I thought the subject rather ill chosen, but recognized
that my friend was talking more or less at random
and in desperation; indeed, failing his reminiscences
of Graywater Park, I think the demon of silence must
have conquered us completely.
“Presumably,” I said, unconsciously speaking
as though I feared the sound of my own voice, “this
Spanish priest was confined at some time in the famous
hidden chamber?”
“He was supposed to know the secret of a hoard
of church property, and tradition has it, that he
was put to the question in some gloomy dungeon ...”
He ceased abruptly; in fact the effect was that which
must have resulted had the speaker been suddenly stricken
down. But the deadly silence which ensued was
instantly interrupted. My heart seemed to be
clutched as though by fingers of ice; a stark and supernatural
horror held me riveted in my chair.
For as though Nayland Smith’s words had been
heard by the ghostly inhabitant of Graywater Park,
as though the tortured priest sought once more release
from his age-long sufferings—there came
echoing, hollowly and remotely, as if from a subterranean
cavern, the sound of knocking.
From whence it actually proceeded I was wholly unable
to determine. At one time it seemed to surround
us, as though not one but a hundred prisoners were
beating upon the paneled walls of the huge, ancient
apartment.
Faintly, so faintly, that I could not be sure if I
heard aright, there came, too, a stifled cry.
Louder grew the the frantic beating and louder ...
then it ceased abruptly.
“Merciful God!” I whispered—“what
was it? What was it?”
THE EAST TOWER
With a cigarette between my lips I sat at the open
window, looking out upon the skeleton trees of the
orchard; for the buds of early spring were only just
beginning to proclaim themselves.
The idea of sleep was far from my mind. The attractive
modern furniture of the room could not deprive the
paneled walls of the musty antiquity which was their
birthright. This solitary window deeply set and
overlooking the orchard upon which the secret stair
was said to open, struck a note of more remote antiquity,
casting back beyond the carousing days of the Stuart
monarchs to the troublous time of the Middle Ages.
An air of ghostly evil had seemed to arise like a
miasma within the house from the moment that we had
been disturbed by the unaccountable rapping.
It was at a late hour that we had separated, and none
of us, I think, welcomed the breaking up of our little
party. Mrs. Oram, the housekeeper, had been closely
questioned by Smith—for Homopoulo, as a
new-comer, could not be expected to know anything of
the history of Graywater Park. The old lady admitted
the existence of the tradition which Nayland Smith
had in some way unearthed, but assured us that never,
in her time, had the uneasy spirit declared himself.
She was ignorant (or, like the excellent retainer
that she was, professed to be ignorant) of the location
of the historic chamber and staircase.
