Chapter Twenty-Nine

IT was Mr. Walter Clumberleyes, a highly respectable insurance agent and stock broker of Norchester, who, on the following morning, started the reign of terror which for a brief period of time completely broke down the sedate and tranquil atmosphere of the County Club. He approached the door of the reading room at about five minutes to one, having the pleased air of a man who has accomplished a good morning's work and is looking forward to a few minutes' contemplation of the daily paper before he deals with his cut from the joint with vegetables, cheese and whisky-and-soda. He reappeared from the room within thirty seconds with a demoniacal howl upon his lips which rang through the whole place and up to the roof---the cry of a man in mortal terror. His rubicund complexion had paled, his air of assurance vanished, his rather important walk become a staggering travesty of progress. He reeled into an umbrella stand, caught his foot against the edge of a mat and fell over on his side. A member who was hanging up his hat when the violent impetus of Clumberleyes' backward progress nearly sent him flying turned angrily round.

"What the devil----" he began and then stopped.

The small pageboy, who was halfway up the broad staircase in terrified flight, hung onto the banisters and looked down.

"He's got a fit," he called out at the top of his voice. "That's what he's got. It's Mr. Clumberleyes. He's got a fit. Hear him!"

Mr. Clumberleyes staggered to his feet, neglecting to gather together the remnants of his smashed pince-nez. He was still breathing hard. Two members hurried out from the lavatory still drying their hands on towels. They rushed over towards their breathless friend.

"What on earth is the matter, Clumberleyes?" someone asked. "Are you ill?"

Clumberleyes pointed to the door of the room from which he had just made so dramatic an exit. It was absolutely apparent that for the moment he had lost his power of speech. One of the two men, with a towel still in his hand, strode bravely across the hall and opened the door of the reading room. He stood there peering in. Five seconds later he had slammed the door and was zigzagging across the hall in bewildered fashion.

"My God, did you see that?" he cried out to no one in particular.

"Did we see what?" his companion demanded. "What's wrong with you, Mason?"

Mason could only point dumbly at the reading room. His friend pushed past him. He, too, opened the door gingerly and looked in. A carefully dressed, shrunken-looking old gentleman was seated in the easy chair which had become notorious during the last ten days, with a pint of champagne by his side, a glass in his hand and a wicked smile upon his lips as he turned his head. Once more the door slammed. They all crowded round the last man who had staggered out, but he seemed to have retained more possession of his senses than his predecessors.

"Is everybody mad here?" Frank Hewitt, a prosperous boot manufacturer demanded. "What's happened to the room?"

"Go and see," the last person who had ventured in gasped.

Mr. Hewitt was a big man and he knew no fear. He pushed past them and opened the door. He looked at the little figure in the chair and his jaw fell. The grin had become almost diabolical. A quivering hand held up the glass of champagne. Mr. Hewitt was a man who never hesitated. He half-fell, half-sprang back. Once more the little group was broken up. Mr. Clumberleyes, who had had the most time to get over the shock, made a great effort to pull himself together.

"I don't believe in ghosts," he cried, "and I have broken my pince-nez. That's either the Devil sitting in old Sir Adam's easy chair, or it's Sir Adam himself."

Everyone made a movement as though towards the door. Everyone paused. They all looked hopefully towards Martin Mowbray, who had just run lightly up the steps and was gazing at them in amazement.

"What's wrong?" he asked quickly.

"It's the old man come back---or the Devil."

"What---Sir Adam?" Martin exclaimed.

"Go and see," someone suggested.

Martin hung up his hat, opened the door of the reading room and closed it again behind him. The shock was almost as great to him as to the others, for there was no doubt at all about Sir Adam's presence or that there was something portentously sinister about the contortion of those lips. Nevertheless, he disregarded every suggestion of the supernatural and walked on towards the chair.

"Sir Adam!" he exclaimed, studying to control his voice. "Glad to see you back again."

Sir Adam seemed a little disappointed.

"So I can't frighten you like the others," he remarked. "You are the first man who has not had one glance at me and bolted out of the room squealing. Yes, I am back, Martin. Doesn't it look like it?"

He imbibed a sip of his wine and set down the glass.

"Martin," he went on, and for a moment there was something almost pitiful in the fading of that smile, "I have come back. It is not quite the fun I hoped. Listen, pass me that pen and ink and a sheet of paper."

Martin did as he was bidden swiftly. Someone opened the door an inch or two and then closed it again.

"Come right up to me," the old man begged. "Hurry! Take this down:---

I---Adam Blockton---of sound mind, hereby add as a codicil to my Will a legacy of One Thousand Pounds to Inspector Snell of Scotland Yard who had the wit to discover me and the good sense to grant my simple request.

Sign it as witness, Martin."

"You sign first," Martin enjoined, thrusting the pen between the shaking fingers.

Sir Adam did as he was told. Martin signed as witness.

"Is that legal---all right---binding?" Sir Adam asked eagerly.

"Of course it is," Martin told him. "I'll guarantee that, Sir Adam. We ought to have another witness, but no one would ever dispute it. Why are you in such a hurry?"

Sir Adam looked out of the window.

"Nasty look in the old man's eye this morning," he whispered. "I don't think he's glad to see me back."

"He's all right," Martin reassured him. "Here, let me fill up your glass. You haven't half drunk your wine. It'll do you good."

Sir Adam's fingers were trembling.

"No," he said, "I don't think I'll drink any more, Martin. Tell me, was there much of a row when your uncle told them about my Will?"

"A hell of a row," Martin acknowledged.

"And Diana---was she glad?"

"She's only human. She was disgusted with the others. She couldn't help being pleased for herself. She's not a hypocrite, you know, sir."

"She's about the only human being I really respect, except my friends downstairs," Sir Adam muttered slowly. "You can tell her that from me, Martin. Do you know what is going to happen to me?"

"You're going to finish that wine and come and have lunch with us all, sir," Martin declared. "We're not going to bother you about your disappearance. We're only glad to get you back again."

Sir Adam slipped a little farther down in his chair. Martin always fancied that the thin fingers grasped his faintly.

"I'm going to die, Martin," he groaned. "That's all. See that the funny little man with the crumpled brown suit gets his thousand pounds."

"I'll see to it," Martin promised. "But look here, sir----"

Even as he spoke he knew that it was hopeless. Sir Adam had completed his disappearance.

THE END