# The Black House in Harley Street/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX
KIDNAPPED
Goulburn woke at an unusually early hour next morning, and, suddenly remembering that that was his wedding-day, became instantly assured that he would certainly not go to sleep again. Glancing at the clock on his mantelpiece, he saw that it was just half-past six, and as he had several small matters to attend to before setting out for Mr. Conybeare's office soon after breakfast, he decided to rise. Had Christopher Aspinall still been in the house he would have routed him out of bed too, just for the sake of having somebody to talk to; but Christopher had gone a little way out of town on the previous evening in order to see a sick relative, and would not return until just before the ceremony—at which no one but himself, Maisie, Dr. van Mildart, and Miss Lamotte were to be present.
It was half-past seven when Goulburn made an end of his toilet, and within the succeeding three-quarters of an hour he had done all the things that he wanted to do, and there was yet a similar stretch of time to get through before breakfast. But at half-past eight Maisie appeared and made some company for him. She ​had not yet got over her surprise and astonishment at hearing of what was to take place that day, and she was almost wistful, and more than usually affectionate in her attitude towards him as they sat awaiting breakfast.
"I'm sure you're really much too young to be married, Dick dear," she said, stroking his cheek. "I've always felt such a little mother to you that you seem quite a small boy yet."
"What about Chris, then?" asked Goulburn, laughing at her.
"Oh, but Chris is quite three years older than you, Dick, and he's so much more experienced and old-fashioned," she said. "Why, it seems to me as if you and Moira were nothing but children—you really are only a boy."
"Well, we'll get on somehow, Maisie," he said confidently. "We haven't much doubt about things, Moira and I. You'll find us a quite old-fashioned and well-accustomed couple when you join us," he continued, referring to the fact that Maisie, who was that day expecting a long-promised visit from an old school friend, was on its expiration to meet him and Moira at Christiana preparatory to a long trip amongst the Norwegian fjords, "and you'll see what a model husband I shall make. It's a pity Chris can't go with us for a few weeks—I might teach him some lessons."
"I shall make Chris go for his holiday this very afternoon," said Maisie. "He's been dangling about town too long—he wants some country air. Then Violet ​and I will have the house all to ourselves. She'll be disappointed in not seeing you, Dick—I'd told her so much about you. Now, if she'd only arrived this morning, she might have gone with me to see you married."
Goulburn was about to reply that he was sorry his sister's friend would miss such a grand occasion, when the parlour-maid appeared at the door looking somewhat surprised.
"There is some one in the hall wishes to speak to you, sir," she said, glancing at Goulburn in a somewhat embarrassed manner.
"Some one in the hall? Wishes to speak to me? Who is it, Mary?"
"I don't know, sir—a young man, sir. He seems to be in a great hurry."
"What is he like? Didn't he tell you his business?" asked Goulburn.
"No, sir, except that he must see you at once. I—I think he's a footman, sir," answered the parlour-maid.
Goulburn, wondering what any one could want with him at that hour, left the library and walked across to the outer hall. There, outlined against the open door, he saw a young man whose appearance justified the description which the parlour-maid had given of him—a tall, well-built young fellow, dressed in sober black, who bowed politely as Goulburn advanced to meet him.
"Mr. Goulburn?" he said interrogatively.
"Yes," replied Goulburn.
"I am from Dr. Maddison, of Prince's Gate, sir. ​This morning, about half-past seven, a lady was thrown from her horse close by our house, and was carried into the surgery. It is not a dangerous injury, sir," the man hastened to add, seeing that Goulburn was already manifesting signs of concern—"a broken arm, sir; but the lady will not be able to be moved just yet. She asked my master to send for you and your sister, sir, as she wished to see you both at once."
He put into Goulburn's hand two cards—one Dr. Maddison's, the other Moira's. Goulburn started at the latter as if he could scarcely credit his senses.
"You're sure it's nothing worse than that?" he said.
"That is all that I was told, sir," answered the man politely.
"We will go at once," said Goulburn. "Mary, ring up the stables, and tell Jarvis to bring round the brougham instantly."
"I have my master's brougham at the door, sir," said the man. "The horses are very fast."
Goulburn glanced through the open door, and saw a quiet-looking but perfectly appointed brougham standing outside. Its coachman was lazily flicking the flies off two fine bays, who seemed impatient to be in movement.
"That will be better," said Goulburn. "We shall save time. Never mind the stables, Mary. We will be ready at once," he continued, turning to the footman.
He ran back to the library, sick at heart and with something of a feeling of impending catastrophe heavy ​upon him. As yet he could not realise that an accident, even of a trivial nature, could have happened to the girl to whom, if all had gone well, he would have been married in the course of a few hours. But, while incapable of this particular realisation, he was fully capable of realising that matters might be much worse than he knew of. It was the usual thing, as he knew, to minimise such affairs when breaking the news of them, and he had fancied that he observed an air of reticence about the messenger. For aught he knew, Moira might be very seriously injured, perhaps dead. Why had this thing come on what should have been their wedding-day?
Maisie saw the concern in his face as he entered the library, and ran to him.
"Something's the matter, Dick?" she said.
"Yes," he answered slowly, "something's the matter, Maisie. Moira's had an accident—a fall from her horse—and the man says her arm is broken. Perhaps that's a mere phrase—it may be worse."
"Oh no, no!" she said. "They'd have told you."
He shook his head miserably.
"Get ready, Maisie," he said. "She's at some doctor's house in Kensington. His brougham's waiting outside. She wants us to go to her."
Then, when Maisie had hurried away, it suddenly occurred to him that while she was getting ready for this unexpected visit, he might tell Dr. van Mildart of the news, and he left the house and went next door. ​Pimpery, stolid and strange as ever, answered his summons.
"Is your master at home, Pimpery?" Goulburn inquired.
"No, sir," replied the butler. "My master went away before seven o'clock this morning. I believe he has gone into the country, sir—he was driven to King's Cross."
Goulburn hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should ask for Miss Lamotte, but catching sight of Maisie, who was just coming down the steps from their own house, he made some remark about seeing Dr. van Mildart later on, and hurried to join his sister. Together they entered the carriage, and were rapidly driven away.
It was plain to Maisie that her brother was seriously troubled, and she made haste to reassure him.
"Don't look at the worst side of things straight off, Dick," she said. "You've no reason to think that the man has not told you the whole truth, for there's no reason why he should conceal it. I expect the fine morning tempted Moira out for a ride, and that her horse slipped, or something of that sort. You'll find it won't be a bit worse than the man says."
"I don't know," said Goulburn, with a gloomy shake of his head. "It's the usual thing to break all these things to you by degrees. The doctor evidently wanted us to be there as quickly as possible, or he wouldn't have sent his carriage for us—he could have telephoned for us."
​"Perhaps he isn't on the telephone," she answered. "Anyway, we shall soon be there now, Dick."
Looking back upon it subsequently, Goulburn remembered every incident of that hurried drive across the West End. Things and incidents are invariably impressed upon the mind at such times, and he unconsciously noted matters which he would have disregarded or treated with indifference on any other occasion. Thus, he observed that the appointments of the brougham in which he and Maisie were riding were very elegant and luxurious, that the springs were perfect and the movement absolutely smooth, and that the horses kept up a smart trot all the way. He noticed the way in which London was waking to its daily tasks—in Oxford Street the usual stream of vehicles and pedestrians were pouring city-wards; the shops were just opening, and shirt-sleeved assistants were eagerly criticising the appearance of the windows they had just set out with goods. In the Park still lingered people who had either come out late for their ante-breakfast ride or had breakfasted at an early hour. The vanguard of the customary army of nurses and their charges was already debouching upon the usual parade ground; here and there on the grass, cast down like so many bundles of useless rags, lay the unkempt, unwashed derelicts of humanity, for whom the day could afford nothing better than the opportunity of lying idle in the sun. The first brilliancy of the green had gone from the trees, but there had been gentle showers earlier in the morning, and the flowers in their ​beds amidst the patches of lawn looked gay and bright enough for the end of spring instead of being parched by the heat of declining summer.
Goulburn found himself watching the various places by which they passed as if he had never seen them before, though they were all as familiar to him as his own fingers. And he suddenly asked a question, half-impatiently, half-querulously—
"How far is it to Prince's Gate, Maisie?"
Maisie looked at him, and recognised that his nerves were upset.
"We're close by, dear," she said. "Don't you remember?—we used to know this part so well when you and Chris used to take me into Kensington Gardens."
Goulburn looked about him, almost vacantly.
"Oh yes!" he said indifferently, "I remember now. I was only thinking that we seemed to be driving a long way."
However, at that moment the brougham turned into Prince's Gate, and in another moment had drawn up at the door of an imposing-looking house. The man who had brought the message to Goulburn sprang down from his seat beside the coachman, opened the door, and ushered them up the steps. As they left it, the brougham was rapidly driven away.
The man opened the door of the house with a latch-key, and ushered Goulburn and Maisie into a large entrance hall, which felt singularly cool after the July heat which filled the streets outside. It was somewhat curious in appearance, this hall; long and high, with ​marble-faced walls, it showed little of decoration beyond a few massively framed oil-paintings and a miniature fountain in the middle of the black-and-grey pavement. No staircase went off from it, but on either side of it were three great doors, canopied over with elaborately carved woodwork; a similar door closed in the farther extremity.
Goulburn and his sister had scarcely time to notice the singular silence and gloom of this cloister-like place. Their conductor, opening the first door on the right-hand side of the hall, revealed what was evidently a waiting-room, and bowed them within.
"I will tell Dr. Maddison you are here, sir," he said, and went away and closed the door upon them.
Goulburn and Maisie looked round the room. There was nothing in it to distinguish it from any similar apartment; the objects seen in a fashionable physician's waiting-room were to be seen in this. In the centre was a long table, whereon were carefully arranged the newspapers, the reviews, and the magazines. Straight-backed chairs were set against the walls with proper regard to mathematical precision; easy-chairs appeared in close proximity to the fireplace and at intervals about the room. The windows were gay with flowering plants; between them a gaudily plumaged macaw hung in a gilded cage. On the soberly tinted walls, each hung with due regard to proper spacing, were twelve steel engravings of famous pictures. Goulburn, who was beginning to take a serious interest in art, observed that they were of excellent quality. And ​there were two stands of books—one filled with volumes of the better-class magazines and reviews, the other with the latest novels. No one having occasion to wait some time in that room need lack the means whereby to spend it profitably.
Impatient for news of Moira, neither brother nor sister either sat down or took up newspaper or magazine. After glancing round the room and noting its contents and appearance, they began to fidget as people usually do who find themselves constrained to wait indefinitely in a strange place. The clock on the mantelpiece went on ticking—five minutes past, ten minutes past, and no one came to them. Goulburn grew restive.
"I wish some one would come," he said. "If no one appears within the next five minutes, I shall ring the bell."
However, he had scarcely spoken when the door opened, and a woman in the dress of a nurse entered. She was a tall, handsome woman of sturdy and vigorous frame, and her square jaw, steady eyes, and resolute expression conveyed an instant suggestion of great physical and mental strength. Her glance went directly to Maisie.
"Miss Goulburn?" she said interrogatively.
"Yes?" answered Maisie.
"Will you kindly come with me?" said the woman in the nurse's dress. Then, turning to Goulburn, she said, "If you will wait a few moments, sir, the doctor will come to you."
​"Can you give me some news of Miss Phillimore?" asked Goulburn, as Maisie prepared to follow her guide from the room. "Is she very much hurt? Is it very serious?"
"Oh, I don't think so," replied the nurse. "But the doctor can tell you more than I can."
With that she ushered Maisie from the room and closed the door again upon Goulburn, who was left to fume and fret with impatience. He picked up an illustrated paper, and almost instantly threw it down again. He turned over the pages of a magazine, and saw nothing. A full quarter of an hour went by, and no one appeared. He opened the door and looked out into the hall; it was empty, and the whole house was as silent as the grave; the noise of the traffic from outside seemed scarcely to penetrate its walls. He shut the door again and waited; when at last it opened again, he turned eagerly to meet whoever might enter.
The man who entered was a tall, heavily built, clean-shaven individual, of apparently fifty or thereabouts, dressed scrupulously in black, perfectly groomed, gold-spectacled. He bowed slightly as he looked at Goulburn; the latter felt, more than recognised, a certain keen scrutiny in the inspection which the steady, penetrating eyes behind the spectacles gave him.
"Mr. Goulburn?" he said. And without waiting for an answer he continued, "I am sorry you have been kept so long. Will you kindly follow me?"
He turned as he spoke and marched with a strong, ​heavy step out of the room, leaving Goulburn to follow at his heels. The latter, filled as he was with anxiety about Moira, found himself wondering at the evident strength of the man's hands, which he held, loosely grasped, behind his back as he walked along the hall. They were peculiarly sinewy and muscular, and looked powerful enough to knock down an ox.
"If I am addressing Dr. Maddison," said Goulburn, "I should like to know how Miss Phillimore really is, and if her injuries are serious?"
The big man spoke over his shoulder.
"I am Dr. Maddison's assistant," he said. "He will be able to tell you more than I can."
This answer, short and somewhat careless in tone, only made Goulburn's anxiety the greater. He wondered why his guide should be so curt in manner, and set him down as a churlish fellow by nature.
"This way, Mr. Goulburn," said the big man.
He opened the door at the end of the hall, and revealed a flight of stairs, richly carpeted. The corridor at the head of these was like the hall they had just left—-cool, silent, and its walls faced with marble tiles and ornamented here and there with oil-paintings. Traversing it for some little distance, they turned aside into a narrow corridor, the carpeting of which was just as thick and soft to the touch. In this, as in the other, the silence was profound. Goulburn formed the impression that Dr. Maddison must take private patients, and that the house was a sort of hospital; but if so, where were nurses, and attendants, and servants? The corridor was ​empty of life; there was no sound anywhere. And he was conscious of a strange sense of utter isolation in the house.
His guide presently stopped, opened a door, and with a sign beckoned Goulburn to follow him. They stepped into a small ante-chamber, some nine feet square, in the farther wall of which was a closed door. This the big man opened gently, revealing a large screen which hid all view of the room within. He motioned Goulburn to enter.
"Please to make no noise," he whispered with admonitory finger, as he stood aside.
Goulburn walked in on tiptoe and went round the screen. A sudden startled exclamation burst from his lips; he sprang back at a bound for the door. The door snapped in his face, and he heard the sharp click of a patent lock. Then all was silent.
Silent! Silent as the grave, or as one of those horrible oubliettes in which they used to immure their captives in the Bastille.
That he was trapped; that there was foul play; that he and Maisie, and in all probability Moira also, were victims of conspiracy and treachery; that they, judging from his situation, were most likely utterly helpless and in the hands of merciless enemies—he was now as certain as that he breathed. He was trapped—as securely trapped as a rat in a cage.
Though not by any means a coward, Goulburn felt his heart thumping against his ribs with such violence that he could scarcely draw breath. His tongue suddenly ​became of a fiery dryness; his palate felt as if some fiendish hand had poured quicklime upon it; his lips opened and remained apart through the sheer thirst which only intense fear can arouse. It seemed to him that he had suddenly become enclosed in a living grave. He was at the mercy of whoever it was that had thus secured him; how long did they mean him to be thus imprisoned?
Then he groaned aloud, leaning against the door, because the thought of Moira and Maisie came to him. He pictured them caged, trapped, helpless—as he was. And women!
After the first sickening moment Goulburn made an effort to pull himself together, realising that he must keep his wits about him and not give way to panic. He tried the door, and at once perceived that it was as securely fastened and as impregnable as that of a vault in the cellars of the Bank of England. From examining its fit and tapping its panels he came to the conclusion that it was an iron door cased over with mahogany—one might as well have thought of lifting the Monument as of forcing it or cutting through it, he said to himself. And with that, he pushed aside the screen and made a careful inspection of what he now felt to be nothing less than a prison cell.
The room into which he had been so easily inveigled was about sixteen feet square, and was lighted by one window, which was securely fenced in by stout bars of iron. What might lie beyond the window it was impossible to tell, for the glass was a dull opaque. The ​walls of the room, bare of any picture or ornament, were painted in a drab tint, which helped to communicate an air of melancholy to the place. The furniture was of the most meagre description. In one corner stood a narrow camp bedstead; beneath the window was a plain washstand; on another side was an equally plain toilet table. An easy-chair stood in the centre of the room, two bedroom chairs were ranged on either side of the toilet table. Nothing plainer or more cell-like could have been imagined. And the silence was profound. Yet, as Goulburn knew very well, the tide of London's busy life was flowing at the full only a few yards away from him.
"It's like being in a trap," he muttered to himself. "Just like being in a trap! And what am I here for? And where are Maisie and Moira?"
That van Mildart was at the bottom of this he now believed with an intense appreciation of the treachery played upon himself and his sister, and presumably upon Moira. But why—why? He flung himself down in the easy-chair and tried to arrive at some notion as to the reason of this outrage.
An hour went by—another hour—nothing occurred to break the monotony of his imprisonment. He felt sure that Maisie must have met the same treatment, and shuddered to think of her fear. Moira he had more confidence of—she had nerves and pluck. And yet she would be frightened, because she would wonder what had become of him.
At one o'clock a sudden clicking sound made him ​start. Looking round, he saw that what he had taken to be the door of a small cupboard in the wall was slowly opening. Wide open, it revealed a cavity about eighteen inches square. On the bottom of this some unseen hand placed a small tray furnished with ma- terials for lunch—half a cold chicken, salad, bread, a bottle of claret. The hand vanished.
Goulburn sprang to the unsuspected entrance to his prison and shouted into it—
"Here—you! Why am I locked in here? Why?———"
He heard the slamming of an iron door on the other side of the wall; then there was silence again. It was evident that no one was going to speak to him merely because he desired it.
He examined the opening through which his lunch had been thrust, and found that it was like the hatches which were fitted in the cells of the Carthusian monas- teries—a double rectangular return in the thickness of the wall, which permitted any one outside to pass any- thing inside without being seen, thus:—
Goulburn ate and drank—first, because it struck him as being a wise thnig; secondly, because it would pass the time. When he had finished he put the tray back in the hatch—a moment later, without his hearing any audible sound, it was whisked away, and in its stead appeared a pile of books and newspapers and a box of cigarettes. Then the outer door closed again with a metallic crash. The afternoon went by in utter silence. At half-past seven his unseen jailer served him with dinner. It was an excellent dinner, well cooked, and the wine was of the best vintages, and the coffee and liqueur which followed equally good. Then came silence again, and at last the twilight. With it his cell—for he now so regarded it—was flooded with electric light, which shone from a lamp in the ceiling too high for him to reach.
At eleven o'clock this light went out as suddenly as it had been turned on.
Goulburn threw himself on the bed in his trousers and shirt. And, strange as it appeared to him afterwards, he fell into a deep sleep—deep and dreamless.
He suddenly awoke with a start—to find his prison again brilliantly lighted, and two men standing at his bedside.