Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty.Humours of a House Party.In the calm, mystic sundown of the August evening, after nine hours in the express from Euston, I was driving with Wyman in Fred Fenwick’s Perth-cart up the side of Loch Ken, that long romantic stretch of water hemmed in by the high, heather-clad hills of Galloway. We were covering that seven miles of winding road that lies between New Galloway station and New Galloway burgh.Southern Scotland surely possesses no wilder or more charming and picturesque district than the Glenkens, and here, in the heart of them, the drive was refreshing, for the air was keen after stifling London; and the many burns and cascades we passed fell with soft rippling music over the mossy, bracken-covered roadsides.The magnificent scenery, the sunset glow upon the unruffled surface of the loch, the dark purple of the distant hills, and the marvellous shades of the heather, did not, however, attract us, for we were both too full of the warm welcome which we knew was awaiting us at Crailloch, beyond Balmaclellan village. Through the long, white High Street of New Galloway we rattled in the dusk, up the steep hill, over the Ken Bridge, and then, following the broad river bed, turned in at last through the lodge gates and pulled up before the great square Elizabethan mansion, with its ornate exterior and high, twisted chimneys.Fred Fenwicke, still in shooting-kit, came forth ere we could bring the cart to a standstill, and from the lighted hall came a chorus of hurrahs, expressing pleasure at our arrival.“Well, Allan, old fellow!” cried Fred, grasping my hand warmly, “this is a real pleasure, to see you in Scotland again! Connie’s in there somewhere, and there’s a whole crowd of boys you know.” And then he turned to give a similarly cordial greeting to Walter, and left me to enter the fine hall, where the majority of the house party had, in the idle hours before dinner, assembled to greet us.The instant I entered a merry voice shouted, “What, ho, there! Allan the Author!” It was Sammy Waldron, or, to give him his correct name, Captain Samuel Waldron, of the Bengal Police, home on two years’ leave, and one of the best of good fellows.Then Mrs Fenwicke, one of the smartest of women and the best of hostesses, whom everyone called Connie, shook me warmly by the hand, expressed her pleasure at our coming, and next moment we found ourselves in the centre of perhaps one of the merriest house parties in the whole of Scotland. Many of the people I had met before in that same big, well-furnished hall, with its splendid trophies of the chase and of Indian frontier wars. Fred Fenwicke and his wife, the merriest and most easy-going pair of any I knew, usually had the same party for the shooting, many of them being Anglo-Indians. In addition to Sammy Waldron, a well set up, fair-haired officer, tough as nails, who for over twenty years had been engaged on and off fighting the Indian frontier tribes, and who was usually the life and soul of the party, there was Jack Handsworth, or Major John Handsworth, C.I.E., owner of wide estates within sight of the Himalayas, who was never seen without a cigar except at meals; his son Godfrey, a smartly groomed fellow of whom everyone held golden opinions; Miss Handsworth, Jack’s sister; Mrs Payling, an exceedingly pleasant and very good-looking widow of middle-age, who lived in summer in England and in winter in India, whose manner of speech was very deliberate, who was possessed of a keen sense of humour, and who always wore exquisite gowns, and wore them well. She was, indeed, one of those few women whose clothes seem part of them. In addition, there were two brothers named Sale, well-known solicitors in London, a merry pair, full of humour; and several other men and women whom I knew more or less intimately.Certainly Fred Fenwicke never made a mistake in the arrangement of his house parties. His guests were never ill-assorted. Sometimes he had a quiet set of visitors, but this was seldom. Indeed, the fun and merriment at Crailloch was always a continuous round, for everyone did just as he liked; shot, cycled, fished for salmon or trout, went excursions, or wandered over the heather-clad hills. There was no restraint, and everyone came there for thorough enjoyment.“Well,” exclaimed Fred, as we stood with him in the dining-room having a “peg” before dressing, “nice lot of boys I’ve got this time, aren’t they?”“Too keen a crowd for me, I fear!” I laughed, for I knew from experience that when the shooters who were my fellow-guests foregathered, the fun was fast and furious.For answer, my old friend only raised his glass in welcome and laughed across it merrily.About thirty-eight, tall and dark, with a distinctly military bearing, and dressed in a smart tweed and gaiters, he looked the very pink of condition. Living that healthy, open-air life on the Scotch estate had tanned his face and neck, and had brought him to a perfection of “fitness” seldom seen in a man. His vitality was marvellous. From the moment he came down in the morning to open the letter-bag until the small hours when the last billiard players drained their final “pegs,” he was constantly active. He loved the country, he loved Scotland, he loved shooting, of which he had plenty, and above all loved the companionship of the few men who were his intimate friends—the men who now formed the house party.Connie Fenwicke was just as happy, just as fond of country life, and just as generous in her hospitality as her husband. Wife and husband thoroughly understood each other, and such was their independent position that, when tired of life at Crailloch, they took a voyage to Australia, where Fred Fenwicke was interested in certain companies. Though fond of Scotland, and living there even through the town season, they were nevertheless essentially cosmopolitan, well-known in Monte Carlo, in Florence, and in Rome. More, indeed, need not be said save that they were a pair such as one seldom met, whose house was hospitality itself.Walter was not so intimate a friend as myself; but before that night was out Fred Fenwicke had admitted him to that charmed circle of close acquaintances, and he declared himself absolutely at home.Dinner was always the solemn function at Crailloch, as it is in most country houses, for the shooters were then clean, the ladies in pretty frocks, and amusing, and Fred’schefwas acknowledged to be one of the best in Scotland. After the ladies had left the table and coffee had been served in the big, old dining-room, with its splendid family portraits, I took Fred aside, for I had detected in him an anxiety to know the reason I had so suddenly come up to visit him. He knew that it was not on account of sport, for near-sightedness prevented my shooting, and I had heard him pass a remarksotto voceat table with Sammy Waldron that it must be on account of some love affair.In order to set my old friend’s mind at rest I took him along to his study, the only sanctum private from guests, and told him that the reason of the suddenness of my visit was because I wanted to study on the spot the history of Threave Castle.“Oh! that’s it!” he cried, removing his cigar from his lips. “Well, I suppose you’ve got some book or other in view, eh?”“H’m, yes,” I answered after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m studying the history of the place. Perhaps I may write a book about it. I want you to help me. Have you any books dealing with the subject?”“I fear I haven’t,” was his response. “Threave is about fourteen miles from here, on a solitary and un-get-at-able island in the Dee. I’ve never been there myself; but I know a man, Mr Batten, the archaeologist, who lives in Castle-Douglas, who has the finest collection of works dealing with Galloway and the neighbourhood, and who has written a book regarding those parts. I’ll write to him. He’ll lend you a lot of books, no doubt, and perhaps he’ll go over to Threave with you. He’s an excellent fellow, and a great friend of mine. But,” he added, “Walter is helping you, I suppose?”“Yes. We are making certain investigations,” was my cautious reply. “At present we can’t say anything definite, except that I may possibly lay the scene of my new book there.”“Well, I’ll assist you, Allan, old chap, if you’ll promise to be silent upon Crailloch and all the boys here.” And he laughed merrily. “When I told them you were coming they all wanted to know if you were going to write a book. They haven’t forgotten those articles last season about Nice and Monte.”“I’ll let them down lightly, I promise you,” was my reply. “Only I tell you my object in confidence. I don’t wish the whole crowd to know.”“Of course not, my dear fellow,” he responded. “I’ll help you. I’ll write to Batten, and we’ll arrange a little picnic over to Threave. You needn’t tell anyone your real reason for going there.”And so I left the arrangements in his hands. After three days of merriment and nights of music, billiard playing, and practical joking, Fred received a note from Mr Batten saying that he had obtained permission from the laird for us to visit Threave, and that he would be pleased not only to accompany us, but also to lend me the several rare and out-of-print works in his collection that dealt with the history of the famous stronghold.To us this was good news indeed, and two mornings later, in a party of ten, including several others on cycles, we drove in a pair-horse brake away along the bank of Loch Ken, through the long, whitewashed villages of Parton and Crossmichael, down to a spot beside the winding Dee, where at a lonely farmhouse we were met by Mr Batten, who proved a most affable and valuable guide.The party was an extremely merry one, and being compelled to leave the brake some half-mile from the river, each of us carried part of the provisions off which we were to lunch on arrival on the island.The day was superb for August, one of those brilliant mornings seldom experienced in Scotland so late in the season, and much good-humoured banter was exchanged as the whole party trudged through the wide fields of corn just falling to the sickle.Presently, on coming up the brae-face, we suddenly obtained a view of the broad, winding river sparkling in the sunshine below; and beyond, upon its solitary island, given over to the rooks and waterfowl, rose the stern, grim keep of what was once the home of the Black Douglas, which even today stands out grey and forbidding in the autumn sunlight.Wyman was walking beside me, carrying a basketful of bottles of soda water, and as the view burst upon me I turned to him and said:“Can it be possible that the casket of which old Godfrey speaks is hidden upon that island?”“Maybe,” was his reply. “It certainly looks just the sort of outlandish place to hold a mystery. But we must say nothing to anyone. Let’s take our observation in silence. They’ll enjoy their picnic while we will refer to that memorandum you made of the parchment record.”At that moment Sammy Waldron, ruddy and sun-tanned, in a rough cycling suit, came up and began to chaff Walter regarding the soda—he himself being the bearer of a quantity of that spirit very precious with men on such occasions, being assisted in its transport by the ever humorous Mrs Payling, well turned-out as usual, and brimming over with good humour. Being a widow, with a son in the Indian service, she was essentially a man’s companion as well as being achicwoman. She was chatting with Mr Batten, while Fred Fenwicke was walking with Connie and two ladies of the party a little in advance.At last we all gained the water’s edge, and, depositing our loads, proceeded to examine the laird’s boat, a key of which Mr Batten had obtained. It was half-full of water, and there were no oars.After some search a labourer was discovered who knew the spot where the oars were concealed, and he having pointed them out under a hedge, we discovered that they were so badly rotted by the weather that there was scarcely any blade left, and, further, that there were no rowlocks.Sammy, Godfrey Handsworth, and the two Sales commenced to bale out the water with drinking-glasses, while the rest of the party, now being very hungry and thirsty, sat impatiently on the bank watching, and passing sarcastic remarks upon the slow progress of the work.At length, however, it was concluded, and some of the provisions were taken aboard: Sammy being elected coxswain, with the two Sales as rowers. Then they took in a male volunteer on the trial trip.“The husbands’ boat for Margate!”“Nice day for a sail!” and “Man the lifeboat!” were among the derisive shouts and jeers amid which the venturous party put off into the stormy and rather dangerous waters of the Dee. The course of the boat with such oars and without rowlocks was necessarily erratic, and the absurd antics of the rowers and of Sammy as coxswain convulsed us on shore. Amid-stream the rowers, affecting fatigue, commenced to refresh themselves upon the provisions which we had sent across, and calmly lunched, leaving us hungry and empty.After a long and tempestuous voyage they landed their first freight; then returned and took a second and a third. In the fourth Wyman and myself were included, and after running on a mud bank and having a very exciting and ludicrous time of it, we at last, laughing merrily, sprang ashore on that wild, unvisited island, where, according to The Closed Book, the wonderful emeralds of Lucrezia Borgia had, through centuries, lain hidden.Mr Batten assured us that no one had landed there for at least a year or more; but the instant we gained the shore we turned our first attention to discovering any traces of those whom we knew were aware of the old monk’s secret in common with ourselves.

In the calm, mystic sundown of the August evening, after nine hours in the express from Euston, I was driving with Wyman in Fred Fenwick’s Perth-cart up the side of Loch Ken, that long romantic stretch of water hemmed in by the high, heather-clad hills of Galloway. We were covering that seven miles of winding road that lies between New Galloway station and New Galloway burgh.

Southern Scotland surely possesses no wilder or more charming and picturesque district than the Glenkens, and here, in the heart of them, the drive was refreshing, for the air was keen after stifling London; and the many burns and cascades we passed fell with soft rippling music over the mossy, bracken-covered roadsides.

The magnificent scenery, the sunset glow upon the unruffled surface of the loch, the dark purple of the distant hills, and the marvellous shades of the heather, did not, however, attract us, for we were both too full of the warm welcome which we knew was awaiting us at Crailloch, beyond Balmaclellan village. Through the long, white High Street of New Galloway we rattled in the dusk, up the steep hill, over the Ken Bridge, and then, following the broad river bed, turned in at last through the lodge gates and pulled up before the great square Elizabethan mansion, with its ornate exterior and high, twisted chimneys.

Fred Fenwicke, still in shooting-kit, came forth ere we could bring the cart to a standstill, and from the lighted hall came a chorus of hurrahs, expressing pleasure at our arrival.

“Well, Allan, old fellow!” cried Fred, grasping my hand warmly, “this is a real pleasure, to see you in Scotland again! Connie’s in there somewhere, and there’s a whole crowd of boys you know.” And then he turned to give a similarly cordial greeting to Walter, and left me to enter the fine hall, where the majority of the house party had, in the idle hours before dinner, assembled to greet us.

The instant I entered a merry voice shouted, “What, ho, there! Allan the Author!” It was Sammy Waldron, or, to give him his correct name, Captain Samuel Waldron, of the Bengal Police, home on two years’ leave, and one of the best of good fellows.

Then Mrs Fenwicke, one of the smartest of women and the best of hostesses, whom everyone called Connie, shook me warmly by the hand, expressed her pleasure at our coming, and next moment we found ourselves in the centre of perhaps one of the merriest house parties in the whole of Scotland. Many of the people I had met before in that same big, well-furnished hall, with its splendid trophies of the chase and of Indian frontier wars. Fred Fenwicke and his wife, the merriest and most easy-going pair of any I knew, usually had the same party for the shooting, many of them being Anglo-Indians. In addition to Sammy Waldron, a well set up, fair-haired officer, tough as nails, who for over twenty years had been engaged on and off fighting the Indian frontier tribes, and who was usually the life and soul of the party, there was Jack Handsworth, or Major John Handsworth, C.I.E., owner of wide estates within sight of the Himalayas, who was never seen without a cigar except at meals; his son Godfrey, a smartly groomed fellow of whom everyone held golden opinions; Miss Handsworth, Jack’s sister; Mrs Payling, an exceedingly pleasant and very good-looking widow of middle-age, who lived in summer in England and in winter in India, whose manner of speech was very deliberate, who was possessed of a keen sense of humour, and who always wore exquisite gowns, and wore them well. She was, indeed, one of those few women whose clothes seem part of them. In addition, there were two brothers named Sale, well-known solicitors in London, a merry pair, full of humour; and several other men and women whom I knew more or less intimately.

Certainly Fred Fenwicke never made a mistake in the arrangement of his house parties. His guests were never ill-assorted. Sometimes he had a quiet set of visitors, but this was seldom. Indeed, the fun and merriment at Crailloch was always a continuous round, for everyone did just as he liked; shot, cycled, fished for salmon or trout, went excursions, or wandered over the heather-clad hills. There was no restraint, and everyone came there for thorough enjoyment.

“Well,” exclaimed Fred, as we stood with him in the dining-room having a “peg” before dressing, “nice lot of boys I’ve got this time, aren’t they?”

“Too keen a crowd for me, I fear!” I laughed, for I knew from experience that when the shooters who were my fellow-guests foregathered, the fun was fast and furious.

For answer, my old friend only raised his glass in welcome and laughed across it merrily.

About thirty-eight, tall and dark, with a distinctly military bearing, and dressed in a smart tweed and gaiters, he looked the very pink of condition. Living that healthy, open-air life on the Scotch estate had tanned his face and neck, and had brought him to a perfection of “fitness” seldom seen in a man. His vitality was marvellous. From the moment he came down in the morning to open the letter-bag until the small hours when the last billiard players drained their final “pegs,” he was constantly active. He loved the country, he loved Scotland, he loved shooting, of which he had plenty, and above all loved the companionship of the few men who were his intimate friends—the men who now formed the house party.

Connie Fenwicke was just as happy, just as fond of country life, and just as generous in her hospitality as her husband. Wife and husband thoroughly understood each other, and such was their independent position that, when tired of life at Crailloch, they took a voyage to Australia, where Fred Fenwicke was interested in certain companies. Though fond of Scotland, and living there even through the town season, they were nevertheless essentially cosmopolitan, well-known in Monte Carlo, in Florence, and in Rome. More, indeed, need not be said save that they were a pair such as one seldom met, whose house was hospitality itself.

Walter was not so intimate a friend as myself; but before that night was out Fred Fenwicke had admitted him to that charmed circle of close acquaintances, and he declared himself absolutely at home.

Dinner was always the solemn function at Crailloch, as it is in most country houses, for the shooters were then clean, the ladies in pretty frocks, and amusing, and Fred’schefwas acknowledged to be one of the best in Scotland. After the ladies had left the table and coffee had been served in the big, old dining-room, with its splendid family portraits, I took Fred aside, for I had detected in him an anxiety to know the reason I had so suddenly come up to visit him. He knew that it was not on account of sport, for near-sightedness prevented my shooting, and I had heard him pass a remarksotto voceat table with Sammy Waldron that it must be on account of some love affair.

In order to set my old friend’s mind at rest I took him along to his study, the only sanctum private from guests, and told him that the reason of the suddenness of my visit was because I wanted to study on the spot the history of Threave Castle.

“Oh! that’s it!” he cried, removing his cigar from his lips. “Well, I suppose you’ve got some book or other in view, eh?”

“H’m, yes,” I answered after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m studying the history of the place. Perhaps I may write a book about it. I want you to help me. Have you any books dealing with the subject?”

“I fear I haven’t,” was his response. “Threave is about fourteen miles from here, on a solitary and un-get-at-able island in the Dee. I’ve never been there myself; but I know a man, Mr Batten, the archaeologist, who lives in Castle-Douglas, who has the finest collection of works dealing with Galloway and the neighbourhood, and who has written a book regarding those parts. I’ll write to him. He’ll lend you a lot of books, no doubt, and perhaps he’ll go over to Threave with you. He’s an excellent fellow, and a great friend of mine. But,” he added, “Walter is helping you, I suppose?”

“Yes. We are making certain investigations,” was my cautious reply. “At present we can’t say anything definite, except that I may possibly lay the scene of my new book there.”

“Well, I’ll assist you, Allan, old chap, if you’ll promise to be silent upon Crailloch and all the boys here.” And he laughed merrily. “When I told them you were coming they all wanted to know if you were going to write a book. They haven’t forgotten those articles last season about Nice and Monte.”

“I’ll let them down lightly, I promise you,” was my reply. “Only I tell you my object in confidence. I don’t wish the whole crowd to know.”

“Of course not, my dear fellow,” he responded. “I’ll help you. I’ll write to Batten, and we’ll arrange a little picnic over to Threave. You needn’t tell anyone your real reason for going there.”

And so I left the arrangements in his hands. After three days of merriment and nights of music, billiard playing, and practical joking, Fred received a note from Mr Batten saying that he had obtained permission from the laird for us to visit Threave, and that he would be pleased not only to accompany us, but also to lend me the several rare and out-of-print works in his collection that dealt with the history of the famous stronghold.

To us this was good news indeed, and two mornings later, in a party of ten, including several others on cycles, we drove in a pair-horse brake away along the bank of Loch Ken, through the long, whitewashed villages of Parton and Crossmichael, down to a spot beside the winding Dee, where at a lonely farmhouse we were met by Mr Batten, who proved a most affable and valuable guide.

The party was an extremely merry one, and being compelled to leave the brake some half-mile from the river, each of us carried part of the provisions off which we were to lunch on arrival on the island.

The day was superb for August, one of those brilliant mornings seldom experienced in Scotland so late in the season, and much good-humoured banter was exchanged as the whole party trudged through the wide fields of corn just falling to the sickle.

Presently, on coming up the brae-face, we suddenly obtained a view of the broad, winding river sparkling in the sunshine below; and beyond, upon its solitary island, given over to the rooks and waterfowl, rose the stern, grim keep of what was once the home of the Black Douglas, which even today stands out grey and forbidding in the autumn sunlight.

Wyman was walking beside me, carrying a basketful of bottles of soda water, and as the view burst upon me I turned to him and said:

“Can it be possible that the casket of which old Godfrey speaks is hidden upon that island?”

“Maybe,” was his reply. “It certainly looks just the sort of outlandish place to hold a mystery. But we must say nothing to anyone. Let’s take our observation in silence. They’ll enjoy their picnic while we will refer to that memorandum you made of the parchment record.”

At that moment Sammy Waldron, ruddy and sun-tanned, in a rough cycling suit, came up and began to chaff Walter regarding the soda—he himself being the bearer of a quantity of that spirit very precious with men on such occasions, being assisted in its transport by the ever humorous Mrs Payling, well turned-out as usual, and brimming over with good humour. Being a widow, with a son in the Indian service, she was essentially a man’s companion as well as being achicwoman. She was chatting with Mr Batten, while Fred Fenwicke was walking with Connie and two ladies of the party a little in advance.

At last we all gained the water’s edge, and, depositing our loads, proceeded to examine the laird’s boat, a key of which Mr Batten had obtained. It was half-full of water, and there were no oars.

After some search a labourer was discovered who knew the spot where the oars were concealed, and he having pointed them out under a hedge, we discovered that they were so badly rotted by the weather that there was scarcely any blade left, and, further, that there were no rowlocks.

Sammy, Godfrey Handsworth, and the two Sales commenced to bale out the water with drinking-glasses, while the rest of the party, now being very hungry and thirsty, sat impatiently on the bank watching, and passing sarcastic remarks upon the slow progress of the work.

At length, however, it was concluded, and some of the provisions were taken aboard: Sammy being elected coxswain, with the two Sales as rowers. Then they took in a male volunteer on the trial trip.

“The husbands’ boat for Margate!”

“Nice day for a sail!” and “Man the lifeboat!” were among the derisive shouts and jeers amid which the venturous party put off into the stormy and rather dangerous waters of the Dee. The course of the boat with such oars and without rowlocks was necessarily erratic, and the absurd antics of the rowers and of Sammy as coxswain convulsed us on shore. Amid-stream the rowers, affecting fatigue, commenced to refresh themselves upon the provisions which we had sent across, and calmly lunched, leaving us hungry and empty.

After a long and tempestuous voyage they landed their first freight; then returned and took a second and a third. In the fourth Wyman and myself were included, and after running on a mud bank and having a very exciting and ludicrous time of it, we at last, laughing merrily, sprang ashore on that wild, unvisited island, where, according to The Closed Book, the wonderful emeralds of Lucrezia Borgia had, through centuries, lain hidden.

Mr Batten assured us that no one had landed there for at least a year or more; but the instant we gained the shore we turned our first attention to discovering any traces of those whom we knew were aware of the old monk’s secret in common with ourselves.

Chapter Thirty One.Under the Gallows Knob.The low-lying island upon which we found ourselves was certainly a dismal, out-of-the-world place, covered by rank grass and nettles, and yellow with St. John’s wort. Ruined walls were scattered around the castle of Threave itself, a square, roofless tower, which in the bleakness of its gaunt and terrible majesty suggested the idea of an armed skeleton, in the facial apertures of which lay the darkness of death and decay.This was the monument of the Douglases’ pride and the engine of their oppression during their galling ascendancy, when Archibald rode with his retinue of two thousand armed retainers, many of them the most noted desperadoes, and ravaged the Border. The huge fourteenth-century fortress, once the pride of kings, was still a massive pile, with walls nearly seventy feet high, built of common grey moor stone.As we wandered through it, the wind howling through the narrow slits where archers had sent forth their shafts, our friend Mr Batten pointed out in the lowest story the dungeon, arsenal, and larder; the barracks on the first floor; and, above, the apartments of state, where the Black Douglas lodged his friends or feasted his vassals, the walls of all massive, but now crumbling to decay.Around the castle were the remains of a strong barbican, flanked at each angle by a circular tower, which had been secured in front by a deep fosse and vallum, both water and walls of the latter having long since disappeared.Then, standing outside—while the rest of the party, seated on the grass, were eating their luncheon, laughing merrily and thoroughly enjoying the novelty of reaching such a place—Mr Batten pointed to a large granite bracket projecting from the front of the castle, high up near the roof: the far-famed “Gallows Knob” or “Hanging Stone,” which the Black Douglas was wont to boast was never without a “tassel,” either in the shape of a malefactor, or, if none such were in custody, some unoffending vassal!When the Douglases maintained their power in Galloway the deeds committed within that grim, grey fortress were such as invest it with fearful interest. I recollected having read of its sinister memories, and some of them were now recalled to me by Mr Batten, who made a deep study of the subject. Indeed, as I stood there with Walter Wyman, apart from the gay Crailloch house party, gazing up at the high grey walls that had once sheltered the old soldier-monk and chronicler, Godfrey Lovel, I recollected how well the weirdlike halo that, to the present day, surrounds the place is expressed in those plaintive lines of the unfortunate Inglis of Torsonce:Threave’s Castle looms as dark by day,With its walls of moorland grey,And the sad and sullen streamWhich, like some dank, unwholesome dream,Creeps on its stagnant way,In mossy pool and quagmire pentAround the island battlement.Dismal is the granite pileWith barbican and flanking tower,That frown beneath the merry smileOf laughing noontide hour.Dismal is the island when,With herbage rank and stunted thornThat clothe the blood-besprinkled fenIn leaf and bough forlorn,Some evil spirit haunts it yet.The dreary annals of the pastAthwart the meadow wan and wetTheir spectral shadows cast;No feathered minstrel tunes his throatOn lowly bush or lofty spray;No skylark pipes his dulcet noteIn the sun’s yellow ray;And still the prisoned oxen lowTo reach the farther shore,Like captives of the spear and bowIn Douglas raids of yore;No rural lover comes to hideThe stolen tryst at eventide;And the otter seeks his prey,And the wild duck leads her brood,And desolation and decaySleep in the ghastly solitude.Mr Batten was called over to the luncheon party by Connie Fenwicke, who cried, “I say, Mr Batten, leave the author to meditate, and come and have something to eat. And you also, Captain Wyman. Allan will come when he’s hungry; he’s feasting on ruins at present.”Wyman excused himself for a moment, but Mr Batten succumbed to the temptation of cold partridge and claret.With Walter, I walked behind one of the round flanking towers, scrambling over the fallen masonry, and when out of sight of the others we commenced to search carefully for any traces of previous visitors there. The rank grass and weeds were trodden down here and there by recent footsteps; but we concluded that it had been done by some of our party who had wandered about the place prior to our own landing. We wondered whether Lord Glenelg or his companions had already been there; but the absence of any evidence that the laird’s boat had been used for months convinced us that they had not.“Our first direction is to follow the shadow of the keep to its easterly angle when the sun shines, at 3:30, on the sixth of September,” I began, when Walter interrupted me with:“But has it occurred to you that since that record was written the calendar has been altered? What was the sixth of September in the sixteenth century is not the sixth of September in the present day.”“By Jove?” I gasped. “I never thought of that. But what is the precise difference?”“I happened to be looking that very point up not long ago,” said Walter, “which is what brought it to my mind now. About 1582 Pope Gregory XIII decreed that ten days should be omitted, and October fifth was reckoned as the fifteenth. But this was not universal till 1751, when a bill was passed for regulating the commencement of the year, and for correcting the calendar. By that bill eleven days were omitted after the second of September, so that the ensuing day was the fourteenth.”“In that case, then, September sixth of Godfrey Lovel’s day is really our September seventeenth. That gives us nearly two weeks more time than we had counted on,” I remarked. “Yet it will be half-past three before we leave today, and we shall then, at any rate, be able to see the vicinity of the spot, although we cannot fix it exactly until the day and hour indicated.”“I wonder whether we shall really find the casket?” Walter said, eagerly. “To me this is just the sort of place where some treasure lies buried. The day before we left town I went to the British Museum and looked up the history of the place. Our record in The Closed Book is certainly borne out by history. Maxwell of Terregles was keeper of the Threave in Godfrey’s day, the dawn of the Reformation, and seems to have had rather a rough time of it, just as the old monk has written. John Gordon of Lochinvar, Dean Vaus of Soulseat, the Macdowalls of Freuch and of Mindork, who burned Brodick Castle and invaded Arran, and James Earl of Bothwell, of Earlston, as mentioned by Godfrey Lovel, were all his prominent contemporaries. Therefore it is certainly likely that the ex-favourite of Lucrezia Borgia did actually conceal the casket intrusted to him somewhere on this island, which in his day was, of course, impregnable.”“I quite agree,” I answered, looking wonderingly around. “Of course, the directions are complicated, purposely no doubt; and today it seems quite useless to attempt to follow them. We must arouse no suspicion of our intentions.”“We shall require assistance when we really do investigate,” my companion remarked.“Then we’ll take Fred into our confidence. He would thoroughly enter into the spirit of the thing—that I know.”We walked back to where the others were still seated on the grass, in the shadow of the high grey wall, with its grim “hanging knob,” and a chorus of jeers at my studious nature greeted me.“Going to write a book, I suppose, Allan?” cried Sammy Waldron, his mouth full of sandwich. “Put me in it, old fellow. I’m good-looking enough to be a hero, aren’t I?”Bertie Sale opened a bottle of soda clumsily, and squirted it in a lady’s face, and Mrs Payling, to whom Walter turned his attention, was discovered actually talking frocks with Connie, and was allowed to continue, for both men and women admired her for being so well turned-out on every occasion. Godfrey Handsworth had been heard to remark that it was a pity that she was not twenty years younger; but, as it was, she was still very handsome, with a figure that many a younger woman envied.Fred Fenwicke and Connie looked after everyone’s comfort. On such occasions they never took servants. Everyone helped himself and looked after a lady, and, as suchal frescoluncheons were weekly in the shooting season, this kind of entertainment had been brought to a fine art.The men smoked and idled, some of them lying stretched upon the grass, while others escorted the ladies around the ruins, the chief excitement being the loss of Connie’s Aberdeen “Jack,” a one-eyed dog of Satanic expression and cunning, the terror of Campbell, the sturdy, good-humoured gamekeeper of Crailloch.I sat on the grass, smoking, chatting, and drinking whisky and soda with Fred,—Walter, Sammy, and Mr Batten, while the others wandered about the island. The afternoon was absolutely perfect, with as blue a sky as ever seen in Italy, and across the wide sweep of river, towards Greenlaw, rose the long, low heathery hills.From where we idled Mr Batten pointed out to us the peaks Bengairn and Cairntosh and the highlands of Balmaghie, and related several archaeological facts that, in view of our forthcoming explorations, were of intense interest to us.“You see that great rugged hole in the wall, half-way up the front of the castle?” he said, pointing to it. “The hole looks almost like a window, but it is a breach made by the cannon known as Mons Meg, now to be seen at Edinburgh Castle. The piece of artillery was made by a blacksmith and his sons at Buchan, and was used by the king in his operations against Threave. The charge consisted of a peck of gunpowder and a granite ball the weight of a Carsphairn cow. The first discharge produced a panic among the inmates of the castle, and the second shot went through the walls and carried away the right hand of the Countess, the celebrated Fair Maid of Galloway, as she sat at table in the banqueting hall about to raise a wine cup to her lips. The garrison quickly surrendered, and the blacksmith was granted the forfeited lands of Mollance and Barncrosh.”“Curious?” I remarked. “Only a legend, I suppose?”“Not at all—a historical fact. As late as 1841 Mr Gordon of Greenlaw, tenant of this island, discovered an immense granite ball which, on examination, was found to be a bullet, in all respects the same as those belonging to Mons Meg, while a massive gold ring inscribed ‘Margaret de Douglas’ was discovered by a workman employed to clear out some rubbish when the castle was repaired as a barrack for French prisoners. This was the actual ring supposed to have been on the hand of the Fair Maid of Galloway when it was blown away at the siege.”Such discovery caused hope to arise within us. I exchanged glances with Wyman, and saw that he considered this additional evidence that treasure might be hidden beneath that turf on which we were lounging.Presently we all rose to rejoin the party, and again Walter and I managed to separate ourselves from the rest and strolled around the small marshy island.It was ten minutes past three, and the sun, still shining brightly, cast a long, straight, sharply defined shadow in the direction of the broad river and the high land of Greenlaw. The great square tower was higher on the eastern angle than the western, therefore from its position to the sun the eastern angle threw a longer shadow, which, together, we followed through the grass-grown ditch which was once the fosse and up the bank, then, counting forty-three paces, we halted at a spot covered with nettles or grass.“The starting point for measurements must be somewhere here. Fifty-six paces with the face toward Bengairn,” I remarked. “I’m no astronomer; but I suppose that, on the date mentioned, the shadow will be more to eastward or to westward. We will, at any rate, mark this spot,” and, finding a piece of broken hurdle, used some time or other to pen in cattle which had grazed on the island, I stuck it deeply in the ground just at the farthermost point of the great oblong shadow across the grass.

The low-lying island upon which we found ourselves was certainly a dismal, out-of-the-world place, covered by rank grass and nettles, and yellow with St. John’s wort. Ruined walls were scattered around the castle of Threave itself, a square, roofless tower, which in the bleakness of its gaunt and terrible majesty suggested the idea of an armed skeleton, in the facial apertures of which lay the darkness of death and decay.

This was the monument of the Douglases’ pride and the engine of their oppression during their galling ascendancy, when Archibald rode with his retinue of two thousand armed retainers, many of them the most noted desperadoes, and ravaged the Border. The huge fourteenth-century fortress, once the pride of kings, was still a massive pile, with walls nearly seventy feet high, built of common grey moor stone.

As we wandered through it, the wind howling through the narrow slits where archers had sent forth their shafts, our friend Mr Batten pointed out in the lowest story the dungeon, arsenal, and larder; the barracks on the first floor; and, above, the apartments of state, where the Black Douglas lodged his friends or feasted his vassals, the walls of all massive, but now crumbling to decay.

Around the castle were the remains of a strong barbican, flanked at each angle by a circular tower, which had been secured in front by a deep fosse and vallum, both water and walls of the latter having long since disappeared.

Then, standing outside—while the rest of the party, seated on the grass, were eating their luncheon, laughing merrily and thoroughly enjoying the novelty of reaching such a place—Mr Batten pointed to a large granite bracket projecting from the front of the castle, high up near the roof: the far-famed “Gallows Knob” or “Hanging Stone,” which the Black Douglas was wont to boast was never without a “tassel,” either in the shape of a malefactor, or, if none such were in custody, some unoffending vassal!

When the Douglases maintained their power in Galloway the deeds committed within that grim, grey fortress were such as invest it with fearful interest. I recollected having read of its sinister memories, and some of them were now recalled to me by Mr Batten, who made a deep study of the subject. Indeed, as I stood there with Walter Wyman, apart from the gay Crailloch house party, gazing up at the high grey walls that had once sheltered the old soldier-monk and chronicler, Godfrey Lovel, I recollected how well the weirdlike halo that, to the present day, surrounds the place is expressed in those plaintive lines of the unfortunate Inglis of Torsonce:

Threave’s Castle looms as dark by day,With its walls of moorland grey,And the sad and sullen streamWhich, like some dank, unwholesome dream,Creeps on its stagnant way,In mossy pool and quagmire pentAround the island battlement.Dismal is the granite pileWith barbican and flanking tower,That frown beneath the merry smileOf laughing noontide hour.Dismal is the island when,With herbage rank and stunted thornThat clothe the blood-besprinkled fenIn leaf and bough forlorn,Some evil spirit haunts it yet.The dreary annals of the pastAthwart the meadow wan and wetTheir spectral shadows cast;No feathered minstrel tunes his throatOn lowly bush or lofty spray;No skylark pipes his dulcet noteIn the sun’s yellow ray;And still the prisoned oxen lowTo reach the farther shore,Like captives of the spear and bowIn Douglas raids of yore;No rural lover comes to hideThe stolen tryst at eventide;And the otter seeks his prey,And the wild duck leads her brood,And desolation and decaySleep in the ghastly solitude.

Threave’s Castle looms as dark by day,With its walls of moorland grey,And the sad and sullen streamWhich, like some dank, unwholesome dream,Creeps on its stagnant way,In mossy pool and quagmire pentAround the island battlement.Dismal is the granite pileWith barbican and flanking tower,That frown beneath the merry smileOf laughing noontide hour.Dismal is the island when,With herbage rank and stunted thornThat clothe the blood-besprinkled fenIn leaf and bough forlorn,Some evil spirit haunts it yet.The dreary annals of the pastAthwart the meadow wan and wetTheir spectral shadows cast;No feathered minstrel tunes his throatOn lowly bush or lofty spray;No skylark pipes his dulcet noteIn the sun’s yellow ray;And still the prisoned oxen lowTo reach the farther shore,Like captives of the spear and bowIn Douglas raids of yore;No rural lover comes to hideThe stolen tryst at eventide;And the otter seeks his prey,And the wild duck leads her brood,And desolation and decaySleep in the ghastly solitude.

Mr Batten was called over to the luncheon party by Connie Fenwicke, who cried, “I say, Mr Batten, leave the author to meditate, and come and have something to eat. And you also, Captain Wyman. Allan will come when he’s hungry; he’s feasting on ruins at present.”

Wyman excused himself for a moment, but Mr Batten succumbed to the temptation of cold partridge and claret.

With Walter, I walked behind one of the round flanking towers, scrambling over the fallen masonry, and when out of sight of the others we commenced to search carefully for any traces of previous visitors there. The rank grass and weeds were trodden down here and there by recent footsteps; but we concluded that it had been done by some of our party who had wandered about the place prior to our own landing. We wondered whether Lord Glenelg or his companions had already been there; but the absence of any evidence that the laird’s boat had been used for months convinced us that they had not.

“Our first direction is to follow the shadow of the keep to its easterly angle when the sun shines, at 3:30, on the sixth of September,” I began, when Walter interrupted me with:

“But has it occurred to you that since that record was written the calendar has been altered? What was the sixth of September in the sixteenth century is not the sixth of September in the present day.”

“By Jove?” I gasped. “I never thought of that. But what is the precise difference?”

“I happened to be looking that very point up not long ago,” said Walter, “which is what brought it to my mind now. About 1582 Pope Gregory XIII decreed that ten days should be omitted, and October fifth was reckoned as the fifteenth. But this was not universal till 1751, when a bill was passed for regulating the commencement of the year, and for correcting the calendar. By that bill eleven days were omitted after the second of September, so that the ensuing day was the fourteenth.”

“In that case, then, September sixth of Godfrey Lovel’s day is really our September seventeenth. That gives us nearly two weeks more time than we had counted on,” I remarked. “Yet it will be half-past three before we leave today, and we shall then, at any rate, be able to see the vicinity of the spot, although we cannot fix it exactly until the day and hour indicated.”

“I wonder whether we shall really find the casket?” Walter said, eagerly. “To me this is just the sort of place where some treasure lies buried. The day before we left town I went to the British Museum and looked up the history of the place. Our record in The Closed Book is certainly borne out by history. Maxwell of Terregles was keeper of the Threave in Godfrey’s day, the dawn of the Reformation, and seems to have had rather a rough time of it, just as the old monk has written. John Gordon of Lochinvar, Dean Vaus of Soulseat, the Macdowalls of Freuch and of Mindork, who burned Brodick Castle and invaded Arran, and James Earl of Bothwell, of Earlston, as mentioned by Godfrey Lovel, were all his prominent contemporaries. Therefore it is certainly likely that the ex-favourite of Lucrezia Borgia did actually conceal the casket intrusted to him somewhere on this island, which in his day was, of course, impregnable.”

“I quite agree,” I answered, looking wonderingly around. “Of course, the directions are complicated, purposely no doubt; and today it seems quite useless to attempt to follow them. We must arouse no suspicion of our intentions.”

“We shall require assistance when we really do investigate,” my companion remarked.

“Then we’ll take Fred into our confidence. He would thoroughly enter into the spirit of the thing—that I know.”

We walked back to where the others were still seated on the grass, in the shadow of the high grey wall, with its grim “hanging knob,” and a chorus of jeers at my studious nature greeted me.

“Going to write a book, I suppose, Allan?” cried Sammy Waldron, his mouth full of sandwich. “Put me in it, old fellow. I’m good-looking enough to be a hero, aren’t I?”

Bertie Sale opened a bottle of soda clumsily, and squirted it in a lady’s face, and Mrs Payling, to whom Walter turned his attention, was discovered actually talking frocks with Connie, and was allowed to continue, for both men and women admired her for being so well turned-out on every occasion. Godfrey Handsworth had been heard to remark that it was a pity that she was not twenty years younger; but, as it was, she was still very handsome, with a figure that many a younger woman envied.

Fred Fenwicke and Connie looked after everyone’s comfort. On such occasions they never took servants. Everyone helped himself and looked after a lady, and, as suchal frescoluncheons were weekly in the shooting season, this kind of entertainment had been brought to a fine art.

The men smoked and idled, some of them lying stretched upon the grass, while others escorted the ladies around the ruins, the chief excitement being the loss of Connie’s Aberdeen “Jack,” a one-eyed dog of Satanic expression and cunning, the terror of Campbell, the sturdy, good-humoured gamekeeper of Crailloch.

I sat on the grass, smoking, chatting, and drinking whisky and soda with Fred,—Walter, Sammy, and Mr Batten, while the others wandered about the island. The afternoon was absolutely perfect, with as blue a sky as ever seen in Italy, and across the wide sweep of river, towards Greenlaw, rose the long, low heathery hills.

From where we idled Mr Batten pointed out to us the peaks Bengairn and Cairntosh and the highlands of Balmaghie, and related several archaeological facts that, in view of our forthcoming explorations, were of intense interest to us.

“You see that great rugged hole in the wall, half-way up the front of the castle?” he said, pointing to it. “The hole looks almost like a window, but it is a breach made by the cannon known as Mons Meg, now to be seen at Edinburgh Castle. The piece of artillery was made by a blacksmith and his sons at Buchan, and was used by the king in his operations against Threave. The charge consisted of a peck of gunpowder and a granite ball the weight of a Carsphairn cow. The first discharge produced a panic among the inmates of the castle, and the second shot went through the walls and carried away the right hand of the Countess, the celebrated Fair Maid of Galloway, as she sat at table in the banqueting hall about to raise a wine cup to her lips. The garrison quickly surrendered, and the blacksmith was granted the forfeited lands of Mollance and Barncrosh.”

“Curious?” I remarked. “Only a legend, I suppose?”

“Not at all—a historical fact. As late as 1841 Mr Gordon of Greenlaw, tenant of this island, discovered an immense granite ball which, on examination, was found to be a bullet, in all respects the same as those belonging to Mons Meg, while a massive gold ring inscribed ‘Margaret de Douglas’ was discovered by a workman employed to clear out some rubbish when the castle was repaired as a barrack for French prisoners. This was the actual ring supposed to have been on the hand of the Fair Maid of Galloway when it was blown away at the siege.”

Such discovery caused hope to arise within us. I exchanged glances with Wyman, and saw that he considered this additional evidence that treasure might be hidden beneath that turf on which we were lounging.

Presently we all rose to rejoin the party, and again Walter and I managed to separate ourselves from the rest and strolled around the small marshy island.

It was ten minutes past three, and the sun, still shining brightly, cast a long, straight, sharply defined shadow in the direction of the broad river and the high land of Greenlaw. The great square tower was higher on the eastern angle than the western, therefore from its position to the sun the eastern angle threw a longer shadow, which, together, we followed through the grass-grown ditch which was once the fosse and up the bank, then, counting forty-three paces, we halted at a spot covered with nettles or grass.

“The starting point for measurements must be somewhere here. Fifty-six paces with the face toward Bengairn,” I remarked. “I’m no astronomer; but I suppose that, on the date mentioned, the shadow will be more to eastward or to westward. We will, at any rate, mark this spot,” and, finding a piece of broken hurdle, used some time or other to pen in cattle which had grazed on the island, I stuck it deeply in the ground just at the farthermost point of the great oblong shadow across the grass.

Chapter Thirty Two.The Major Makes a Statement.While the rest of the party examined the dungeon, I clambered over the ruins, and ascended by the winding, broken stairway to the summit. I walked with Wyman across the weedy, neglected ground beyond the dried-up fosse, reconstructing the stronghold in imagination by the position of the broken barbican.Over the self-same ground the unfrocked monk of Crowland had wandered with his companion in misfortune, the monk Malcolm. We looked back at the gateway of the castle, so high up that it was on a level with the second floor. Through that, the only exit from the castle, old Godfrey had fled with his fair charge across the drawbridge, over the island to the river, and across the narrow temporary bridge, then existing, to the shore—away back to safety in England, leaving Lucrezia’s casket, with its precious contents, safely hidden.The long, straight shadow veered round slowly; and by four o’clock, when the party carrying the empty baskets and picnic accessories strolled back to the spot of embarkation, it had shifted a considerable distance from the spot where I had driven in the stake.Everyone pronounced the picnic a distinct success. It was an entire novelty to go to that historic spot, unvisited from one year’s end to another, and certainly to us it had been a very interesting experience. We had taken certain observations which would, later on, be of the greatest use to us.The ferrying back of the party, in twos, by Sammy Waldron and Bertie Sale, was fraught with just as much hilarity as the arrival. The old boat was declared to be leaky, for it now had a quantity of water in it, compelling the ladies to hold their skirts high and place their feet out of the way of the wash. On the first trip Bertie “caught a crab,” owing to the absence of blade to his oar, and the remainder of the rowing was done Indian fashion, the craft, being rudderless, always taking an erratic course. Time after time they crossed and recrossed, until there remained only Fred Fenwicke, Walter, and myself. All of us embarked at last, and, with triumphant shouts, set a course toward the opposite shore; but ere we had gone far we ran deep into a submerged mud bank, and notwithstanding our combined efforts for nearly half an hour, beneath the derisive cheers of the rest of the party, we remained there.One desperate effort, in which Sammy broke his oar in half, resulted in our getting clear at last, and slowly we continued across to the opposite bank, being greeted with mock welcome on our return from that perilous voyage, during which the vessel had been so long overdue.Together we walked in a straggling line back to our brake, which we left at the farmhouse of Kelton Mains, and at the invitation of Mr Batten we drove back into the clean, prosperous little town of Castle-Douglas and took tea with him, after inspecting his pictures; for, in addition to being a well-known archaeologist, he was an amateur artist of no small merit. True to his promise, he lent me a collection of valuable books dealing with Threave, and then, in the glorious sunset, we set out on our long drive back through the Glenkens to Crailloch, the cyclist contingent going on ahead. Fred Fenwicke was of the latter party, and both he and a friend named Gough, curiously enough, had punctures within a hundred yards of each other, and had to be picked up by us.Ten days of merriment went by. One night, dinner was as usual a merry function, but the ladies being tired, retired early, while the men idled, gossiped, and played billiards. Connie’s boudoir adjoined the billiard-room, and I was sitting there alone with Fred, about half-past one, preliminary to turning in, when, looking me straight in the face, he said:“Look here, Allan! What’s your game over at Threave? I watched you that afternoon, and saw you poking about and counting your paces. I was on the top of the castle wall and looked down on both of you when you thought yourselves unobserved.”For the moment I was somewhat taken aback, for I had no idea we had been watched, nor that we had aroused his suspicions. When a man is in search of hidden treasure he does not usually tell it to the world, for fear of derision being cast upon him, therefore I again naturally hesitated to explain our real object.But he continued to press me; and, being one of my oldest and most intimate friends, I called in Walter, and, closing the door again, explained briefly the explorations we intended to make, and how I had gained the knowledge of the hidden casket.He listened to me open-mouthed, in amazement, especially when I described the deadly contact of those forbidden pages, and the attempt made by Lord Glenelg and his companions to find the treasure of Crowland Abbey.“Lord Glenelg, did you say?” Fred remarked when I mentioned the name. “I know both him and his daughter Lady Judith Gordon. We first met them in Wellington, New Zealand, three years ago. He has a shoot up at Callart, in Inverness, and curiously enough they’re both coming here to stay with us on Saturday.”“Coming here?” I gasped. “Lady Judith coming here?”“Yes. Pretty girl, isn’t she? I’d be gone on her myself if I were a bachelor. Perhaps you are, old chap.”I did not respond, except to extract a strict promise from my host to preserve my secret.“Of course I shall say nothing,” he assured me. “Father and daughter are, however, a strange pair. It’s very remarkable—this story you’ve just told me. I don’t half like the idea of that bear cub being shown in the window in Bloomsbury. There’s something uncanny about it.”I agreed; but all my thoughts were of his lordship’s motive for coming there. Like myself, he had shot with Fred before, it seemed, and my host and Connie had, last season, been his guests for a week up at Callart. In Scotland, hospitality seems always more open, more genuine, and more spontaneous than in England.“Of course, Glenelg is something of an archaeologist, like yourself,” Fred said; “but if what you say is true, there seems to be some extraordinary conspiracy afoot to obtain possession of certain treasure, which, by right, should be yours, as the purchaser of this remarkable book. I must admit that Glenelg and his daughter have been both to Connie and myself something of mysteries. When we were in town last Christmas, Connie swore she saw Lady Judith dressed in a very shabby kit coming out of an aerated bread shop in the Fulham Road. My wife stopped to speak, but the girl pretended not to know her. Connie knew her by that small piece of gold-stopping in one of her front teeth.”“But why should she go about like that?” I asked.“How can I tell? They were supposed to be away in Canada, or somewhere, at the time; they’re nearly always travelling, you know. We came home with them on theCaledoniathe first season we met them.”“They’re mysteries!” declared Wyman bluntly. “The girl is, at any rate.”“What do you know of her?” inquired Fred eagerly.But Walter would not satisfy us. He merely said:“I’ve heard one or two strange rumours—that’s all.”I was torn by conflicting desires: the desire not to meet his lordship beneath that roof, and the all-impelling desire to be afforded an opportunity of more intimate friendship with that sweet, sad-hearted woman whom I adored.Fred Fenwicke was just as interested in the strange circumstances as we were, and promised at once to do all in his power to assist us. I knew him to be a man of sterling worth, whose word was his bond, and whose friendship was true and continuous. Equally with Walter Wyman, he was my best friend, and, with the exception of keeping back the fact that I loved Lady Judith, I was perfectly frank with him, telling him the suggestion that had crossed my mind—namely, that it would perhaps be as well if I left Crailloch before his lordship’s arrival.“Why?” asked the Major at once. “Does he know that you are making this search?”“I suppose he does,” Wyman replied. “He evidently knows that The Closed Book has been in Allan’s hands, and that he has deciphered it.”Fred remained thoughtful for a moment, then said:“But it may be that he’s coming here with the same object as yourself—to see Threave and make investigations. If that’s so, I’d go over to Castle-Douglas, and stay at the ‘Douglas Arms’—a very comfortable hotel. You’d then be right on the spot.”“Yes,” I said; “that’s what we will do. And, meanwhile, you will watch his lordship’s movements for us, won’t you?”“Of course,” laughed Fred, now entering thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, for the excitement of a treasure hunt appealed to his vigorous nature.Our plans were, however, quickly doomed to failure; for next morning, at breakfast, Fred announced to us that Lord Glenelg had written from Edinburgh to say that urgent family affairs called him to Paris, and that, consequently, neither he nor his daughter could come to Crailloch just at present.The very wording of the letter, which he read to those at his end of the table, was to us suspicious, that his lordship had learned that we were Fred Fenwicke’s guests, and on that account feared to come. This idea I put later to Fred himself, and he entirely coincided with my opinion.“They’re mysterious, very mysterious, old fellow,” he said. “I don’t half like the idea of those people you told me about—the hunchback and the other fellow—who are behind them. Yet, on the other hand, Lord Glenelg is a man well-known, with a very high reputation when he was in Parliament, ten years ago. He was an Under-Secretary, if I recollect aright.”“But what is their game, do you think?”“Their game at Crowland was to find the hidden treasure of the abbey,” he answered, “and they may probably try the same thing at Threave.”“That’s exactly what we’ve feared,” chimed in Walter. “I believe they are in possession of some further fact, of which we know nothing. There’s a conspiracy against Allan, too, the nature of which we are at present in ignorance.”“But why?” I asked, recollecting all the curious events of the past, and remembering my conversation with that strange woman in black who had so ingeniously stolen the Arnoldus.Wyman shrugged his shoulders, saying:“It is never any good inquiring into the motives of either man or woman. The cleverest man can never gauge them accurately.”“Well,” remarked Fred Fenwicke, “the move in this case is undoubtedly the recovery of the treasure.”“But the treasure, if it exists, is mine!” I said. “I purchased the book and deciphered the secret. Therefore I may surely make investigations with profit to myself?”“You may make investigations, but without profit, I fear, so far as Threave is concerned,” was Fred’s calm reply.“I don’t understand you,” I said. “The book was offered to me at a fair price, and I purchased it. Whatever I found within I may surely use to my own advantage?”“Observing, of course, the law of treasure-trove,” was my host’s remark.“Of course.”“Then whatever you find must either go to the Crown or to the lord of the manor.”“You mean Colonel Maitland?”“No, I mean Lord Glenelg,” my friend said.“Why Lord Glenelg?” I demanded quickly.“Because, according to theGlasgow Heraldthis morning, he has purchased both the island and castle from Colonel Maitland, so, whatever is found on that property undoubtedly belongs to him.”

While the rest of the party examined the dungeon, I clambered over the ruins, and ascended by the winding, broken stairway to the summit. I walked with Wyman across the weedy, neglected ground beyond the dried-up fosse, reconstructing the stronghold in imagination by the position of the broken barbican.

Over the self-same ground the unfrocked monk of Crowland had wandered with his companion in misfortune, the monk Malcolm. We looked back at the gateway of the castle, so high up that it was on a level with the second floor. Through that, the only exit from the castle, old Godfrey had fled with his fair charge across the drawbridge, over the island to the river, and across the narrow temporary bridge, then existing, to the shore—away back to safety in England, leaving Lucrezia’s casket, with its precious contents, safely hidden.

The long, straight shadow veered round slowly; and by four o’clock, when the party carrying the empty baskets and picnic accessories strolled back to the spot of embarkation, it had shifted a considerable distance from the spot where I had driven in the stake.

Everyone pronounced the picnic a distinct success. It was an entire novelty to go to that historic spot, unvisited from one year’s end to another, and certainly to us it had been a very interesting experience. We had taken certain observations which would, later on, be of the greatest use to us.

The ferrying back of the party, in twos, by Sammy Waldron and Bertie Sale, was fraught with just as much hilarity as the arrival. The old boat was declared to be leaky, for it now had a quantity of water in it, compelling the ladies to hold their skirts high and place their feet out of the way of the wash. On the first trip Bertie “caught a crab,” owing to the absence of blade to his oar, and the remainder of the rowing was done Indian fashion, the craft, being rudderless, always taking an erratic course. Time after time they crossed and recrossed, until there remained only Fred Fenwicke, Walter, and myself. All of us embarked at last, and, with triumphant shouts, set a course toward the opposite shore; but ere we had gone far we ran deep into a submerged mud bank, and notwithstanding our combined efforts for nearly half an hour, beneath the derisive cheers of the rest of the party, we remained there.

One desperate effort, in which Sammy broke his oar in half, resulted in our getting clear at last, and slowly we continued across to the opposite bank, being greeted with mock welcome on our return from that perilous voyage, during which the vessel had been so long overdue.

Together we walked in a straggling line back to our brake, which we left at the farmhouse of Kelton Mains, and at the invitation of Mr Batten we drove back into the clean, prosperous little town of Castle-Douglas and took tea with him, after inspecting his pictures; for, in addition to being a well-known archaeologist, he was an amateur artist of no small merit. True to his promise, he lent me a collection of valuable books dealing with Threave, and then, in the glorious sunset, we set out on our long drive back through the Glenkens to Crailloch, the cyclist contingent going on ahead. Fred Fenwicke was of the latter party, and both he and a friend named Gough, curiously enough, had punctures within a hundred yards of each other, and had to be picked up by us.

Ten days of merriment went by. One night, dinner was as usual a merry function, but the ladies being tired, retired early, while the men idled, gossiped, and played billiards. Connie’s boudoir adjoined the billiard-room, and I was sitting there alone with Fred, about half-past one, preliminary to turning in, when, looking me straight in the face, he said:

“Look here, Allan! What’s your game over at Threave? I watched you that afternoon, and saw you poking about and counting your paces. I was on the top of the castle wall and looked down on both of you when you thought yourselves unobserved.”

For the moment I was somewhat taken aback, for I had no idea we had been watched, nor that we had aroused his suspicions. When a man is in search of hidden treasure he does not usually tell it to the world, for fear of derision being cast upon him, therefore I again naturally hesitated to explain our real object.

But he continued to press me; and, being one of my oldest and most intimate friends, I called in Walter, and, closing the door again, explained briefly the explorations we intended to make, and how I had gained the knowledge of the hidden casket.

He listened to me open-mouthed, in amazement, especially when I described the deadly contact of those forbidden pages, and the attempt made by Lord Glenelg and his companions to find the treasure of Crowland Abbey.

“Lord Glenelg, did you say?” Fred remarked when I mentioned the name. “I know both him and his daughter Lady Judith Gordon. We first met them in Wellington, New Zealand, three years ago. He has a shoot up at Callart, in Inverness, and curiously enough they’re both coming here to stay with us on Saturday.”

“Coming here?” I gasped. “Lady Judith coming here?”

“Yes. Pretty girl, isn’t she? I’d be gone on her myself if I were a bachelor. Perhaps you are, old chap.”

I did not respond, except to extract a strict promise from my host to preserve my secret.

“Of course I shall say nothing,” he assured me. “Father and daughter are, however, a strange pair. It’s very remarkable—this story you’ve just told me. I don’t half like the idea of that bear cub being shown in the window in Bloomsbury. There’s something uncanny about it.”

I agreed; but all my thoughts were of his lordship’s motive for coming there. Like myself, he had shot with Fred before, it seemed, and my host and Connie had, last season, been his guests for a week up at Callart. In Scotland, hospitality seems always more open, more genuine, and more spontaneous than in England.

“Of course, Glenelg is something of an archaeologist, like yourself,” Fred said; “but if what you say is true, there seems to be some extraordinary conspiracy afoot to obtain possession of certain treasure, which, by right, should be yours, as the purchaser of this remarkable book. I must admit that Glenelg and his daughter have been both to Connie and myself something of mysteries. When we were in town last Christmas, Connie swore she saw Lady Judith dressed in a very shabby kit coming out of an aerated bread shop in the Fulham Road. My wife stopped to speak, but the girl pretended not to know her. Connie knew her by that small piece of gold-stopping in one of her front teeth.”

“But why should she go about like that?” I asked.

“How can I tell? They were supposed to be away in Canada, or somewhere, at the time; they’re nearly always travelling, you know. We came home with them on theCaledoniathe first season we met them.”

“They’re mysteries!” declared Wyman bluntly. “The girl is, at any rate.”

“What do you know of her?” inquired Fred eagerly.

But Walter would not satisfy us. He merely said:

“I’ve heard one or two strange rumours—that’s all.”

I was torn by conflicting desires: the desire not to meet his lordship beneath that roof, and the all-impelling desire to be afforded an opportunity of more intimate friendship with that sweet, sad-hearted woman whom I adored.

Fred Fenwicke was just as interested in the strange circumstances as we were, and promised at once to do all in his power to assist us. I knew him to be a man of sterling worth, whose word was his bond, and whose friendship was true and continuous. Equally with Walter Wyman, he was my best friend, and, with the exception of keeping back the fact that I loved Lady Judith, I was perfectly frank with him, telling him the suggestion that had crossed my mind—namely, that it would perhaps be as well if I left Crailloch before his lordship’s arrival.

“Why?” asked the Major at once. “Does he know that you are making this search?”

“I suppose he does,” Wyman replied. “He evidently knows that The Closed Book has been in Allan’s hands, and that he has deciphered it.”

Fred remained thoughtful for a moment, then said:

“But it may be that he’s coming here with the same object as yourself—to see Threave and make investigations. If that’s so, I’d go over to Castle-Douglas, and stay at the ‘Douglas Arms’—a very comfortable hotel. You’d then be right on the spot.”

“Yes,” I said; “that’s what we will do. And, meanwhile, you will watch his lordship’s movements for us, won’t you?”

“Of course,” laughed Fred, now entering thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, for the excitement of a treasure hunt appealed to his vigorous nature.

Our plans were, however, quickly doomed to failure; for next morning, at breakfast, Fred announced to us that Lord Glenelg had written from Edinburgh to say that urgent family affairs called him to Paris, and that, consequently, neither he nor his daughter could come to Crailloch just at present.

The very wording of the letter, which he read to those at his end of the table, was to us suspicious, that his lordship had learned that we were Fred Fenwicke’s guests, and on that account feared to come. This idea I put later to Fred himself, and he entirely coincided with my opinion.

“They’re mysterious, very mysterious, old fellow,” he said. “I don’t half like the idea of those people you told me about—the hunchback and the other fellow—who are behind them. Yet, on the other hand, Lord Glenelg is a man well-known, with a very high reputation when he was in Parliament, ten years ago. He was an Under-Secretary, if I recollect aright.”

“But what is their game, do you think?”

“Their game at Crowland was to find the hidden treasure of the abbey,” he answered, “and they may probably try the same thing at Threave.”

“That’s exactly what we’ve feared,” chimed in Walter. “I believe they are in possession of some further fact, of which we know nothing. There’s a conspiracy against Allan, too, the nature of which we are at present in ignorance.”

“But why?” I asked, recollecting all the curious events of the past, and remembering my conversation with that strange woman in black who had so ingeniously stolen the Arnoldus.

Wyman shrugged his shoulders, saying:

“It is never any good inquiring into the motives of either man or woman. The cleverest man can never gauge them accurately.”

“Well,” remarked Fred Fenwicke, “the move in this case is undoubtedly the recovery of the treasure.”

“But the treasure, if it exists, is mine!” I said. “I purchased the book and deciphered the secret. Therefore I may surely make investigations with profit to myself?”

“You may make investigations, but without profit, I fear, so far as Threave is concerned,” was Fred’s calm reply.

“I don’t understand you,” I said. “The book was offered to me at a fair price, and I purchased it. Whatever I found within I may surely use to my own advantage?”

“Observing, of course, the law of treasure-trove,” was my host’s remark.

“Of course.”

“Then whatever you find must either go to the Crown or to the lord of the manor.”

“You mean Colonel Maitland?”

“No, I mean Lord Glenelg,” my friend said.

“Why Lord Glenelg?” I demanded quickly.

“Because, according to theGlasgow Heraldthis morning, he has purchased both the island and castle from Colonel Maitland, so, whatever is found on that property undoubtedly belongs to him.”

Chapter Thirty Three.Will the Sun Shine?Fred took from his study table theGlasgow Heraldof that morning, and there, sure enough, was a paragraph stating that the Earl of Glenelg had purchased the historic castle of Threave, together with the islands, from the laird, Colonel Maitland. The Gordons had been connected with the property since the seventeenth century, it was stated, hence the purchase by the Earl.“Curiously enough,” observed Fred Fenwicke, “Maitland’s solicitors are my own: Burton, Brooks, and Co, of Union Street, Glasgow. From them I could get to hear the actual situation.”“Wire them in the morning, and ask if the property is really sold. The papers often get hold of news of that sort prematurely,” I said, clutching eagerly at the last straw, for our enemies had certainly forestalled us by this purchase, which, if actually effected, upset all our plans. If Lord Glenelg had paid for the property then the Borgia emeralds could never be ours.Fred proposed to wire, and at noon that day Wyman and I were in the express travelling towards Euston.For some days yet it was impossible to follow the old monk’s directions for the discovery of the spot at Threave; therefore, with the prospect of the Crowland treasure being revealed, we eagerly went on the following day to the British Museum and were closeted with the professor.“I had no idea that this most interesting document existed,” he said, as he sat at his table and unfolded to our gaze a dark old parchment, whereon was a large but rather roughly drawn plan, very similar in style to those in The Closed Book.“You will see here,” he said, pointing to an inscription in a small Gothic hand underneath, “that it was prepared by Richard Fosdyke, the celebrated architect, by the order of John Welles, the last abbot. From the difference in the drawing on the north side, it was apparently intended to make certain additions to the monastery buildings; but having compared it with the ground plan of the present ruins, it is proved that the abbey was dissolved before the work was carried out.”“It is the exact positions of the fish ponds that we are very desirous of ascertaining,” I said. “What is your opinion?”“There can be but one. They are here,” and he pointed to two squares drawn at some distance at the north-east of the abbey church, and in an exactly opposite direction to the written record of old Godfrey. “This square of buildings enclosed the cloister court,” the expert went on, “and here you see is the chapter house, the refectory, and the mausoleum, all of which have now disappeared.”Then he took out a plan of the present ruins, and we compared the two carefully, being surprised at the wide ramifications of the original abbey and the extent of the outbuildings.I inquired if it were possible to have a tracing of it, when our friend the professor took from a drawer a large sheet of tracing-paper upon which he had already had a copy made. This he gave to me, expressing pleasure that he had been of any service to us in our investigations.“I am myself intensely interested in the work you have undertaken,” he said. “If you really hold Godfrey Lovel’s Arnoldus then you may, after all, be successful in discovering both the abbey treasures and the Borgia emeralds.”“That is exactly what we are trying to do, but unfortunately we are not alone in it.”“You mean that the Italian hunchback has discovered something?”“Why, has he been here since my last visit?”“He was here all day yesterday. He has in his possession some curious plan or other.”My companion suggested that we should go that very evening to Crowland, place the plan before our good friend Mr Mason, and commence investigations in an open and straightforward manner. This course we adopted, and arranged to leave for Peterborough by the Leeds express.At five o’clock, however, the Captain returned to tell me that he had received an imperative call from Paris, and must be away for several days. As there was nothing to be done until the seventeenth, his absence made no difference with our plans, though I found my patience sorely tried by the long wait. I employed the time in searching the British Museum for more detailed accounts of Threave, but without success. Within less than a fortnight Wyman had rejoined me, and we were making plans for a leisurely trip back to Scotland when I received a telegram from Fred Fenwicke that accelerated our plans. It ran:“Come back tonight without fail. Go on to Castle-Douglas, and put up at ‘Douglas Arms.’ Will meet you there tomorrow morning.”At ten o’clock on the following morning we were back again in Scotland, breakfasting in a cozy room in that old-fashioned hotel, the “Douglas Arms,” at Castle-Douglas, and anxiously awaiting Fred Fenwicke.We had spent a comfortable if rather warm night in the sleeping-car from Euston, and both of us being constant travellers, neither felt the fatigue of the long railway journey. The urgency of Fred’s message caused us the greatest anxiety, and as we sat there together our eyes were watching the window for his arrival.Outside, the long, broad street, the principal thoroughfare of the town, was already filled with the August sunshine, the roadway almost as white as those glaring roads of Italy, the sky almost as blue as it was in my once-loved Tuscany.We had engaged that room for ourselves, for there seemed to be a party of London holiday-makers staying in the hotel; at least so we judged them to be by the gorgeous tweeds of the men and the tourist kit of the women. Loud laughter rang in the corridors of the quiet, eminently respectable place, and before the door was a coach upon which the party were slowly settling themselves for a drive through the beautiful Glenkens.At last, just as the coach drove away, and the old post-house settled down to its normal quiet, Fred Fenwicke opened the door and closed it quickly after him.“I’m glad you fellows have come,” he said in quick excitement. “There’s something strange going on here. Yesterday I was cycling through here, and while passing down the road along Carlingwark Loch, the same road by which you drove the other day, I overtook Lady Judith. She was walking slowly, talking with an old hunchback.”“A hunchback?” I cried. “Then it must be Graniani.”“He was Italian, that’s all I know. I didn’t wait to acknowledge her because the fact struck me as very curious, and I thought it would be best if she were unaware that I had discovered her. So I ran on here, and on inquiry found that the lady, who had given the name of Miss Fletcher, had arrived on the previous day, and that the old Italian, who had signed his name in the visitors’ book so badly that it could not be read, had arrived that morning.”“And they are both here! I wonder why?” I asked, amazed.“Well, I suppose their visit has some connection with the search they intend to make over at Threave,” Fred said. “At any rate, I thought it best that you should be on the spot, and watch what was happening.”“But the sale of the island?”“Brooks wired me yesterday that the contract is signed, but the money is not yet paid over. The sale is to be completed on the sixteenth of September.”“Ah, Lord Glenelg, too, evidently thought of the change in the calendar. Well, we must take our chances of a clash with him. Today is the fifteenth. On the day after tomorrow, at three-thirty, we ought to be at Threave and take our observations by the sun.”“But suppose it’s a wet day?” suggested Fred, always practical.“Ah! suppose it is?” I echoed. “Then all our chance may melt away from us.”Half an hour later, while the Major and the Captain strolled along to have a chat with Mr Batten, at the office of the British Linen Company, of which he was manager, I excused myself and remained behind.Scarcely had they gone when Graniani passed the window with Selby, both well-dressed and presenting a prosperous appearance. They were speaking in Italian, in order, I suppose, that those who overheard should not understand their conversation. But I knew from the hunchback’s gesticulations that he was excited by some untoward event.Judith was undoubtedly alone; therefore I rang for the waiter and sent him with my card to “Miss Fletcher.”Five minutes later she entered the room half-timidly, as though fearful of detection. Her hand trembled, her face was pale, and I saw that she was in a highly nervous condition.“I had no idea you were here, Mr Kennedy,” she gasped. “What brings you here?”“I am here to be near you, Lady Judith.” I answered, holding her small white hand. “You are still in distress. How may I help you?”“How can you help me?” she echoed. “By leaving here at once. If you remain you will imperil your life. Ah! you don’t know the terrible risk you are running.”“But why are you here?” I demanded. “I believed you were in Edinburgh.”“I am not here of my own free will,” she said slowly. “It is because I am compelled.”“Compelled! By whom?”“By your enemies, Allan. Ah! heed me—do heed me, and get away from here at once.”“Why may I not remain as your protector?” I demurred.“Because I need none; for me there is no protection,” and she trembled as she stood before me.“Where is your father?”“I don’t know,” she responded. “Some strange events have happened since we met last.”“But you still trust me, dearest?” I cried passionately, bending until my lips touched hers lightly. They were cold, and her features seemed like marble.“Yes,” she murmured. “I still trust you, Allan. My only fear is for your safety, not for mine. Recollect that we are dealing with people who are desperate—who will stick at nothing in order to gain their own sinister ends.”The thought of that weird sign in Bloomsbury crossed my mind, and I fell to wondering.“If you reciprocate my love, dearest, it is all that I desire in life,” I said quietly, in deepest earnestness. “You are in peril, you have told me, and I am your protector. You tell me nothing, because a silence is imposed upon you.”“Ah, Allan! I dare not tell you. If I did, you—even you—would hate me; in years to come even you would detest my memory. With me life is now short; but even though surrounded by a thousand perils and pitfalls, I am nevertheless happy because I know that I shall die loved by one upright and honest man.”“Die?” I echoed. “Why do you always speak of death being imminent? This is a mere morbid foreboding. You should rid yourself of it, for it surely isn’t good for you.”“Ah?” she sighed bitterly, “you do not know, Allan, or you would not think so.” Then, a moment later, she turned to me and implored me to leave Castle-Douglas and return to London.This I refused to do, though I said nothing of the presence of Graniani or Selby, for even now I was not quite convinced whether she were playing me false. If Judith were really my friend, if she really loved me as I hoped, why was she not a little more plain and straightforward? It was this fact that still held me in a turmoil of suspicion. My passion for her increased, but my position seemed somehow very insecure.That a deep and impenetrable mystery surrounded her was apparent; but she seemed determined upon increasing it instead of giving me some clue to its elucidation, however slight.I suggested that we should walk out of the town and talk, but at first she refused. She evidently feared that those two men might encounter her in my company, although to me she pleaded a headache. The whole affair was so queer and unconventional that I myself became more bewildered.At length, however, I induced her to go for a stroll, allowing her to chose the way. She evidently knew the direction in which the hunchback and his companion had gone, for she took the road that led across the town and around the end of the beautiful loch towards Whitepark, where we presently struck a quiet, unfrequented path, whereon we strolled slowly in the shadow of the trees.Since we had last met she and her father had been in Aberdeen, Glasgow, and Edinburgh, and she had left him two days ago at the County Hotel, in Carlisle. He had told her that he was leaving for London that night, and had instructed her to go on to Castle-Douglas and await a letter from him. She was still waiting for it. That was the reason she was there.She made no mention of the two men also there, beyond her remark about my enemies being desperate ones.For fully a couple of hours we wandered, heedless of where our footsteps led us, for she seemed thoroughly to enjoy that bright, fresh land of hills, streams, and lochs. In those sweet moments of peaceful bliss beside my love I forgot all my suspicion, all the mystery, all the desperate efforts that I was making to combat those who intended to filch from me the secret that was mine.Many were our exchanges of affection as we lingered in that leafy glen, where deep below a rippling burn fell in small cascades with sweet, refreshing music. I saw that she wished to tell me everything, but was compelled to silence. I knew only that she loved me, she trusted me, but that she feared for my personal safety.At last she expressed a wish to return, and with lingering footsteps we went towards the pointed spires of the town that lay beside the loch beneath our feet. Sweet were her words; sweet indeed was her personality, and sweet her almost childlike affection.We parted at the entrance to the town, so as not to be seen together; and although I groaned beneath that weight of anxiety and uncertainty, I verily trod on air on my way back to the “Douglas Arms.”Wyman and Fred had not returned, therefore I went along to Mr Batten’s, where I found them entertained to luncheon, and took my seat in the vacant place at the table. Our host was, I fear, puzzled at the reason of our sudden decision to spend a few days in his town, yet we told him nothing, fearing to arouse local interest in our search.At three o’clock we went back to the “Douglas Arms”; but judge our dismay when the “boots” informed us that “Miss Fletcher” had left the hotel hurriedly, in company with “the hunchback and another gentleman,” and had departed by the half-past two o’clock train—the express for Carlisle and the south.“Well, that’s a strange move,” remarked Walter, when he heard of it. “I suppose Lady Judith got to know we were here, and cleared out rather than run the risk of meeting us.”“Yes,” said Fred reflectively. “Very curious. I wonder what their game really is? You’ve forestalled them over the investigations at Crowland without a doubt; but I fear they are just a trifle too ingenious for us at Threave. I’ve ascertained that at Grierson’s, the ironmonger, the hunchback and another man gave orders for several new picks and spades to be sent to Kelton Mains, that farmhouse through which we pass to get to Threave. They were sent there today.”“Well,” I laughed, “they may be useful to us the day after tomorrow if they are not claimed. My belief is that those men never anticipated that we should follow them so closely.”“But will the sun shine?” queried Walter Wyman, gazing moodily out into the empty street. “That’s the question.”

Fred took from his study table theGlasgow Heraldof that morning, and there, sure enough, was a paragraph stating that the Earl of Glenelg had purchased the historic castle of Threave, together with the islands, from the laird, Colonel Maitland. The Gordons had been connected with the property since the seventeenth century, it was stated, hence the purchase by the Earl.

“Curiously enough,” observed Fred Fenwicke, “Maitland’s solicitors are my own: Burton, Brooks, and Co, of Union Street, Glasgow. From them I could get to hear the actual situation.”

“Wire them in the morning, and ask if the property is really sold. The papers often get hold of news of that sort prematurely,” I said, clutching eagerly at the last straw, for our enemies had certainly forestalled us by this purchase, which, if actually effected, upset all our plans. If Lord Glenelg had paid for the property then the Borgia emeralds could never be ours.

Fred proposed to wire, and at noon that day Wyman and I were in the express travelling towards Euston.

For some days yet it was impossible to follow the old monk’s directions for the discovery of the spot at Threave; therefore, with the prospect of the Crowland treasure being revealed, we eagerly went on the following day to the British Museum and were closeted with the professor.

“I had no idea that this most interesting document existed,” he said, as he sat at his table and unfolded to our gaze a dark old parchment, whereon was a large but rather roughly drawn plan, very similar in style to those in The Closed Book.

“You will see here,” he said, pointing to an inscription in a small Gothic hand underneath, “that it was prepared by Richard Fosdyke, the celebrated architect, by the order of John Welles, the last abbot. From the difference in the drawing on the north side, it was apparently intended to make certain additions to the monastery buildings; but having compared it with the ground plan of the present ruins, it is proved that the abbey was dissolved before the work was carried out.”

“It is the exact positions of the fish ponds that we are very desirous of ascertaining,” I said. “What is your opinion?”

“There can be but one. They are here,” and he pointed to two squares drawn at some distance at the north-east of the abbey church, and in an exactly opposite direction to the written record of old Godfrey. “This square of buildings enclosed the cloister court,” the expert went on, “and here you see is the chapter house, the refectory, and the mausoleum, all of which have now disappeared.”

Then he took out a plan of the present ruins, and we compared the two carefully, being surprised at the wide ramifications of the original abbey and the extent of the outbuildings.

I inquired if it were possible to have a tracing of it, when our friend the professor took from a drawer a large sheet of tracing-paper upon which he had already had a copy made. This he gave to me, expressing pleasure that he had been of any service to us in our investigations.

“I am myself intensely interested in the work you have undertaken,” he said. “If you really hold Godfrey Lovel’s Arnoldus then you may, after all, be successful in discovering both the abbey treasures and the Borgia emeralds.”

“That is exactly what we are trying to do, but unfortunately we are not alone in it.”

“You mean that the Italian hunchback has discovered something?”

“Why, has he been here since my last visit?”

“He was here all day yesterday. He has in his possession some curious plan or other.”

My companion suggested that we should go that very evening to Crowland, place the plan before our good friend Mr Mason, and commence investigations in an open and straightforward manner. This course we adopted, and arranged to leave for Peterborough by the Leeds express.

At five o’clock, however, the Captain returned to tell me that he had received an imperative call from Paris, and must be away for several days. As there was nothing to be done until the seventeenth, his absence made no difference with our plans, though I found my patience sorely tried by the long wait. I employed the time in searching the British Museum for more detailed accounts of Threave, but without success. Within less than a fortnight Wyman had rejoined me, and we were making plans for a leisurely trip back to Scotland when I received a telegram from Fred Fenwicke that accelerated our plans. It ran:

“Come back tonight without fail. Go on to Castle-Douglas, and put up at ‘Douglas Arms.’ Will meet you there tomorrow morning.”

At ten o’clock on the following morning we were back again in Scotland, breakfasting in a cozy room in that old-fashioned hotel, the “Douglas Arms,” at Castle-Douglas, and anxiously awaiting Fred Fenwicke.

We had spent a comfortable if rather warm night in the sleeping-car from Euston, and both of us being constant travellers, neither felt the fatigue of the long railway journey. The urgency of Fred’s message caused us the greatest anxiety, and as we sat there together our eyes were watching the window for his arrival.

Outside, the long, broad street, the principal thoroughfare of the town, was already filled with the August sunshine, the roadway almost as white as those glaring roads of Italy, the sky almost as blue as it was in my once-loved Tuscany.

We had engaged that room for ourselves, for there seemed to be a party of London holiday-makers staying in the hotel; at least so we judged them to be by the gorgeous tweeds of the men and the tourist kit of the women. Loud laughter rang in the corridors of the quiet, eminently respectable place, and before the door was a coach upon which the party were slowly settling themselves for a drive through the beautiful Glenkens.

At last, just as the coach drove away, and the old post-house settled down to its normal quiet, Fred Fenwicke opened the door and closed it quickly after him.

“I’m glad you fellows have come,” he said in quick excitement. “There’s something strange going on here. Yesterday I was cycling through here, and while passing down the road along Carlingwark Loch, the same road by which you drove the other day, I overtook Lady Judith. She was walking slowly, talking with an old hunchback.”

“A hunchback?” I cried. “Then it must be Graniani.”

“He was Italian, that’s all I know. I didn’t wait to acknowledge her because the fact struck me as very curious, and I thought it would be best if she were unaware that I had discovered her. So I ran on here, and on inquiry found that the lady, who had given the name of Miss Fletcher, had arrived on the previous day, and that the old Italian, who had signed his name in the visitors’ book so badly that it could not be read, had arrived that morning.”

“And they are both here! I wonder why?” I asked, amazed.

“Well, I suppose their visit has some connection with the search they intend to make over at Threave,” Fred said. “At any rate, I thought it best that you should be on the spot, and watch what was happening.”

“But the sale of the island?”

“Brooks wired me yesterday that the contract is signed, but the money is not yet paid over. The sale is to be completed on the sixteenth of September.”

“Ah, Lord Glenelg, too, evidently thought of the change in the calendar. Well, we must take our chances of a clash with him. Today is the fifteenth. On the day after tomorrow, at three-thirty, we ought to be at Threave and take our observations by the sun.”

“But suppose it’s a wet day?” suggested Fred, always practical.

“Ah! suppose it is?” I echoed. “Then all our chance may melt away from us.”

Half an hour later, while the Major and the Captain strolled along to have a chat with Mr Batten, at the office of the British Linen Company, of which he was manager, I excused myself and remained behind.

Scarcely had they gone when Graniani passed the window with Selby, both well-dressed and presenting a prosperous appearance. They were speaking in Italian, in order, I suppose, that those who overheard should not understand their conversation. But I knew from the hunchback’s gesticulations that he was excited by some untoward event.

Judith was undoubtedly alone; therefore I rang for the waiter and sent him with my card to “Miss Fletcher.”

Five minutes later she entered the room half-timidly, as though fearful of detection. Her hand trembled, her face was pale, and I saw that she was in a highly nervous condition.

“I had no idea you were here, Mr Kennedy,” she gasped. “What brings you here?”

“I am here to be near you, Lady Judith.” I answered, holding her small white hand. “You are still in distress. How may I help you?”

“How can you help me?” she echoed. “By leaving here at once. If you remain you will imperil your life. Ah! you don’t know the terrible risk you are running.”

“But why are you here?” I demanded. “I believed you were in Edinburgh.”

“I am not here of my own free will,” she said slowly. “It is because I am compelled.”

“Compelled! By whom?”

“By your enemies, Allan. Ah! heed me—do heed me, and get away from here at once.”

“Why may I not remain as your protector?” I demurred.

“Because I need none; for me there is no protection,” and she trembled as she stood before me.

“Where is your father?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. “Some strange events have happened since we met last.”

“But you still trust me, dearest?” I cried passionately, bending until my lips touched hers lightly. They were cold, and her features seemed like marble.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I still trust you, Allan. My only fear is for your safety, not for mine. Recollect that we are dealing with people who are desperate—who will stick at nothing in order to gain their own sinister ends.”

The thought of that weird sign in Bloomsbury crossed my mind, and I fell to wondering.

“If you reciprocate my love, dearest, it is all that I desire in life,” I said quietly, in deepest earnestness. “You are in peril, you have told me, and I am your protector. You tell me nothing, because a silence is imposed upon you.”

“Ah, Allan! I dare not tell you. If I did, you—even you—would hate me; in years to come even you would detest my memory. With me life is now short; but even though surrounded by a thousand perils and pitfalls, I am nevertheless happy because I know that I shall die loved by one upright and honest man.”

“Die?” I echoed. “Why do you always speak of death being imminent? This is a mere morbid foreboding. You should rid yourself of it, for it surely isn’t good for you.”

“Ah?” she sighed bitterly, “you do not know, Allan, or you would not think so.” Then, a moment later, she turned to me and implored me to leave Castle-Douglas and return to London.

This I refused to do, though I said nothing of the presence of Graniani or Selby, for even now I was not quite convinced whether she were playing me false. If Judith were really my friend, if she really loved me as I hoped, why was she not a little more plain and straightforward? It was this fact that still held me in a turmoil of suspicion. My passion for her increased, but my position seemed somehow very insecure.

That a deep and impenetrable mystery surrounded her was apparent; but she seemed determined upon increasing it instead of giving me some clue to its elucidation, however slight.

I suggested that we should walk out of the town and talk, but at first she refused. She evidently feared that those two men might encounter her in my company, although to me she pleaded a headache. The whole affair was so queer and unconventional that I myself became more bewildered.

At length, however, I induced her to go for a stroll, allowing her to chose the way. She evidently knew the direction in which the hunchback and his companion had gone, for she took the road that led across the town and around the end of the beautiful loch towards Whitepark, where we presently struck a quiet, unfrequented path, whereon we strolled slowly in the shadow of the trees.

Since we had last met she and her father had been in Aberdeen, Glasgow, and Edinburgh, and she had left him two days ago at the County Hotel, in Carlisle. He had told her that he was leaving for London that night, and had instructed her to go on to Castle-Douglas and await a letter from him. She was still waiting for it. That was the reason she was there.

She made no mention of the two men also there, beyond her remark about my enemies being desperate ones.

For fully a couple of hours we wandered, heedless of where our footsteps led us, for she seemed thoroughly to enjoy that bright, fresh land of hills, streams, and lochs. In those sweet moments of peaceful bliss beside my love I forgot all my suspicion, all the mystery, all the desperate efforts that I was making to combat those who intended to filch from me the secret that was mine.

Many were our exchanges of affection as we lingered in that leafy glen, where deep below a rippling burn fell in small cascades with sweet, refreshing music. I saw that she wished to tell me everything, but was compelled to silence. I knew only that she loved me, she trusted me, but that she feared for my personal safety.

At last she expressed a wish to return, and with lingering footsteps we went towards the pointed spires of the town that lay beside the loch beneath our feet. Sweet were her words; sweet indeed was her personality, and sweet her almost childlike affection.

We parted at the entrance to the town, so as not to be seen together; and although I groaned beneath that weight of anxiety and uncertainty, I verily trod on air on my way back to the “Douglas Arms.”

Wyman and Fred had not returned, therefore I went along to Mr Batten’s, where I found them entertained to luncheon, and took my seat in the vacant place at the table. Our host was, I fear, puzzled at the reason of our sudden decision to spend a few days in his town, yet we told him nothing, fearing to arouse local interest in our search.

At three o’clock we went back to the “Douglas Arms”; but judge our dismay when the “boots” informed us that “Miss Fletcher” had left the hotel hurriedly, in company with “the hunchback and another gentleman,” and had departed by the half-past two o’clock train—the express for Carlisle and the south.

“Well, that’s a strange move,” remarked Walter, when he heard of it. “I suppose Lady Judith got to know we were here, and cleared out rather than run the risk of meeting us.”

“Yes,” said Fred reflectively. “Very curious. I wonder what their game really is? You’ve forestalled them over the investigations at Crowland without a doubt; but I fear they are just a trifle too ingenious for us at Threave. I’ve ascertained that at Grierson’s, the ironmonger, the hunchback and another man gave orders for several new picks and spades to be sent to Kelton Mains, that farmhouse through which we pass to get to Threave. They were sent there today.”

“Well,” I laughed, “they may be useful to us the day after tomorrow if they are not claimed. My belief is that those men never anticipated that we should follow them so closely.”

“But will the sun shine?” queried Walter Wyman, gazing moodily out into the empty street. “That’s the question.”

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