passed, while occasional canine howls came like ghostly wails. Then there were snores from the direction of the bed.
Stokes Corvin, the latest of Windrop Raleigh’s legatees, had chosen sleep in preference to the weird atmosphere that surrounded Montgard. A prisoner for the night, he had postponed adventure until the morrow.
CHAPTER VII
SHADOWS AT NIGHT
IT was the next evening. Fading twilight showed Montgard, a looming edifice amid the dying glow. Darkened turrets, surmounting forbidding walls, made the place appear as a haunt of ghosts.
The sun had set beyond the old house. The last rays of daylight produced an elongated shadow from the old mansion; a stretch of darkness that seemed to warn all strangers not to enter.
A peculiar, hunched-up man was pacing a balcony that projected from the second story. It was Jarvis Raleigh. At times, the master of Montgard paused in his walk to gaze intently toward the drive that led in from the road. He was staring at the scene before him, apparently watching for intruders.
Yet even the beady eyes of Jarvis Raleigh could not perceive the strange figure that was approaching Montgard. Like a creature torn from darkness, a tall form was stalking beside the trees that fringed the driveway. Unseen, this ghostly visitant reached the blackened shade of the house. There it merged with darkness.