Page:Weird Tales Volume 13 Number 3 (1929-03).djvu/41

right I caught a glimpse of the rain-lashed waters of the Avon; then we left the river road and a few minutes later came to a halt before a small, detached house standing almost in the shadow of the ancient gray tower of the Guild Chapel. In response to our knock the door was opened by a short, frail-looking old lady. Wilmer, electing himself as spokesman, addressed her with his most fascinating smile.

She seemed somewhat taken aback by his request for a room, and for several moments stood as though in thought. When at length she spoke, it was in the quiet, self-possessed accents of a cultured woman.

"I am not in the habit of taking boarders," she said, "but you may stay here if you wish. It certainly is a very wretched night." She made the last observation in a tone which seemed to imply that she was seeking an excuse to justify a departure from her usual rule. "Perhaps it would be as well not to dismiss your cab until you have seen the room. It may possibly not be to your liking."

A vague sense of misgiving came over me as she spoke. It seemed as though her words held some sinister meaning. The next moment the feeling passed. We were not in position to be fastidious.

"There's no need for us to see the room. Madam," I told her cheerfully. "So long as it has a roof and four walls we will be satisfied."

The moment I crossed the threshold I got my first surprize. The exterior of the house had seemed commonplace enough. Like so many of the old houses in the town, it had at some recent time been faced with common red brick, which made it appear comparatively modern; but the interior was a perfect gem of unspoilt, antique beauty. The tiny hall into which we stepped was paneled with age-blackened oak; the steep, narrow staircase was flanked by carved balustrades of the Elizabethan period; while the bedroom into which we were finally ushered would have set the heart of an antiquarian beating with delight. No false modern note jarred upon its tranquil, Old World charm. The arched stone fireplace was pure Tudor; the leaded casement still retained the tiny, greenish panes of the original blown glass; the furniture would have fetched a small fortune in a London salesroom.

I could not repress a cry of amazement as I surveyed the room.

"Why, this should be one of the show places of Stratford!" I declared with enthusiasm.

A slight flush of pleasure appeared on the pale features of our hostess.

"Yes, it is certainly a very old house," she said quietly. "It has belonged to our family for generations—in fact, the Condells were living here at the same time that the great William Shakespeare lived at the New Place, which, as you may remember, was the house he bought when he left London, in the year 1611, and came here to spend the last few years of his life as an honored and wealthy citizen of his native town."

A muttered exclamation from Wilmer caused me to glance toward him.

"Condell—Condell"—he was repeating the name with the air of one who strives to capture an elusive memory—"surely I've heard that name before. Why, of course—Henry Condell and John Heminge were two of Shakespeare's company of players, to whom he bequeathed legacies for mourning rings in his famous will. It was they who edited and published the first complete folio of his plays in 1623."

"I am descended from that same Henry Condell," said the old lady with quite excusable pride. "This house formed part of the New Place estate, and, before dying, Shakespeare presented it to his old fellow-player. There existed a strong bond of affection between the two, for Henry Condell was himself no mean poet. It