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Sign of Silence, The

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<h2 class="gap3">CHAPTER XX.</h2> <h3>FROM THE TOMB.</h3> Again I shouted—yelled aloud with all my might. I placed my hands to my mouth, making a trumpet of them, and shouted upwards: "Help! For God's sake! Help! I'm down here—dying! Help!—Help!" A dozen times I yelled my appeal, but with the same negative result. Whoever had fired in the vicinity was either too far away, or too occupied with his sport to hear me. I heard another shot fired—more distant than the rest. Then my heart sank within me—the party were receding. I don't know how long I waited—perhaps another hour—when I thought I would try again. Therefore I recommenced my shouts for assistance, yelling frantically towards the high-up opening. Suddenly the streak of light became obscured, and dust and gravel fell upon me, the latter striking my head with great force from such a height. I heard a noise above—a footstep upon the wooden flap of the well. My heart gave a bound. "Help!" I yelled. "Open the well! I'm down here—dying. Save me! Fetch assistance!" The feet above moved, and a moment later I saw above me a round disc of daylight and a head—a girl's head—silhouetted within it. "Who's there?" she asked in a timid, half-frightened voice. "It's me!" I cried. "Get me out of this! I'm dying. Get me a rope or something, quickly!" "Who are you?" asked the girl, still frightened at her discovery. "I'm a man who's been thrown down here, and I can't get out. Get somebody to help me, I beg of you!" "All right!" she replied. "There's some men, shooting here. I'll run and tell them." And her face disappeared from the disc of daylight. At last! Help was forthcoming, and I breathed more freely. I suppose about five minutes must have elapsed before I saw above me the heads of two men in golf-caps, peering over the edge of the well. "Hulloa!" cried one in a refined voice, "what are you doing down there?" "Doing!" I echoed, "you should come down and see!" I said with some sarcasm. "But, I say! Send me down a rope, will you? I'm a prisoner here." "Have you been thrown in there?" asked the voice. "This lady says you have." "Yes, I have. I'll tell you a strange story when you get me out." "All right!" exclaimed the other. "Hold on! We'll go over to the farm and get a rope. Why, I was here half-an-hour ago, and never dreamt you were down there. Hold on!" And the two faces disappeared, their places being taken by the silhouette of the girl. "I say!" I cried. "Where am I? What do they call this place?" "Well, this is one of the fields of Coppin's Farm, just outside Lexden Park." "Do you know Melbourne House?" I asked. "Oh, yes. Miss Morgan's. She's dead," replied the girl's voice from above. "It's out on the high road—close by." "Is this well in the middle of a field, then?" I asked. "In the corner. Some old, half-ruined cottages stood here till a couple of years ago, when they were pulled down." "And this was the well belonging to them?" "I suppose so," she replied, and a few minutes later I heard voices and saw several heads peering down at me, while now and then gravel fell upon my unprotected head, causing me to put my hands up to protect it. "I say!" cried the man's voice who had first addressed me, "We're sending down a rope. Can you fasten it round you, and then we'll haul you up? I expect you're in a pretty state, aren't you?" "Yes; I'm not very presentable, I fear," I laughed. Then down came a stout farmer's rope, several lengths of which were knotted together after some delay, until its end dangled before me. "I hope you've joined it all right," I cried. "I don't want to drop down!" "No, it's all right!" one of the men—evidently a labourer—declared. "You needn't fear, mister." I made a knot in the end, then, placing it around both my thighs, made a slip knot and clung to the rope above. This took me some minutes. Then, when all was ready, I gave the signal to haul. "Slowly!" I shouted, for I was swinging from side to side of the well, bruising my elbows and knees. "Haul slower! I'm getting smashed to pieces!" They heeded me, and with care I was gradually drawn up to the blessed light of day—a light which, for a few minutes, nearly blinded me, so exhausted and dazed was I. Naturally I was beset by a hundred queries as to how I came to be imprisoned in such a place. But I sat down upon the ground, a strange, begrimed and muddy figure, no doubt, gazing about me for a few moments unable to speak. I was in the corner of a bare, brown field, with a high hedgerow close by. Around were the foundations of demolished cottages, and I was seated upon a heap of brick-rubbish and plaster. The two who were dressed in rough, shooting kit I took to be military men, while three others were farm-hands, and the girl—a tall, rather good-looking open-air girl, was dressed in a short, tweed skirt, well-cut, a thick jacket, a soft felt hat, and heavy, serviceable boots. No second glance was needed to show that, although so roughly dressed, she was undoubtedly a lady. One of the men called her Maisie, and later I knew that her name was Maisie Morrice, that she was his sister, who had been walking with the "guns." My presence down the well certainly needed explanation, and as they had rescued me, it was necessary to satisfy their natural curiosity. "I had a curious adventure here last night," I told them, after pausing to take breath. "I came from London to see a lady living at Melbourne House. A lady named Petre—but I was given some drugged wine, and—well, when I came to I found myself down there. That's all." "A very unpleasant experience, I should say," remarked the elder of the two sportsmen, a tall, grey-moustached man, as he surveyed me. "I suppose you'll go back to Melbourne House and get even with the lady? I would!" "Melbourne House!" echoed the other man. "Why, Maisie, that's where old Miss Morgan lived, and it's been taken by some woman with an Indian servant, hasn't it?" "Yes," replied the girl. "She's been there a month or two, but quite a mystery. Nobody has called on her. Mother wouldn't let me." "Apparently she's not a very desirable acquaintance," remarked her brother grimly. "I want to go there," I said feebly, trying to rise. "You seem to have hurt your head pretty badly," remarked the elder sportsman. "I suppose you'd better go into Colchester and see the police—eh?" "I'll drive him in, sir," volunteered one of the men, whom I took to be the farmer. "Yes, Mr. Cuppin," exclaimed the girl. "Get your trap and drive this gentleman to the doctor and the police." "Thank you," I replied. "But I don't want the people at Melbourne House to know that I'm alive. They believe me dead, and it will be a pretty surprise for them when I return, after seeing the doctor. So I ask you all to remain silent about this affair—at least for an hour or so. Will you?" They all agreed to do so, and, being supported by two of the men, I made my way across the field to the farm; and ten minutes later was driving into Colchester in the farmer's dog-cart. At the "Cups" my appearance caused some sensation, but, ascending to my room, I quickly washed, changed my ruined suit, and made myself presentable, and then went to see an elderly and rather fussy doctor, who put on his most serious professional air, and who was probably the most renowned medical man in the town. The provincial medico, when he becomes a consultant, nearly always becomes pompous and egotistical, and in his own estimation is the only reliable man out of Harley Street. The man I visited was one of the usual type, a man of civic honours, with the aspirations of a mayoralty, I surmised. I think he believed that I had injured my head while in a state of intoxication, so I did not undeceive him, and allowed his assistant to bathe and bandage my wound and also the bite upon my cheek, while the farmer waited outside for me. When at last I emerged, I hesitated. Should I go to the police and tell them what had occurred? Or should I return alone to Melbourne House, and by my presence thwart whatever sinister plans might be in progress. If I went to the police I would be forced to explain much that I desired, at least for the present, to keep secret. And, after all, the local police could not render me much assistance. I might give the woman and her accomplices in charge for attempted murder, but would such course help in the solution of the Harrington Gardens affair? After a few moments' reflection I decided to drive straight to the house of shadows and demand an explanation of the dastardly attempt upon me. A quarter of an hour later Mr. Cuppin pulled up near the long, ivy-covered house, and, alighting, I made my way within the iron gate and up the gravelled path to the front door, where I rang. I listened attentively, and heard someone moving. Yes, the house was not empty, as I had half feared. A moment later a neat maid-servant opened the door, and regarded me with some surprise. "Is Mrs. Petre at home?" I inquired. "No, sir, she isn't," replied the girl with a strong East Anglian accent. "When will she be in?" I asked. "I really don't know, sir," she said. "She hasn't left word where she's gone." "Is anyone else at home?" "No, sir." "How long have you been with Mrs. Petre?" I asked, adding, in an apologetic tone, "I hope I'm not too inquisitive?" "I've been here about two months—ever since she took the house." "Don't you think your mistress a rather curious person?" I asked, slipping half-a-sovereign into her hand. She regarded the coin, and then looked at me with a smile of surprise and satisfaction. "I—I hardly know what you mean, sir," she faltered. "Well, I'll be quite frank with you," I said. "I'm anxious to know something about what company she keeps here. Last night, for instance, a gentleman called in a taxi. Did you see him?" "No, sir," she answered. "Mistress sent me out on an errand to the other side of the town, and when I came back just before half-past eleven I found the front door ajar, and everybody gone. And nobody's been back here since." After disposing of my body, then, the precious trio had fled. I knew that Phrida must now be in hourly peril of arrest—for that woman would, now that she believed me dead, lose not an instant in making a damning statement to the police regarding what had occurred on that night in Harrington Gardens. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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