Chapter Twenty Five.High Words.Looking again in the direction of the hand, but telling herself that it was fancy, Lydia sat down to wait anxiously for the doctor’s return, while Capel went on, talking more or less incoherently.“You know I love you,” he said softly. “Katrine—darling—you will be my wife. Let the world go its own way, what is it to us?”Lydia’s head sank lower, as the tears of misery began to fall fast.“The treasure,” he cried, suddenly. “Ha—ha—ha! Let them search for it—months—years. They will never find it. I have it safely. Here. I’ll tell you.”He beckoned with his finger as he talked on, rapidly; and as Lydia raised her saddened countenance, she saw that he was gazing at vacancy and gesticulating with his free hand.“Yes; I’ll tell you,” he said. “Let the fools hunt. They’ll never find it. Well? Why not? It is mine. Look. You count along here—do you see—one, eight, six, now press in the key. There is a spring. Press it home and turn. The door opens and there it is. For you, dearest—the jewels are all your own.”As he went on talking rapidly, the curtain moved softly again, and this time Lydia felt that it was no trick of the light or wind, and, rising from her seat, she went softly round to the other side of the bed, took hold of the curtain and swept it aside, to leave Katrine standing there in the faint light shed by the shaded lamp.“What are you doing here?”“I came to see if I could help you.”“And glided in like a thief, to hide there, listening to his words. What is it you want to know? Was it to hear him say he loved you?” whispered Lydia, with her face full of scorn.“I do not understand you.”“You do understand. And it was not for that. You have heard him whisper to you—no—waste upon you loving words enough.”“Really,” said Katrine, who had recovered from her temporary confusion, consequent upon the abrupt discovery of her presence. “Surely, my darling little Lydia is not jealous?”“Jealous? Of you?” said Lydia, scornfully.“No; I am only sorry that he should have been so blind.”“To your incomparable charms?”“No; to the character of the beautiful woman—”“Beautiful?”“Yes; beautiful woman, whose character—”“How dare you!” cried Katrine, and she struck the brave girl a sharp blow across the face with her open hand.“Beautiful as you are corrupt and cruel,” said Lydia, without wincing. “I have not been blind. I have seen your efforts to lead him on—to tempt him into the belief that you loved him, when your sole thought has been of the money that was to be his.”“It is false,” cried Katrine.“It is true. I would not stoop to watch you, but I have seen enough to know you. Go back to your companion—the man who plots and plans with you to gain what you will never find, and do not—”“Do not what?” cried Katrine, with a malignant look.Lydia did not reply, but hurried back to where Capel was trying to raise himself up, trembling the while, as he gazed towards the window.“Look,” he said harshly. “There. Don’t stop, Katrine, love. There is danger. Don’t stop now.”Katrine’s face wore a strange waxen hue, as she caught the sick man’s hand.The painful position was brought to an end by the coming of the doctors. Katrine’s quick ear was the first to give her warning of their approach, and without another word she softly left the room, stealing away so quietly that when Dr Heston entered, ushering in the great physician, Lydia hardly realised that she was alone.“Still the same,” said Dr Heston. “Humph, yes. My dear madam, will you permit me?”Lydia looked piteously in his face, losing her self-command the while, as Heston led her from the room, and closed the door, while as she heard it locked on the inside and the sound of the rings passing over the rod, she sank down sobbing on the lion-skin rug, burying her face in her hands, and ignorant of the fact that she was being watched.
Looking again in the direction of the hand, but telling herself that it was fancy, Lydia sat down to wait anxiously for the doctor’s return, while Capel went on, talking more or less incoherently.
“You know I love you,” he said softly. “Katrine—darling—you will be my wife. Let the world go its own way, what is it to us?”
Lydia’s head sank lower, as the tears of misery began to fall fast.
“The treasure,” he cried, suddenly. “Ha—ha—ha! Let them search for it—months—years. They will never find it. I have it safely. Here. I’ll tell you.”
He beckoned with his finger as he talked on, rapidly; and as Lydia raised her saddened countenance, she saw that he was gazing at vacancy and gesticulating with his free hand.
“Yes; I’ll tell you,” he said. “Let the fools hunt. They’ll never find it. Well? Why not? It is mine. Look. You count along here—do you see—one, eight, six, now press in the key. There is a spring. Press it home and turn. The door opens and there it is. For you, dearest—the jewels are all your own.”
As he went on talking rapidly, the curtain moved softly again, and this time Lydia felt that it was no trick of the light or wind, and, rising from her seat, she went softly round to the other side of the bed, took hold of the curtain and swept it aside, to leave Katrine standing there in the faint light shed by the shaded lamp.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see if I could help you.”
“And glided in like a thief, to hide there, listening to his words. What is it you want to know? Was it to hear him say he loved you?” whispered Lydia, with her face full of scorn.
“I do not understand you.”
“You do understand. And it was not for that. You have heard him whisper to you—no—waste upon you loving words enough.”
“Really,” said Katrine, who had recovered from her temporary confusion, consequent upon the abrupt discovery of her presence. “Surely, my darling little Lydia is not jealous?”
“Jealous? Of you?” said Lydia, scornfully.
“No; I am only sorry that he should have been so blind.”
“To your incomparable charms?”
“No; to the character of the beautiful woman—”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes; beautiful woman, whose character—”
“How dare you!” cried Katrine, and she struck the brave girl a sharp blow across the face with her open hand.
“Beautiful as you are corrupt and cruel,” said Lydia, without wincing. “I have not been blind. I have seen your efforts to lead him on—to tempt him into the belief that you loved him, when your sole thought has been of the money that was to be his.”
“It is false,” cried Katrine.
“It is true. I would not stoop to watch you, but I have seen enough to know you. Go back to your companion—the man who plots and plans with you to gain what you will never find, and do not—”
“Do not what?” cried Katrine, with a malignant look.
Lydia did not reply, but hurried back to where Capel was trying to raise himself up, trembling the while, as he gazed towards the window.
“Look,” he said harshly. “There. Don’t stop, Katrine, love. There is danger. Don’t stop now.”
Katrine’s face wore a strange waxen hue, as she caught the sick man’s hand.
The painful position was brought to an end by the coming of the doctors. Katrine’s quick ear was the first to give her warning of their approach, and without another word she softly left the room, stealing away so quietly that when Dr Heston entered, ushering in the great physician, Lydia hardly realised that she was alone.
“Still the same,” said Dr Heston. “Humph, yes. My dear madam, will you permit me?”
Lydia looked piteously in his face, losing her self-command the while, as Heston led her from the room, and closed the door, while as she heard it locked on the inside and the sound of the rings passing over the rod, she sank down sobbing on the lion-skin rug, burying her face in her hands, and ignorant of the fact that she was being watched.
Chapter Twenty Six.Capel’s Nurses.“This is your doing, Dr Heston,” said Mr Girtle, returning to the dining-room, indignantly, with a card in his hand.He had been seated at lunch with the doctor, Katrine, and Artis, when Preenham had entered the room, to say that a gentleman wished to see him on important business.“I dare say it is,” said the doctor, “but what have I done?”“We—the family—had decided to refrain from communication with the police, so as not to draw attention to the peculiar circumstances that have taken place in this house, and I agreed somewhat unwillingly, knowing Mr Capel’s feelings as to what has gone before.”“Well,” said the doctor, coolly, for the old man seemed to have lost his self-control.“No, sir, it is not well. Someone has communicated with the police.”He held out the card in his hand, and Katrine winced, while Artis gave her an uneasy look.“No work of mine, my dear sir; my hands are too full of my patient. Surely he does not say—”“No, no,” said Mr Girtle, hurriedly. “I have not seen him yet. I was so angry that I returned at once. I really beg your pardon, but all this trouble has rather taken me off my balance.”He nodded, and left the room, and Katrine glanced at the doctor.“Over-work and anxiety, my dear madam,” he said. “I shall have to give him a little advice. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll go up-stairs.”“But doctor,” cried Katrine; “is Mr Capel really better?”“It is hardly just to call him better while this delirium continues; but you know what Sir Ronald said.”He went out of the dining-room, and ascended the stairs, leaving Katrine with Artis.“Where are you going?” said the latter.“Up to Capel’s room.”“What, again?”“Yes,” she said, “again.”“But what have you found out?”“Wait and see.”“Wait and see? I’m sick of it all,” he cried, angrily. “I feel as if I were buried alive, and to make matters worse, you’re always away. Look here, I don’t like your going and nursing that fellow.”“You stupid boy!” she said softly; and she turned upon him a look that made him catch her in his arms and press his lips to hers.For a few moments she made no resistance, but seemed to be returning his caress. Then, with an angry wrench, she extricated herself from his grasp.“How dare you!” she cried.“How dare? Oh, come, that’s good.”“You are acting like a fool!”She sailed out of the room just as Preenham opened the door, and as he drew back for her to pass, Artis threw himself into a chair, while Katrine slowly ascended the stairs, listening intently to the low murmur of voices in the library.A few minutes before, the quiet, grave-looking professional nurse had ascended to the sick room from the housekeeper’s room, where she had just partaken of her dinner, and found, as she entered, silently, Lydia on her knees by the bedside, with a straight bar of light from the window throwing her into bold relief against the dark curtains.The nurse advanced softly, and glanced at Capel, who seemed to be sleeping easily, and then lightly touched Lydia on the shoulder.“Asleep, miss?” she said.Lydia raised her white face, haggard and livid with sleeplessness and anxiety.“No,” she said softly, as she let herself sink into the low chair at the bed’s head. “No, not asleep.”“But you are quite done up, miss,” said the nurse. “Now, pray do go and lie down for a few hours. He is better, I’m sure of it. I do know, indeed. I’ve seen so much of this sort of thing. I was in the French hospitals all through the war.”“But, are you sure?”“I’m quite certain, miss. Now, you can’t go on like this. You must have rest. Take my advice, and go and have a good sleep, and then you can come and watch again.”“But if—”“If anything happens, miss, I’ll call you.”“You promise me?”“Faithfully, miss. There, trust to me.”Lydia had risen, and she tottered as she took a step or two, when the nurse caught her in her arms, and the poor girl’s strength gave way entirely now.The nurse’s confident words that Capel was getting better, robbed her of the last bond of self-control, and, as the woman tenderly supported her, and whispered a few soothing words, Lydia’s head went down on the nurse’s breast, and she burst into a low, passionate fit of hysterical tears.“There, you’ll be better now,” whispered the nurse, as Lydia raised her piteous white face. “Now go and have a few hours’ sleep.”Lydia nodded, recovered her self-command, and went to the bed, bent over and gazed earnestly in the patient’s face, and then left the room.“Poor dear!” said the nurse, after a glance at the patient, “how she does love him! Ah, miss, how you made me jump!”“Did I, nurse?” said Katrine. “I was obliged to come in gently. How is he?”“Better, miss, I think.”“That’s well. You look very tired, nurse.”“Me, miss? Oh, dear, no.”“But your strength ought to be saved for nights. I can’t watch at night—I get too sleepy; but I can now, and I’ll take your place.”“Do you really wish it, miss?”“Yes. Please,” said Katrine, firmly; and the woman quietly left the room, to take no walk, but to go up to the chamber set apart for her use, and, from long habit in catching rest when it could be found, she threw herself upon her bed, and was soon breathing heavily—fast asleep.In the adjoining room lay Lydia, with her eyes closed, hour after hour, but painfully awake. No sleep would come to her weary brain, which seemed to grow more terribly active as the time rolled on. She told herself that her love for Capel was madness. Then hope tortured her with the idea that he might turn to her, while her indignant maiden nature bade her forget him and show more pride. “But he is poor,” Hope seemed to say; “his fortune is gone, and you are comparatively wealthy. Wait, and he will love you yet.”There was a hopeful smile dawning upon her lips, as she softly left her room, and went down the stairs, with a feeling of restful content in her breast, and then her heart seemed to stand still, and a horrible feeling of self-reproach attacked her as she felt that she had left her post just as some terrible crisis had been about to happen.For there, at the door where she had crouched in agony, waiting to know the great physician’s verdict, now stood Gerard Artis, gazing in as he held it partly open.Lydia was as if turned to stone for the moment. Then the reaction came, and she quickly ran to the door, to lay her hand upon Artis’s shoulder.He turned upon her a face distorted with jealous rage, and then his countenance changed, and, indulging in a malicious laugh, he drew on one side, holding the curtain back, and pointed mockingly to the scene within.
“This is your doing, Dr Heston,” said Mr Girtle, returning to the dining-room, indignantly, with a card in his hand.
He had been seated at lunch with the doctor, Katrine, and Artis, when Preenham had entered the room, to say that a gentleman wished to see him on important business.
“I dare say it is,” said the doctor, “but what have I done?”
“We—the family—had decided to refrain from communication with the police, so as not to draw attention to the peculiar circumstances that have taken place in this house, and I agreed somewhat unwillingly, knowing Mr Capel’s feelings as to what has gone before.”
“Well,” said the doctor, coolly, for the old man seemed to have lost his self-control.
“No, sir, it is not well. Someone has communicated with the police.”
He held out the card in his hand, and Katrine winced, while Artis gave her an uneasy look.
“No work of mine, my dear sir; my hands are too full of my patient. Surely he does not say—”
“No, no,” said Mr Girtle, hurriedly. “I have not seen him yet. I was so angry that I returned at once. I really beg your pardon, but all this trouble has rather taken me off my balance.”
He nodded, and left the room, and Katrine glanced at the doctor.
“Over-work and anxiety, my dear madam,” he said. “I shall have to give him a little advice. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll go up-stairs.”
“But doctor,” cried Katrine; “is Mr Capel really better?”
“It is hardly just to call him better while this delirium continues; but you know what Sir Ronald said.”
He went out of the dining-room, and ascended the stairs, leaving Katrine with Artis.
“Where are you going?” said the latter.
“Up to Capel’s room.”
“What, again?”
“Yes,” she said, “again.”
“But what have you found out?”
“Wait and see.”
“Wait and see? I’m sick of it all,” he cried, angrily. “I feel as if I were buried alive, and to make matters worse, you’re always away. Look here, I don’t like your going and nursing that fellow.”
“You stupid boy!” she said softly; and she turned upon him a look that made him catch her in his arms and press his lips to hers.
For a few moments she made no resistance, but seemed to be returning his caress. Then, with an angry wrench, she extricated herself from his grasp.
“How dare you!” she cried.
“How dare? Oh, come, that’s good.”
“You are acting like a fool!”
She sailed out of the room just as Preenham opened the door, and as he drew back for her to pass, Artis threw himself into a chair, while Katrine slowly ascended the stairs, listening intently to the low murmur of voices in the library.
A few minutes before, the quiet, grave-looking professional nurse had ascended to the sick room from the housekeeper’s room, where she had just partaken of her dinner, and found, as she entered, silently, Lydia on her knees by the bedside, with a straight bar of light from the window throwing her into bold relief against the dark curtains.
The nurse advanced softly, and glanced at Capel, who seemed to be sleeping easily, and then lightly touched Lydia on the shoulder.
“Asleep, miss?” she said.
Lydia raised her white face, haggard and livid with sleeplessness and anxiety.
“No,” she said softly, as she let herself sink into the low chair at the bed’s head. “No, not asleep.”
“But you are quite done up, miss,” said the nurse. “Now, pray do go and lie down for a few hours. He is better, I’m sure of it. I do know, indeed. I’ve seen so much of this sort of thing. I was in the French hospitals all through the war.”
“But, are you sure?”
“I’m quite certain, miss. Now, you can’t go on like this. You must have rest. Take my advice, and go and have a good sleep, and then you can come and watch again.”
“But if—”
“If anything happens, miss, I’ll call you.”
“You promise me?”
“Faithfully, miss. There, trust to me.”
Lydia had risen, and she tottered as she took a step or two, when the nurse caught her in her arms, and the poor girl’s strength gave way entirely now.
The nurse’s confident words that Capel was getting better, robbed her of the last bond of self-control, and, as the woman tenderly supported her, and whispered a few soothing words, Lydia’s head went down on the nurse’s breast, and she burst into a low, passionate fit of hysterical tears.
“There, you’ll be better now,” whispered the nurse, as Lydia raised her piteous white face. “Now go and have a few hours’ sleep.”
Lydia nodded, recovered her self-command, and went to the bed, bent over and gazed earnestly in the patient’s face, and then left the room.
“Poor dear!” said the nurse, after a glance at the patient, “how she does love him! Ah, miss, how you made me jump!”
“Did I, nurse?” said Katrine. “I was obliged to come in gently. How is he?”
“Better, miss, I think.”
“That’s well. You look very tired, nurse.”
“Me, miss? Oh, dear, no.”
“But your strength ought to be saved for nights. I can’t watch at night—I get too sleepy; but I can now, and I’ll take your place.”
“Do you really wish it, miss?”
“Yes. Please,” said Katrine, firmly; and the woman quietly left the room, to take no walk, but to go up to the chamber set apart for her use, and, from long habit in catching rest when it could be found, she threw herself upon her bed, and was soon breathing heavily—fast asleep.
In the adjoining room lay Lydia, with her eyes closed, hour after hour, but painfully awake. No sleep would come to her weary brain, which seemed to grow more terribly active as the time rolled on. She told herself that her love for Capel was madness. Then hope tortured her with the idea that he might turn to her, while her indignant maiden nature bade her forget him and show more pride. “But he is poor,” Hope seemed to say; “his fortune is gone, and you are comparatively wealthy. Wait, and he will love you yet.”
There was a hopeful smile dawning upon her lips, as she softly left her room, and went down the stairs, with a feeling of restful content in her breast, and then her heart seemed to stand still, and a horrible feeling of self-reproach attacked her as she felt that she had left her post just as some terrible crisis had been about to happen.
For there, at the door where she had crouched in agony, waiting to know the great physician’s verdict, now stood Gerard Artis, gazing in as he held it partly open.
Lydia was as if turned to stone for the moment. Then the reaction came, and she quickly ran to the door, to lay her hand upon Artis’s shoulder.
He turned upon her a face distorted with jealous rage, and then his countenance changed, and, indulging in a malicious laugh, he drew on one side, holding the curtain back, and pointed mockingly to the scene within.
Chapter Twenty Seven.An Encounter.One swift glance, and then, without noticing Artis, Lydia glided into the room.She had seen her hope crushed, and that she must never dream again of that happy future. She had not slept, but she had left her post, and while she had been absent another had stolen that last hope.For, after lying sleeping calmly and peacefully for an hour, Capel heaved a long sigh, and at last he opened his eyes, in a quiet, dreamy way, gazing at, but apparently not seeing, Katrine, as she knelt there in the light cast by the window.Then she saw a look of intelligence come into his face, and he spoke in a quiet and eager, though feeble tone.“What is it? Why—why am I here? Don’t—don’t speak. Yes, I know. Oh, Katrine, my love, my love!”He raised his feeble arms, till they clasped the beautiful neck as she bent down over him, and her head rested upon his pillow, side by side with his; her soft dark hair half hid his pale cheek, and he was whispering feebly his words of gratitude, as Lydia slowly advanced into the room, and, unnoticed by either, she laid her soft, white hand upon Katrine’s shoulder, gripping it with a nervous force of which she herself was ignorant.Katrine started up, flushed, her eyes sparkling with light, and a look of triumph coming into her face, as she saw who was there.“Mr Capel’s condition will not permit of this excitement,” said Lydia, in a cold, harsh voice. “Doctor Heston’s orders were that he should be kept quiet.”That afternoon, when Mr Girtle entered the library, he found a plainly-dressed man awaiting him—a man who, save that he gave the idea of having once been a soldier, might have passed for anything, from a publican to an idler whose wife let lodgings, and made it unnecessary for him to toil or spin.“Morning, sir. You had my card, I see. I’ve called about the attempt made here the other night.”“Attempt?”“Yes, sir; the burglary.”“How did you know there was an attempt?”“Oh, we get to know a little, sir. We’re a body of incompetent men that every one abuses, but we find out a few things a year.”“You heard of this, then?”“Yes, sir, and we were a bit surprised that you didn’t communicate with us. Seems strange, sir.”“Strange, yes, my man, but have we not had horrors enough?”“Yes, sir, but—”“Well,” said Mr Girtle impatiently, “you have heard of it, then? What do you wish to do?”“See the place, sir. Who is it that nearly killed that poor fellow?”“How did you know that some one did?”Mr Girtle’s visitor laughed a quiet little laugh.“Oh, we know, sir. He’s horribly bad.”“No; decidedly better.”“No, sir. I was at the hospital this morning, and they don’t think he’ll live the day. He has let it all out.”“Look here, my man, we are confusing matters,” said Mr Girtle.“Why, you’ve got a wounded man here?”“Yes. There, my good fellow, I suppose you must know all, now.”“I suppose we must, sir,” said the officer, with a grim smile. “Strange that you should so soon have another trouble here.”“But you have not told me your informant.”“Oh, there’s no secret about it, sir. Servant chap went to the bad, and lost his character. Old friend of your footman here who was killed. He picks up with a couple of regular cracksmen, and tells all he knows about the house, and they put up the job.”“Yes, yes. I see. Well?”“They get in, and catch a Tartar, for this chap was cut down by some one here, and his mates got him away to a wretched hole, where the people were so frightened that they gave information to the police that a man was dying on their premises. Police took him to the hospital, and when he found out how bad he was, he made a clean breast of it all. That’s it, sir. Plain as A, B, C.”Mr Girtle sat looking at the officer, curiously.“Do you think,” he said at last, “that these men committed the other robbery?”The detective’s eyes twinkled, but not a muscle moved.“I should think it about certain, sir.”“Have you got the man’s companions?”“Yes, sir, both of them, safe enough.”“Then as this man confessed one thing, I dare say he will the other. He is dying, you say?”“Yes, sir, no doubt about it; not so much from the sword cut, as from bad health—drink, and the like.”“Then he must be seen to-day—at once, man. We may get to know from him where they have disposed of the treasure.—Such a large sum.”“Yes, sir,” the officer, quietly, taking out a note-book. “Now, don’t you think, sir, you being a solicitor, it would have been better to let us do our work, and you do yours?”“What do you mean, sir?”“Only this, sir, that here’s another thing. You’ve had a tremendous robbery here before, and we’ve known nothing about it till this minute, when you let it all out.”Mr Girtle gave his knee an impatient blow.“Yes, sir, you let it out. When did it happen?”“At the time of that terrible affair in the house. You remember?”“Yes, sir, I took a good deal of notice of it at the time, sir; but I had nothing to do with the case. So a lot of money was taken, then?”Mr Girtle nodded.“I am not at liberty to say more. Mr Capel would not have the search made.”“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll give you another look in. Perhaps, to-morrow, you’ll let me go over the place.”He went away hurriedly, and straight off to the hospital, where he had a long interview with the sick man, obtaining all the information from him that he could, before compelled by the poor wretch’s weakness to cease the inquisition.“A tremendous big sum, eh?” said the officer, to himself. “I should like to have the finding of that. They might be a bit generous to a man.”
One swift glance, and then, without noticing Artis, Lydia glided into the room.
She had seen her hope crushed, and that she must never dream again of that happy future. She had not slept, but she had left her post, and while she had been absent another had stolen that last hope.
For, after lying sleeping calmly and peacefully for an hour, Capel heaved a long sigh, and at last he opened his eyes, in a quiet, dreamy way, gazing at, but apparently not seeing, Katrine, as she knelt there in the light cast by the window.
Then she saw a look of intelligence come into his face, and he spoke in a quiet and eager, though feeble tone.
“What is it? Why—why am I here? Don’t—don’t speak. Yes, I know. Oh, Katrine, my love, my love!”
He raised his feeble arms, till they clasped the beautiful neck as she bent down over him, and her head rested upon his pillow, side by side with his; her soft dark hair half hid his pale cheek, and he was whispering feebly his words of gratitude, as Lydia slowly advanced into the room, and, unnoticed by either, she laid her soft, white hand upon Katrine’s shoulder, gripping it with a nervous force of which she herself was ignorant.
Katrine started up, flushed, her eyes sparkling with light, and a look of triumph coming into her face, as she saw who was there.
“Mr Capel’s condition will not permit of this excitement,” said Lydia, in a cold, harsh voice. “Doctor Heston’s orders were that he should be kept quiet.”
That afternoon, when Mr Girtle entered the library, he found a plainly-dressed man awaiting him—a man who, save that he gave the idea of having once been a soldier, might have passed for anything, from a publican to an idler whose wife let lodgings, and made it unnecessary for him to toil or spin.
“Morning, sir. You had my card, I see. I’ve called about the attempt made here the other night.”
“Attempt?”
“Yes, sir; the burglary.”
“How did you know there was an attempt?”
“Oh, we get to know a little, sir. We’re a body of incompetent men that every one abuses, but we find out a few things a year.”
“You heard of this, then?”
“Yes, sir, and we were a bit surprised that you didn’t communicate with us. Seems strange, sir.”
“Strange, yes, my man, but have we not had horrors enough?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Well,” said Mr Girtle impatiently, “you have heard of it, then? What do you wish to do?”
“See the place, sir. Who is it that nearly killed that poor fellow?”
“How did you know that some one did?”
Mr Girtle’s visitor laughed a quiet little laugh.
“Oh, we know, sir. He’s horribly bad.”
“No; decidedly better.”
“No, sir. I was at the hospital this morning, and they don’t think he’ll live the day. He has let it all out.”
“Look here, my man, we are confusing matters,” said Mr Girtle.
“Why, you’ve got a wounded man here?”
“Yes. There, my good fellow, I suppose you must know all, now.”
“I suppose we must, sir,” said the officer, with a grim smile. “Strange that you should so soon have another trouble here.”
“But you have not told me your informant.”
“Oh, there’s no secret about it, sir. Servant chap went to the bad, and lost his character. Old friend of your footman here who was killed. He picks up with a couple of regular cracksmen, and tells all he knows about the house, and they put up the job.”
“Yes, yes. I see. Well?”
“They get in, and catch a Tartar, for this chap was cut down by some one here, and his mates got him away to a wretched hole, where the people were so frightened that they gave information to the police that a man was dying on their premises. Police took him to the hospital, and when he found out how bad he was, he made a clean breast of it all. That’s it, sir. Plain as A, B, C.”
Mr Girtle sat looking at the officer, curiously.
“Do you think,” he said at last, “that these men committed the other robbery?”
The detective’s eyes twinkled, but not a muscle moved.
“I should think it about certain, sir.”
“Have you got the man’s companions?”
“Yes, sir, both of them, safe enough.”
“Then as this man confessed one thing, I dare say he will the other. He is dying, you say?”
“Yes, sir, no doubt about it; not so much from the sword cut, as from bad health—drink, and the like.”
“Then he must be seen to-day—at once, man. We may get to know from him where they have disposed of the treasure.—Such a large sum.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer, quietly, taking out a note-book. “Now, don’t you think, sir, you being a solicitor, it would have been better to let us do our work, and you do yours?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Only this, sir, that here’s another thing. You’ve had a tremendous robbery here before, and we’ve known nothing about it till this minute, when you let it all out.”
Mr Girtle gave his knee an impatient blow.
“Yes, sir, you let it out. When did it happen?”
“At the time of that terrible affair in the house. You remember?”
“Yes, sir, I took a good deal of notice of it at the time, sir; but I had nothing to do with the case. So a lot of money was taken, then?”
Mr Girtle nodded.
“I am not at liberty to say more. Mr Capel would not have the search made.”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll give you another look in. Perhaps, to-morrow, you’ll let me go over the place.”
He went away hurriedly, and straight off to the hospital, where he had a long interview with the sick man, obtaining all the information from him that he could, before compelled by the poor wretch’s weakness to cease the inquisition.
“A tremendous big sum, eh?” said the officer, to himself. “I should like to have the finding of that. They might be a bit generous to a man.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.Mr Preenham’s Visitor.There was a kind of civil war carried on at the old house over the nursing back of Paul Capel to health. He suffered much, but a strong constitution and youth were fine odds in his favour, and he recovered, after passing the crisis, rapidly and well.And during these days Lydia suffered a martyrdom, seeing, as she did, how Katrine took advantage of Capel’s weakness to tighten his bonds.The detective came, as he had promised, and saw the room and the window, making notes and a drawing thereof, and then going to the mews at the back, where he satisfied himself as to the means by which access had been obtained.The evidence of Paul Capel was taken by a magistrate at his bedside, as he was certified as unfit to be moved; and in due time the law meted out its punishment upon the two criminals left; but the detective was not at peace.The officer, who boasted of the name of Linnett, was a very sleuth-hound in his ways, and he came upon Mr Girtle at all manner of unexpected times while he was waiting for Paul Capel’s return to health, and tried to get information from him, without avail.“Must have been a bit of imagination on the old man’s part,” said Mr Linnett. “Some of these old fellows—half-cracked, as a rule—believe that they are extremely rich. I don’t know, though. Old boy was very rich. Wonderful! What a house! That young chap might very well be satisfied with what he has got.”In this spirit the detective turned his attention to the doctor, approaching him with a bad feeling of weakness, and not being satisfied with the dictum of the divisional surgeon.“He laughs at it, you see, sir,” said Linnett, in the doctor’s consulting room; “but I’m bad.”“Yes, yes. I see what is the matter with you, my man,” said Heston. “I’ll soon set you all right.”“Lor’, what humbugs doctors are,” said the detective, looking at his prescription, as he went away. “I suppose I must take this stuff, though, before I go and see him again.”“Curious thing, nature,” said Heston, as soon as the detective had gone; “that man thinks he’s ill, and there’s nothing whatever the matter with him. Fancy, brought on from hard thought and work.”The doctor was wiser than the detective thought; but in future visits the latter obtained a good deal of information, among which was the doctor’s theory that Ramo, the old Indian servant, had not died entirely from the struggle with Charles Pillar.It was just about that time that Gerard Artis swore an oath.That old Mr Girtle took Lydia’s hand gently between his, and said tenderly:—“No, no, my child. You must not go. I am very old, and if you were to go now, it would be like taking the light out of my life. I know all; I am not blind. But wait.”Lydia shook her head.“If you love him, my child, wait. It may be to save him, and you would sacrifice yourself to do that.”And that Mr Linnett went out of the area of the great gloomy house, laughing to himself, and casting up his total, as he termed it.“Ha! ha! ha!” he exclaimed; “only to think of them knocking their heads about here and there, and never so much as getting warm. Detectives are all fools, so the public say. Blind as bats. They want a better class of men.”He treated himself to a thoroughly good cigar, and rolled out the blue clouds of smoke as he strode along, wagging his umbrella behind him.“Always through all these years running down rogues! What a temptation to a man, to make a change and go the other way. Million and a half o’ money, in a shape as could be carried in a small black bag. Why, I could put my hand on it, and go and set up somewhere as a king, and never be found out. Shall I?”It was quite dark, and Mr Linnett took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and tucking his umbrella under his arm, playfully fitted them on his own wrists.“No,” he said; “they wouldn’t look well there.”
There was a kind of civil war carried on at the old house over the nursing back of Paul Capel to health. He suffered much, but a strong constitution and youth were fine odds in his favour, and he recovered, after passing the crisis, rapidly and well.
And during these days Lydia suffered a martyrdom, seeing, as she did, how Katrine took advantage of Capel’s weakness to tighten his bonds.
The detective came, as he had promised, and saw the room and the window, making notes and a drawing thereof, and then going to the mews at the back, where he satisfied himself as to the means by which access had been obtained.
The evidence of Paul Capel was taken by a magistrate at his bedside, as he was certified as unfit to be moved; and in due time the law meted out its punishment upon the two criminals left; but the detective was not at peace.
The officer, who boasted of the name of Linnett, was a very sleuth-hound in his ways, and he came upon Mr Girtle at all manner of unexpected times while he was waiting for Paul Capel’s return to health, and tried to get information from him, without avail.
“Must have been a bit of imagination on the old man’s part,” said Mr Linnett. “Some of these old fellows—half-cracked, as a rule—believe that they are extremely rich. I don’t know, though. Old boy was very rich. Wonderful! What a house! That young chap might very well be satisfied with what he has got.”
In this spirit the detective turned his attention to the doctor, approaching him with a bad feeling of weakness, and not being satisfied with the dictum of the divisional surgeon.
“He laughs at it, you see, sir,” said Linnett, in the doctor’s consulting room; “but I’m bad.”
“Yes, yes. I see what is the matter with you, my man,” said Heston. “I’ll soon set you all right.”
“Lor’, what humbugs doctors are,” said the detective, looking at his prescription, as he went away. “I suppose I must take this stuff, though, before I go and see him again.”
“Curious thing, nature,” said Heston, as soon as the detective had gone; “that man thinks he’s ill, and there’s nothing whatever the matter with him. Fancy, brought on from hard thought and work.”
The doctor was wiser than the detective thought; but in future visits the latter obtained a good deal of information, among which was the doctor’s theory that Ramo, the old Indian servant, had not died entirely from the struggle with Charles Pillar.
It was just about that time that Gerard Artis swore an oath.
That old Mr Girtle took Lydia’s hand gently between his, and said tenderly:—
“No, no, my child. You must not go. I am very old, and if you were to go now, it would be like taking the light out of my life. I know all; I am not blind. But wait.”
Lydia shook her head.
“If you love him, my child, wait. It may be to save him, and you would sacrifice yourself to do that.”
And that Mr Linnett went out of the area of the great gloomy house, laughing to himself, and casting up his total, as he termed it.
“Ha! ha! ha!” he exclaimed; “only to think of them knocking their heads about here and there, and never so much as getting warm. Detectives are all fools, so the public say. Blind as bats. They want a better class of men.”
He treated himself to a thoroughly good cigar, and rolled out the blue clouds of smoke as he strode along, wagging his umbrella behind him.
“Always through all these years running down rogues! What a temptation to a man, to make a change and go the other way. Million and a half o’ money, in a shape as could be carried in a small black bag. Why, I could put my hand on it, and go and set up somewhere as a king, and never be found out. Shall I?”
It was quite dark, and Mr Linnett took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and tucking his umbrella under his arm, playfully fitted them on his own wrists.
“No,” he said; “they wouldn’t look well there.”
Chapter Twenty Nine.The Party breaks up.“Dinner over, of course, Preenham?”“Oh, dear, yes, sir,” said that worthy, taking Artis’s hat and cane. “Carriage was ordered for half-past seven, and they’ve gone to the theatre, sir.”“Gone where?”“Theatre, sir—Haymarket, sir.”“Why, Preenham—”“It was Mr Girtle, sir, proposed it. Said it would be a pleasant change for everybody. The carriage was ordered, and dinner an hour sooner.”“The sky will fall next,” said Artis, with a sneering laugh. “Bring me some coffee in the library, and—no, some brandy and soda and the cigars.”“Yes, sir. Miss D’Enghien’s in the drawing-room, sir. Had a bad headache, and didn’t go.”“Why didn’t you say that at first?” cried Artis; and he went up two stairs at a time, to find Katrine in the act of throwing herself into a chair, and looking flushed and hot.“You here?” she said, wearily.“My darling!” he cried. “If I had only known. At last!”He threw himself at her feet, clasped her waist, and drew her half resisting towards him, while before a minute had elapsed, her arms were resting upon his shoulders, and her eyes were half closed in a dreamy ecstasy, as she yielded to the kisses that covered her face.Suddenly, with a quick motion, she threw him off.“Quick—some one,” she whispered.Her ears were sharper than his, and she had heard the dull rattle of the door handle.“I don’t know what to take,” she said, in a weary voice; “I suppose it will not be better before morning.”“I have taken the brandy and soda into the library, sir,” said Preenham. “Would you like it brought up here?”“To be sure,” he cried. “The very thing for your headache. Bring it up, Preenham.”“You madman!” cried Katrine, angrily. “You take advantage of my weakness for you. Another moment, and we should have been discovered. No, no; keep away.”“Miss is as good as a mile.”“You grow more reckless, every day. We must be careful.”“Careful! I’m sick of being careful.”“Hush!”The butler entered with a tray and the brandy and soda.“Open it, sir?”“Yes. Two. Now try that. Best thing in the world for a bad head.”The old butler withdrew as softly as he had come in, and Katrine took two or three sips from her glass, while Artis tossed his off, and then, setting it down, walked quickly to the door.Katrine’s eyes dilated, and, bending forward, she listened, and then sprang up and glided quickly across from the inner room to meet Artis half-way, and be clasped in his arms.“What have you done?” she cried.“Nothing.”“You have fastened the door.”“Nonsense.”“I say you have!”“Well, suppose I have. What then?”“You madman! Unfasten the door.”“Not I.”“I tell you that you are mad,” she cried, trying to free herself. “Gerard, dear Gerard, be reasonable.”She writhed herself free and ran and turned the bolt back. He followed to refasten it, but she held him.“Think of the consequences of our being found locked in here.”“Bah! no one will come now till after eleven, and if they did I don’t care. Look here,” he cried, clasping her to his breast again, “suppose this Arabian Night sort of fortune were found, do you think I am blind? You would marry this Capel.”“Well?”“I won’t have it,” he cried.“Why not?” she whispered, and her creamy arms clasped about his neck. “We are so poor, Gerard, and we must have money to live.”“Yes, but at that cost,” he cried, passionately.“Well, what then? Think! Over a million, which you should share. Gerard—dearest—you will not be so foolish, when I am so near this gigantic prize. He is my complete slave. I can do with him just what I will.”“But—Kate—I believe you would—”He did not achieve his sentence, but responded passionately to her caresses till he felt her suddenly grow rigid in his arms, and then one arm was snatched from his neck, and, with her hand, she struck him sharply across the face.“How dare you!” she cried.Gerard Artis let his hands fall to his side, and Katrine darted to a tall figure in evening dress standing just inside the door, and flung herself at his knees.“Save me!” she half shrieked, “from the insults of this man.”Paul Capel drew himself aside, and Katrine fell prostrate on the thick carpet, as he gravely opened the door.The girl sprang to her feet and darted out of the room, while Capel, after watching her for a moment or two, closed the door, turned the bolt, and then threw his crush hat upon a table, his black wrapper over a chair, and tore off his white gloves, changing the ivory-handled malacca cane from hand to hand as he did so.“Home soon,” said Artis, with a sneer, as he slowly walked to the little table, poured out some more brandy, and gulped it down.“Yes,” replied Capel, gravely. “Thank Heaven I did come home soon. I came to spend an hour alone with the woman I loved.”“And you were forestalled,” cried Artis. “Here, what are you going to do?”“Thrash a contemptible scoundrel within an inch of his life,” cried Capel; and he made a grasp at Artis’s arm.But the latter eluded him, bounded to the fire-place, and picked up the bright poker.“Keep off,” he cried, “or I’ll murder you.”Cling! Jingle!He had struck the glass lustres of the great chandelier, and the fragments fell tinkling down.Crack! A yell of pain! A dull thud!With a dexterous blow, Capel caught Artis’s right hand with the stout cane, numbing his nerves, so that the poker fell. With a second blow, he seemed to hamstring his adversary, who staggered, and would have fallen, but for Capel’s hand grasping him by the collar; and then, for two or three minutes, there was a hail of blows falling, and a terrible struggle going on. The light chairs were kicked aside, a table overturned, a vase and several ornaments swept from a cheffonier, and suppressed cries, panting noises and blows, filled the gloomy room, till, after one final stroke with the cane, Capel dashed the helpless, quivering man to the floor, and placed his foot upon his breast.An hour later, when Preenham went up from a confidential talk with his fellow-servants to admit Mr Girtle and Lydia—back from the theatre—he found the front door open. Had he been half an hour sooner, he would have seen Katrine, fully dressed, supporting Artis down the dark stairs, and out into the darkness of the great square, where they were seen by the light of one of the street lamps to enter a cab, and then they passed out of sight.Preenham saw nothing, and Mr Girtle and Lydia ascended to the drawing-room, the latter feeling light-hearted and happy, in spite of the evening’s disappointment.The old lawyer uttered a cry of dismay, as he saw the wreck, and that Capel was seated in a low chair, bent down, with his face buried in his hands.“My dear boy! What is it?” he cried, as Lydia ran to his side, and her soft hand was laid or his.“Don’t touch me, woman,” he almost yelled, as he sprang from his chair. “Oh,” he said, softly, “it is you?”He took and kissed her hand, and then left the room.“Preenham, what does this mean?” cried Mr Girtle, as the butler brought in lights; and they learned the truth.
“Dinner over, of course, Preenham?”
“Oh, dear, yes, sir,” said that worthy, taking Artis’s hat and cane. “Carriage was ordered for half-past seven, and they’ve gone to the theatre, sir.”
“Gone where?”
“Theatre, sir—Haymarket, sir.”
“Why, Preenham—”
“It was Mr Girtle, sir, proposed it. Said it would be a pleasant change for everybody. The carriage was ordered, and dinner an hour sooner.”
“The sky will fall next,” said Artis, with a sneering laugh. “Bring me some coffee in the library, and—no, some brandy and soda and the cigars.”
“Yes, sir. Miss D’Enghien’s in the drawing-room, sir. Had a bad headache, and didn’t go.”
“Why didn’t you say that at first?” cried Artis; and he went up two stairs at a time, to find Katrine in the act of throwing herself into a chair, and looking flushed and hot.
“You here?” she said, wearily.
“My darling!” he cried. “If I had only known. At last!”
He threw himself at her feet, clasped her waist, and drew her half resisting towards him, while before a minute had elapsed, her arms were resting upon his shoulders, and her eyes were half closed in a dreamy ecstasy, as she yielded to the kisses that covered her face.
Suddenly, with a quick motion, she threw him off.
“Quick—some one,” she whispered.
Her ears were sharper than his, and she had heard the dull rattle of the door handle.
“I don’t know what to take,” she said, in a weary voice; “I suppose it will not be better before morning.”
“I have taken the brandy and soda into the library, sir,” said Preenham. “Would you like it brought up here?”
“To be sure,” he cried. “The very thing for your headache. Bring it up, Preenham.”
“You madman!” cried Katrine, angrily. “You take advantage of my weakness for you. Another moment, and we should have been discovered. No, no; keep away.”
“Miss is as good as a mile.”
“You grow more reckless, every day. We must be careful.”
“Careful! I’m sick of being careful.”
“Hush!”
The butler entered with a tray and the brandy and soda.
“Open it, sir?”
“Yes. Two. Now try that. Best thing in the world for a bad head.”
The old butler withdrew as softly as he had come in, and Katrine took two or three sips from her glass, while Artis tossed his off, and then, setting it down, walked quickly to the door.
Katrine’s eyes dilated, and, bending forward, she listened, and then sprang up and glided quickly across from the inner room to meet Artis half-way, and be clasped in his arms.
“What have you done?” she cried.
“Nothing.”
“You have fastened the door.”
“Nonsense.”
“I say you have!”
“Well, suppose I have. What then?”
“You madman! Unfasten the door.”
“Not I.”
“I tell you that you are mad,” she cried, trying to free herself. “Gerard, dear Gerard, be reasonable.”
She writhed herself free and ran and turned the bolt back. He followed to refasten it, but she held him.
“Think of the consequences of our being found locked in here.”
“Bah! no one will come now till after eleven, and if they did I don’t care. Look here,” he cried, clasping her to his breast again, “suppose this Arabian Night sort of fortune were found, do you think I am blind? You would marry this Capel.”
“Well?”
“I won’t have it,” he cried.
“Why not?” she whispered, and her creamy arms clasped about his neck. “We are so poor, Gerard, and we must have money to live.”
“Yes, but at that cost,” he cried, passionately.
“Well, what then? Think! Over a million, which you should share. Gerard—dearest—you will not be so foolish, when I am so near this gigantic prize. He is my complete slave. I can do with him just what I will.”
“But—Kate—I believe you would—”
He did not achieve his sentence, but responded passionately to her caresses till he felt her suddenly grow rigid in his arms, and then one arm was snatched from his neck, and, with her hand, she struck him sharply across the face.
“How dare you!” she cried.
Gerard Artis let his hands fall to his side, and Katrine darted to a tall figure in evening dress standing just inside the door, and flung herself at his knees.
“Save me!” she half shrieked, “from the insults of this man.”
Paul Capel drew himself aside, and Katrine fell prostrate on the thick carpet, as he gravely opened the door.
The girl sprang to her feet and darted out of the room, while Capel, after watching her for a moment or two, closed the door, turned the bolt, and then threw his crush hat upon a table, his black wrapper over a chair, and tore off his white gloves, changing the ivory-handled malacca cane from hand to hand as he did so.
“Home soon,” said Artis, with a sneer, as he slowly walked to the little table, poured out some more brandy, and gulped it down.
“Yes,” replied Capel, gravely. “Thank Heaven I did come home soon. I came to spend an hour alone with the woman I loved.”
“And you were forestalled,” cried Artis. “Here, what are you going to do?”
“Thrash a contemptible scoundrel within an inch of his life,” cried Capel; and he made a grasp at Artis’s arm.
But the latter eluded him, bounded to the fire-place, and picked up the bright poker.
“Keep off,” he cried, “or I’ll murder you.”
Cling! Jingle!
He had struck the glass lustres of the great chandelier, and the fragments fell tinkling down.
Crack! A yell of pain! A dull thud!
With a dexterous blow, Capel caught Artis’s right hand with the stout cane, numbing his nerves, so that the poker fell. With a second blow, he seemed to hamstring his adversary, who staggered, and would have fallen, but for Capel’s hand grasping him by the collar; and then, for two or three minutes, there was a hail of blows falling, and a terrible struggle going on. The light chairs were kicked aside, a table overturned, a vase and several ornaments swept from a cheffonier, and suppressed cries, panting noises and blows, filled the gloomy room, till, after one final stroke with the cane, Capel dashed the helpless, quivering man to the floor, and placed his foot upon his breast.
An hour later, when Preenham went up from a confidential talk with his fellow-servants to admit Mr Girtle and Lydia—back from the theatre—he found the front door open. Had he been half an hour sooner, he would have seen Katrine, fully dressed, supporting Artis down the dark stairs, and out into the darkness of the great square, where they were seen by the light of one of the street lamps to enter a cab, and then they passed out of sight.
Preenham saw nothing, and Mr Girtle and Lydia ascended to the drawing-room, the latter feeling light-hearted and happy, in spite of the evening’s disappointment.
The old lawyer uttered a cry of dismay, as he saw the wreck, and that Capel was seated in a low chair, bent down, with his face buried in his hands.
“My dear boy! What is it?” he cried, as Lydia ran to his side, and her soft hand was laid or his.
“Don’t touch me, woman,” he almost yelled, as he sprang from his chair. “Oh,” he said, softly, “it is you?”
He took and kissed her hand, and then left the room.
“Preenham, what does this mean?” cried Mr Girtle, as the butler brought in lights; and they learned the truth.
Chapter Thirty.Where the Treasure lay.Six months elapsed before Mr Linnett put into execution the project he had had in his mind that night when he playfully tried the handcuffs on his wrists.He had meant business, as he termed it, the next morning, but on presenting himself at the chief office, one of his superiors sent for him, and announced an important task.“Extradition, eh, sir? America?”“Yes. Cross at once; put yourself in communication with the New York police, and then spare no expense. He must be found.”“When shall I start, sir?”“Now.”Mr Linnett did startnow, saying to himself as he entered a carriage for Liverpool:“Well, they didn’t set me the job. It was my own doing, and the news will keep.”So it came about that one morning, when he presented himself at the Dark House, he was saluted by Mr Preenham with:“Why, howdoyou do? We thought we’d quite lost you, Mr Linnett, sir. You look quite brown.”“I’ve been pretty well all over America since I saw you, Mr Preenham, and now, sir, just go and give them my card and say I want to see them on very particular business.”“Have you found out anything, Mr Linnett?”“You wait a bit, my dear sir. Just take up the card.”Mr Girtle was in the library with Paul Capel at the time, for the old man had settled down there, treating the younger as if he were a son. He had talked several times of going, but Capel begged him not to leave, and he always stayed.“Well, Preenham, for me?”“He said you and master, sir—the gentleman.”“Ah! Linnett. The detective. Will you see him?”“No,” said Capel, sternly. “I don’t want that affair opened again.”“But my dear boy—”“There; very well. Show him up.”The detective came in, smiling, but only to encounter a stern look in return.“I’ve called, gentlemen, about that little matter of the notes and jewels that were lost.”“My good fellow,” said Capel, angrily, “I will not have that matter taken up again. It is dead.”“Well, sir, the fact is, you wouldn’t let me take it up; but I did it on my own account.”“You did?” said Mr Girtle.“Yes, sir; it took me months piecing together, as I had to do it all from the outside, without seeing the place. I was sent abroad, and have only just come back. Last night, however, I took out my notes and went into it again, and I think I can say I’ve found the treasure.”“Found it, man?” cried Capel, interested in spite of himself. “Where? The place was thoroughly well searched.”“Oh! yes, sir, of course.”“Then you know who took it?”“Yes, sir; that’s it.”“Who was it, then?”“Ah! come, sir, that’s better.”“Yes, yes, go on,” cried Capel excitedly, and at that moment it was not the treasure that filled his eyes, but the figure of a sweet, gentle girl, who had watched beside his sick bed.“Well, the fact is, gentlemen, I very soon came to the conclusion that the great treasure had not been stolen.”“Why?” said Mr Girtle.“No notes were put in circulation that I could find—old notes—and no valuable jewels sold.”“To be sure, yes,” said Mr Girtle. “My idea.”“That wasn’t worth much, gentlemen; but I felt sure from the beginning that the treasure was taken by someone on the premises.”“Not that couple, I’ll swear,” said Mr Girtle.“Nor the servants,” said Capel.“There, sir, it’s all in a nutshell,” said Linnett, hesitating.“Stop!” said Mr Girtle. “What terms do you propose for this information?”“Oh, sir, I wasn’t hesitating about that, but because I don’t like letting it go now I’ve found it. It was so much trouble to find the clue, I hardly like parting with it. But here you are, sir, and if I may make terms, I may say I’m only a few pounds out of pocket—ten will cover it—but I should like it if Mr Capel here would give me that Indian knife, that kukri. I’ve a fancy for saving up that sort of article.”“Take the horrible thing and welcome,” said Capel impatiently.“Well, gentlemen, I pieced together all that was published, with Doctor Heston’s notions, the servants’ knowledge, and my own ideas.”“Well?”“Well, gentlemen, it was that old Indian servant who took the treasure.”“Impossible!”“Not a bit. He had the keys—he knew how to use them.”“He was as honest as the day,” cried Mr Girtle.“Exactly, sir, that’s just it. Honesty made him take it.”“Absurd?” said Capel.“Not a bit, sir, excuse me. He knew that fellow Pillar, the footman, meant it. You know he had a fight with him at the door.”“Well, granted,” said Capel.“He watched, sir, night and day, and wouldn’t leave the place, and at last, when—”“I know,” said Capel, “those Italians.”“Now, you shouldn’t take away people’s character, sir,” said the detective reproachfully. “It was that Indian. He wasn’t satisfied that the secret place was safe. He was sure it would be broken open, and so that night, or the one before, he took the treasure out, and put it where he felt certain that no one would look for it.”“And where was that?” cried Capel.The detective smiled.“As I said, gentlemen, where no one would look for it.”“And that was?”“In the dead man’s own charge, sirs.In the coffin.”Capel and Mr Girtle sank back in their chairs.“And if you open that vault, gentlemen, and the iron tomb, and the steel chest, you’ll find it safe and sound.”“There’s one more thing, sir, I should like to say, and that is about that old Indian servant. He was struck down, no doubt, or fainted after he had killed the footman, defending the treasure. I can’t quite say what happened then, but it looks to me as if some one came upon the old fellow when he was lying helpless—some one who also meant to steal that treasure—and that he, or she, or whoever it was, chloroformed the old man to death. I had it on the doctor’s authority that he did not die of his wounds; but this is only theory. I can’t say.”It was a theory that sent a chill through Paul Capel, and he dared not put his thoughts about the fair Creole into shape.All proved about the treasure precisely as Mr Linnett had said, for when, with much compunction, the various caskets were opened once again, there lay the two cases beneath the cloth-of-gold robe, safely in the keeping of the dead man, whereat, and for other reasons, Mr Linnett much rejoiced.Later on, old Mr Girtle had his wish, that of giving Lydia away to the man she loved—one who often afterwards told her he wondered how he could have been so blind—blind, he said, as the old place, which was kept, in accordance with the Colonel’s last commands, closed in front, but bright and gay behind, while Paul Capel used to say, “It is astonishing how much human sunshine can be got into a Dark House.”The End.
Six months elapsed before Mr Linnett put into execution the project he had had in his mind that night when he playfully tried the handcuffs on his wrists.
He had meant business, as he termed it, the next morning, but on presenting himself at the chief office, one of his superiors sent for him, and announced an important task.
“Extradition, eh, sir? America?”
“Yes. Cross at once; put yourself in communication with the New York police, and then spare no expense. He must be found.”
“When shall I start, sir?”
“Now.”
Mr Linnett did startnow, saying to himself as he entered a carriage for Liverpool:
“Well, they didn’t set me the job. It was my own doing, and the news will keep.”
So it came about that one morning, when he presented himself at the Dark House, he was saluted by Mr Preenham with:
“Why, howdoyou do? We thought we’d quite lost you, Mr Linnett, sir. You look quite brown.”
“I’ve been pretty well all over America since I saw you, Mr Preenham, and now, sir, just go and give them my card and say I want to see them on very particular business.”
“Have you found out anything, Mr Linnett?”
“You wait a bit, my dear sir. Just take up the card.”
Mr Girtle was in the library with Paul Capel at the time, for the old man had settled down there, treating the younger as if he were a son. He had talked several times of going, but Capel begged him not to leave, and he always stayed.
“Well, Preenham, for me?”
“He said you and master, sir—the gentleman.”
“Ah! Linnett. The detective. Will you see him?”
“No,” said Capel, sternly. “I don’t want that affair opened again.”
“But my dear boy—”
“There; very well. Show him up.”
The detective came in, smiling, but only to encounter a stern look in return.
“I’ve called, gentlemen, about that little matter of the notes and jewels that were lost.”
“My good fellow,” said Capel, angrily, “I will not have that matter taken up again. It is dead.”
“Well, sir, the fact is, you wouldn’t let me take it up; but I did it on my own account.”
“You did?” said Mr Girtle.
“Yes, sir; it took me months piecing together, as I had to do it all from the outside, without seeing the place. I was sent abroad, and have only just come back. Last night, however, I took out my notes and went into it again, and I think I can say I’ve found the treasure.”
“Found it, man?” cried Capel, interested in spite of himself. “Where? The place was thoroughly well searched.”
“Oh! yes, sir, of course.”
“Then you know who took it?”
“Yes, sir; that’s it.”
“Who was it, then?”
“Ah! come, sir, that’s better.”
“Yes, yes, go on,” cried Capel excitedly, and at that moment it was not the treasure that filled his eyes, but the figure of a sweet, gentle girl, who had watched beside his sick bed.
“Well, the fact is, gentlemen, I very soon came to the conclusion that the great treasure had not been stolen.”
“Why?” said Mr Girtle.
“No notes were put in circulation that I could find—old notes—and no valuable jewels sold.”
“To be sure, yes,” said Mr Girtle. “My idea.”
“That wasn’t worth much, gentlemen; but I felt sure from the beginning that the treasure was taken by someone on the premises.”
“Not that couple, I’ll swear,” said Mr Girtle.
“Nor the servants,” said Capel.
“There, sir, it’s all in a nutshell,” said Linnett, hesitating.
“Stop!” said Mr Girtle. “What terms do you propose for this information?”
“Oh, sir, I wasn’t hesitating about that, but because I don’t like letting it go now I’ve found it. It was so much trouble to find the clue, I hardly like parting with it. But here you are, sir, and if I may make terms, I may say I’m only a few pounds out of pocket—ten will cover it—but I should like it if Mr Capel here would give me that Indian knife, that kukri. I’ve a fancy for saving up that sort of article.”
“Take the horrible thing and welcome,” said Capel impatiently.
“Well, gentlemen, I pieced together all that was published, with Doctor Heston’s notions, the servants’ knowledge, and my own ideas.”
“Well?”
“Well, gentlemen, it was that old Indian servant who took the treasure.”
“Impossible!”
“Not a bit. He had the keys—he knew how to use them.”
“He was as honest as the day,” cried Mr Girtle.
“Exactly, sir, that’s just it. Honesty made him take it.”
“Absurd?” said Capel.
“Not a bit, sir, excuse me. He knew that fellow Pillar, the footman, meant it. You know he had a fight with him at the door.”
“Well, granted,” said Capel.
“He watched, sir, night and day, and wouldn’t leave the place, and at last, when—”
“I know,” said Capel, “those Italians.”
“Now, you shouldn’t take away people’s character, sir,” said the detective reproachfully. “It was that Indian. He wasn’t satisfied that the secret place was safe. He was sure it would be broken open, and so that night, or the one before, he took the treasure out, and put it where he felt certain that no one would look for it.”
“And where was that?” cried Capel.
The detective smiled.
“As I said, gentlemen, where no one would look for it.”
“And that was?”
“In the dead man’s own charge, sirs.In the coffin.”
Capel and Mr Girtle sank back in their chairs.
“And if you open that vault, gentlemen, and the iron tomb, and the steel chest, you’ll find it safe and sound.”
“There’s one more thing, sir, I should like to say, and that is about that old Indian servant. He was struck down, no doubt, or fainted after he had killed the footman, defending the treasure. I can’t quite say what happened then, but it looks to me as if some one came upon the old fellow when he was lying helpless—some one who also meant to steal that treasure—and that he, or she, or whoever it was, chloroformed the old man to death. I had it on the doctor’s authority that he did not die of his wounds; but this is only theory. I can’t say.”
It was a theory that sent a chill through Paul Capel, and he dared not put his thoughts about the fair Creole into shape.
All proved about the treasure precisely as Mr Linnett had said, for when, with much compunction, the various caskets were opened once again, there lay the two cases beneath the cloth-of-gold robe, safely in the keeping of the dead man, whereat, and for other reasons, Mr Linnett much rejoiced.
Later on, old Mr Girtle had his wish, that of giving Lydia away to the man she loved—one who often afterwards told her he wondered how he could have been so blind—blind, he said, as the old place, which was kept, in accordance with the Colonel’s last commands, closed in front, but bright and gay behind, while Paul Capel used to say, “It is astonishing how much human sunshine can be got into a Dark House.”
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21| |Chapter 22| |Chapter 23| |Chapter 24| |Chapter 25| |Chapter 26| |Chapter 27| |Chapter 28| |Chapter 29| |Chapter 30|