# The Garden at No. 19/Chapter 21
### CHAPTER XXI
#### IN NO. 19

FOR a while we listened without stirring; then I said, "You must go to bed."
"But I couldn't close my eyes in that house," she cried.
"Oh, not in your own house—here—in my room," I said; and I took her upstairs. "I'm afraid this means that we shan't get married to-day, "I said ruefully, at the door of my bedroom.
"Poor Heine, never mind," she said; and I kissed her.
I came downstairs and gave her time to fall asleep. Then I went to No. 19 and knocked at the door. No one came. I waited a while and knocked again, louder. No one came. As I waited I observed suddenly that the oppression and the menace had gone from the air of the road.
No one came to my knocking; and I considered what to do. I made up my mind that I would not fetch a policeman and break in. I have a lawyer's strong objection to the police; and if we could do without them, so much the better. It was plain that their coming could do no real good. Whatever had happened had happened; the harm was done; they would be too late.
It seemed to me that I had better have Marks with me when I did enter No. 19; and I looked at my watch. It was half-past four. Nothing can be done at half-past four in the morning. I went back to my study, pulled the rug over me, and lay quiet, full of heavy forebodings. Presently I fell asleep.
When I awoke the sun-rays were streaming in at the window. It was half-past six. I went up to the top of the house and found Mrs. Ringrose stirring. I came down and wrote a note to Marks bidding him come with all speed. When Mrs. Ringrose came downstairs, I gave her the note and some money, bade her take the first cab she came across, drive to Marks's flat and bring him back with her.
Then, having seen her start, I lighted the kitchen fire that she might lose no time getting breakfast when she returned. When it had kindled, I went into the dining-room and looked out into the garden. Half-a-dozen sparrows were fluttering about the path, picking up the crumbs Mrs. Ringrose was used to throw out of the kitchen window for them. I opened the door and went out. I no longer stepped into the region of nightmare; the oppression and the menace had gone.
I looked up at the blank windows of No. 19, and felt that the passing of the horror was a very bad sign.
I went into the house and had a bath. When I came downstairs, the kettle was boiling and I made myself some tea. It was nearly half-past seven when a hansom clattered down the road, and Marks arrived.
I took him into my study and told him the events of the night. He listened with a very grave face, and heard me to the end without a question.
Then he said, "It looks bad—very bad."
"We can get into No. 19 whenever we want to along the gutter and through Miss Woodfell's room," I said.
"The sooner the better," said Marks. "But we may as well try the front-door again first."
"Come along then," I said.
I knocked loudly at No. 19; and to my surprise heard a stir within. There was a shuffling footstep in the hall; the door opened; and Woodfell stood on the threshold, blinking as if just awakened.
He looked at us with vacant, unrecognizing eyes; said in a thick, slurring voice, "Pan is not dead;" and laughed a toneless, empty, silly laugh.
The man was mad.
We looked at one another blankly; he moved aside; and we went in. A faint, rank smell struck on my nostrils—the odor of the goat. I laid my hand on the handle of his study door; and with a shuffling run he stumbled half-way up the stairs and stopped, mowing and gibbering at me.
With an effort I turned the handle; we went into the study; and stopped short. Sprawled across the middle of the room, in the glare of the electric light, lay the great gray bulk of a statue; and underneath it, at right angles to it, lay the body of a woman, Helen Ranger. In the corner opposite the door lay the rich man, a huddled heap. The room smelt like a goat-pen.
I stepped forward with a startled cry.
I stepped forward with a startled cry, and dropped on my knees beside Helen Ranger. There was a smile on her white face; one arm lay outstretched on the floor, the other was round the statue, and her clenched fist rested on its back. There was no need to feel if her heart beat; a look assured me that she was quite dead. The heavy marble had toppled over on to the top of her, crushing in her chest, and killed her on the instant.
I rose and looked at Marks. He was staring somberly down on the fallen figures.
"The forbidden things," I said in a hushed voice.
He nodded.
I tried to push the statue off the dead girl. The hoofs and hairy legs and haunches showed it a statue of Pan. I could not stir it till Marks came to my help; and we rolled it clear of her. Then we raised her and laid her on the sofa.
My eyes fell on the face of the statue; and I shuddered. The sculptor, a great artist, had set himself to carve the face of the Pan of panic terror, the Pan who drove mad with fear those who beheld him; and he had not failed. An unspeakable, malign fierceness veritably blazed from the carven features. Even in the cold stone it was beyond words terrible.
"Dreadful," I said softly. "Dreadful."
A wrap of Helen Ranger lay over the back of the sofa. I picked it up; laid it over the face of the statue; and heaved a deep sigh of relief that it was veiled.
I crossed the room to the body of the rich man. His left arm covered his face; and from the attitude in which he lay, it looked to me as if he had crouched against the wall with his arm raised to shield his face and slowly slipped down, dead. I tried to lay him straight along the floor, but he had stiffened as he lay; then I saw his face. It was distorted into a mask of terror, utter, unspeakable terror.
I rose and faced Marks: "What are we to do?" I said.
"We must let his friends know at once," said Marks. "I suppose there will have to be an inquest and a scandal."
"There will have to be an inquest on Helen Ranger. But about this man, I don't know. I heard Woodfell say that he was a millionaire," I said thoughtfully.
"He is. He's Edward Murthwaite, head of the firm of Murthwaite, Carroll, and Murthwaite," said Marks.
"Then if we can get his friends here quickly, there should be no scandal," I said.
I stooped down, felt in the breast pocket of the dead man's coat, and found a pocket book. We came out of the room and left it to its silent occupants.
We went into the dining-room; and I searched the pocket book. I found Murthwaite's visiting cards, but better still I found a letter signed "Your affectionate brother, Arthur Murthwaite."
"Here's his brother's address. I'll wire to him at once. I must go into my own house for a form. Will you come, or will you wait here?" I said.
"I'll wait here," said Marks quickly.
I went into my own house, wrote out the wire: "Bad accident to Edward Murthwaite. Come at once, and bring first-class doctor. Plowden."
I despatched Mrs. Ringrose to the Post Office with it, and went back into No. 19. I called out to Marks; but he did not answer. I called again, and went into the dining-room. The door into the garden was open and Marks was at the end of the path, stamping heavily on the gravel. I watched him a moment; I took it that he might be stamping out mystic signs along the path to the altar. Then I went out, and said, "I've sent the wire."
"Good," said Marks.
I walked down the path. All the way down it were Marks's heel-marks, stamped into the gravel. I walked across the lawn and at last stood before the cupola. It crowned a little building, some twelve feet high, a half-circle in stone, open towards the house. Drawn aside was a heavy leather curtain; and in the half-circle stood the statue's broad pedestal. Before it stood a little square altar two feet high. Looking closer I saw that on the wall behind the statue were carved strange symbols.
"There will be no more rites of the Abyss," I said.
"No," said Marks gravely.
We came back into the house and found Woodfell in the dining-room.
"Pan is not dead," he said in the same thick, slurring voice, and laughed the same vacant laugh.
"What happened last night?" I said in a clear voice, but with very little hope of an answer.
He looked at me with empty eyes, and said nothing.
"It's no use questioning him, I fear," said Marks.
"I fear not," said I.
Woodfell followed us upstairs. The rooms on the first floor were undisturbed. The large room in front was also furnished as a study; there was a large safe in one corner; the room at the back was Woodfell's bedroom. We went on upstairs. All up the staircase I observed the rank, musky smell, though the rooms on the first floor were free of it. At the top of the stairs the door of Pamela's bedroom faced us. It had been driven in; and the lock was smashed.
"I should never have dreamed that Murthwaite was as strong as that," I said, turning to Marks.
"Murthwaite?" he said, looking at me oddly. "He was a big man, you know—a big man."
"Look here, for a man to do this kind of thing without hurting himself, he must be drunk. Yet Murthwaite was sober enough when he came. His voice was clear when he spoke to Woodfell," I said.
"There are more kinds of drunkenness than one. He may have been inspired—possessed—frenzied," said Marks.
Pamela's clothes lay, neatly folded, on a chair by the bed. I rolled them up in the coverlet; and we went downstairs.
In the hall I said, "There's nothing to be done till Murthwaite's friends come. We had better breakfast. I expect that we have a busy day before us."
"It would be as well," said Marks.
We came gloomily out of the house; the dreadful sight in Woodfell's study heavy on our minds.
In the garden I said, "This might have happened to-night. You've just missed it."
"Thank heaven!" said Marks fervently.