no stranger had set foot in the place for six days?
None-the-less I was not satisfied with this reasoning, and a sudden suspicion flashing across my mind, I got up from the table and stepped over to the shelf.
"You're not minus a sting, host," said I, taking up the weapon and weighing it carefully in my hand.
"No—," he answered slowly, and his green eyes contracted like those of a cat in the strong light till they were little more than slits. "The toy is not mine, but was left accidentally by a traveler some weeks ago. Mine has a louder bark." And he pointed to a large bluderbuss that hung on the wall.
Then I knew that the knave lied, for on the butt of the pistol I had seen the letters "H. O."
Slowly I replaced it on the shelf, carelessly remarking that the man who left it behind was no soldier. But I was thinking rapidly, and, as I thought, the horror of the place returned and the previous suspicion gave place to dreadful certainty. I became convinced that the major had met with foul play, and several little incidents of which I had not taken much note now became full of awful significance. The fact of the inn being open at that late hour now savored of a trap. Then there was the deafness of the tall man. Anything might happen and he would not hear it.
And again, why was the hunchback so desirous of carrying off my weapons? Or why tell a deliberate lie if he were an honest man? Here was a mystery which I determined to get to the bottom of, and heaven help the villain if my fears proved correct! Quickly I decided on a course of action.
"Well, host," said I, "'tis a rare vintage of yours, an' I should sleep well upon it for I'm mightily tired."
Pulling out my purse so that it jangled noisily, I poured some of the contents into my palm and carelessly picked out a couple of crowns. These I flung upon the table, watching the rogue narrowly the while.
He scarce gave a glance at the coins I had given him, but his eyes feasted on the bulky purse and glittered with a greedy light, and, minding the jewels which Owens carried, I could no longer doubt.
"There," said I, "take those for the nonce, an' if I sleep sound you shall have more. Now show me to-my chamber an' I will go to bed."
"Thank you, sir, thank you. You do my poor hospitality honor." And again that sardonic smile so full of unfathomable meaning. "This way, sir, this way," he continued. "'Tis a soft, clean bed as you will find."
I followed him up a rickety, creaking staircase, terminating in a small landing with a door on either side and a small window facing us. One of these doors he opened.
"There you are, sir," said he. "Now I will leave you and retire myself, for the hour is late. I trust you will sleep well. Never yet have I had a complaint from any who occupied this chamber; indeed, all have slept exceeding sound."
Putting the candle on a small dressing-stand, he looked through me once with his cat's eyes, and I was alone.
Alone! Yes. But sleep? No. Nothing was farther from me, for I was wrestling with this great problem that faced me. I felt perfectly sure that this inn of dread contained the secrets of a tragedy, if not of tragedies, and was determined to search them out. To my mind the place was but a trap for the unwary traveler. Surely there was something horribly, suggestively sinister in those parting words of the hunchback: "Indeed, all have slept exceeding sound."
With a grim smile, I took up my position on a chair behind the door so that if it opened I should be hid from view, and placed my drawn sword across my knees and my pistol ready in my hand. I should not sleep! Here I would wait until all was quiet, and if no one came to disturb me I should have to go and disturb them. First I would search the building for any further evidence of Owens' fate. If nothing was to be discovered then that rascally inn-keeper should explain how he came to be in possession of that pistol.
I know not how long I sat thus, but on a sudden my nerves were set all of a tingle by a great cry as of someone in mortal terror and physical anguish, and yet having in it a note of grim triumph.
For an instant I remained still, my heart beating a rapid tattoo against my ribs and something of my old horror of the place returning. Then, my sword firmly grasped in one hand and pistol in the other, I cautiously opened the door and stepped out on to the landing.
The bright, full moon had risen, and, revealed in its pale ray was the diminutive figure of the hunchback. He was clad only in his night-shirt, and the green eyes were closed, while from his lips issued broken, half-audible sentences.
". . . The knife. . . I must have it. . . . How sticky his blood is. . . he, he, he!" came in low, hollow tones, and I strained my ears to catch more.
"Sh. . . he sleeps. . . One swift stroke, and who is the wiser?" And again that horrible chuckle that made my blood run cold.
Once more the sleepwalker's lips moved as his still active brain conjured up some fresh vision of his crime:
". . . Silently, quickly and the purse is mine. . . How quiet he lies. . . But the knife is sharp, so sharp. . . ho, ho, ho! . . . See, his eyes are open; he sees. . . but it is too late. . . One swift stroke and one only. . . Ah—h!"
I shuddered at the awful significance of his words, and could hardly keep myself from springing upon the self-convicted murderer, for here seemed to be the confirmation of my suspicions. But as I hesitated the sleepwalker spoke again:
"There, 'tis done. . . He was quiet before, but he is quieter now. . . he, he! . . . The pretty stones. . . how they sparkle! Why should he have them and me nothing? . . . But now they are mine—all mine. Ho, ho! . . . 'Tis a fat purse, also. . . how it jingles. . . He sleeps sound. . . where shall his bed be? . . . Beneath the stair? . . . The knife. . . I must have it. . ."
Slowly the sleepwalker moved, turning his head neither to right nor left. Outside the water dripped with that ringing, metallic sound which I have mentioned. The sleeper must have heard it, for he stopped and appeared to listen.
"How sticky his blood is. . . hark! . . . drip, drip, drip. . . Blood. . . . everywhere is blood. . . Where is the knife? . . . I must get it. . ."
And he glided silently down the creaking, shaking stair.
Gripping my weapons firmly, I followed, swiftly, relentlessly, as a cat follows a mouse. At the bottom he went on his knees and commenced to prize up the floor-boards with his fingers. Three planks did he take up as I watched, and again there assailed my nostrils the mouldy, decaying smell. Filled with deadly fear, I sprang forward and my startled gaze fell upon the body of my poor friend lying between the scantlings, a large knife buried up to the handle in his breast, while the sleepwalker, chuckling hideously, strove to pull it free.
A blind. unreasoning fury swept over me; I became for an instant as a madman. Leaping upon the vile monster I seized him by the throat and drove my sword again and again, wildly, fiercely, into his body so that he fell, without a cry, across the corpse of his victim, his life-blood spurting forth from his black heart and mingling with the dust.
Then, pausing not an instant, I turned and fled from the accursed place and breathed not till it was far behind.
