I mean to say, not actually out of the corner of his mouth, but very near it. I did my best to promote a flow of conversation. But it was not till young Dwight had left the table and we were lighting the cigars that I seemed to hit on a topic that interested, elevated, and amused. "
A fine boat, this, Mr. Stoker," I said.
For the first time, something approaching animation came into the face.
" Not many better." " I've never done much yachting. And, except at Cowes one year, I've never been on a boat this size." He puffed at his cigar. An eye came swivelling round in my direction, then pushed off again. " There are advantages in having a yacht." " Oh, rather." "
Plenty of room to put your friends up." " Heaps." " And, when you've got 'em, they can't get away so easy as they could ashore." It seemed a rummy way of looking at it, but I supposed a man like Stoker would naturally have a difficulty in keeping guests. I mean, I took it that he had had painful experiences in the past. And nothing, of course, makes a host look sillier to have somebody arrive at his country house for a long visit and then to find, round about lunch-time the second day, that he has made a quiet sneak for the railway station. " Care to look over the boat ? " he asked. " Fine," I said. " I'd be glad to show it to you.
This is the main saloon we're in." " Ah," I said. " I'll show you the staterooms." He rose, and we went along passages and things. We came to a door. He opened it and switched on the light. " This is one of our larger guest-rooms." " Very nice, too." " Go in and take a look round." Well, there wasn't much to see that I couldn't focus from the threshold, but one has to do the civil thing on these occasions. I toddled over and gave the bed a prod.
And, as I did so, the door slammed. And when I nipped round, the old boy had disappeared. Rather rummy, was my verdict. In fact, distinctly rummy. I went across and gave the handle a twist. The bally door was locked. " Boy I " I called. No answer. " Hey I " I said. " Mr. Stoker."
Only silence, and lots of it. I went and sat down on the bed. This seemed to me to want thinking out.
I CAN'T say I liked the look of things. In addition to being at a loss and completelyunable to follow the scenario, I was also distinctly on the uneasy side. I don't know if you ever read a book called " The Masked Seven" ? It's one of those goose-fleshers and there's a chap in it, Drexdale Yeats, a private investigator, who starts looking for clues in a cellar one night, and he's hardly collected a couple when-bingo-there's a metallicclang and there he is with the trapdoor shut and someone sniggering nastily on the other side. For a moment his heart stood still, and so did mine. Excluding the nasty snigger (which Stoker might quite well have uttered without my hearing it), it seemed to me that my case was more or less on all fours with his. Like jolly old Drexdale, I sensed some lurking peril. Of course, mark you, if something on these lines had occurred at some country house where I was staying, and the hand that had turned the key had been that of a pal of mine, a ready explanation would have presented itself. I should have set it down as a spot of hearty humour. My circle of friends is crammed with fellows who would consider it dashed diverting to bung you into a room and lock the door. But on the present occasion I could not see this being the solution. There was nothing roguish about old Stoker. Whatever view you might takeofthis fishy-eyed man, you would never call him playful. If Pop Stoker put his guests in cold storage, his motive in so doing was sinister. Little wonder, then, that as he sat on the edge of the bed pensively sucking at his cigar, Bertram was feeling uneasy. The thought of Stoker's second cousin, George, forced itself upon the mind.
Dotty, beyond a question. And who knew but what that dottiness might not run in the family ? It didn't seem such a long step, I mean to say, from a Stoker locking people in state-rooms to a Stoker with slavering jaws and wild, animal eyes coming back and doing them a bit of no good with the meat axe. When, therefore, there was a click and the door opened, revealing mine host on the threshold, I confess that I rather drew myself together somewhat and pretty well prepared myself for the worst.
His manner, however, was reassuring. Puff-faced, yes, but not fiend-in-human-shape-y. The eyes were steady and the mouth lacked foam.
And he was still smoking his cigar, which I felt was promising. I mean, I've never met any homicidal loonies, but I should imagine that the first thing they would do before setting about a fellow would be to throw away their cigars.
