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Chestermarke Instinct, The

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<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> <h2>SOUND-PROOF</h2> It needed no more than a moment's reflection to prove to Neale that he had made a serious mistake in obeying that first impulse. Joseph Chestermarke had gone away—probably for the night. And there had been something in the metallic clang of that closing door, something in the sure and certain fashion in which it had closed into its frame, something in the utter silence which had followed the sudden extinction of the light, which made the captive feel that he might beat upon door or wall as hard and as long as he pleased without attracting any attention. This place into which he had come of his own free will was no ordinary place—already he felt that he was in a trap out of which it was not going to be easy to escape. He stood for a moment, heart thumping and pulses throbbing, to listen and to look. But he saw nothing—beyond the faint indication of the waning moonlight outside the red-curtained, circular windows high above him, and a fainter speck of glowing cinder, left behind in the recently emptied furnace. He heard nothing, either, save a very faint crackling of the expiring ashes in that furnace. Presently even that minute sound died down, the one speck of light went out, and the silence and gloom were intense. Neale now knew that unless Joseph Chestermarke came back to his workshop he was doomed to spend the night in it—and possibly part of the next day. He felt sure that it was impossible to obtain release otherwise than by Joseph's coming. He could do nothing—in all probability—to release himself. No one in the town would have the remotest idea that he was fastened up within those walls. The only man to whom such an idea could come on hearing that he, Neale, was missing, was old Rob Walford—and Walford, by that time, would be well on his way to Wymington, thirty miles off, and as he was to be there all night, and all next day, he would hear nothing until his return to Scarnham, twenty-four hours hence. No!—he was caught. Joseph Chestermarke had had no idea of catching him—but he had caught him all the same. And now that he was safely caught, Neale began to wonder why he had slipped into that place. He had an elementary idea, of course—he had wanted to find out if anybody was concealed in that room which the landlord had pointed out. Certainly he had felt no fear about meeting Joseph Chestermarke. Yet—now that he was there—he did not know what he should have done if Joseph had come in, as he expected he would, nor what he should, or could do now that he was in complete possession. If he had been able to face Joseph, he would have demanded information, point-blank, about the shadow on the blind; he even had some misty notion about enforcing it, if need be. But—he was now helpless. He could do no good; he could not tell Polke or anybody else what Walford had reported. And if he was to be left there all night—which seemed likely—he had only got himself into a highly unpleasant situation. He moved at last, feeling about in the darkness. His hands encountered smooth, blank walls, on each side of the door. He dared not step forward lest he should run against machinery or meet with some cavity in the flooring. And reflecting that the small, insignificant gleam which it would make could scarcely be noticed from outside, he struck a match, and carefully holding it within the flap of his outstretched jacket, looked around him. A first quick glance gave him a general idea of his surroundings. Immediately in front of him was the furnace; a little to its side was a lathe; on one side of the place a long table stood, covered with a multitude of tools, chemical apparatus, and the like; on the other was a blank wall. And in that blank wall, to which Neale chiefly directed his attention during the few seconds for which the match burned, was a door. The match went out; he dropped it on the floor and moved forward in the darkness to the door which he had just seen. That, of course, must open into the inner room to the outer window of which Walford had drawn his attention. He went on until his outstretched fingers touched the door. Then he cautiously struck another match and looked the door up and down. What he saw added to the mystery of the whole adventure. Neale had seen doors of that sort before, more than once—but they were the doors of very big safes or of strong rooms. Before the second match burned through he knew that this particular door was of some metal—steel, most likely—that it was set into a framework of similar metal, and that the room to which it afforded entrance was probably sound-proof. He struck a third match and a fourth. By their light he saw there was but one small keyhole to the door, and he judged from that that it was fitted with some patent mechanical lock. There was no way by which he could open it, of course, and though he stood for a long time listening with straining ears against it he could not detect the slightest sound from whatever chamber or recess lay behind it. If there really was a man in there, thought Neale, he must surely feel himself to be in a living tomb. And after a time, taking the risk of being heard from outside the laboratory, he beat heavily upon the door with his fist. No response came: the silence all around him was more oppressive, if possible, than before. The expenditure of more matches enabled Neale to examine further into the conditions of what seemed likely to be his own prison for some hours. He was not sorry to see that in one corner stood an old settee, furnished with rugs and cushions—if he was obliged to remain locked up all night, he would, at any rate, be able to get some rest. But beyond this, the furnace, a tall three-fold screen, evidently used to assist in the manipulation of draughts, and the lathe, table, and apparatus which he had already seen, there was nothing in the place. There was no way of getting at the windows in the top of the high walls: even if he could have got at them they were too small for a man to squeeze through. And he was about to sit down on the settee and wait the probably slow and tedious course of events, when he caught sight of an object at the end of the table which startled him, and made him wonder more than anything he had seen up to that moment. That object was a big loaf of bread. He struck yet another match and looked at it more narrowly. It was one of those large loaves which bakers make for the use of families. Close by it lay a knife: a nearer inspection showed Neale that a slice had recently been cut from the loaf: he knew that by the fact that the crumb was still soft and fresh on the surface, in spite of the great heat of the place. It was scarcely likely that Joseph Chestermarke would eat unbuttered bread during his experiments and labours—why, then, was the loaf there? Could it be that this bread was—that the slice which had just been cut was—the ration given to somebody behind that door? This idea filled Neale with the first spice of fear which he had felt since entering the laboratory. The idea of a man being fastened up in a sound-proof chamber and fed on dry bread suggested possibilities which he did not and could not contemplate without a certain horror. And if there really was such a prisoner in that room, or cell, or whatever the place was, who could it be but John Horbury? And if it was John Horbury, how, under what circumstances, had he been brought there, why was he being kept there? Neale sat down at last on the settee, and in the silence and darkness gave himself up to thoughts of a nature which he had never known in his life before. Here, at any rate, was adventure!—and of a decidedly unpleasant sort. He was not afraid for himself. He had a revolver in his hip-pocket, loaded—he had been carrying it since Tuesday, with some strange notion that it might be wanted. Certainly he might have to go without food for perhaps many hours—but he suddenly remembered that in the pocket of his Norfolk jacket he had a biggish box of first-rate chocolate, which he had bought on his way to the cricket club meeting, with a view of presenting it to Betty, later on. He could get through a day on that, he thought, if it were necessary—as for the loaf of bread, something seemed to nauseate him at the mere thought of trying to swallow a mouthful of it. The rest of the evening went: the silence was never broken. Not a sound came from the mysterious chamber behind him. No step sounded on the gravel without: no hand unlocked the door from the garden. Now and then he heard the clock of the parish church strike the hours. At last he slept—at first fitfully; later soundly—and when he woke it was morning, and the sunlight was pouring in through the red-curtained windows high in the walls of his prison. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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