CHAPTER XII
ESCAPE
An exclamation, impossible to repress, burst from the lips of Max.
At the same moment, he made a spring to the left, which brought him under the spot in the floor above through which the light was streaming.
And he saw through a raised trapdoor in the flooring above the shrewish face of old Mrs. Higgs, and the very same candle in the very same tin candlestick that he had seen in use in the adjoining room.
The old woman and the young man stared at each other for a moment in silence. It seemed to Max that there was genuine surprise on her face as she looked at him.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed she, as she lowered the candle through the hole, and looked, not only at him but into every corner of the shop. "Well, I never! How did you get in there, eh?"
Max was angry and sullen. How could he doubt that she knew more about it than he did! On the other hand, he was not in a position to be as rude as he felt inclined to be.
"You know all about that, I expect," said he, shortly.
"I? How should I know anything about it? I only know that I lost sight of you very quickly, and couldn't make out where you'd got to."
"Well, you know now," said Max, shortly, "and perhaps you'll be kind enough to let me out."
In spite of himself, his voice shook. As the old woman still hesitated, he measured with his eye the distance between the floor where he stood and the open trap door above. It was too far for a spring. Mrs. Higgs seemed to divine his thoughts, and she laughed grimly.
"All right," said she. "All right. I'll come down. I wonder who can have put you in there now! It's one of those young rascals from over the way, I expect. They are always up to something. Don't you worry yourself; I'm coming!"
Her tone had become so reassuring that Max began to wonder whether the old woman might not be more innocent of the trick which had been played upon him than he had supposed. This impression increased when Mrs. Higgs went on:
"Why didn't you holloa out when you found yourself inside?"
"It wouldn't have been of much use," retorted Max. "I thumped on the door and made noise enough to wake the city."
"Well, I thought I heard a knock, some time ago," said Mrs. Higgs, who seemed still in no hurry to fulfill her promise of coming down. "But I thought it was nothing of any consequence, as I didn't hear it again."
"Where were you then?" To himself, he added: "You old fool!"
"Eh?" said Mrs. Higgs.
Max repeated the question.
"Well, first I was downstairs, and then I came up here."
At last, Max saw in the old woman's lackluster eyes a spark of malice.
"You're coming to open the door now?" asked he.
"All right," said she.
Down went the trap door, and the light and the old woman disappeared together. Max wished he had asked for a candle, although he doubted whether his request would have been complied with.
And at the end of another five minutes, which seemed like hours, he began to have other and graver doubts. He had gone back to his former place near the door, and he stood waiting, with more and more eagerness, more and more anxiety, for the promised appearance of Mrs. Higgs.
Surely, slow as her steps might be, she could have got down by this time.
He grew restless, uneasy. The old suspicions—which her appearance and the artful simplicity of her manner had allayed—rose up in his mind with fresh vigor. And, to add to his anxiety, he suddenly remembered the pretext Carrie had given to try to get him into the front room.
She had told him there were things of hers in there which she wanted. He had believed her, at least, implicitly. But now he knew that her pretext was a lie. She also, therefore, had been an accomplice in the plot to get him into this room.
As this thought came into his mind, he heard again the creaking of the boards, and this time it was accompanied by another sound, faint, intermittent, but unmistakable—the sound of the splashing of water close to his feet.
Turning quickly to the door, he raised his fist and brought it upon the boards with a sounding crash; at the same time, he shouted for "Help!" with all the strength of his lungs. He repeated the blow, the cry.
Again he heard, when he paused to listen, the faint splashing of the water, the creaking of the boards behind him. Then, just as he raised his hand for one more blow on the door, he felt it open a very little, pushing him back.
And at the same moment, a voice whispered:
"Sh-sh!"
Very gradually the door was opened a little farther. A hand caught the sleeve of his coat. It was quite dark outside the door—as dark as in the front room.
"Sh-sh!" was whispered again in his ear, as he felt himself drawn through the narrow aperture.
He made no attempt to resist, for he knew, he felt, that the hand was Carrie's, and that this was rescue.
When he had passed into the second room, Max was stopped by a warning pressure of the hand upon his arm, and then he felt the touch of Carrie's lips upon his ear, so close did she come before she uttered these words:
"Don't make a sound. Come slowly, very quietly, very carefully. You're all right."
He heard her close the door through which he had just come, and then he let her lead him, in silence and in the darkness, until they reached another door. This she opened with the same caution, and Max, passing through with her, found himself, as he knew by the little step down onto the brick floor, in the outhouse.
"Who's that?" said a man's voice, startling Max, and confirming in an instant the suspicions he had had that the outrage to which he had been subjected was the work of a gang.
"It's me—Carrie," said the girl.
And opening the outer door, she drove Max out with a gentle push and closed it between herself and him.
"Thank God!" was his first muttered exclamation, as he felt the welcome rush of cold night air and felt himself free again.
But the very next moment he turned back instinctively to the door and attempted to push it open. The latch was gone; he had broken it himself. But the door was now locked against him.
Of course, this circumstance greatly increased the desire he had for one more interview, however short, with Carrie. He wanted to understand her position. Too much interested in the girl to wish to doubt her, grateful to her for contriving his escape, Max yet found it difficult to reconcile her actions with the honesty her words had caused him to believe in.
However, finding that the door was inexorably closed upon him, he saw that there was nothing for it but to take himself off into safer if less interesting regions as quickly as possible. So he got out on the wharf, through and over the timber, and was on the point of crossing to the door in the fence, when he saw a man come quickly through, lock the door behind him, and make his way through the piles of timber with the easy, stealthy step of a man accustomed to doing this sort of thing and to do it at night.
Before the man got near him, Max, who had stepped back a little under the wall of one of the outhouses, was sure that the newcomer was of doubtful character. When the latter got out into the light thrown by the street lamp outside the wharf, this impression was confirmed.
A little man, young, of slight and active build, with a fair mustache, blue eyes, and curly, light hair, he was undoubtedly good-looking, although there was something mean and sinister about the expression of his face. Max could scarcely see all these details; but, as it was, he made out enough for him to experience an idiotic pang of something like jealousy, as he made up his mind on the instant that the object of the young man's visit was to see Carrie.
The visitor wore a light overcoat and had a certain look of being well-off, or, at least, well dressed.
And, suspicion getting the upper hand again, the thought darted through the mind of Max that it was strange to find so many persons—this was the third of whom he had knowledge—hovering about the shut-up house when Carrie had represented herself to have been alone for two whole days.
Against his better judgment, Max followed the newcomer, step by step, at a safe distance, and raised himself on the timber in such a way as to be able to watch what followed.
The man in the light coat made his way with surprising neatness and celerity over the timber to the door of the outhouse, at which he gave two short knocks, a pause, and then two more.
After waiting for a few moments, the man repeated this signal, more loudly than before.
And then the door opened, and Max heard the voice of Carrie, though it was too dark for him to see her at that distance.
"You, Dick? Come in."
And the young man, without answering, availed himself of the invitation; and the door was shut.
Max stared down at the closed door in perplexity and dismay. In spite of all his adventures in that very doubtful house, or, perhaps, because of them, his interest in Carrie, of the blue eyes and the wonderful voice, was as strong as ever. Hovering between trust and mistrust, he told himself at this point that she was nothing in the world but the thieves' decoy he had at first suspected. But in that case, why had he himself not been robbed? He wore a valuable watch; he had gold and notes in his purse. And no attempt had been made to relieve him of either the one or the other.
And the foolish fellow began to consider and to weigh one thing with the other, and to become more and more eager to see the girl again if it were only to upbraid her for her deceit until he ended by slipping down to the ground, going boldly to the door of the outhouse, and giving two knocks, a pause, and two knocks more.
As he had expected, Carrie herself, after an interval of only a few seconds, opened the door.
There was a little light in the outhouse, and none outside; and Max, having taken a couple of steps to the left, she at first saw nobody. So she made a step forward. Max instantly put himself between her and the door.
On recognizing him, Carrie started, but uttered no sound, no word.
"I want to speak to you," said Max, in a low voice.
But all her boldness of their first interview, her coquetry of the second, her quiet caution of the third had disappeared. She was now frightened, shy, and anxious to get away.
"Oh, why did you come back? Why did you come back? Go away at once and never come here again. Haven't you got a lesson?"
Her voice broke; her anxiety was visible. Max was touched, more interested than ever.
"I can't go away," he whispered back, "until I have spoken to you about something which is very serious. Can't you come out on the wharf, somewhere where we can talk without anybody over-hearing?"
"Oh, no, oh, no. I must go in. And you must go. Are you a fool," and she stamped her foot with sudden impatience, "to be so persistent?"
"A fool?" echoed Max, half to himself. "By Jove, I think I am. Look here," and he bent down so that he might whisper very close to her ear; "I must set the police on this place, you know; but I want you to get away out of it first."
She listened in silence. She waited for him to say more. But he was waiting on his side for the protests he expected. At last, she laughed to herself derisively.
"All right," said she. "Set the police on us by all means. Oh, do—do! But—just mention first to your friend, Mr. Horne, that that's what you're going to do. Just mention it to him, and see the thanks you'll get for your trouble!"
These words came upon Max with a great shock. In the excitement of his own adventures in this place, he had quite forgotten his friend, Dudley Horne, and the errand which had first brought him into the neighborhood. He had forgotten, also, what he had from the first only half believed—the girl's words connecting Dudley with a murder committed within those walls.
Now that the remembrance was thus abruptly brought back to him, he felt as if he wanted to gasp for breath. Carrie watched him and presently made a sign to him to follow her. Scrambling out to the open space on the wharf, she made for the spot close to the water where Max had stood to watch the man whom Carrie had called "Dick."
When Max came up to her, the girl was standing close to the eaves of the outhouse on the bank, leaning against the wall. He could scarcely see anything of her face in the darkness, but he was struck by something strangely moving in the tones of her voice as she broke the silence.
"Look here," she said, "I want you to make me a promise. Come, it ought not to be difficult; for I got you out of a nice mess; remember that. You've got to give me your word that you will say nothing about your adventures today, either to the police or to anybody else."
"I can't promise that. And why on earth do you want me to do so? Surely you can have no real sympathy with the people who do the things that are done in there—"
Carrie interrupted him, breaking in upon him abruptly:
"What things?"
"Murders, and—"
"The murder was done by your friend, not by us."
"'Us?' Surely you don't identify yourself with these people?"
"I do. They are my friends—the only friends I have."
"But they are thieves, blackmailers!" said Max, saying not what he knew but what he guessed.
"What have they stolen from you? What harm have they done to you or anybody that you know of? All this is because my Granny didn't approve of my having a stranger in, and had you shut into a dark room to give you a fright."
"But you forget you said just now you had got me out of a nice mess."
"I—I meant that you were frightened."
"And with good reason. After what I saw and heard in that room, I would be worse than a criminal myself if I hadn't informed the police about the existence of the place. I believe it's one of the vilest dens in London."
Carrie was silent. She did not attempt to ask him what it was that he had heard and seen while in that room. And Max felt his heart sink within him. He would have had her question, protest, deny. Instead, she seemed tacitly to take the truth of all his accusations for granted.
"Don't you see," he presently went on, almost in a coaxing tone, "that it's for your own good that you should have to go away? I won't believe—I can't—that you like this underground, hole-and-corner existence, this life that is dishonest all through. Come, now, confess that you don't like it—that you only live like this because you can't help it, or because you think you can't help it—and I'll forgive you."
There was a long pause. Then he heard a little, hard, cynical laugh. He tried hard to see her face; but although he caught now and then a gleam of the great eyes, the wonderful eyes that had fascinated him, he could not distinguish the expression, hardly even the outline of her features.
When she at last spoke, it was in a reckless, willful tone.
"Forgive me! What have you to forgive, except that I was fool enough to ask you into the house? And if you've suffered for that, it seems I shall have to, too, in the long run; and I'm not going to say I don't like the life, for I like it better than any I've lived before."
"What!"
"Yes, yes, I tell you. I'm not a heroine, ready to drudge away my life in any round of dull work that'll keep body and soul together. I'd rather have the excitement of living what you call a hole-and-corner life than spend my days stitch—stitch—stitching—dust—dust—dusting, as I used to have to do with Miss Aldridge, as I should have to do if I went away from here."
"Well, but there are other things you could do," pleaded Max, with vague thoughts of setting his own sisters to work to find this erratic child of the riverside some more seemly mode of life than her present one.
"What other things?"
"Why, you could—you could teach in a school or in a family."
"No, I couldn't. I don't know enough. And I wouldn't like it, either. And I should have to leave Granny, who wants me, and is fond of me—"
"And Dick!" burst out Max, spitefully. "You would have to give up the society of Dick."
It was possible, even in the darkness, to perceive that this remark startled Carrie. She said, in astonishment which she could not hide:
"And what do you know about Dick?"
"I know that you wouldn't care for a life that is repugnant to every notion of decency if it were not for Dick," retorted Max, with rash warmth.
Carrie laughed again.
"I'm afraid you got your information from the wrong quarter," said she, quietly. "Not from Dick himself, that's certain."
There was some relief to Max in this confident assertion, but not much. Judging Dick by his own feelings, he was sure that person had not reached the stage of intimacy at which Carrie called him by his Christian name without hankering after further marks of her favor.
"He is fond of you, of course!" said Max, feeling that he had no right to say this, but justifying himself on the grounds of his wish to help her out of her wretched position.
"Well, I suppose he is."
"Are you—of course, I've no right to ask—but are you fond of him?"
Carrie shook her head with indifference.
"I like him in my way," said she. "Not in his way. There's a great difference."
"And do you like any man—in his way?"
The girl replied with a significant gesture of disgust, which had in it nothing of coquetry, nothing of affectation.
"No," said she, shortly.
"Why do you answer like that?"
"Why? Oh, well, if you knew all that I've seen, you wouldn't wonder, you wouldn't want to ask."
"You won't always feel like that. You won't, when you have got away from this hole, and are living among decent people."
"The 'decent people' are those who leave me alone," said Carrie, shortly, "as they do here."
"As who do here? Who are the people who live in that shut-up house, besides you and your Granny, as you call her?"
"I—mustn't tell you. They don't belong to any county families. Is that enough?"
"Why are you so different now from what you were when we were sitting by the fire in there? You are not like the same girl! Are you the same girl?"
And Max affected to feel, or, perhaps, really felt, a doubt which necessitated his coming a little closer to Carrie, without, however, being able to see much more of her face than before.
"I'm the same girl," replied Carrie, shortly, "whom you threatened with the police."
"Come, is that fair? Did I threaten you with the police?"
"You threatened us. It's the same thing. Well, it doesn't matter. They won't find out anything more than we choose!"
She said this defiantly, ostentatiously throwing in her lot with the dubious characters from whom Max would fain have dissociated her.
"Do you forget," he asked, suddenly, "that these precious friends of yours left you, forgot you, for two whole days—left you to the company of a dead man, to a chance stranger? Is that what you call kindness—friendship—affection?"
She made no answer.
A moment later a voice was heard calling softly: "Carrie?"
The girl came out of the shelter of the eaves, and Max at last caught sight of her face. It was sad, pale, altogether different from what the reckless, defiant, rather hard tones of her latest words would have led him to expect. A haunting face, Max thought.
"I must go," said she. "Goodbye."
"Carrie!" repeated the voice, calling again, impatiently.
Max knew, although he could not see the owner of the voice, that it was "Dick." It was, he thought, a coarse voice, full of intimations of the swaggering self-assertion of the low-class Londoner, who thinks himself the whole world's superior.
Carrie called out:
"All right; I'm coming!" And then she turned to Max. "You are to forget this place, and me," said she, in a whisper.
The next moment Max found himself alone.
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