I stared rather blankly at the ivy-covered lodge, which, if appearances were to be trusted, was unoccupied. But I pushed open the iron gate and tugged9 at a ring which was suspended from the wall. A discordant10 clangor rewarded my efforts, the cracked note of a bell which spoke11 from somewhere high up in the building, that seemed to be buffeted12 to and fro from fir to fir, until it died away, mournfully, in some place of shadows far up the slope.
In the voice of the bell there was something lonesome, something akin7 to the atmosphere of desertion which seemed to lie upon the whole neighborhood—something fearful, too, as though the bell would whisper: "Return! Beware of disturbing the dwellers13 in this place."
The house, one wing of which I have said was visible from the inn window, could not be seen at all from the gate. Indeed I had lost sight of it at the moment that I had set out and had never obtained a glimpse of it since.
Ten minutes before, I had inquired the way from a farm-laborer whom I had met on the road, and he had answered me with a curiosity but thinly veiled. His directions had been characterized by that rustic14 vagueness which assumes in the inquirer an intimate knowledge of local landmarks15. But nevertheless I believed I had come aright. I gathered from its name that Friar's Park was in part at least a former monastic building, and certainly the cracked bell spoke with the voice of ancient monasteries16, and had in it the hush17 of cloisters18 and the sigh of renunciation.
Although I had mentioned nothing of the purpose of my journey to mine host of the Abbey Inn or to any of his cronies—and these were few in number—I had hoped to find Hawkins at the lodge; and a second time I awoke the ghostly bell-voice. But nothing responded to its call; man, bird and beast had seemingly deserted20 Friar's Park.
Faintly I detected the lowing of cattle in some distant pasture; the ranks of firs whispered secretly one to another; and the pall above the hills grew blacker and began to stretch out over the valley.
Amid this ominous21 stillness of nature I began to ascend22 the cone-strewn path. Evidently enough the extensive grounds had been neglected for years, and that few pedestrians23 and fewer vehicles ever sought Friar's Park was demonstrated by the presence of luxurious24 weeds in the carriage-way. Having proceeded for some distance, until the sheer hillside seemed to loom25 over me like the wall of a tower, I paused, peering about in the ever growing darkness. I was aware of a physical chill; certainly no ray of sunlight ever penetrated26 to this tunnel through the firs. Could I have mistaken the path and be proceeding27, not towards the house, but away from it, and into the gloom of the woods? Or perhaps the deserted lodge was that of some other, empty establishment.
There was something uncomfortable in this reflection; momentarily I knew a childish fear of the dim groves28. I thought of the "darkness 'broidered with luminous29 eyes," and I walked forward rapidly, self-assertively. Ten paces brought me to one of the many bends in the winding30 road—and there, far ahead, as though out of some cavern31 in the very hillside, a yellow light shone.
I pressed on with greater assurance, until the house became visible. Now I perceived that I had indeed strayed from the carriage sweep in some way, for the path that I was following terminated at the foot of a short flight of moss32-covered steps. I mounted the steps and found myself at the bottom of a terrace. The main entrance was far to my left and separated from the terrace by a neglected lawn. That portion of the place was Hanoverian and ugly, whilst the wing nearest to me was Tudor and picturesque33. Excepting the yellow light shining out from a window on the right of the porch, no illuminations were visible about the house, although the brewing34 storm had already plunged35 the hollow into premature36 night.
My conception of Friar's Park had been wide of the reality—and there was no sign of occupancy about this strange-looking mansion37, which might have hidden forgotten for centuries in the horse-shoe of the hills. The stillness of the place was of that sort which almost seems to be palpable; that can be seen and felt. A humid chill arose apparently38 from the terrace, with its stone pavings outlined in moss, and crept up from the wilderness39 below and down from the fir woods above.
I had crossed the terrace and the lawn, and now stood looking through the open French window from which light had proceeded into a room that evidently adjoined the hall. A great still darkness had come, and on a littered table in this room a reading-lamp was burning.
The room was furnished as a library. Every available foot of wall space was occupied by laden40 bookcases. The volumes were nearly all old and many of them were in strange, evidently foreign, bindings. Items of chemical apparatus41 and cases of specimens43 were visible also as well as an amazing collection of Egyptian relics44 strewn about the place in the utmost disorder45.
At the table a man was seated, deep in study of a huge leather-bound volume. He was strangely gaunt, and apparently very tall. His clean-shaven face resembled that of Anubis, the hawk19-headed god of Ancient Egypt, and his hair, which was growing white, he wore long and brushed back from his bony brow. His skin was of a dull, even yellow color, and his long thin brown hands betrayed to me the fact that the man was a Eurasian. The crunching46 of a piece of gravel47 under foot revealed my presence. The man looked up swiftly.
I started. Those widely-opened black eyes were truly hawk-like in their dark intensity48 of gaze, and the uncanny resemblance to Anubis was heightened by them. More than ever convinced that I had made a mistake:
"Forgive me for so rudely disturbing you," I said, "but I was under the impression that this was Friar's Park, whereas I fear I have trespassed49."
The intense gaze never left my face for a moment, but:
"There is no trespass," answered the man at the table, speaking in a high harsh voice and with a marked but evasive accent. "All visitors are welcome—chance ones, or otherwise. But you have certainly lost your way; this is the Bell House."
"And am I far from Friar's Park?"
"No great distance. May I ask if Lady Coverly knew of your proposed visit?"
"She did not," I said with surprise.
There was something peremptory51 and imperious in his manner which I resented, and evidently perceiving this resentment52:
"I am Lady Coverly's medical adviser," added the Eurasian. "Possibly I can afford you some assistance. In any event I fear you will have to accept my poor hospitality for the nonce. The alternative is a drenching53."
Even as he spoke, the hollow was illuminated54 by a blinding flash of lightning, and indeed his last words were drowned in the thunder that boomed and crashed in deepening peals55 over the hills.
In a sudden tropical torrent56 the rain descended57, and I stepped forward into the room. Its occupant rose to his great height to greet me.
"I am Dr. Damar Greefe," he said, and bowed formally.
I made myself known to him in turn, and with a sort of stately courtesy he set a high-backed chair for me and himself resumed his former seat.
"You are a stranger to this neighborhood, I gather?" he continued.
Now, in spite of his polished courtesy, there was that about Dr. Damar Greefe which I did not and could not like. The voice was the voice of a gentleman, but the face was a mask—a mask of Anubis; and seated there in that strange untidy apartment, amid varied58 relics of the past and obscure experiments possibly designed to pry59 into the future, whilst thunder boomed high over the Bell House, I determined60 to withhold61 from Dr. Damar Greefe the true nature of my mission. In fact already I regretted having told him my name—although to have given a fictitious62 one would have been a gross violation63 of hospitality unhesitatingly offered.
Even now I find it hard to explain the mingled64 sentiments which claimed me on the occasion of this my first meeting with a very singular man.
"I am taking a brief rest cure," I replied; "and as I am given to understand that Friar's Park is of much historical interest, I had purposed seeking permission to look over the place and if possible to take a few photographs."
Dr. Damar Greefe inclined his head gravely.
"A former monastic house, Mr. Addison," he replied. "And as you say, of great archaeological interest. But the regrettably poor health of Lady Coverly makes it impossible for her to entertain visitors."
Something in the tone of his voice, which now he had lowered so that some of its natural harshness was disguised, set me wondering where I had heard it before. It needed no further scrutiny65 of the hawk face to convince me that I had never hitherto met Dr. Damar Greefe; but I certainly believed that I had previously66 heard his voice, although I quite failed to recall where and under what circumstances.
"Sir Burnham has been dead for several years, I believe?" I asked tentatively.
"For several years, yes."
Without returning to the peremptory tone which had distinguished67 his earlier manner, Dr. Damar Greefe coldly but courteously68 blocked my path to discussion of the Coverly family; and after several abortive69 attempts to draw him out upon the point, I recognized this deliberate design and abandoned the matter.
The storm was moving westward70, and although brilliant flashes of lightning several times lighted up the queer room, gleaming upon the gayly-painted lid of an Egyptian sarcophagus or throwing into horrid71 relief some anatomical specimen42 in one of the cases, the thunder crashed no more over the house. But its booming reached my ears from away upon a remote spur of the hills. I became aware of a growing uneasiness in the company of my chance host, who sat by the oddly littered table, watching me with those birdlike eyes.
"Surely," I said, "the rain has ceased?"
"Temporarily," he replied, glancing toward the terrace. "But I should advise you to delay a few minutes longer. There is every threat of a concluding downpour to come ere long."
"Many thanks," I returned; "I'll risk it. I have already trespassed unwarrantably upon your time, Dr. Greefe. It was good of you to give me shelter."
He rose, a tall thin figure, vaguely72 repellent, upon realizing that I was set on departure, and conducted me out by way of the front door. Standing73 in the porch:
"At any time that you chance to be again in my neighborhood, Mr. Addison," he said, "I beg of you to call. I have few visitors."
By what process, whether of reasoning or intuition, I came to the conclusion, I know not; but as I turned the bend of the tree-roofed drive and saw the deserted lodge ahead, I knew beyond any possibility of doubt that Dr. Damar Greefe had not returned to his studies, but had swiftly passed along some path through the trees so as to head me off! His purpose in so doing I knew not, but that he had cherished this purpose and proposed to act upon it I had divined in some way at the moment that I had left him in the porch.
Now, hastening my steps, I began to wonder if his design was to intercept74 me or merely to watch which way I should turn on gaining the main road. That it was the latter I presently learned; for although my unpleasant imagination pictured the gaunt hawk-like figure lurking75 amid the shadows which hemmed76 me in, I played the part of innocence77 and never once looked back.
Coming out into the highroad, I turned sharply left, retracing78 the route by which I had come to the Eurasian doctor's abode79. If he had suspected that I had intended to call at Friar's Park despite his assurance that such a visit would prove futile80, then he was disappointed. A new and strange theory to account for "the Oritoga mystery" had presented itself to me—a horrible theory, yet, so far as my present data went, a feasible one. Above all, I realized that I had committed a strategical error in openly seeking an interview with Lady Coverly. But I had not, when I had formed that plan, known of the existence of Dr. Damar Greefe.
I uttered a sigh of relief upon emerging upon the highroad. The certainty that the white-haired Eurasian was dogging me through the trees was an unpleasant one. And now I perceived that several courses presented themselves; but first I must obtain more information. I perceived a mystery within a mystery; for I was not likely to forget that in Dr. Damar Greefe's collection I had noted81 a number of Bubastite cats.
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1
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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3
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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4
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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5
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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7
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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8
presaging
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的现在分词 ) | |
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9
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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12
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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13
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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14
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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15
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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16
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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17
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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18
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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21
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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23
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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24
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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25
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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26
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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28
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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29
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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30
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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31
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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32
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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34
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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35
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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36
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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37
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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38
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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39
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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40
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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41
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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42
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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43
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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44
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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45
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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46
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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47
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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48
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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49
trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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50
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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51
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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52
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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53
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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54
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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55
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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57
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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58
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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59
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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60
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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61
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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62
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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63
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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64
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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65
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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66
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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67
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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68
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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69
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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70
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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71
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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72
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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73
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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74
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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75
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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76
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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77
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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78
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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79
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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80
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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81
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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