Down Under (25 page)

“There was water in that place—a lot of water.… I stopped trying to go on … I thought I would stay by the water … you must have water … and then”—his mouth twitched again and his hand jerked—“I heard something—in the water—”

Oliver said, “What?”

Dr Spenlow put his glass to his lips and drank. Then he said,

“I don't know—I've never known. But I could hear it—swimming. There's a lake—did I tell you there was a lake?—and I could hear it swimming—a sound like paddles, and sometimes a splash. I was there a long time, and I kept hearing it. The last day I lay down by the water—close to it where I could reach it with my lips.… I couldn't crawl any more, so I lay down … they found me like that.…”

“They found you?”

“Since I am here. They thought I was dead, but they brought the corpse back to satisfy the Old Fox. It was rather badly bitten—”

“What!”

Dr Spenlow drank the rest of the whisky and put the glass down again. Then he took off his coat, undid his left cuff-link, and rolled the shirt-sleeve up to the shoulder. From the elbow there was a scar running up and out of sight—an odd puckered scar, or rather a series of scars. It looked as if it might have been made by a large-sized garden rake.

“The teeth of my swimming friend,” said Harold Spenlow—“very sharp teeth. I'm sorry no one saw him, but the scar is proof that I didn't evolve him out of my own inner consciousness.” He pulled down his shirtsleeve again. “Probably a prehistoric survival, and I enjoy the distinction of being the first human to be bitten by one of his family for five thousand years or so.… Well, there's the tale, and here—” he touched his shoulder—“here is the proof that it's true. I shouldn't try to escape, Loddon, if I were you—I really shouldn't.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

Dr Spenlow showed him round next day. There was a laboratory—obviously a very fine thing in laboratories, but of no interest to Oliver. The little bald-headed man and his wife were working there, also a pale young man whom Oliver had not seen before.

From the laboratory they went to the great hall, and from its farther end into a second cavern almost as large. Here the underground stream ran open to the arc-lights overhead until it came to a low arch in the rock, where they lost it.

“Where does it go?” asked Oliver. He had plenty of interest in the water, but he must be careful not to show it too much.

“Down,” said Dr Spenlow. “I'll show you presently. There's a fine fall. It makes a deafening roar. The rock is cutting it out a bit of course, but you can hear it.”

Oliver had been wondering at the dull thunder which seemed to come from everywhere at once. There wasn't much chance of following water which plunged to such a roaring fall.

They left the cave by a lighted gallery. Presently it forked.

“Left goes right on to the Angel, or rather to the big steel gate which makes it quite impossible for you to arrive at the Angel. There's one at the Oakham end too—and, as man to man, Loddon, don't waste your time on them. They're guaranteed burglar-proof, drill-proof, dynamite-proof. They can't be opened by force, and I don't know what the exact mathematical chances of hitting on the right combination are, but I should think they ran into millions or trillions, or something rather daunting of that kind—so I shouldn't waste your time. Come and see our bathing-pool instead.”

He led the way into the right-hand fork, which ran quite steeply down hill for some way and then broke into steps. Oliver counted them, and made out that there were round about a hundred.

The thunder of the water was with them again. It grew louder and louder until they came out through a natural rift upon the level shore of a lake. The noise came from their right, the full leaping roar of a most magnificent cataract which fell a hundred feet as white as snow in a cloud of flying spray. Beneath it the lake boiled like milk. A strong white glare made rainbows in the mist, bathed the foaming eddies, and turned every flying drop into a diamond. There were lights high up, lights hooded and concealed, all in the best modern manner. The Old Fox had certainly provided himself with a highly skilled electrician. Oliver remembered suddenly that Amos Rennard had deplored having had to waste the man. There had been a difference of opinion, and Ralston—yes, that was the man's name—Ralston had played the principal part in a funeral. That's what happened to you down under if you set yourself up against the Rennards.

He looked at the water, the foam of the cataract losing itself in the blackness of the lake. Not a very safe bathingpool. He said so, and got one of Dr Spenlow's laughs for an answer.

“Our Bath Club has only two members—Philip and myself. Neither of us have any passionate affection for safety. Philip finds it dull, and I—well, life isn't so amusing that I mind taking chances.”

They walked round the lake.

“It wasn't here you heard your prehistoric friend with the teeth?” said Oliver.

“Oh, no—not here. You have to go a bit farther than this and fare a great deal worse. These passages won't take you anywhere either. Two of them run back into the main road to the Angel, and the third comes to a dead end. That's why it isn't lighted like the others.”

“And where does the water go?” said Oliver.

Was it fancy, or did Dr Spenlow hold back for a moment before he answered? Oliver thought he did, thought he shied and then made up his mind that shying was bad policy. The answer came easily, if late.

“It doesn't—I mean it doesn't go anywhere. It stays here and makes the lake. There wouldn't be nearly so much of it if it went on.”

Oliver thought, “He checked. He doesn't want me to think that the water goes on. Water generally does. There
must
be an outlet. All that water coming in—why, the place would flood to the roof in no time. What sort of fool does he take me for? Of course there's an outlet.… And if he doesn't want me to know about it?” The answer to that sprang shouting into his mind, “It's the way out—the way out—the way out!”

He began to think, to plan, whilst he talked about anything and everything which would screen his thoughts. If it was a matter of swimming and diving, he would have to make sure of some waterproof covering for his torch and batteries. Well, that could be done. There was oiled silk in the laboratory. He ought to be able to pinch some of it. A little interest in what was doing up there—yes, he thought he could pull it off.

He went on talking until they came to an opening nearly opposite the one by which they had come upon the lake. It ran straight for a while, and then there were steps again—a full hundred of them.

“Know where you are now?” said Dr Spenlow at the top.

Oliver didn't know, but he guessed. Violette had spoken of many steps down, and she had pointed to the arch through which Dr Spenlow had brought him last night. He chanced his answer.

“Your place is along here on the right—”

He was aware of that check again. He had been taken round and about, and the last thing that had been expected was that he should keep his sense of direction. He was rather pleased with himself, and discerned that Dr Spenlow was not so pleased.

They came to the book-lined study, and he was left alone there. Then the consciousness that this was the last day of Rose Anne's reprieve closed about him. The last day, and many hours of it gone. Nothing done, and all yet to do. Tomorrow, with the farce of a marriage rite, she would pass under Philip's yoke. That it would break her, he had no doubt. She would resist and in the end be broken. Better the most desperate throw.… If they could not win through to life, they might die together without the last indignities of torture.… He sat thinking until Dr Spenlow returned, and then got his chance of going back into the laboratory.

There luck favoured him, and he found it easy to pocket as much of the oiled silk as he wanted. He took also a box of meat tablets. Dr Spenlow had kindled to interest as he explained them. “We could last out quite a long siege if we were put to it. Compressed food is one of the things I am experimenting with. All this importing from outside is risky. It keeps our good Mark awake at night. Now these meat lozenges are about four times as concentrated as the commercial article. Try one. They're best dissolved in water, but you can suck one if you like. You needn't be afraid—it's not drugged.”

Oliver slipped the box into his pocket just before they left, and hoped that the loss would not be discovered until a tomorrow which would no longer concern him.

Meanwhile the day dragged on. He was shown an engineering shop, a boot repairing shop, a carpenter's shop. In the last some very fine walnut furniture was being polished by hand.

“Philip's stuff,” said Dr Spenlow. “It was all French-polished, but he's had it stripped. They've made a pretty good job of it, don't you think?”

Philip's furniture was being got ready for Philip's bride. Oliver Loddon had been brought here to see it. Why? To amuse Philip? To amuse Harold Spenlow who housed a mocking devil? To give that extra prick of the goad which makes man or animal bolt blindly into danger—or out of it?

“Philip has a very fine house,” said Dr Spenlow cheerfully. “You'd like to see it?”

Oliver said, “No.”

The black eyebrows went up. “Oh, well, just as you like. It's worth seeing though—artistic—Philip has very good taste. There are some fine pictures—one of them from the Louvre, and a couple from Venice. Philip takes what he wants, and doesn't care what it costs him or anyone else. Now the Old Man's place is terrific—gilding, you know—pots, and pots, and pots, and pots of it—and masses of crimson plush—and carpets inches deep in expensive pile—all paid for cash down on delivery. Only they weren't delivered here, as you may guess. That's where your friend Ernie comes in—he collects the stuff and brings it along. Want to see the Fox's den?”

“No, thank you.”

They saw more caves instead.

When he was alone in his room Oliver tried to make a map of what he had seen. Such as his impressions were, he got them down on a bit of paper, but he had nothing to check them by, and he found it difficult to persuade himself that his map could be of any possible use. With every hour that passed there was a heavier weight upon endeavour, and hope, already dead, became a thing forgotten out of mind.

CHAPTER XXIX

In another rock-walled room Rose Anne stood passive whilst Louise and Marie tried on her wedding dress. When she had chosen the dress for her wedding to Oliver she had chosen a soft, filmy stuff, but now for Philip she must wear a silver and white brocade and go as richly as if this were mediæval Venice and she a Doge's bride. The dress was fantastically beautiful. It denied the simplicities of the heart. It flaunted a taste most alien to Rose Anne Carew.

She stood in silence whilst Louise and Marie admired.

“But it is a masterpiece, Madame. And Mademoiselle how she looks in it! Ravishing—like an angel—like a queen!” Marie's dark eyes were wide with admiration and envy.

Madame Louise put her head on one side and stood back for a better view.

“It is true—it is a success! And with only two days to do everything!
Ciel!
How do men think that these things are achieved? If Monsieur Philippe will believe, it is a miracle that we have performed, you and I—a true miracle! And I tell you this, Marie, that if we had had more time, there might have been no miracle, but a dress—very good, very chic. I do not make any dress that is not good, not chic, but not every dress even from Louise is a miracle as this one. Turn then, Mademoiselle—a little more if you please.
O mon Dieu
—the line is perfect!”

The curtain over the door was lifted. Philip Rennard stood there smiling. Not one of the three had heard the door open. He stood there and smiled, and repeated Louise's word,

“Perfect.”

Rose Anne did not move. She stood as she had been standing all the time, her head a little bent and her eyes cast down. There was a tall mirror against the wall, but she had not looked into it. She refused to see the reflected image of Philip Rennard's bride.

Philip sent the two women away and shut the door. He praised them, and they departed in a flutter of happiness. Philip did not often praise.

When they were gone he stood back as Louise had done, and said in his own words very much what she had said.

“Won't you turn round, Rose, and let me see you?”

She turned with the gentle mechanical movement of a wax-work. She kept her eyes down and her hands folded. Philip watched her for a long minute. Then he said, leaning back against the door,

“It's no good, Rose—the game's up.”

Rose Anne's heart knocked against her side. It had been a dumb, desperate game, and she had played it desperately for what it was worth. She had given him nothing—not one look, not one catch of the breath, not one tremor of all the fear which filled her aching heart, not one quiver of her anguish.

He said again, laughing, “The game's up, my darling Rose—my beautiful Rose—
my
Rose.”

Rose Anne kept silence, but when he put a hand on her shoulder she drew away.

“I don't like to be touched, Philip.”

“Don't you? Well, I'm going to touch you—I'm going to kiss you—I'm going to marry you. This is your wedding dress, you know.” He linked his hands behind her shoulders and held her lightly. “I tell you the game is up. You're not drugged, and you're not dumb. You've kept it up very well, but you gave yourself away last night. I wasn't sure, you know, so I let you sit by Loddon and I let you dance with him, and you gave yourself away. Disappointing—isn't it? Because you nearly pulled it off. You see, you didn't reckon on the fact that I'm in love with you—romantically, enthusiastically, innocently in love with you. And that being the case, I couldn't help picking up the—shall we say, emotional interchange that was going on. You were broadcasting at very high pressure and I got your wave-length. So it's no use shamming dumb any more. Come, Rose—look at me! And let's talk like human beings. I'm sick to death of this wax doll business.”