THE TRAP
VOLUMES IN THIS SERIES
POINTED ROOFS
BACKWATER
HONEYCOMB
THE TUNNEL
INTERIM
DEADLOCK
REVOLVING LIGHTS
THE TRAP
OBERLAND (to follow shortly)
THE TRAP
BY
DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON
AUTHOR OF
“THE TUNNEL,” “REVOLVING LIGHTS,” ETC.
DUCKWORTH
3 HENRIETTA STREET, LONDON
First published . . 1925
(All rights reserved)
Printed in Great Britain at
The Mayflower Press, Plymouth. William Brendon & Son, Ltd.
TO
BRYHER.
1
A short by-street paved from side toside. Narrow house-fronts and the endmosthouses, hiding the passage that curvedround into the further street, high enough tokeep out of sight the neighbouring cubes ofmodel dwellings and to leave, as principalfeature in the upper air, the spire of St. PancrasChurch. An old little street. A scrap of oldLondon standing apart, between the Bloomsburysquares and the maze of streets towardsthe City. The light gleaming from its rain-washedflagstones gave it a provincial air anda freshness unknown to the main streets,between whose buildings lay modern roadwaysdulled by mud or harsh with grimy dust.
Whenever during all her London yearsMiriam had passed the spot where it openedinto the thoroughfare, the little by-way haddrawn her eyes; always stating its sequesteredcharm. Entering it now for the first time shehad a sense of arriving nowhere.
She found her number to the right, justbeyond the opening, on a blistered door, whoseknocker, a blurred, weather-worn iron face,gazed sadly downwards. Next the door,within a small window screened from the interiorby a frayed serge curtain, were rangedsmall blocks of stone and marble, polishedcolumns, scraps of moulding; and in the centreupon an oblong mount an alabaster finger. Alady’s forefinger, fastidiously posed—the nail,smooth joints and softly curving flesh mostdelicately carved. Its white cleanliness seemedto rebuke the dust that lay thick upon theother objects and made their welcome quietand impersonal. It was personal, emotional.Arrogant, calling the eye from the surroundingdusty peace.
Dust lay even upon the large grey cat compactlycurled amongst the sharp angles andlooking forth with a green eye, glass-clear andstartlingly bright in contrast to the driedsocket from which its fellow should have shone.
She raised the heavy knocker and tapped.The sounds echoed down the empty court andleft a stillness into which flowed her owntremulous stillness. Down the street a blackcat came towards her, serene and unnoticing,keeping aloof along the centre of the way.
Yet she was an inhabitant of Flaxman’s