Eli's Children Part 82

"I'll watch here," said Artingale.

"Right, sir. I'll soon have some one on at the other side. You, sir, watch at the area,"--to Magnus. "If any one comes out and tries to run, you lay hold and stick to 'im. I'll soon be back."

"Quick, then; for heaven's sake, quick!" cried Artingale; and the man went off at a run.

"Let's go after the cab, Harry," cried Magnus, excitedly.

"Let's run after the moon, man. It would be madness. If anything is wrong they are far away by now. But we don't know yet that anything is wrong. Wait a few minutes. We shall soon find out."

"And meantime?" panted Magnus.

"We can do nothing but act like men, and remain calm. Go to your post,"

exclaimed Artingale; and he spoke in a sharp, decisive way, that showed that the service had missed a good officer.

Five minutes--ten minutes--a quarter of an hour of torture, during which all inside was as still as death. Then as Artingale stood in the open doorway he fancied he heard a slight sound, and as he stood upon the _qui vive_, ready to seize the first man who presented himself, he heard steps outside, and saw that a policeman was coming.

Steps inside, too, and then from the hall a bull's-eye lantern flashed upon him.

"All right, sir," said a familiar voice; and he saw that it was the first policeman. "The dining-room window was open facing the Park. I come in there. I've got a man watching. That you, sergeant?"

"Yes. You stop here with this gentleman; get out your truncheon, and don't miss 'em, whatever you do. Roberts will be along here directly."

"What are you going to do first?" said Artingale.

"Rout up the butler and one or two more, sir, directly," said the sergeant, opening his lantern; and as they entered the hall he made the light play about the perfectly orderly place, before going softly into the great dining-room.

"Don't quite understand it yet, sir," he said. "The dining-room shutters here had been opened from the inside. Window was open. Seen anything?" he said to some one in the shadow. "No."

"There's plate enough on that sideboard," continued the sergeant, "to have made a pretty good swag, if it ain't 'lectrer."

"No, no, those are all silver. It is a presentation set."

"Then we're in time," whispered the sergeant. "I expect the servants are in it."

A terrible dread was oppressing Artingale, but he did not speak, only followed the sergeant as he tried the breakfast-room door, to find it fast and the key outside; the library the same.

"All right there," he said softly. "Joe, here. Stand inside and keep your eye on the staircase; we're going below."

The constable at the entrance obeyed his orders, and softly opening a gla.s.s door, the sergeant, who seemed quite at home in the geography of the place, led the way down a flight of well-whitened stone steps to the bas.e.m.e.nt, the bright light of his lantern playing upon a long row of bells, and then upon a broad stone pa.s.sage and several doors.

"Butler's pantry," he whispered, after a good look round. "You stop here, sir."

Artingale stopped short, guarding the foot of the steps, and the sergeant tried the door, to find it fast, but as the handle rattled a man's voice exclaimed, "Who's there?"

"Police! Open quickly."

There was a scuffling noise, then the striking of a match, and a light shone out from three panes of gla.s.s above the door. The hurried sound of some one putting on some clothes, and then a peculiar monitory _click-click_!

"Mind what you're at with that pistol," said the sergeant gruffly. "I tell you it's the police. Open the door."

"How do I know it's the police?" said the butler firmly.

"Come and see then, stupid."

"Open the door, Thompson," said Artingale. "I'm here too."

"Oh, is it you, my lord?" said the butler, and he unlocked the door, to be seen in his s.h.i.+rt and trousers, with a c.o.c.ked pistol in his hand.

"I've got the plate here, my lord, and I did not know but what it was a trick. For G.o.d's sake, my lord, what's the matter?"

"Don't know yet," said the sergeant. "But the plate's right, you say?"

"Yes; all but the things in the dining-room."

"They're safe too. We found the front door open. Now then, who sleeps down here?"

"Under-butler, footman, and page," said the butler quickly; and taking a chamber candlestick, he led the way to a smaller pantry where the light showed a red-faced boy fast asleep with his mouth open.

"Where are the men?" said the sergeant laconically; and the butler led the way to a closed door, which opened into a long stone-paved hall, in the two recesses of which were a couple of turned-up bedsteads, in each of which was a sleeping man, one of whom jumped up, however, as the light fell upon his eyes.

"Get up, James," said the butler. "Have either of you fellows been up to any games?"

"No, sir. We came to bed before you," was the reply.

"You'd better get up," said the butler.

Then following the sergeant the bas.e.m.e.nt was searched, and they reascended to the hall.

"I've been all about here," said the sergeant quietly. "They must have meant the jewels and things up-stairs. Next thing is to go up and wake your guv'ner."

"What, alone?" said the butler blankly.

"Come along, then, and I'll go with you."

"I'll come too, sergeant," said Artingale. "Don't alarm the ladies if you can help it."

And together they mounted the thickly-carpeted stairs.

PART TWO, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

GONE! WHERE?

If one could but bring oneself to the belief, there is only a slight difference between day and night, and that difference is that in the latter case there is an absence of light--that is all; but, somehow, we people the darkness with untold horrors. We ignore it, of course; we should ridicule the impeachment, but the fact remains the same, that probably nineteen people out of every twenty are afraid of being in the dark--perhaps more so than they were when children.

Possibly we grow more nervous than when we were young, or gas may have had something to do with it; certainly more people seem to burn lights in their bedrooms than used to be the case before a gas-burner or two had become the regular furniture of a well-ordered bedroom in town.

In our fathers' days, people who were invalids burned long, thin, dismal rushlights in shades, with the candle itself in the middle of a cup of water; or else they had a gla.s.s containing so much oil floating on water, and a little wick upon its own raft, sailing about like a miniature floating beacon in the oil. But still these were the exceptions, and a light in a bedroom was an uncommon thing. At the same time, though, it must be allowed that there is something fear-exciting about the dark rooms, and that sounds that are unnoticed in the broad daylight acquire a strange weirdness if heard when all else is still.

People have a bad habit of being taken ill in the night; burglars choose "the sma'" hours for breaking into houses; sufferers from indigestion select the darkness for their deeds of evil known as sleep-walking; and the imps attendant on one's muscles prefer two or three o'clock in the so-called morning for putting our legs on that rack known as the cramp.