"Then you know my father?" asked Laurence, after the pause that followed the doctor's laconic remark.
"That I cannot say," responded Meadows, "but it seems like it, does it not?"
"You astonish me by confessing to a former acquaintance with Squire Carrington. Were you not on the point of taking your oath that you knew nothing about my father?"
"No, I was not going so far as that, I am only prepared to swear that I have had no hand in these attempts on your father's life, for I will tell frankly that I was almost confident I had met your father long before you told me that I was right in my description of his appearance. Life is indeed strange. A moment ago you were doubting my word—you may feel inclined to do so now, little thinking that probably I alone could throw any light on the mystery. You know this, for I think you have already told me as much, that Ma—Squire Carrington is keeping some deep secret from theworld—even from you, his son. What if I, and I alone, am able to reveal that secret?"
"You speak in riddles," replied Laurence. "You appear to know my father, yet last time we referred to the subject you told me deliberately that you had not 'the pleasure of his acquaintance.' What am I to believe? Now you deny all connection with these murderous attacks on his life, and yet you profess to be in a position to reveal the cause of them, and to throw light upon the Squire's well-guarded secret."
"As I have said," explained Doctor Meadows, "fate plays strange tricks with us mortals. I am speaking the truth when I say that I think I know more about your father's secret than any living creature, except the Squire himself, and his assailant. Tell me, though, what do you know of Mr. Carrington's past?"
"Very little," replied Laurence; "if I knew more I might be able myself to shed some light on the darkness. This alone I have been told by my father, who is one of those men who keep their private affairs a sealed book to the rest of the world—that my mother, who was of high birth, died when I was born, twenty-two years ago; that my father never followed any profession or trade, and that I am an only child."
"Ah," murmured Meadows, "that is all you know, is it?" He sat gazing steadily at the fireplace, his brow knit up as though he was wrapped in thought. For a short space of time there was silence in the Oriental room.
"Well, do you agree," the doctor said at last, "to my proposal that I should play the detective and solve the mystery encircling your father's life?"
"I have already obtained the assistance of an investigator," replied Laurence, somewhat coldly.
"Ah, and is he quite satisfactory?"
Lena smiled at the question.
"No," she responded, "he is hardly all that one can desire. He comes from Burton's Private Assistance Bureau." She turned to Laurence. "You must not be ungracious," she said gently. "Doctor Meadows—I call him by that name for want of a better, though I am certain it is a disguised one—Doctor Meadows is most kind in making this suggestion. We have really no call upon his generosity at all. If he thinks he is in a position to assist us in our investigation, why not permit him to do so? Since he gives us his word as a gentleman that neither he nor his servant has any connection with the plot to murder the Squire, why, he is at liberty to have as many secrets of his own as he likes without being annoyed by suspicious young people likeus. Under the circumstances I am sure Doctor Meadows will not expect you to ask him to the house to pursue his inquiry, but please do let him help us as best he can from here. I am sure his forehead shows him to be an adept at detective work. It's quite as good a one as Sherlock Holmes had!"
Laurence meditated. He naturally could not refuse Lena such a small thing, and because she asked it he changed his behaviour towards the doctor, and became more polite to the old gentleman, who received the alteration with undisguised pleasure.
"If I could only tell you why this house is the house of strange secrets that you believe it to be, I would do so with all my heart. Alas! that is impossible. As you have discovered, I have a secret—one which I must keep at all costs. I beg you not to refer to it again. As you have cleverly discovered, madam, my name, too—the one you know—is a pseudonym. One day, perhaps, you will know why I have had to take such precautions. Then you will find that it is by no fault of mine that I am compelled to play the part I do. I thank you, both of you, for your kindness. I am in your hands. If you do not believe my word of honour, you can point out this house to the police and have it searched. By so doing you will ruin me. Youwill cause such a sensation in the world—yes, I am not exaggerating—as has not been for years. And it will not do you the slightest good. Believe me, were you to do as you once suggested, Mr. Carrington, you would, rather than win any praise or honour, as you might if you exposed a gang of coiners or a murder-house, place yourself in a most unenviable position. But not for this reason do I ask you to refrain from taking active measures against me, but on the ground of humanity, and because I alone can explain the terrible secret that has blasted your poor father's life."
"Doctor Meadows, the more I get to know you, the greater enigma you become to me," said Laurence. "You must yourself agree with me when I say that such words as you have spoken are most remarkable. I cannot wonder at this, for you are the most remarkable man I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. As you say, perhaps one day I shall know your history and the cause of all that has raised my suspicions. Then, no doubt, I shall see you in your true light, but, until then, understand this: I shall take no steps whatever to unravel the mystery that surrounds you, and shall respect all that you have told me, never alluding to what is evidently a painful subject for discussion to you, without your permission. And here is my hand onit. When I speak as I do, I think I speak both for myself and for this lady, who has done me the honour of promising to become my wife."
"Oh, you story-teller!" broke in Lena, in tones of mock displeasure; "I have not yet given my answer. If you aren't careful it shall be 'no.' At present I am the person to answer for myself, and I second all that Mr. Carrington has said," she added, turning to Meadows.
"Thank you," replied the old gentleman, "thank you, both of you. You will not regret the course you have adopted. But this detective whom you have engaged—can you prevent him from making things unpleasant for me?"
"I will do my best," replied Laurence briskly. "But," he proceeded, "you should really be more careful in your selection of a servant, doctor. One of my causes of suspicion was his very peculiar conduct in refusing to show me out of the front door, after our last interview, without my bribing him. That is hardly what one expects from a gentleman's servant, is it?"
"No, indeed," answered Meadows, with a sickly smile. "I must apologise for his misconduct. He is not the most desirable servant one could have, but he is very necessary to me. This time I will show you out myself, and I shall not trouble you for a 'pour-boire.'"
"And now," said Meadows, as he lay back in his arm-chair, "now, as you have been good enough to promise to take me into your confidence, may I ask if you will give me a brief outline of the manner in which this plot against Mr. Carrington has been carried out?"
"Certainly," said Laurence; and he proceeded to sketch briefly the events of the last few days.
"Well," said the doctor, when his young visitor had concluded the narrative, "one thing is quite certain. Since you are now sure that the enemy is not lurking in this house, he must be even nearer home. I mean that the chances are he is still hiding in the old barn. By the way, do you happen to know of any secret place of concealment in that building?"
"No; that I do not. But I feel sure, from the manner in which the creature escaped from me on the night when I encountered him in the dark, that there must be such a hiding-place. Strange that a new arrival should discover a secret room, when I,who have explored the barn scores of times, have not even learned of its existence."
"Now," pursued Meadows, "I have already told you that I am probably the one person who can throw any light upon the secrets and mysteries in which this weird creature plays so important a part, yet I must confess that I am unable to divulge one word of what I know—or, rather, suspect—about the Squire's secret. As you are already aware, I do know your father, Mr. Carrington; that is, I did know him many years ago, before you were born, and before his marriage. Were I to tell you any suspicions I should be breaking a promise I made, and have kept for all these years; and I would rather die than do so. I know that by telling you this I am probably laying myself open to further suspicion, but I have found, to my cost, that to tell the truth is the best policy, whatever the consequences may be. One thing, though, I can do, and that is to help you to run this fiendish creature to earth. This I may as well tell you: the person who is haunting your father—the fear of whose coming has, indeed, haunted him for years—is not a woman, as you have at one time imagined. It is a man. And with all respect for your detective-nurse, his motive is neither jealousy, anarchy, nor robbery. It is revenge!"
"I must say that I always considered that such must be the case," said Laurence; "hence my inclination to believe it was the poacher who swore to be even with my father one day."
"Ah!" remarked Doctor Meadows, "if it were only a poacher—a prince of poachers, even—then our task would be very much easier. As it is, we must prepare ourselves for a hard battle if we hope to capture the rascal. Though I know nothing about him personally, I can tell you that he is certain to be diabolically cunning and clever. You have already found that out yourself. But, tell me, have you discovered anything in the nature of a clue? Anything such as the feather the detective in fiction finds on the murdered man's bed, which may lead to the detection of the criminal?"
Laurence shook his head. He had left the work of searching the room in which the final attempt had been made on the Squire's life to the detective from Burton's. Whether Mr. Oliver Potter had taken the opportunity thus presented he did not know.
"Then, tell me, please, about your father's room. Is there a looking-glass over the mantelboard?"
"No; my father dislikes mirrors of any kind. He shaves even without the aid of a glass. But why?"
"One minute. I think you said your butler found the bedroom door slightly ajar when he entered, and discovered that your father was apparently murdered? Yes? Well, then, do you recollect hearing whether any of the maids happened to be about in the corridor at the time when the assault must have taken place? A housemaid, for instance, with a slop pail?"
"No; I was not told that such was the case. Besides, the servants were at supper when Kingsford went upstairs to attend to the Squire's wants, so we may be quite sure that none of the women were on the bedroom floor. But why on earth do you ask? This has surely nothing to do with the case?"
"I am merely trying to obtain some proof that my theory is the right one, though, to be sure, proof is hardly necessary. What I wish to discover is why the assassin did not carry out his vile deed."
"He, no doubt, believed that he had killed the Squire," suggested Lena, who had been following the conversation with undisguised interest.
Meadows shook his head.
"Or he was interrupted by hearing the butler's footsteps in the passage," hazarded Laurence.
"In the latter case," said the doctor, "I should say 'no,' because, from what I can gather, there isno suitable hiding-place in the room in which he could have concealed himself when the butler came in. There is always the bed, of course, but I am inclined to think that he was interrupted in some other way. The question is, how? It might be answered if we learned that anything had been found in the room—anything unusual, that is to say. However, we will not trouble about that now. What should be done is to have the barn thoroughly overhauled. Once we discover the hiding-place of this creature, we shall be well on in our investigation."
Laurence was about to reply when an interruption occurred. As on the occasion of the last visit to Durley Dene, the doctor's strange servant appeared in the doorway. This time his dusky face was pale, and he appeared to be in a great state of alarm.
"Here, quick, I want you! Come down at once, will you?" he whispered in the doctor's ear, but not so low that the visitors could not catch the words.
The man looked significantly at his master, who rose in haste.
"I regret that I shall have to close this very pleasant interview," he said, in a quivering voice. "Unexpected business causes my retirement. But, come, we must meet again before long. I will showyou to the door. Lead the way, if you please, Horncastle."
As Meadows uttered this last word the servant turned to him and frowned angrily, not aware that both the visitors were watching him.
"Lead the way, Smith, I mean. I always confound your name with that of my last valet," Dr. Meadows added, as though prompted by the servant's expression of annoyance.
The shutter of a landing window had been drawn back, so that the light from outside feebly pierced the darkness within. Thus was the journey downstairs made easier. The doctor walked in front with the servant. Laurence made way at the top of the staircase for Lena to go before him. This she would not do, however, but, fumbling in the semi-darkness, she found her lover's hand, caught it, and did not release her hold until the two were safely outside in the dazzling heat of the day.
The door closed behind them.
"How glad I am to get into the outside world once again!" cried Lena, joyfully, when they had reached the gate of Durley Dene. "Doctor Meadows is very kind and nice, and a perfect gentleman, yet there is such a distinct air of mystery about the house, one is given such an impression that the place is peopled by ghosts, that I mustconfess I should have been frightened had I been alone there to-day. But, Laurence, the mystery is no more solved than ever. It seems to get deeper every time we make a fresh discovery. We know now that the doctor has nothing to do with the Squire—I mean that he is not connected with the assaults—and yet he informs us that he not only knew your father and his secret, but could explain the whole mystery, if allowed to do so."
"That's what he says," answered Laurence. "Is it the truth? And what is the urgent business on which he was called away?"
By this time the porch of the Manse was reached, but the door being closed, and Laurence having mislaid his key, it was necessary to wait for a servant to answer the bell.
"Did you hear," asked Lena, "that he called the servant Horncastle, and then corrected himself?"
"Indeed I did; and in spite of all he said about truth being the best policy, I feel sure he was lying again when he explained that a former servant was called Horncastle. By the way, Horncastle is no common name, is it? Somehow I believe I've heard it before. Do you know anyone called Horncastle? I certainly have some reason for recollecting the name."
At that moment Kingsford appeared at the door.
"Do you happen to know the name 'Horncastle'?" casually asked Laurence of the butler, as he followed Lena into the house.
"Horncastle, sir?" repeated Kingsford, who, as an old retainer, was never treated quite as one of the domestic servants. "No, I can't say I know anyone o' that name, Mister Laurence, leastways excepting 'the' Horncastle."
"And who is 'the' Horncastle?" asked Laurence, pausing to hear the old man's answer.
"I mean the famous burgiler, sir, what escaped from Dartmoor six months back."
"Good gracious!" muttered Laurence to himself, and Lena thought something that could only be described by an equally forcible interjection.
"Ah, of course," remarked the young man, fearing to raise the butler's suspicion.
"Glad to say, sir," was the butler's news after his remarks about Horncastle, "that the master's recovered consciousness, sir, and would be glad to see you. Dr. Bathurst has been and wished me to inform you that he is quite satisfied with the progress his patient is making. Only he must be kept very quiet, sir; and you'll pardon me mentioning the matter, sir, but, do you know, I don't quite like the looks of that man Potter, the nurse. Seems to me, with all respect, sir, that he's neglecting his duty, to ask questions about master's movements of late, and such like. Between you and me, sir, I suspect him of being more than he makes out. When I was in the service of Sir Hartfoot Greig, sir, there was a robbery, and just such a man as Mr. Potter came down from London to investigate. He did more harm than good, and Sir Hartfoot, he afterwards told me that——"
But Laurence, well aware that when the old servant once got started on one of his long-winded yarns there was no stopping him, cut the storyshort by saying he would hear the rest another time, as he was very anxious to see his father without delay.
Lena had already retired to her room to remove her outdoor garments, so Laurence at once proceeded to the Squire's bedroom, on the threshold of which he encountered the man from Burton's, who, with a mysterious air, drew him aside into a spare bedroom, explaining that he particularly wished to have a word with him.
"Well, what is it?" asked Laurence, impatiently.
"It's this, sir," replied Mr. Potter. "I think, all things considered, it would be best for you not to visit your father just now."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Only this, Mr. Laurence Carrington, that I have seen through your game, and shall feel obliged if you will consider yourself under arrest, and remain in this room until I have arranged for your removal."
The young man's remarks on hearing the nurse-detective's words were forcible and to the point. For this reason there is no necessity to chronicle them here. Sufficient it is to mention that an immediate explanation was required, and this Mr. Potter did not hesitate to give. His suspicions and their cause have already been dealt with in a previouschapter. The detective, in tones that betrayed his triumph, briefly sketched the reasoning by which he had reached the conclusion that the Squire's assailant was none other than his own son, whose accomplice was the lady who answered to the name of Selene Scott.
At the mention of Lena's name, and when the absurdity of the situation appealed to Laurence, the young man burst into a fit of hearty laughter.
"You old meddling blunderer," he cried, "what a fine mess you've got yourself into with your rapid deductions, your startling and original theories! Suppose I call the men-servants and have you kicked out of the house? It would be less than you deserved. My father's murderer! I've never heard anything so funny in my life. So Miss Scott was my accomplice?"
"Exactly," replied the detective, somewhat taken aback by the way in which "the criminal" had received the intelligence that his guilt had been discovered; "and if I may be allowed to give you a word of advice, you should control your mirth a trifle. Perhaps you are not aware that I am in a position to obtain your arrest on suspicion?"
"I certainly am not," answered Laurence. "The best thing you can do, I think, is to come with me to the Squire's bedroom. My father has regainedconsciousness, I believe. Let us see, then, if he is not able to prove the absurdity of your charge."
"I will not degrade you with the 'cuffs,' but kindly permit me to take your arm. Don't try to commit suicide, now that I've proved your guilt. You can't try games like that on Oliver Potter, late of Scotland Yard, sir!"
With difficulty controlling his amusement, Laurence allowed the detective to hold his coat sleeve, while he led him into the Squire's room, and the presence of the sick man himself.
"Well, Daddy," said the young man, in a low voice, as he approached the bed, "so you are a little better, eh? That's good. You'll soon be yourself again, and let's hope you'll be no more troubled by the attacks of this ruffianly enemy of yours. I'm on his track, Father, and ere long I hope to have him safely between four walls."
"Ah, Laurence, my boy," replied the old gentleman, in a feeble voice, "it's a pleasure to hear your voice. How long have I been ill? What do you mean by my 'enemy'? It was a—a burglar, Laurence, that tried to murder me—the burglar whose coming I've been dreading for so long. The one who attacked us in the carriage, you know. Do you say you're on his track? That—that's all right, only you—you won't catch him, I'mafraid. But who is this person?" The Squire pointed towards Mr. Oliver Potter, who stood at Laurence's side in a great state of trepidation on hearing the patient's cordial greeting to his son.
The detective felt almost inclined to indulge in profanity. He had been led off on a wrong scent. So much was very plain. "For once in your life, Oliver Potter," he muttered to himself, "you've made a bad blunder."
"Who is this person?" again asked Mr. Carrington. "Surely you have not engaged a fresh servant? It isn't the doctor, is it? Laurence, I don't like new faces. Ask that gentleman what he is doing here."
"This," said Laurence, seeing fit to disguise the real truth, "is a friend of mine who happened to be staying in the village. As he has had some experience of nursing, he was good enough to offer his services on hearing of your illness. While you were unconscious he rendered Mrs. Featherston valuable assistance. Now you are better, he will, of course, leave you. I will accompany him to the door, Father, and then will come back and see you again. Is your neck very bad?"
"It's very sore and weak, my boy. That's a good lad, go and show your friend out, and thank him for his kindness. Then return to me for alittle talk. Mrs. Featherston, please stay until Mr. Laurence returns."
"Now, sir," said young Carrington, when, with the detective, he had left the sick-room, "are you quite convinced of your absurd blunder?"
"I am, and I sincerely regret it, Mr. Laurence," replied the man from Burton's. "It's not often that I err. When I do I feel it—feel it, sir, deeply. I am obliged to you for your kindness in withholding the truth from your father. I shouldn't like Squire Carrington to think me incompetent, though for that matter——"
"We won't refer to the subject any further, Mr. Potter. I will now draw you a cheque and wish you a very good day, regretting that your valuable services are no longer required."
A few minutes later the detective was ready to depart.
"Glad to have made your acquaintance, sir," he said, as he stood on the doorstep. "I suppose I may use your name as a reference? Perhaps you may require my assistance another time. Here is my card. If you should ever want me again that address will always find me. By the way, I'm of a forgiving nature, and always like to help young amateur investigators—give them encouragement, you know. Well, I've left a clue to the mysterybehind in a cardboard box in the cupboard of the Squire's room. Don't thank me—anything to help a young friend. Fine day, isn't it?" And Mr. Oliver Potter, late of Scotland Yard, walked briskly out of the house, upsetting the umbrella stand as he went, and chuckling beneath his breath.
"Thank Heaven, he's gone!" muttered Laurence. "If ever there existed a greater bore than our friend from Burton's I shouldn't care to meet him."
He returned to the bedroom, and relieved Mrs. Featherston, taking a seat by his father's side.
"Daddy," he said, when the door closed upon the genial housekeeper, "I'm playing the part of an amateur detective. My one aim just now is to get to the bottom of the mystery of the two determined attacks on your life. It's no use for you to try to deceive me. You have some deep secret—something is haunting you every moment of your existence; and I shall not rest until I have discovered what it is."
"Laurence, don't, don't try! It's for your own sake that I ask it of you. When I am dead you will know all. Until then, do not try to discover what is not meant for you to learn. I want you to love and respect your father while he lives. Therefore do as I beg of you."
"Don't talk like that, Daddy," said Laurence, gently, "as if anything could alter my feelings towards you. Is this secret anything that concerns my—mother?"
"No, my boy, thank God, it is not!"
"Then answer me this; have you ever heard of a Doctor Meadows?"
"Meadows! No. But why, Laurence?"
"Or a Major Jones-Farnell?"
"No, no! But——"
"Or of a fellow named Horncastle?" pursued the younger man.
"Never!"
"Then, have you ever mentioned anything about the matter which you wish to keep a secret from me to a living soul?"
"Why all these questions, Laurence? You know now that I have a secret, so there is no need for me to deny it. I have never before now breathed a word of this to a single soul, with the exception of one person."
"And he?"
"He is dead. My secret lies within my own heart. No cross-questioning shall drag it from me."
"One thing more, then I will not speak to you again for a little while, because you must be kept quite quiet. Were you ever in India? If so, didyou happen to meet there a Major Carrington, of Madras?"
With startling suddenness the sick man darted up in his bed. He stared silently at his son for a moment, terror plainly imprinted upon his features. Then, still speechless, he collapsed again upon the pillows. Presently he turned his face away, so that he could no longer see his son, whose words had so visibly concerned him.
"I am very tired, Laurence," he said, peevishly. "You have talked too long already. I must ask you to leave the room. Please do not annoy me any further with this absurd cross-questioning."
After being practically dismissed from his father's sick-room Laurence went in search of Lena, whom he found in the garden with Mrs. Knox. The good lady had fallen off into a convenient doze in a comfortable deck-chair, so her niece welcomed the new-comer's arrival with pleasure.
"Let us come for a little stroll," suggested the girl. Needless to say, Laurence gladly concurred.
"Well," Lena began, "I am dying to hear if the Squire said anything to you—anything of importance, I mean, of course."
"Yes, he did. He satisfied me upon one point, concerning which I was much troubled. His inviolate secret has nothing to do with my mother, as I feared—though I did not mention it to you—that it might. One discovery of importance I have made. That is, though he didn't say it in so many words, he made it very evident to me that he had at some period or other been in India."
"Ah, then you still think that Mr. Meadows is responsible for these attacks on his life?"
"Oh, no, I don't go so far as that," was Laurence's reply; "but I argue thus. According to your friend, the person who presumably set fire to the Marquis's house was of black complexion; but whereas we believed that it must be a woman, because it wore garments like skirts, we now learn on Meadows' authority that it was a man—a man in coloured skirts. We therefore naturally concluded it must be some foreigner. Now I come to think of it, the face of the highwayman on the moor gave me the impression of being remarkably dark. The agility he displayed in the barn was further proof of his being semi-civilised, for you know that many of the coloured races can boast of agility that with us would seem nothing short of marvellous. Then we learn from Doctor Meadows that many years ago he knew my father—apparently intimately. One of the most noticeable features of Durley Dene is, you will agree, the Oriental fittings of the only room into which we have been shown. The conclusion one naturally draws is that Meadows has travelled, or more likely lived, in Oriental countries. Putting two and two together, I deemed it possible that Meadows might have made my father's acquaintance when abroad. Now, you will recollectmy telling you that, on the occasion of my first visit to the Dene, Meadows mentioned that he once knew a Major Carrington at Madras. Nevertheless, when he learned that my father was not a soldier, he distinctly said he could not have ever met the Squire. On the other occasion he equally distinctly stated that he had known my father before. He was, as you will remember, even able to describe his appearance. What does all this lead you to presume—to deduct, as our friend Potter would say?"
"I must confess that I am stupid enough not to see what you are driving at, in spite of your lucid reasoning," replied Lena.
"Why, this, that Major Carrington, of Madras, and Squire Carrington, of the Manse, Northden, are not merely namesakes, but one and the same person!"
"Good gracious me!" exclaimed Lena. "You clever boy! And you mean to say that the Squire is an army man, and yet not even his son knows it?"
"That is so, according to reasoning in which I can see no flaw, at present. I asked him just now whether he had ever been in India, and, if so, whether he had met a certain Major Carrington at Madras."
"Yes, and what did he say?"
"He could not answer. He was plainly terrified by the question, and without further parley dismissed me on the ground that I was tiring him by conversation. No; of this I am confident, there's something very deep and mysterious about the whole business. One thing has been bothering me a good deal. Were we right in making that promise to Doctor Meadows? Is he really unconnected with our mystery, as he would try to make out? Does it not seem most improbable that there should be two men with closely guarded secrets occupying houses adjoining one another in a peaceful little country village? Yet there was something so sincere about the way in which he spoke that one could not help believing him. Now, in the recent conversation I had with my father, he told me that the only person who ever knew anything about his secret (except, of course, the creature who is responsible for the attempt on his life) is dead. Yet Meadows claims a knowledge of that secret. One of the two is not adhering to the truth. Naturally, I am inclined to think that Meadows is this one, though I confess it appears possible that my father might not be too careful about speaking the whole truth if he feared by so doing to place in my hand a clue to the revelation of his secret. But, supposing that Meadows' knowledge of my father is not ofsuch a kind as he would lead us to believe it to be, have we not, perhaps, acted unwisely in confiding in him to so great an extent? And the discovery that the servant's real name is Horncastle; what do you make of that?"
"I feel very much inclined," replied Lena, "to think that he is what Kingsford calls 'the' Horncastle, the man who was sent to prison for daring robbery about a year ago, and who escaped from Dartmoor six or eight months since. Oh, to think that you were in the clutches of such a creature, Laurence, and that you were practically alone with him in that dark house! Why, didn't they say that he was suspected of some murder out at Swiss Cottage? Yes, I'm sure they did. But what can he be doing in Durley Dene? Is he in hiding there? If so, perhaps that is the secret of the house. But it cannot be. There is something far deeper than that in the mystery of Durley Dene."
"I can easily prove that that is but a part of the mystery," said Laurence. "You remember how Horncastle said to me when I threatened to report him, 'Do you think I care whether you tell the doctor? He's nothing to me.' Well, to my mind, that remark implies that, instead of fearing his master (if he is actually such), he has the whip hand of Meadows. Why? Because he aloneknows the doctor's mysterious secret. He realises, of course, that the master of Durley Dene dares not expose him or hand him over to justice as an escaped convict for fear that Horncastle, in his turn, will reveal to the world his secret, which, according to Meadows himself, would electrify the world and prove one of the greatest sensations of the day. Thus we now know why Horncastle wears a woman's disguise when walking abroad, because, were he not to do so, he might be identified by anyone who had seen his portrait, copies of which were posted outside every police-station in the kingdom, with a notice to the effect that anyone apprehending Thomas Horncastle or giving such evidence as shall lead to his apprehension will be amply rewarded!"
"Really, Laurence," said his companion gaily, "you're quite smart. We are, I am certain, at any rate well started in our investigation of this maze of mysteries. But what have we here?"
The last remark was caused by the fluttering of a scrap of white paper, on which Lena's eye chanced as the young pair strolled down a path bounded on one side by the palisade dividing the garden from that of Durley Dene.
It has already been mentioned that, in addition to this palisade, numerous bushes of stunted growthformed a substantial barrier between the grounds of the adjoining estates. It was on a prickly evergreen that the scrap of paper, to which the girl's attention had been drawn by its fluttering in the soft breeze, was impaled.
"Surely not another message from our neighbour?" queried Laurence, with a smile.
"Not exactly," replied Lena, "but something belonging to Mr. Meadows, under his military alias, for all that."
"Indeed!" Laurence bent over the scrap of paper, which the girl now held out for him.
It was the left-hand portion of a torn envelope. In fact it was entire, save that the part bearing the stamp and the last few letters of each line of the address were missing. Such of it as there was bore the following address, written in a firm lady-like handwriting—undoubtedly the work of an educated woman—
"Major Farnell-Jo...."Durley Den...."Northd...."Yorksh...."England."
"So the worthy Major has lady correspondents who address him by his pseudonym and write from abroad," remarked Lena.
"It's undoubtedly in a lady's handwriting," replied Laurence, "but how do you know it comes from abroad? The envelope is a thick one."
"That's simple enough. If the person who addressed that envelope had done so from England she would have been hardly likely to write 'England' at the foot of the address. Of course, in using the word 'abroad,' I include in this case Scotland and Ireland."
"I see. But surely that handwriting is familiar to me. Don't you know it? No? Well, I'm certain that I do. The peculiar formation of the 'J's' and 'Y's,' and the flourishing stroke to the 'N' of Northden, I know perfectly. Where have I seen that writing before?"
But, strive as he might, he could not recall whose it was.
"By all that's wonderful," cried Laurence to Lena after the solemn mid-day meal was at an end, "if I haven't forgotten about the clue Mr. Oliver Potter so generously gave me! Let me think—he said if I went to the cupboard in the Squire's bedroom I should find a cardboard box containing something which would prove of use in our investigation. If you will wait here for half a minute (I know you will excuse me) I will fetch the box, and we will pry into its mysterious contents."
He left the dining-room, returning, however, a few moments later with a yellow collar-box. From this he permitted Lena to remove the lid. The girl gave a cry of dismay when she caught sight of the unpleasant contents of the box. The odour that arose from the carcase of the bat which the detective had so carefully preserved was none too pleasant, while to a woman the sight of anything so closely resembling a mouse as does a bat is usually enough to cause an exclamation of horror.
Laurence was much annoyed when he perceived the clue which Potter had left behind him.
"It's his pretty revenge for his dismissal," he said. "An extremely poor practical joke, which I am surprised that a man of Potter's age should descend to. Here, let me throw it away."
And he suited the action to the word by flinging the little carcase out of the open window and into the middle of a cluster of bushes.
"Now for the barn," Laurence proceeded. "Shall we make our examination of it at once, as Meadows suggested?"
"I am quite ready, if you are," replied Lena.
"Then let us go at once, before something else arises to cause us to forget what we were about to do, as something has done so many times before during this investigation."
A few minutes later they were both in the barn, tapping the panels of the wall and the floor and searching among the hay for some sign of the secret hiding-place, in which, according to Doctor Meadows' reasoning, the Squire's enemy was lurking.
Search as they might, though, no success rewarded their praiseworthy efforts. An hour passed, yet they still persevered, though Lena was hot and tired with stooping. Laurence had made the mostminute examination of the roof, yet he had to confess himself beaten.
"I cannot understand it," he said. "It didn't take me half a minute, or anything like so long, to knock the hay which the rascal threw at me out of my eyes, yet in that short space of time our man managed, aided by the darkness, of course, to effect his escape. The question is, how?"
"Come, we mustn't be beaten. The secret trap-door, or whatever it is, must be somewhere in the roof. Try again, and instead of only tapping the wood, press it hard occasionally."
Laurence did as he was told. He reached the cross-beam on which the creature with the shrill voice had been discovered, and from there, by means of the ladder, reached the beam at the top of the building (which formed, with the point made by the meeting of the ascending sides of the thatched roof, a large letter A).
Here, as will be easily understood, the young man had to sit (on the cross-bar of the A) with head bent down owing to the proximity of the actual roof.
Once, however, while talking to Lena, who was standing immediately below him, he raised his head, forgetting that he was unable to do so without striking it against the top. Then a strange thing happened.
The force of his pressure on the side of the roof caused it to roll back suddenly like a trap-door. It fell back, until a roomy space was revealed immediately above Laurence's head. And yet, looking through, young Carrington was astounded beyond measure to find that he couldn't (as might have been expected) gaze straight up at the blue sky, but what he saw several feet above him was a second thatched roof shaped exactly like that under which he had been sitting!
Then, in an instant, he knew the secret of the Manse barn. The roof was a double one, its mechanism being exactly similar to that of the double-bottomed boxes that for so long were the means of cheating our Custom-House officials of the duties payable upon articles which were by this means smuggled into the country free of tax.
Laurence informed Lena in low tones of his discovery, and, promising to return in a minute or two, raised himself by his arms to a ledge which presented itself immediately above him. No sooner had he done so than the sham roof closed down noiselessly, and young Carrington found himself in a long, low room or attic, unfurnished, and with apparently the dust of ages upon its panelled walls, its thatched roof (the real roof of the barn), and its uneven flooring.
In the excitement of the moment Laurence paid no attention to the closing of the trap-door.
Thanks to a ray of light that stole through a rent in the straw thatch, he was able to look around him.
The room he was in was the exact size of the barn itself, only, owing to the low ceiling, its size seemed greater than it actually was.
Taking his match-box from his pocket, the young man struck a light, held it above his head, being careful not to ignite the dry straw of the roof, and gazed around.
He was able to assure himself that no one was hiding in the attic—in fact, there was no room for anything larger than a rat to hide. This, at any rate, was satisfactory. The feeble light also satisfied the investigator on another point.
Though the mysterious creature whom he had encountered by night below where he now stood was not at that moment concealed in this carefully hidden lair, there were unmistakable signs of him in a number of foot-shaped patches in the dust accumulated on the floor. Laurence noted with a feeling of delight that these patches were, in size and shape, identical with those he had discovered to be the footprints of the "cyclist highwayman."
Very quickly, after he had extinguished the match, did Laurence's eyes become accustomed tothe semi-darkness, and he was able to prosecute his search without the assistance of any light.
Another startling discovery was in wait for him. In a far corner of the attic there was a trap-door in the floor, in the manufacture of which no attempt had been made to conceal it from view, as in the case of the false roof. An iron ring was conveniently placed at one side of this, and, in a state of excited expectancy, Laurence without difficulty raised the trap-door, which revealed (as does the inevitable trap-door in children's fairy tales) a narrow staircase, dark and dismal.
Without hesitation, and carefully groping his way, he started down the staircase, which was so narrow and small that in places he was compelled to move down sideways and stooping almost double. In such a place, he thought to himself, height is a distinct disadvantage; yet, in spite of all, and though he considered it extremely possible that he might at any moment run against his father's lurking enemy, he pushed on downstairs until the bottom was reached.
He dared not strike a match, for fear that, if anyone was hiding near, he might lie in wait for the new-comer, and, knowing the place better than Laurence, overcome him without difficulty.
Where was he, and what did all these secret placesmean? Only one solution was possible. The barn, in addition to having a false roof, had also a sham side to it, and there was sufficient space between the outer side and the panelled inner one for the staircase down which he had come, and which led to—where?
Once on level ground—which, he was surprised to find, was paved with stone—Laurence was able once again to stand upright and stretch out his hands, without touching anything in the pitch darkness.
He found the wall at length, and moved along it. Presently it came to an end, but, like the corner of a room, met another wall running at right angles to it. Some distance farther there was a break in the cold surface of the wall. Laurence concluded that it was the mouth of a passage leading off somewhere. He did not turn down this, though, but groped on until he reached another angle in the wall that seemed like a second corner of a room. A third time he made a similar discovery; then he came upon another passage, unbarred, leading away he knew not where. At last he found himself once again at the foot of the staircase down which he had come.
Plainly this pointed to the natural conclusion that he was in a large square room, in which there wasapparently no living creature except himself, but out of which led two passages, in addition to the staircase that descended from the secret attic.
As Laurence stood consulting as to what he should do next, he became aware of a muffled sound coming from above his head. The ceiling of the place in which he stood was high. He could not reach it without standing on tiptoe, when he found it to be of wood.
The sound he heard was a regular tap-tap, as though someone was moving about in a room directly above that in which he stood. What did it mean? Why, Laurence decided without hesitation, the sounds of footsteps were those made by Lena as she strolled about in the barn. The room in which he found himself must accordingly be exactly under the barn itself. And yet, throughout the years he and his father had spent at the Manse, not a suspicion had entered the head of either that the old barn—dating back, it was said, to the time of Cromwell—was the centre of a labyrinth of secret passages and chambers such as it now seemed to be.
There were two courses open to him, Laurence thought to himself—to return by the narrow staircase, find his way out into the light of day, and return later with a lantern and some weapon ofdefence; or to take one of the two passages which he had found, and discover whither it led.
Wisdom and common sense urged the former course; daring and, perhaps, foolhardiness clamoured for the adventure that might be the result of further exploring. And, as might have, perhaps, been expected, the verdict of common sense was dismissed, the girl waiting upstairs forgotten, and Laurence, finding one of the dark passages close at hand, plunged into it, and, feeling his way with a hand on either wall, quickly left the square room under the barn behind him.
The passage seemed of interminable length, nor was there any break in the wall on either side. Not a ray of light pierced the grim darkness. Not a sound was audible save that of his own footsteps. The air was heavy with an odour of decay. Altogether the experience was one which an ordinary person would not relish. But then, as has been said, Laurence was no ordinary person. He hardly knew what fear was; the only time he had been really unnerved being after his experiences in tracking the cyclist on the moor. Every moment he considered it possible that he might encounter the man he believed to be lurking in the many possible hiding-places that there seemed to be. Yet he didnot hesitate for one instant, though unarmed with so much as a walking-cane.
'Tis a long lane that has no turning, and at length the prowler in the dark was brought to a sudden standstill by his outstretched hand coming in contact with something—either a wall or a door—that completely barred his way.
Laurence fumbled about, in the hope of finding some catch or handle which would assure him that he had reached a door. He naturally presumed that it would be a door, for otherwise what would be the meaning of the long passage were it to lead nowhere? For some little time he searched in vain, then, deciding that there was no fear of the creature into whose haunts he had penetrated being in his immediate neighbourhood, the young man struck a match and held it high above his head.
The sight that met his gaze when the light of the vesta flared up and then burned quickly before going out was a strange one, yet he was prepared for what he saw. The passage down which he had come closely resembled a railway subway, such as that at King's Cross Station, London. Though on the whole fairly straight, it swerved once or twice in such a way that he was unable, when looking back, to see for any distance the path by which he had reached the oak door before which he was standing.
He was able to make a cursory examination of this door while the light lasted. It looked very old, and the damp stood upon it like beads of perspiration. It was heavily studded with iron knobs, and there was a massive-looking lock at the foot of it, and another near the top. Undoubtedly the man who had built the passage and this door had taken good care to have the best work put into them. What was the builder's scheme—the cause of all the secrecy? Nothing more likely than that it was an illegal one.
But Laurence's meditations on this subject were cut short by a sound that fell upon his ear.
Someone was talking—someone on the other side of the oak door.
The sounds became louder. Two persons were speaking, one in loud and rough tones. They were approaching the door behind which he stood.
As they drew nearer Laurence became aware of a gleam of light that shot through the keyhole of the lock at the top of the door. In an instant he was standing on the bottom lock, clinging by his hands to the iron knobs. With his eye to the keyhole he was able to see through into what looked like a spacious lobby or hall. The figures of two men were standing facing one another half a dozen yards away, their faces lit up by the yellow glare from acandle that the shorter one of them was carrying. But for this artificial light the hall would have been as dark as the passage in which Laurence stood. As it was, the watcher was enabled to get a good view of the men's features. To his amazement he discovered that the speakers were none other than Doctor Meadows and his convict servant Horncastle.
The discovery so startled young Carrington that in his astonishment he slipped from the protruding ledge on which he was standing and dropped with a clatter upon the stone pavement.
Both men turned suddenly and glanced in the direction whence the sound appeared to come.
As quietly as possible Laurence clambered up again and peered through, to find the two faces staring straight at him. How was it that they did not guess there was someone behind the door? They certainly did not, for Horncastle exclaimed—
"Drat them rats! The place is haunted by 'em."
"Are you sure that was a rat?" asked Meadows. "The noise was much greater than any I ever heard a rat make. There must be a colony of them—or is it possible that there is something else behind the panels of that wall? The house agent mentioned to me a secret room." He lowered his voice. Laurence did not catch what his words were. Then he went on—
"If that were the case there might be someone—someone suspicious; you know what I mean—overlooking us. Of course, the idea is absurdly improbable. Suppose we look behind that oak panelling, though? We can put it all back; we will, at any rate, drive the rats away."
"Well, you're a queer one, you are. Suspicious as I don't know what. I'm game, then, only I 'aves my pint o' gin afterwards, or else—or else I'll blab to that messing Carrington chap about——"
And to the eavesdropper's extreme annoyance, Horncastle broke off short when Laurence was thinking himself to be on the verge of a discovery acquired—though, in his excitement, he forgot all that—by means that could hardly be considered of exemplary fairness.
As the two men moved towards where he stood, Laurence's interest gave way to dismay. What might not these unscrupulous folks do when they discovered eavesdropping a man who had betrayed grave suspicions of the nature of their "secret"? At any rate, Laurence realised that he had a good start, and, as Doctor Meadows, throwing down a dog-whip which he had held in his hand, moved towards the panelling and ordered his convict servant to fetch the necessary tools, Carrington moved noiselessly down from his perch. He was about toturn back and effect his escape, when something—something like the lash of a whip—brushed past his face and suddenly caught his neck. At the same time two hands from out of the darkness behind seemed to strike against the sides of his head, a knee was planted in the small of his back, a leg seemed to entwine itself round his, and, like a flash of lightning, his senses left him, as Laurence Carrington fell like a dead man upon the stone pavement of the secret passage.
It seemed to him like an age, but was really only a few minutes, before Laurence Carrington recovered consciousness. When he did so it was with a violent pain in his head and neck.
Old "Doctor Meadows" was bending over him as he lay on a bench in the hall at which he had peeped through the keyhole of the great oak door. The servant, Horncastle, was not to be seen.
Laurence struggled to rise, but the burning pain in his neck, and a feeling of dizziness and extreme weakness, prevented him. The "doctor" motioned to him to keep still.
"You will be better soon," he said encouragingly; "thank Heaven we were in time, or the brute would have done for you. Strange, stranger than strange," he went on, half aloud, "that we should have returned from the distant East, have allowed a couple of dozen years to pass without being so much as aware whether each other still lived, and that—that we should come together like this."
Laurence saw that he was thinking aloud. He waited silently to hear what the old gentleman would say further. But though the young man could see his companion's lips moving, he was disappointed, in that the "doctor" concluded his thoughts on the subject beneath his breath.
"What happened?" Laurence asked at length. "It was 'it' that attacked me, was it not?"
"Yes, 'it,'" replied the "doctor," with a shake of his head. "I trust," he went on, "that Horncastle will catch him."
"I should think," replied Laurence, "that the terrible enemy of my father and your convict servant would make a good match."
The old man leaped back as though shot.
"You know that?" he cried, evidently referring to Carrington's allusion to Horncastle—"you know that? What else do you know?"
Laurence shook his head.
"Not very much," he answered with a smile, as he raised himself to a sitting posture. "And you?"
"Me! Well, I know everything."
"What!" the young man shouted, "you know who my father's enemy is?"
"I do."
"And you know my father. What else do YOU know?"
"I know," responded Meadows slowly, "that the 'long arm of coincidence' is, well, longer than the 'long arm of the law.'"
"What do you mean?"
"I have already told you. I mean that I, the suspected, spied-upon man of mystery (that's so, is it not?), I am the man who alone can throw light upon—can, moreover, effectually solve—the secrets of your father, Major Carrington's life."
"Then he is 'the' Major Carrington, of Madras?"
"He is."
"But," muttered Laurence, half aloud, "he told me that only one man (besides his enemy) ever learned his strange, inviolate secret."
"And I am that one man," responded the "doctor."
"Now," exclaimed Laurence angrily, "now I know you are lying. The man who held the Squire's secret died years ago."
"And," was the "doctor's" quiet reply, "so did I!"
And, before Laurence could find words to express his feelings at such a mad, mysterious remark, there came the sound of flying feet thundering along the stone passage and drawing towards the door, through which he had himself been dragged after the attack in the dark.
The oak door now stood open. From within no one would have believed it to be a door, the oak panelling of the walls being so skilfully imitated on it.
Through it, like a madman, rushed the convict servant, Horncastle. His face was white as a sheet, his breath came in jerks. Terror was manifest on his repulsive features.
"Thank God, I'm free from it," he almost shrieked, as he rushed up to the other two men.
Lighted only by a single tallow candle, the scene was a strange one—one that an artist would have given much to have an opportunity of picturing. The shadows on the men's faces, the cunningly wrought panelling of the great lonesome hall, the air of mystery that seemed to hang about the place—all these made the picture one that Laurence never forgot.
"Well," asked Meadows, "why have you not caught him?"
"The darkness," explained the convict servant, "the darkness, the awful darkness! I'd stand up to any man in the kingdoms, but that cursed silence and gloom and its 'orrors are a bit too much. And that creature, 'arf man, 'arf beast, seemed like the 'old man' 'isself, the way he slipped out of my grasp, which ain't a light one, as this 'ere gentknows." And the fellow had the audacity to pat Laurence on the shoulder. He was no longer the terrified creature of a moment before, when in the company of two of his fellow-creatures.
Meadows looked at him with ill-disguised expressions of disgust. But he did not speak. Instead, he motioned to the servant to depart.
By this time Laurence was able to rise and move about without being overcome by the pains in his neck and head. He turned to Meadows, who had astounded him a moment before by his casual remark that he was a man who had been dead many years.
"Please explain the strange observation you made when Mr.—er—Horncastle interrupted us by his return." The convict scowled, and looked daggers at Meadows, who, however, did not notice, for he was deep in thought.
"Mr. Carrington," he said at length, "I can tell you a little now, but not all. First tell me in what way you think you were attacked."
"I cannot. I only know that I felt as though someone was cutting my throat."
"Someone," replied "Doctor Meadows," "was doing more. He was trying to break your neck."
"Ah!" Laurence exclaimed, "like he did mypoor father's. And how did he do it? It was all so quickly, so cleverly done."
"It was done by a man who has made a careful study of murder."
"Good gracious, for what purpose?"
"For the purpose of murdering your father!"
"No, no, it cannot be!" exclaimed Laurence. "Why this enmity? What has the Squire done?"
"Nothing," responded Meadows; "and can't you see, now, who and what the creature is that is hiding in yonder darkness?"
"No. Who? What?"
"Don't you know what harmless weapon it is that when skilfully wielded deals death more cruelly than knife or gun? Why, a cord, a piece of silk cord!"
"Then," Laurence shouted, for the words shed light upon the dark subject that he had tried so hard to penetrate—"then the man is a—a——"
"A Thug," was the grim reply.