He was a man
who was fighting a ceaseless battle, holding at arm’s length, from
morning till night, a horrible adversary, who was for ever trying to
close with him—an adversary which would destroy him body and soul could
it but fix its claws once more upon him. As I watched the grim,
round-backed figure pacing the corridor or walking in the garden, this
imminent danger seemed to take bodily shape, and I could almost fancy
that I saw this most loathsome and dangerous of all the fiends crouching
closely in his very shadow, like a half-cowed beast which slinks beside
its keeper, ready at any unguarded moment to spring at his throat. And
the dead woman, the woman who had spent her life in warding off this
danger, took shape also to my imagination, and I saw her as a shadowy
but beautiful presence which intervened for ever with arms uplifted to
screen the man whom she loved. In some subtle way he divined the sympathy which I had for him, and he
showed in his own silent fashion that he appreciated it. He even invited
me once to share his afternoon walk, and although no word passed between
us on this occasion, it was a mark of confidence which he had never
shown to any one before. He asked me also to index his library (it was
one of the best private libraries in England), and I spent many hours in
the evening in his presence, if not in his society, he reading at his
desk and I sitting in a recess by the window reducing to order the chaos
which existed among his books. In spite of these close relations I was
never again asked to enter the chamber in the turret. And then came my revulsion of feeling. A single incident changed all my
sympathy to loathing, and made me realize that my employer still
remained all that he had ever been, with the additional vice of
hypocrisy. What happened was as follows. One evening Miss Witherton had gone down to Broadway, the neighbouring
village, to sing at a concert for some charity, and I, according to my
promise, had walked over to escort her back. The drive sweeps round
under the eastern turret, and I observed as I passed that the light was
lit in the circular room. It was a summer evening, and the window, which
was a little higher than our heads, was open. We were, as it happened,
engrossed in our own conversation at the moment, and we had paused upon
the lawn which skirts the old turret, when suddenly something broke in
upon our talk and turned our thoughts away from our own affairs. It was a voice—the voice undoubtedly of a woman. It was low—so low that
it was only in that still night air that we could have heard it, but,
hushed as it was, there was no mistaking its feminine timbre. It spoke
hurriedly, gaspingly for a few sentences, and then was silent—a piteous,
breathless, imploring sort of voice. Miss Witherton and I stood for an
instant staring at each other. Then we walked quickly in the direction
of the hall-door. “It came through the window,” I said. “We must not play the part of eavesdroppers,” she answered. “We must
forget that we have ever heard it.”

There was an absence of surprise in her manner which suggested a new
idea to me. “You have heard it before,” I cried. “I could not help it. My own room is higher up on the same turret. It
has happened frequently.”

“Who can the woman be?”

“I have no idea. I had rather not discuss it.”

Her voice was enough to show me what she thought. But granting that our
employer led a double and dubious life, who could she be, this
mysterious woman who kept him company in the old tower? I knew from my
own inspection how bleak and bare a room it was. She certainly did not
live there. But in that case where did she come from? It could not be
any one of the household. They were all under the vigilant eyes of Mrs.
Stevens. The visitor must come from without. But how? And then suddenly I remembered how ancient this building was, and how
probable that some mediæval passage existed in it. There is hardly an
old castle without one. The mysterious room was the basement of the
turret, so that if there were anything of the sort it would open through
the floor. There were numerous cottages in the immediate vicinity. The
other end of the secret passage might lie among some tangle of bramble
in the neighbouring copse. I said nothing to any one, but I felt that
the secret of my employer lay within my power. And the more convinced I was of this the more I marvelled at the manner
in which he concealed his true nature. Often as I watched his austere
figure, I asked myself if it were indeed possible that such a man should
be living this double life, and I tried to persuade myself that my
suspicions might after all prove to be ill-founded. But there was the
female voice, there was the secret nightly rendezvous in the turret
chamber—how could such facts admit of an innocent interpretation? I
conceived a horror of the man. I was filled with loathing at his deep,
consistent hypocrisy. Only once during all those months did I ever see him without that sad
but impassive mask which he usually presented towards his fellow-man. For an instant I caught a glimpse of those volcanic fires which he had
damped down so long. The occasion was an unworthy one, for the object of
his wrath was none other than the aged charwoman whom I have already
mentioned as being the one person who was allowed within his mysterious
chamber. I was passing the corridor which led to the turret—for my own
room lay in that direction—when I heard a sudden, startled scream, and
merged in it the husky, growling note of a man who is inarticulate with
passion. It was the snarl of a furious wild beast. Then I heard his
voice thrilling with anger. “You would dare!” he cried. “You would dare
to disobey my directions!” An instant later the charwoman passed me,
flying down the passage, white faced and tremulous, while the terrible
voice thundered behind her. “Go to Mrs. Stevens for your money! Never
set foot in Thorpe Place again!” Consumed with curiosity, I could not
help following the woman, and found her round the corner leaning against
the wall and palpitating like a frightened rabbit. “What is the matter, Mrs. Brown?” I asked. “It’s master!” she gasped. “Oh ’ow ’e frightened me! If you had seen ’is
eyes, Mr. Colmore, sir. I thought ’e would ’ave been the death of me.”

“But what had you done?”

“Done, sir! Nothing. At least nothing to make so much of. Just laid my
’and on that black box of ’is—’adn’t even opened it, when in ’e came and
you ’eard the way ’e went on. I’ve lost my place, and glad I am of it,
for I would never trust myself within reach of ’im again.”

So it was the japanned box which was the cause of this outburst—the box
from which he would never permit himself to be separated. What was the
connection, or was there any connection between this and the secret
visits of the lady whose voice I had overheard?