Free Comes a Stranger by E.R. Punshon Page A

sounded curious, fantastic even, and yet why should Virtue tell it, if it were not true? The truth may be fantastic at times, and life can take on the quality of a nightmare, but what possible motive could any apparently sane man have for inventing such a tale? Then surely it must be true, and yet there was a clear memory in Bobby’s mind, both of those steel shutters to the library windows he had understood were invariably closed at nightfall and of that other fact that in the library there was no artificial light at all.
    Through his mind raced these facts as his feet raced along the road, and now they were in the short drive that led up to the Lodge. The library annexe was on the other side of the building and to reach it they would have to go right round the house. Bobby’s plan had been either to go himself or send Mills round to the library to watch outside, while the other of them entered through the house. But Mills was not there, and Bobby did not wish to let Virtue out of his sight. They were at the front door now. Bobby tried it. It was unlocked, and he opened it and entered without stopping to knock or ring. This was no time, he felt, for ceremony, and he supposed the noise they made in entering would at once bring someone on the scene. He had noticed the position of the service door, and he went towards it, meaning to call for someone to come. As he approached it, it opened, and Briggs appeared, looking very startled. He stood still when he saw Bobby. Bobby said quickly:
    â€œI’m here as a police officer. A man has been seen in the library annexe. Is it open? have you a key? I it one of those?”
    He pointed as he spoke to a cabinet with a glass door he had noticed hanging on the wall, containing various keys.
    â€œThe two bottom at the right are for the library doors,” Briggs answered. “I can ask Mr. Broast for his—he’s in his room.”
    But Bobby was in no mind to wait. Every moment might be of importance. The man Virtue had seen might not be dead for that matter, but only injured, and the difference of a minute might mean the difference between a saved life and a lost. Bobby caught hold of the handle of the cabinet and gave it a violent pull. It had been locked but both it and the lock were of poor construction. With a splintering of wood the door gave way. Bobby took the keys. He said to Briggs:
    â€œTell Mr. Broast at once. Where are the ladies? don’t disturb them yet if you can help it.”
    He hurried on, Virtue close at his heels, Briggs, watching them over his shoulder in a very doubtful and bewildered manner, was hesitatingly ascending the stairs. He said as if he had just thought of it:
    â€œThe ladies have retired for the night, sir.”
    Bobby and Virtue went on down the passage along which Olive had conducted Bobby that afternoon. They came to the big, fireproof door that shut off the library annexe from the house. Bobby opened it and they went through into the lobby. The second fireproof door, giving admission to the library hall, Bobby opened, too, and they went in.
    The darkness was intense. No gleam of light showed, no breath of air stirred, the silence was broken only by the sound of their own hurried and uneven breathing. Bobby flashed around the beam of his pocket torch, a thin ray of light that left the darkness deeper on each side. To and fro he sent it, searching. It showed only row upon row of books, silent and waiting as it were. He had the idea that they were all watching him, a little scornfully, a little scornful of all transitory things, of all happenings in time and space, remembering in their eternal calm, in the wisdom and the knowledge of the past that they enshrined, how little all the fret and fuss of the passing hour mattered compared with their perpetuity. Impatiently Bobby shrugged his shoulders, as if to throw off these ideas the sombre heavy silence of the library seemed to impose upon him, and, moving a yard or two to