Free The Black Cabinet by Patricia Wentworth Page B

hand—four words, and one of them her own name. She read them carefully:
    â€œThe word is Chloe.”
    That was all. There was no signature. Nothing but the four words.
    Chloe walked over to the fire with the paper in her hand, and pushed it down on to the red embers with a quick thrust. The edge of the paper caught and curled back upon itself; a little spurt of flame, a few sparks, and Mitchell Dane’s message was gone.

Chapter XI
    Chloe was still thinking about that message next day. She understood it very well. The word that would open Mitchell Dane’s safe was “Chloe.” It was quite simple, she had only set the combination lock so that the letters spelt her own name, and the safe that lay behind the black cabinet would open to her. Every time her thought reached this point she felt the same thing—a quick recoil from the bare idea of opening that safe.
    Danesborough, which had been the house of her childish dreams, a centre of pleasant memories, had become the setting of something which she could not define, but from which she shrank; as a child, Chloe had often played a game called “Hotter and Colder.” Something was hidden and had to be looked for. When you came near the hidden thing the person who had hidden it called out “Hot,” “Hotter,” “Burning,” “Scorching”; and when you wandered away you were recalled by the warning “Lukewarm,” “Colder,” “Freezing.” Chloe felt as if she were playing this game again. Danesborough held a hidden thing. It was that hidden thing which had changed the house.
    The hidden thing was in the safe. Chloe pictured it as something burning, white-hot, not to be touched. Every time she passed the drawing-room door she felt the nearness of this hidden thing. It was just as if a voice out of the old game was calling to her and saying, “You’re getting hotter; you’re getting hotter all the time.” On the day after the funeral she opened the door and went in. The voice said, “Burning hot,” and Chloe shivered and stood still a yard from the door, looking across the pale, frigid room to where the black cabinet filled the whole of the recess on the right of the fireplace. She could see the golden river and the little men: Timmy Jimmy, and Henry Planty—and Mr. Dark who had always frightened her. He stood a little apart from the other two, and looked down at the shut basket in his hand. He had a secret too.
    Chloe turned with a jerk to find herself face to face with Mr. Wroughton. He seemed more like a farmer than a secretary, with his breadth of shoulder, florid face, and deep, jovial voice.
    â€œHullo!” he said. “I was looking for you. You’ll want to do this room up, I expect. Were you planning it all?”
    â€œNot exactly,” said Chloe. And then she said what she had not meant to say. “Where are Mr. Dane’s keys, Mr. Wroughton?”
    She thought he looked surprised. Just for a moment his manner seemed to accuse Chloe of a little undue haste. She felt rebuked; but he answered her at once and very pleasantly.
    â€œI have them, of course. Was it some special key you wanted? Or shall I hand them all over to you? Perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming intothe study.”
    Chloe followed him like a school-girl. And then all at once her spirit asserted itself. After all, Danesborough was hers; the keys were hers; she had a perfect right to ask for them.
    â€œI wanted the key to the black cabinet. It has my uncle’s collection of butterflies in it, and I’d like to look at them again.”
    Mr. Wroughton lifted a dispatch box, set it on the littered study table, and opened it.
    â€œThere are a great many keys here. Would you know the one you want?”
    He was watching her as he spoke, and a little flare of resentment rose in Chloe. “Why does he look at me like that? Why does he ask if I should know the key?” She