# The Heart of a Mystery/Chapter 6

Extracted from Windsor magazine, vol. 14, 1901, pp. 699-710.

### No. VI.—THE LOST SQUARE.

JUST about this time I lost a considerable sum of money, and from being a man with abundant means I became a comparatively poor one. This misfortune was doubtless a blessing in disguise, for it aroused me from concentrating all my thoughts on my own miserable condition. In the future I must work hard to live and must no longer play with work. My post as secretary to Sir James Noel was no longer, for many reasons, to my taste. I liked Sir James, but both he and I agreed that he would do better with a secretary who was less hampered—in short, a total stranger, who knew nothing about either Mademoiselle or Senhor Pinheiro, would be more to his purpose. I accordingly left him and took lodgings in an unfashionable part of Kensington.
Pinheiro returned to Lisbon, to his work there, and Mademoiselle was, to all appearance, lost to us both. We concluded that she must, in some marvellous way, have contrived to escape from England, and I sincerely hoped that I should never be troubled by her again.
Hard and honest and unceasing work brought back my lost nerve. I was no longer harrowed by the terror of secret assassination. As a poor man I was delightfully unimportant, and I turned all my attention and all my thoughts to the one thing for which I had a special talent. We most of us possess one ability to a sufficient degree to make a living by means of it if necessary, and my talent was an extraordinary one. I could, from my very earliest years, solve almost any acrostic or enigma that was put before me. Even as a child I remember giving the solutions to all the acrostics which appeared in the magazines, and also making quite a nice income by securing the prizes which were offered for the right answers.
Six months, therefore, after I had lost my money and resigned my post as Sir James Noel's secretary, I became one of the constructors of codes and ciphers for the Government, and also received employment from several large commercial firms. I was busy and well paid. My life was practically a new one. I resolved to live it with enthusiasm and contentment, and, if possible, to forget the past.
But alas! the past in cases like mine is seldom really forgotten and seldom safely buried. I was once again to be subjected to the cruel machinations of a deadly foe.
On a certain evening in January, I was just finishing my early tea, when a servant entered the room to say that a foreign gentleman had called and wished to see me at once. Wondering who my visitor was, I told the man to show him in, and rose from the tea-table to receive him.
The next moment there entered a short, but well-built man, of a swarthy complexion. He made a low bow when he saw me, and held his silk hat in his hand.
"I must ask your pardon, Senhor Phenays, for calling upon you at this hour; but my business happens to be of great importance. I bring you a letter from Senhor Jose da Fondeca Pinheiro. He asked me to call upon you as soon as ever I got to town."
The man spoke perfect English, but with a marked foreign pronunciation, and with a curious movement of the lips.
"Indeed," I answered, with eagerness, "I shall always be pleased to welcome any friend of Pinheiro's. Have you the letter with you?"
"Yes, senhor, here it is."
He handed me a letter written in the well known characters of my friend. It ran as follows:—
"My dear Phenays,—The bearer, Senhor da Costa, a native of Lisbon and a friend of mine, has just been to see me in connection with a document and diagram which he believes to be of great value. I have translated the old Portuguese for him, and it refers to the diagram. Both document and diagram are of undoubted antiquity, and seem to be a sort of old cipher or puzzle. I know nothing about such matters, and it occurred to me that, as this is very much in your line, I would send him to you. Even if you cannot do anything with the diagram, you will le entitled to charge a fee for your trouble. In the old Portuguese writing occur the words, 'Casa dos diamantes,' which literally means 'The house of diamonds.' Da Costa has told me, however, that the expression has nothing to do with diamonds, for the stonemasons in Portugal call a stone cut into a four-sided pyramid 'diamante.' I find on inquiry that this is the case. If you can do anything to help Da Costa, you will oblige me. Trusting you are well, my dear Phenays,
"Believe me, yours sincerely,
"Jose da Fondeca Pinheiro."
"I shall be willing to do all in my power to help you, Senhor da Costa," I said, "but I fear the foreign cipher will be outside my range of observation."
"I sincerely hope not, senhor. Senhor Pinheiro asked me to come to you, as the best man for the purpose in the whole of London."
"Let me see your diagram," was my answer to this.
"I have not got it with me," he replied. "And, before I subject it to your examination, I must ask you to swear that, if you succeed in deciphering it, you will not divulge the solution to a single soul. I believe it to be of extreme importance, and it is only because I cannot solve it myself that I am bound to run the risk of entrusting it to the confidence of a stranger."
"Your secret shall be respected by me," I answered, "provided, of course, that it is a harmless one."
"It is absolutely harmless, Mr. Phenays."
"Where am I to see the cipher?"
"In my rooms. I have apartments in a house in Bloomsbury. Can you come now?"
"Certainly."
"Come along, then. My cab is at the door; we shall be there in less than half an hour."
He spoke little as we drove along, and presently the cab stopped at one of the large old houses in a street leading out of Bloomsbury Square.
Senhor da Costa paid the driver and opened the door with a latch-key. He ushered me into a dimly lit and dingy hall, the floor of which was bare of mat or carpet. The staircase was also bare, and sloped up in naked ugliness into the darkness above. Our footsteps rang loud on the uncarpeted stairs. When we reached the first floor, Da Costa threw open the door of a big room.
"Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Phenays," he said. "I will fetch the document and join you."
As soon as I was alone I glanced round the room. It was badly and scantily furnished. A faded carpet covered the floor, and cheap prints hung upon the walls. The only light was from a kerosene lamp which stood on the table in the middle of the room. This lamp smelt horribly and added to the sense of depression which stole over me. A thousand unanswered questions floated through my brain. Who was Da Costa, and what was this mysterious cipher? What was this mystery of mysteries which I was asked to unravel? Had it not been for Pinheiro's letter, I should have had nothing whatever to do with the Portuguese. But Pinheiro had said that he was a friend of his, and had asked me to help him. I had no doubt for a moment of the genuineness of the letter which had been handed to me, as coming from my friend. The handwriting was the same, the heading to the paper that which I so well remembered. Yes, I need not be alarmed. Pinheiro was the last man on earth to lead me into a dangerous or unworthy adventure.
Da Costa came briskly in, produced an old tin box, and proceeded to open it. From the box he drew a parchment, yellow and stained with age. This he unfolded and carefully smoothed out. I bent over it with much curiosity. Upon it, in the form of a square, was some faded manuscript, of which not a single word was legible to me. The writing was enclosed in a number of dots or points. These points were joined by connecting lines, forming small squares. In some cases, however, the lines were missing, giving an irregular appearance to the whole; but whether this was owing to age having erased them, or to the whim of the original designer, it was impossible to say.
"Now," said Da Costa, "I will read the translation of the writing by Senhor Pinheiro. He assures me that it is quite literal and true. Listen!" He read aloud in a sonorous voice:—
"They say that I am mad—that my wealth has made me mad. I am prevented thus from following the desire of my heart. You, my dearest friend, whom I love, shall receive all. I am dying, yet I fear to write where they are, lest this paper should fall into the hands of strangers and those who hate me. Therefore, I show here how you may receive all. You remember our secret studies. You, and you alone, can read this map, so it is thus safe. They lie at the sixty-fifth square of the House of Pyramids. Your beloved friend. Pray for my soul."
"This is very interesting," I said. "It sounds like some letter or dying instructions to the person addressed."
"Oh! it strikes you like that, does it?" he answered. "Kindly say what you think of the cipher, and if you see any possibility of the solution."
I examined it very carefully, and then, asking for a pair of compasses and some paper, I systematically set to work to apply to the diagram every process that I knew relating to such class of enigma, both diagrammatical and mathematical. I covered several sheets of paper with my figures. The Portuguese watched my every movement with almost embarrassing attention. I could arrive at no result, and at the end of an hour I leant back in my chair and had to confess that for the present I was baffled.
"Am I at liberty to inquire how the document came into your possession?" I asked.
"You are not," was his short reply.
"I mean this," I said hotly, for his manner began to irritate me. "You ask me here to solve what is an extremely abstruse conundrum, and which, for all I know, may have no solution. I cannot tell whether you are hiding anything from me that would help me to a solution. It may be necessary for your purpose to do this; if so, and if you cannot give me any further help, I am afraid I shall never succeed in discovering this mysterious sixty-fifth square, for this is evidently the key to the problem."
"Then you think it is insoluble?"
"I do not say that at all; there are very few ciphers which the ingenuity of man has constructed that the ingenuity of man, in time, cannot solve, provided, of course, that there is a solution."
"You have solved a good many in your life, Mr. Phenays, I take it?"
"Yes," I replied. "I have, and constructed a good many, too."
"Suppose you saw the real thing—say the surface of the building or the room to which this might apply—would you have a better chance?"
"Very much better. Indeed, I think I might almost guarantee to discover the solution; but I should not like to swear."
He sat biting his fingers, regarding me fixedly for a few minutes.
"Are you a busy man, Mr. Phenays?" he asked at last.
"Yes, I am. Why?"
"I mean, could you get away for about a week now?"
"No, that would be impossible," I said, remembering my work.
"But if I make it worth your while?"
I looked at him in astonishment.
"I am afraid I don't understand you, Senhor da Costa," was my answer. "And I must confess that the whole of to-night's business is extremely mysterious to me. I don't know if Senhor Pinheiro told you that I am a man with a great deal of business to transact. I am employed, not only by several firms, but also by the Government, on matters of great importance. Were I to throw up my present employment, I should lose a position which it is essential to me to retain. To put it shortly, I should lose my livelihood."
"Will an absence of a week mean this?" he asked.
"It would be very inconvenient to leave home at present," was my reply.
"Then may I ask what sum would make it convenient?"
I did not answer for a moment. I was short of funds, and a debt, which, owing to my recent losses, I had been unable to meet, loomed unpleasantly on the horizon. The present opportunity was, therefore, not to be despised.
"Senhor Pinheiro mentioned that you were the sort of man to give valuable assistance in an emergency like this," said the Portuguese, speaking slowly and with many pauses. "He was much interested in this matter. You may help him by coming to our aid. Will you do it?"
"I should require the sum of eight hundred pounds," I said at last. "If you will agree to this, and if you will let me have the money down before I leave England, I shall be at your service."
A long silence followed my words. My strange companion regarded me fixedly. The cheap ormolu clock on the mantelpiece ticked away incessantly—that was the only sound in the room.
"Suppose I were to consent to give you that sum, Mr. Phenays," he said at last, "what guarantee will you give me that you will not at the last moment cry off and desert me?"
"I will give you the word of an English gentleman," I answered; "and I only make one reservation. If I find, in what I am about to do, anything underhand, or criminal, or against the laws of my own country, I return to England at once."
He gave a short laugh. "Pooh! You Englishmen are all alike—always suspicious. But would you not be content to receive the money at the conclusion of the business?"
"No, I shall require it in Bank of England notes before I go."
Again there was silence.
"I cannot do that," he said at last, slowly. "I have not so much money with me. You must consider my position, and the risk I am running. Your solution may, after all, be incorrect; and if correct, it may lead to nothing. Come, I will make you a fair offer. I will hand you three hundred pounds before we start."
"Where do we go?" I asked.
"To Lisbon."
"Then I shall see Pinheiro again?" I said.
"You will. Your friend will be waiting to receive you. You see for yourself that you are very largely paid for a matter which is not dangerous to you, and does not occupy many days of your time."
"Very well," I answered; "I will go with you. I will be satisfied to receive three hundred pounds in advance, and the remaining five hundred pounds on the completion of this business. That is," I added, "provided your explanation of this affair is satisfactory to me."
"Is that also an indispensable condition?" he asked.
"I do not agree without it," I replied.
"Then I will tell you. Give me your hand and word of honour."
I held out my hand. "You have already had my word," I said; "an Englishman does not repeat himself."
"Very well," he said. "Now listen." He bent eagerly forward, his swarthy face was flushed, and his eyes glistened. "Do you know Lisbon?"
"Yes," I said.
He looked startled for a moment, then he said slowly, "I forgot; you are a friend of Pinheiro's. Lisbon is that great detective's headquarters. Knowing our city, you will understand the better the description I am going to give you."
He bent forward, lowering his voice and fixing his somewhat prominent black eyes on my face.
"In Lisbon," said Da Costa, "there is a certain house. It is the oldest in the city, and is called the Casa dos Bicos. It was built about 1490 by a very rich and eccentric man—indeed, there is little doubt that he was mad. Now, 'Bico' in Portuguese means a point, and it derives its name from the fact that the front is bristling with quadrangular pyramids of stone, each terminating in a point. Upon each point, and there are over seven hundred, this man intended to set a diamond. But the work was stopped by the Government, as there would then have been a richer house in Lisbon than the Royal Palace. Lisbon was at that time a great commercial emporium, full of wealthy merchants, living in great luxury, excess, and extravagance. The man in question was one of these. The house had withstood no less than six great earthquakes. The great one of 1531, which lasted for fifty days; four more earthquakes in that terrible century; and, finally, the greatest of all in 1755, which destroyed half the city. The strange story of the diamond craze had been little credited, and was, indeed, almost forgotten, when this document was discovered by Senhora Lello Mendez, the present owner, and the direct descendant of the builder of the house. It is on her behalf I am now employed. There are documents and receipts proving conclusively that this man had in the house over seven hundred Brazilian diamonds of the finest water, and when he died, their whereabouts could never be traced. I believe this paper to be the key. With your aid we might read the cipher contained therein, and if so—if—" his voice trembled audibly—"the Senhora Lello Mendez will be the richest woman in Europe, and—I know her well—she will not forget us."
I gave a gasp as he ceased speaking.
"Your story astonishes me, Senhor da Costa," I said. "Supposing the diamonds are found, what do you reckon their value will be?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Anything you like. I don't suppose less than half a million sterling."
"And where is this lady now?"
"In Lisbon."
"Does Senhor Pinheiro know her?"
"Very well indeed. In fact, he is working in this matter in her behalf."
"Really?"
I had a passing moment of wonder that my friend had not written straight to me through the post.
Da Costa seemed to read my thoughts.
"I saw Pinheiro just before I started," he said. "I travelled day and night. The mail could not come quicker. When he spoke of you, I recognised at once that you were the very man for our purpose, raised up, so to speak, by Providence. What Pinheiro suggests, we, his followers, always act upon. Oh! he is a great man, sir—a wonderful man—the greatest detective of his time."
I sank back in my chair. My heart was beating fast. I had in very truth recovered my nerve, and was in the mood for adventures. I needed money, and here was a way of getting it. I longed to see my friend again. That wish could also be gratified. In a moment I rose from my seat and told the Portuguese that, provided he would hand me a cheque for three hundred pounds, I should be ready to start on my journey at eleven o'clock on the following morning.
He jumped up in extraordinary excitement, produced a cheque-book, filled in a cheque for the required amount, and handed it to me. I saw that it was payable at the City Bank, shook hands with him, and went away.
I spent a busy night, arranging a hundred details and writing many letters; finally, as soon as the bank was opened, I took my cheque there and received in exchange six crisp Bank of England notes for fifty pounds each. I lodged five of the notes to my private account at my own bank, and changed the remaining one for gold and five-pound Bank of England notes. At half past ten I drove up to the house in Bloomsbury.
Da Costa was waiting on the steps to receive me. His luggage was already on the roof of a cab.
"Come," he said, uneasiness in his tone, "we have not a moment to lose. We shall just catch the express to Paris."
I jumped into the cab, and the Portuguese followed me. The door was slammed, and we were off.
The journey itself was uneventful. We left Paris by the Sud-Express, and passing through Bordeaux and Villar Formosa on the Portuguese frontier, rumbled into Rocio Station at Lisbon, at ll.30 on Saturday night. Just as we were doing so I turned to the Portuguese.
"I shall take a cab," I said, "and drive straight to Senhor Pinheiro's house."
He had been sullen, not to say morose, during our journey. Now he was all alive and evidently full of great excitement.
"No, my friend," he said. "Your time is mine. You come with me, straight with me, to business—now, now. We meet Pinheiro at the house where your services are required. We waste no time going to his palace in the suburbs."
As I had no answer to make to this, and no possible objection to offer, I followed the Portuguese out of the station. He almost pushed me into a pair-horse vehicle, followed himself, and, without waiting for any luggage except my small handbag, desired the driver to hurry forward.
We immediately dashed off at a great pace, rattling and bumping over the cobble-stones. We went down queer, narrow, low -built streets full of strange sights and sounds. Again we went up inclines so steep that the windows were right above us, then down slopes on which, had the brake given way, we must have gone to instant destruction.
At last we stopped at a small house in a deserted lane. My companion paid the driver, opened the door with a latch-key, and bade me bring my bag inside.
We entered a room on the ground floor. The house appeared to be quite deserted and was absolutely quiet.
"Now," said Da Costa, speaking with great eagerness, "we must make haste. We have delayed too long already, and time is short, very short. There are others after the treasure. They want to rob the rightful owner. Get what you want quickly."
I opened my bag, took out my measuring-tape, foot-rule, and designing-case, and announced that I was ready. When we got outside the house I paused.
"Did you really say that Pinheiro would meet us at the house to which we are going?" I asked.
"Certainly; he knows of our arrival. He is only too anxious to see you. Come, come! We lose everything by this delay."
We started forward at a smart pace. Although I supposed myself to know Lisbon fairly well, I had not the slightest notion in what direction we were going. Twice Da Costa halted and glanced behind him, and once, seizing my arm, he drew me into the shadow of a dark archway. There we waited for a few moments and then resumed our journey. My distrust of the man and of the whole expedition grew at every step, and had he not been very much stronger than I, I should have refused to go on. I determined, however, to keep my reason and all my wits in active play, and I did not allow anything to escape my attention. I observed that we trended our way, for the most part, down-hill, till at length, after innumerable turnings and twistings, I saw lying before me the broad expanse of the Tagus, dotted with the twinkling lights of the crowded shipping. A few moments more and we were down on the riverside, threading our way among the wharves, alongside of which were moored innumerable craft, their masts and spars sticking up in fantastic criss-cross designs. Though it was now past midnight, the quay was alive with noise and bustle, and was thronged with foreign sailors, who were loading an outward-bound steamer. Still, on we went, past great, gaunt factories which shut out half the sky, and tall chimneys that loomed black against the stars. Now through dark and squalid streets, redolent of foul odours. From the lighted interiors of the wineshops came shouts of coarse laughter and brawling. From the time we started, my companion had not spoken a single word, and when he suddenly halted before the most extraordinary looking house I had ever seen, and said, "Now, Mr. Phenays," I started as if a cannon report had gone off in my ear. The house was very low and wedged in between taller ones on either side. The entire front was, as Da Costa had described it, bristling with pointed stones set in regular rows.
Upon a door under a low archway Da Costa now gave one or two peculiar knocks; it was immediately opened by a man dressed only in a shirt and trousers, with a queer sort of stocking-cap on his head.
As soon as we were inside he closed and bolted the door and then lit a lantern. A few words of conversation, in very low tones, passed between him and Da Costa, of which I was evidently the subject.
Meanwhile I looked around me. We were in a long, low room, with a stone floor covered with mats. The ceiling was supported by thick wooden joists. There was nothing whatever in this room but some barrels, a pair of large weighing-scales, and piles of split and dried codfish, which smelt horribly.
Motioning me to follow them, the two men went down some steps to a tiny room containing a small table and three wooden chairs. The floor and walls were of square stones. Holding up the lantern, Da Costa turned to me and said, "I had hoped to find Pinheiro here, but he has not come. We cannot wait for him. Now, Mr. Phenays, this is the room. Start your work at once. What do you think of it? Here is the cipher."
As he spoke he handed me the parchment.
I was on my mettle now, and flung the whole of my mental energy into the problem before me. I forgot Pinheiro. I forgot everything but my own work. First I measured the walls. They were exactly eight feet each way. Then I found the area of the floor, but where the sixty-fifth square could be it was impossible to conceive. Was this a mere juggling of words, or had it a latent and very obvious meaning?
On my way from London I had been puzzling over it, and somewhere at the back of my brain had been moving an old memory of a sixty-fifth square; but when, where, and how I had heard about it, I had not been able to recall.
Now, suddenly, as if in a flash, the possible solution burst upon me. Was it—could it be—based upon the classic conundrum of The Lost Square?
My fingers trembled as I took up my compass and measured the place. The thing was evident, it must be that.
"What are you doing?" cried Da Costa suddenly. Both men had noticed my excitement.
"I think I have got it," I answered.
"What?" he exclaimed, grasping my arm. "How—what—where is it?"
"It is here, and yet it is not here," was my ambiguous answer.
"The square?"
"Yes, the square."
"You can find it?"
"I think so; let me alone for a minute."
The two men sprang to their feet, both in such a state of excitement that I felt really alarmed. They seemed perfectly frenzied. They strode to and fro, uttering low, nasal Portuguese expletives, and casting glances at me with wild, staring eyes.
"I mean this," I said. "My opinion is that this cipher is founded on a very old classical conundrum, called The Lost Square, and I will show you how."
In a few minutes I had cut out a square of paper, measuring eight inches by eight inches, and I had shown the men that when cut in a certain way it would be made into a parallelogram thirteen inches by five inches, apparently containing sixty-five squares. But the fallacy lay in the fact that the latter figure was not full, but that the spaces between the pieces made up the missing square.
"But, then, where is it?" burst from Da Costa's lips.
I pushed back the table and fell on my knees. If there were a sixty-fifth square, it must mean that the floor was not level, for to contain an extra square a surface must be raised at some point. I passed the lantern over the floor and in a moment found some of the square stones perceptibly raised.
"I should say it was here," I said, with a bold plunge.
With no word of eulogy for my skill, they fell to work upon the stones with pick and crowbar, and I remember as they did so a very disturbing thought flashed across me. It was this. Why on earth, if the lady owned this house, should she want to have all this done, when, if there were the slightest chance of such treasure being hidden within its walls, it would be worth her while to pull the whole house down to find it?
But these thoughts were instantly dispelled by the fact that I had evidently read the cipher aright. The men talked in Portuguese, and it irritated my already overstrung nerves not to be able to understand a word they said.
The removal of four stones discovered the entrance to a low passage. Da Costa grasped my hand.
"Come along," he said, his voice choking with excitement, which almost amounted to madness. "You and I will go first. We owe you—oh! what do we not owe you, Mr. Phenays? When Senhora Lello Mendez knows what you have done, her gratitude will be unbounded, and she is one of those who never forgets. Ah! here she comes."
The rustling of a silk dress was heard along the passage. The door of the small room was flung wide, and the stately figure of Mademoiselle Delacourt herself appeared on the threshold.
The horror which surged up in my heart prevented my uttering a word; outwardly I was stunned, within my pulses beat madly. I knew at once that I was the victim of a fresh conspiracy, and that of the most dangerous type to which I had yet been subjected.
Mademoiselle wore a loose robe of black silk, which covered her from head to foot. On her head she had no covering beyond her light and beautiful hair.
I backed slowly against the wall. She entered a foot or two, and her eyes met mine.
"Have you got the clue to the treasure—the key to the conundrum?" she asked. "Know that I am Senhora Lello Mendez, and that the treasure within this house belongs to me. For years, for centuries, it has been lost. Have you, my enemy, found it for me—the greatest treasure in Lisbon?"
She came very close to me now, and her full, dark eyes glittered into my face.
"Have you discovered the treasure, Mr. Phenays?" she repeated.
I nodded. I could not speak.
"Then you will find that even your enemies are grateful. Come! You and I will lead the way. I hated you and planned your death. You also hated me and would have ruined me had you been able; but this atones for all. Come!"
She took the hand which hung limp at my side. I could no more have resisted her than the paralysed bird resists the cobra. She led the way to the narrow opening. We went down the passage. It widened as we progressed . At last we reached the other end, Mademoiselle's small hand held mine in a grip of iron. When we came to the end of the passage, Da Costa raised his lantern and uttered a cry, which echoed and reverberated oddly. There were four of us in the opening which my discovery had led to—Mademoiselle, Da Costa, his assistant, and myself. We found ourselves standing on the edge of a deep well some four feet in diameter. As we approached, Da Costa lowered the lantern into the well. The air was foul, but not sufficiently tainted to put out the light. The well was from fifteen to sixteen feet in depth. Its walls were smooth and glistening. I noticed that about half way down, bulging into the wall, was an old piece of piping. Before I had time to say anything about this, the man who had helped Da Costa brought forward a rope, put it round the waist of the Portuguese, and lowered him into the well. He reached the bottom, fumbled about there, and presently I heard him utter a shout.
Mademoiselle, bending forward, asked him if he had found it.
"Yes!" he cried. "Yes! Enough treasure to keep us rich for the remainder of our lives. I'll take some with me, and will return for the rest."
"Then come at once," she said. "Take enough, but come at once. There is not a moment to lose."
The assistant hauled Da Costa up. When he reached the surface he slapped his pocket. It rattled.
"Ah! Mademoiselle," he said, "we are rich now."
"And we owe it to Mr. Phenays," she replied.
She turned towards me, her face white as death, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
I was just about to reply to her, when a terrific crash at the back of my head caused thousands of Catherine-wheels to dance before my eyes, and I remembered no more.
When I came to myself I was in pitch darkness. For a time I could recall nothing. Then memory returned. I knew where I was. I had been flung to the bottom of the well. I shouted for all I was worth, but without the least hope of anyone hearing me. I realised, when too late, that I had been the victim of the worst conspiracy Mademoiselle had yet formed against me. She had at last absolutely and completely succeeded in accomplishing my ruin. She had already, to all intents and purposes, committed murder, for there was nothing before me but death by slow starvation. By my death I should be the means of her salvation. She, who knew everything, had heard of my latent talent and of its strange development. She had seized her opportunity to lure my secret from me for her own purpose. Senhora Lello Mendez was a name adopted for her own purposes by this extraordinary and awful woman. She meant to steal the treasure from the old house, and, in making me her tool, she would also compass the long-desired event of my death. Pinheiro's name had been only used to trap, to lure me into the net. But how Mademoiselle had contrived to extract a letter from him was beyond my wildest endeavours to discover.
I paced round and round my narrow and dreadful prison. Suddenly I remembered that I had a box of matches with me. I struck one and tried to examine my place of confinement. Many feet above me loomed the black circle of the mouth of the well. The sides were smooth and slippery, and offered not the slightest help for fingers or feet. I could just trace the piece of piping at one of the junctions. That was all. I was trapped like a rat in a hole. Here was I buried beneath a cellar in a strange house, in a foreign city. No one would miss me. No one could possibly guess where I was. I remembered also that it was Sunday morning, and if the house was used as a codfish store, it would not be entered till Monday morning. Even then it was a thousand to one against my being found, for my shouts would scarcely penetrate the thick walls which choked down my voice as with a blanket.
When the first shock of terror passed, there came that wild desire for life which God has implanted in the breasts of men. It is, in a certain sense, one of the most terrible of our passions. I only hope that I may never feel it again. I was young to die. I did not want to die—to die thus in the dark, and alone, of hunger and starvation. What fate could be more horrible? To die unmourned, unmissed, with that one terrible woman—that fiend in human shape—triumphing over my early doom! I struck another match, but the flame died out.
For hours and hours I sat crouched at the bottom of the well, until at last came that merciful stupor which visits men in such situations. Then, again, that passed. I became wide awake, alert, and full of the most desperate resolution. All my thoughts centred on Pinheiro. I thought of him so earnestly, so long, with such passion, that I forgot that there was another human being in the world. It seemed to me that when I thought of him I saw a light, and that light went far, penetrating beyond the gloom of my dungeon, through the walls of the old house, shining on and on, till it reached his palace in the fashionable part of Lisbon. At the end of that long hue of whiteness I saw Pinheiro himself. He was in his study; he was thinking hard; he was seated by his huge writing-desk. He took up a paper and examined it. He started, and looked at it more fully. His face became agitated. He paced the room. Then a look of resolution filled it. He hurried from the room, closing the door after him.
In his footsteps I seemed to see eagerness and a wild desire to obtain an object, and at once. When he disappeared, the light also faded.
I leapt to my feet and began to pray earnestly. Had I seen a vision? Was my brain going? I prayed once, twice, many times. I think I must have been partly delirious, for after my prayer I opened my knife and began with all my force to stab the walls above my head. They were hard, and the point of the blade snapped at once. Again I prayed for deliverance; again I stabbed the walls with the stamp of my broken knife.
Suddenly I felt myself drenched with a gush of water. It poured into the well in a cascade; it increased every moment. I uttered a cry of despair, for I thought I should be drowned in this ghastly hole. In and in the water poured with increasing force. It smelt foully as it splashed and eddied around me. In five minutes it was up to my waist; in another five it reached my chin; and then—the most marvellous thing happened. I was floated gently to the mouth of the well. If that was not Providence, I don't know what was.
I had evidently cut through the junction of the pipe in my blind fury, and had liberated the water from the river. I scrambled out of the well and stood for a minute or two, drenched and trembling, on the edge. It was just then that I heard sounds in the room above me. A scuffling noise—men's voices. Then a woman's loud and despairing shriek. These sounds were followed by silence.
Two minutes later a light—not fancied, but real—penetrated my gloom. Footsteps came hastily down the narrow passage, and Pinheiro, with blood on his shirt and cuffs, stood before me.
"Phenays," he said, "I thought I should find you here. By all that is wonderful, what brought you back to Lisbon?"
"Your letter!" I gasped. "The letter you wrote to me and sent by Da Costa."
"Then I understand the marks on the blotting-paper," he answered. "Come."
I looked him in the face and tried to speak, but consciousness for the second time that day forsook me.
When I came to myself I was lying on a sofa in Pinheiro's house. He was standing close to me, holding a glass of strong stimulant in his hand.
"Here," he said, "drink this. You are an unlucky beggar! But tell me quite quietly what has happened. Take your own time; there's no hurry. Whatever your perils, they are now at an end. Take your time."
I gasped out my miserable story as best I could.
"But why did you write to me?" I said in conclusion. "I should never have come but for your letter."
"The letter was a forgery," he replied. "I remember my servant telling me one day that a lady had called to see me on business, had asked to wait for me, but in the end had gone away before I returned. She gave her name as Senhora Lello Mendez. Now, I knew that there was such a lady, although she does not live in Lisbon, to whom the old house Casa dos Bicos belongs, and thought nothing about the visit, hoping to see the Senhora later on. How could I suppose that another terrible plot, with a double object, was on foot? But now listen. I have good news for you. We have at last and in very truth secured our enemy. Mademoiselle Delacourt is lying under arrest in this city, and, clever as she is, she cannot escape from her prison walls."
"But pardon me," I interrupted; "how was it that you thought of coming to the rescue?"
"The most extraordinary thing. I was in my study, busily engaged; but I could not set to work, for my thoughts reverted to the past. I told you once, Phenays, that I would give you the history of these lost fingers"—he held up his mutilated hand as he spoke. "There was a woman whom I loved—ah! madly. She got into the power of that fiend—I was too late to save her life, but in rescuing her body I lost these fingers. Enough! I will tell you more later on. The thought brings madness even now. A Portuguese never loses sight of the object of his vengeance. Old memories drove me wild this morning. I could not work; I idly turned the pages of my blotter. There I saw traces of a letter which I knew I had not written. It is true it was to all appearance in my handwriting; but the words were not mine. This is what I read:—
"'My dear Phenays,—The bearer, Senhor da Costa, a native of Lisbon and a friend of mine, has just been to see me in connection with a document and diagram which he believes to be of great value.' Lower down I read the words, 'as this is very much in your line, I would send him to you.' And then again, 'If you can do anything to help Da Costa, you will oblige me.'
"This was enough. I happened to know Da Costa as a scoundrel of the deepest dye. A diagram in connection with the treasure in the Casa dos Bicos has long been puzzling all our antiquaries, and a feeling of overmastering fear came upon me—that you had been deluded into coming to Lisbon, that you were now in that infernal house. I rushed there, as it turned out, just in time. Mademoiselle had passed herself off as Senhora Lello Mendez. She had secured a portion of the celebrated treasure, and all would have gone well for her, but for the fact that she and her assistants began to quarrel as to the division of the spoils. I took the precaution not to go to that house alone. I had some emissaries of the police with me. We quickly secured Mademoiselle, who had long been wanted. The men, in their desperation, fought like furies. But they, too, were secured and handcuffed. In their terror they gave themselves away, describing your hiding-place and where they had found the treasure. Well, I saved your life and captured our enemy, and the treasure will find its way eventually to the old lady who is the real Senhora Lello Mendez, and who lives in a remote part of the country."
Pinheiro ceased speaking. I sat still, with thoughts too deep for words.
Thus ended the strange mysteries, the inexplicable horrors, which dogged my steps for the greater part of one year. Mademoiselle Delacourt will never trouble me again.
As to the diamonds, the real Senhora Lello Mendez, having heard the entire story, presented me with one to set in a ring, and I always wear it on my finger.
When the well was pumped out, three hundred more Brazilian diamonds were found. Thus came to an end the worst of all my adventures—that which found me at the bottom of the well in the old house Casa dos Bicos.