"No, I can tell you nothing further," said "Doctor Orlando Meadows," in reply to Laurence's eager requests for information; "but even what little I have told you throws light upon much that was formerly dark to you. For instance, now you know the solution of the mystery of the padded footprints. The Thug, like many native Indians of his class—a low one—swathes his feet in strips of linen stuff. So you see he did not have to perform the distinctly difficult operation of removing his boots while on the machine!
"Next, you can now understand the meaning of the marvellous agility of the creature. I wonder you did not put two and two together before and guess that the wonderfully athletic foe who almost broke your father's neck in some mysterious manner was—a Thug. Those fanatics are the finest gymnasts in the world, besides being the most bloodthirsty creatures under heaven.
"One thing I cannot understand is why so desperate a scoundrel should pause in the middle of hisdeadly work, and leave your poor father living, though unconscious. It is deemed the greatest possible disgrace for a Thug to attack his victim with the 'noose' and fail to kill him. Of course, as a rule, the Stranglers—as they are called—work together, but against one old man a single Thug should be able to carry out his grim work thoroughly. I speak as one who knows something about India. You are convinced that nothing unusual was found in the room in which your father was attacked?"
"Nothing, as far as I am aware," replied Laurence. "Of course, I left the detective to look for any clue in the bedroom, but whether he found anything I do not know. Had he done so I think on his departure he would have handed it over to me."
"And he didn't?"
"No—that is, he merely played a practical joke on me by leaving a cardboard box in a cupboard in which he said I should find a clue. On opening it I was disgusted to find nothing but a dead bat——"
"A dead bat!" shrieked "Doctor Meadows"; "had he found it in the Squire's bedroom?"
"As to that I cannot tell you. But why?"
"Because," replied the old gentleman, "if he did I know why the assassin did not murder your father outright!"
"Good gracious, what has that got to do with it?"
"Everything. The Thugs are the most superstitious people on earth. When they believe their patron goddess Kalee does not approve of their sacrifice—they call all murders sacrifices to her—they stop short in their deadly operations. In India if they are carrying out one of their gruesome murders, and a girl with a pitcher happens to pass near, they stop instantly. It is a sign that the goddess is displeased with their selection of a victim. That was why I asked you if it was possible that a housemaid with a pail passed the half-open bedroom door when the attack was made. Again, should a murdering Thug see his victim's face reflected in water or a mirror, he will, for the same reason, stop in the very middle of his work. But one of the worst omens—a sign that Kalee is greatly displeased—is the passing of a small chattering bird, or a bat, while the murder is being carried out. The bat which by chance had got into your father's room must have fluttered about when the assassin was carrying out his foul deed. That bat saved your father's life!"
"But how did the Thug get into the room, and how did he escape?"
"That question, I think, you have yourselfsolved. I do not know how you came to reach that door"—pointing in the direction of the stone passage—"but presumably you came from your own house. I told you I believed there must be some secret hiding-place. Well, if you came through this passage, I suppose the Thug could do likewise. Only instead of coming in this direction he went in the other, and got into your house the same way you have got into this. The passage, I have heard, was built in the troublous time of the Civil War, when Charles I. and Oliver Cromwell struggled for the mastery. No doubt it was arranged for the inhabitants of one house to escape into the other when besieged or attacked."
"But," said Laurence, "I entered that secret passage from the barn. If the Thug got out that way—he has evidently been hiding in the secret loft over the barn—how did he get into the Manse when he tried to murder my father?"
"I do not know; but do you mean to tell me that the passage leads only to the barn? I cannot believe it."
"Then don't, but—stay! There was another passage leading from a room under the barn which as yet I have not explored. In this the Thug was probably hiding when I passed the entrance, and, attracted by the light I struck, followed and sprangupon me from behind. That passage may, for all I know, end in the Manse itself."
"Rest assured that such is the case," replied Meadows; and he added, "I should not be surprised if you were to find that that other passage led into the Squire's bedroom!"
Laurence gasped. If so, the affair was well-nigh solved. The thought of the mystery reminded the young man that here he was conversing amicably with the "doctor" in the very basement which he believed to contain the old gentleman's secret.
"Now," said Laurence, laying his hand on Meadows' arm, "tell me your secret and there will no longer be any mystery."
"No, no," cried the old man; "go away. You take advantage of my kindness. I have cleared up the mystery of your father's enemy as far as I am permitted to do so, and you treat me so. But," he said slowly, "in a day or two I may be able to tell you all. Then I will renew my acquaintance with your father, Major Harold Lester Carrington, late of Madras. Until then I can do nothing."
So saying, and in spite of his protests, Laurence was conducted by the "doctor" to the front door of the old house. As the door closed upon him, after he had bidden Meadows a more or less cordial farewell, he fancied he heard another cry from the lowerpart of the house of strange secrets. This time he thought the weird sound seemed less awe-inspiring, more pathetic, than before. And it was so low that the listener could not be sure whether his imagination had played a trick upon him, or if what he fancied he had heard was reality.
With his head throbbing with the sickly pains caused by his injury, he turned and hurried away to the Manse.
Lena met him in the hall. She was deadly pale. At the sight of her lover she sprang forward, and, unconscious of the fact that Mrs. Knox was peering inquisitively over the banisters, flung her arms round his neck.
"Oh, thank God," she cried almost hysterically, "that you are safe! I thought you were killed. I had a presentiment that 'it' had attacked and murdered you in the dark loft. Where have you been; why were you away so long?"
And then, suddenly realising how forward she had been, she darted back as quickly as she had come. It was not because her aunt made her presence known by clearing her throat with unnecessary vehemence, but because she remembered that she had not yet confessed her love for Laurence, and because it seemed to her that her anxiety for his safety had triumphed over her natural modesty.
Then, without another word, without waiting to hear what Laurence had to tell her, she hastened away to her own room, and, locking the door, flung herself upon her bed, where she calmed herself in the orthodox feminine manner—she had a good cry, but the tears were tears of joy!
She already knew that he loved her—now he knew that she loved him. And he was safe!
Meanwhile Laurence, wondering at Lena's—to him—strange behaviour, proceeded to his father's bedroom, where he dismissed the housekeeper and sat down by the Squire's bedside.
"Father," he said, after he had inquired how the sick man felt, "I have learned all."
Mr. Carrington lay motionless. He could not reply. The announcement had overcome him. His face grew very pale.
"What do you mean?" he muttered, raising himself, at length, upon his elbow, and peering into his son's face.
"I mean that I know who and WHAT your enemy is—your enemy who is trying to avenge that which happened over twenty years ago!"
"Who has told you?" asked the Squire excitedly—"not—not 'it'?"
"No, someone who says he died years ago!"
"What do you mean?"
"I hardly know myself. Next door—I mean at the Dene—lives an old man who says he knew you more than twenty years ago."
"Don't believe it, Laurence. But-t-t how does he know my secret? You are sure that he—he is not the—the——"
"No, he is not the Thug."
At the mention of the last word the Squire fell back upon his pillows with a shudder.
"And you've not caught him?"
"No, but I know where he is hiding, and," he added, "if you won't tell me what I don't know, he will!"
"I cannot tell you. Yet, if I don't he will. Here, go to the desk in my sanctum, press the knob of the dummy drawer on the right-hand side, and bring me down the book that will fall out of the slit underneath."
With rising hopes the young man did as he was told. He returned to the sick-room shortly after, carrying a small red pocket-book, fastened with a piece of parchment sealed on the back and front of the Volume.
"Take it," said the Squire, "and read it, only not here. I cannot bear to think of it all. Go, now; you mean well, my boy, but you don't know the pain it causes me to hear you speak of mysecret. When you know all you will see that your poor old dad is not such a sinner as you think he is." And the Squire lay back on the pillows again, and closed his eyes, and, making a suitable reply, Laurence left the room.
He met a very shamefaced Lena in the drawing-room, and told her of all his afternoon adventures, not forgetting to offer a very sincere apology for leaving her in the barn. Then he produced from his pocket the little red note-book and pointed to the notice endorsed on it: "For my son, Laurence. Not to be opened until after my death." Then, assuring her that he had permission to read it, he broke the seals and opened the book, which was full of thin, straggling writing.
"Shall I read it aloud?" asked Laurence temptingly.
"Oh, please do."
"Sure you wouldn't like to read it aloud yourself?"
"Oh, no. I'm a terribly bad reader."
"Well, so am I."
"I'm sure you're better than I am," responded Lena.
"I'll tell you how we can settle it."
"How?"
"By each reading it separately."
"But I want to hear the story now. And don't you, too?"
"Yes, we both can. That is—if you don't mind sitting on this sofa and looking over at the same time?"
Lena rose with a blush on her cheeks, that, in Laurence's opinion, made her look prettier than ever.
Then she settled herself by his side. He turned to the front page, and satisfied himself that his companion could see the writing and read it, then they commenced the perusal of the contents of the little red note-book.
"To commence at the very beginning, my dear boy, and in orthodox fashion, I will state that my name is that by which you have always known me—Harold Lester Carrington, only son of a worthy naval officer and his wife, who was a younger daughter of the late Sir John Collyer. I was born nine-and-fifty years ago at Manchester, received but a moderate education, and entered the army at an early age.
"I was unfortunate enough to lose both my parents while I was quite a child, and, getting into bad company, led what my few relatives—they are all dead now—considered a wild life. I can safely say, though, that I never forgot I was the son of gentlefolk, for to both my parents I had been greatly attached.
"I must have been either twenty-one or twenty-two years of age when I first met Edith Rawson, the charming daughter of my old Colonel. It wasat a garden party, and was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Of course it was foolish in the extreme for me, a penniless lieutenant, to aspire to the hand of wealthy Colonel Rawson's eldest daughter, but the folly was inevitable. Miss Rawson was the most lovely girl I ever cast eyes upon. Mutual love in such cases as ours is hard to conceal—particularly from a woman—and Mrs. Rawson quickly perceived things after I had visited the house a few times. She communicated her suspicions to her husband, and a tremendous row was the result—the upshot of which was that I changed my regiment for one embarking for India, bade my loved one a pitiful farewell, re-echoed my vows of constancy, promising to return when, judging by Rawson's standard, I was in a position to claim Edith as my bride, and left England for the great Eastern Empire.
"I had been forbidden to write, even once a year, to my loved one, and it was with a faint heart that I started life again in Madras. But I knew that if I wished to succeed I must throw all my energy into the work, and strive my hardest to render myself fit to become Edith's husband in what seemed a very distant future.
"Years rolled by, and by degrees, thanks to sundry small skirmishes with discontented tribes, Igained the promotion which meant so much. But it was a sad time for me. Folks may say that 'out of sight' is equivalent to 'out of mind,' but I speak truly when I say that never for a single day did anyone—any woman—figure in my thoughts except the loved one in the far-off old country.
"Periodically I got hold of old society newspapers, sent to us from London, and in these I occasionally came across the name of Colonel Rawson's fair daughter. Each time I was thrilled with pleasure to find that her maiden name still remained to her. Was she true to the devoted young officer in India? Of course she was!
"I was Major Carrington by this time, and young for that, still I knew a beautiful girl like Edith would never want for offers of marriage. Three or four years had passed since I had discovered the dear name in print. Two or three were likely to drag before there was any chance of my further promotion, after which Colonel Rawson had given me permission to return home, and, if the mutual affection still existed, marry his daughter.
"Then one day a copy of theTimeschanced to reach me, and I casually commenced reading by a perusal of the births, marriages, and deaths column in that paper. Suddenly I caught sight of an announcement that caused me to cry aloud with dismay,with horror, with disappointment. It was painfully brief, but, oh! so plain.
"'SANDLYNG-RAWSON.—On the 28th ult., at St. Jude's, Aynswell-street, W., George Arthur Sandlyng, of the Priory, Parkham, Bucks, to Edith, daughter of Colonel Rawson, V.C.'
"'SANDLYNG-RAWSON.—On the 28th ult., at St. Jude's, Aynswell-street, W., George Arthur Sandlyng, of the Priory, Parkham, Bucks, to Edith, daughter of Colonel Rawson, V.C.'
"Had I considered this paragraph in the light of common sense I would not have acted as I did.
"In the first place, I should have recollected that Rawson was no rare name, and that the combination of names, Edith Rawson, might occur in any other branch of the Rawson family than the one in which were centred all my hopes.
"I might, too, have made the following deduction: When I left England, ten years before, the Colonel had not the letters V.C. after his name. As far as I was aware he had not been engaged in active warfare since. Suppose, though, he had, and had won the Victoria Cross, would it not have been reasonable to suppose that ten years would have seen his promotion to a generalship, particularly if his conduct had been so conspicuous as to merit the award of the coveted V.C.?
"But I did not stop to take a rational view of the matter. To me, then, there was no doubt but that Edith—my Edith—had broken her vows to me, and had married. I was filled with murderous thoughts. For the time I was mad."
"I left the barracks and made my way into the lowest and commonest quarter of the city. My own idea was to drown my thoughts, to forget myself, Edith, and the world, even if only for an hour or so. The sight of the familiar sign of the opium den over a low door stopped me in my mad ramble. Here was the chance of banishing my thoughts and misery. I entered. A hideous old Chinaman barred my way, but satisfying himself that I was not an objectionable person, he turned and led me down into the dark den itself. An unoccupied ottoman in a corner took my fancy. I flung myself down. Simultaneously a soft voice asked me in English what I required. At first I fancied I was a prey to my imagination. The voice was so soft, so gentle, that I thought it was hers—Edith's.
"Then I looked round full into the face of a maiden who leaned over me, so close that I felt her warm breath on my cheek as she repeated the words that had roused me from my drowsiness. She was in allrespects the loveliest native girl I ever saw—so slim, so bright-eyed, and so charmingly clad, that for the moment I forgot my misery in contemplation of her exceptional beauty.
"'You speak English?' I remarked.
"'Yes, indeed,' she murmured, seating herself gracefully on the arm of the couch; 'it is so much prettier than my own language.'
"'And what are you doing in this—er—hell?' I could not refrain from asking. She formed such a striking contrast to her surroundings.
"'Hush!' she responded quietly, and raised her finger in warning, placing it almost upon my lips. 'Hush, they may not all be asleep.' And she waved her arm, bare to the elbow, in the direction of the motionless forms recumbent on the other couches in the cellar.
"'What is your name?' I whispered, as I perceived that she was not averse to conversation.
"'Lilla,' she replied, blushing under her dark skin. I noticed that she had a little pipe in her hand. 'Half?' she asked.
"'No,' I said, 'not yet. I want a talk. That is, if you don't mind.'
"Again she blushed, and settled herself down at the foot of the ottoman. 'You know you're in danger here?' she muttered interrogatively.
"'Why?' I asked, in no way alarmed, though.
"'Well,' she replied, gazing into my eyes, 'queer things happen here occasionally which would cause some talk were they to become known.' She shrugged her little shoulders suggestively. She was certainly a bewitching girl.
"'You are an officer?' she asked.
"'Yes,' I replied, foolishly betraying the fact, when, dressed as I was in civilian attire, I might have passed as a merchant or some other English resident of the city.
"For the moment I confess I was bewitched—powerless in the hands of the dark-eyed girl whose life was spent in such strange surroundings.
"For many an hour we sat there—she at the foot, I at the head of the couch, and our conversation disturbed a silence only broken occasionally by the heavy breathing or moans of one or other of the motionless figures stretched round us.
"'Lilla' told me much about herself and about those that kept the den. The latter were a native and his Chinese wife, the parents of 'Lilla,' which was an abbreviation of some eight-syllabled name by which she was known in her peculiar family circle.
"Yes, she had always lived in the den, she told me, and had waited upon the customers since amere child. She was now only seventeen, and confessed she was unmarried. She further told me that she intended doing what the English call marrying money, even questioning me, to my embarrassment, on my financial position.
"As the serpent bewitches, hypnotises, and eventually snares the rabbit, so I began to feel that this maiden of the opium den was beginning to bewitch me. Not that I was, or have been, an impressionable man, unusually susceptible to feminine attack, though I have, as you, my son, may have discovered, always been of a weak disposition. I do not know, either, whether, by permitting myself to fall a victim to 'Lilla's' charms, I was, in the words of a common expression, 'cutting off my nose to spite my face'—impotently avenging Edith's treatment of me by falling in love—no other words express my behaviour—with the first female I met after learning of what I believed to be her fickle inconstancy.
"I am more than inclined to think that the native girl was imbued with those powers that so many of even the humblest Indian folks possess—a power that, unfortunately, is getting a firm rooting in this country—that of mesmeric influence over a weaker mind!
"It will be sufficient for me to say that I foundmyself quite powerless in the girl's hands. I told her the story of my life and love when she requested me to do so. I seemed unable to hide anything from her. I went so far as to mention that a severe punishment would result were it discovered that I had visited the den, the cholera then ravishing the country, and the troops, including the officers, being under special orders not to visit the particularly afflicted quarters of the town.
"And this remark of mine must have been the cause of all my future trouble and misery—and, probably, of my death!
"The first day I remained in ignorance of the secrets of the opium den, and of that of opium smoking. But when I left, long after nightfall, it was with a promise on my lips that I would return next day, and I did. Strive as I might I could not battle against the invisible power that drew me, on the following afternoon, to the low opium den.
"This time I was horrified on entering the dim cellar to see Lilla curled up on a sofa with the stem of an opium pipe between her pearly teeth. Otherwise the room was empty. Not until afterwards did I discover the reason, which was that one of the visitors of the previous day had been seized with the terrible disease, and that either he had communicated the scourge to the other smokers whohaunted the den, or the habitués had been too frightened by what they saw to return!
"On closer investigation I discovered that a glass of neat spirit stood on the table at the girl's right hand! That the lovely young girl was an opium smoker and a drinker of undiluted spirit seemed too horrible. Instinctively I recoiled from her, and as she seemed half asleep, commenced to make my way from the room.
"The sounds I made caused her to awake.
"'Ah! it is the Sahib,' she murmured; 'come, come, and kiss Lilla.'
"How I had been deceived! How blind I had been! The girl who had bewitched and fascinated me on the previous day was now revealed in her true light. Now she seemed something despicable, hateful, loathsome. The beauty that I admired seemed to have vanished. The creature now appeared to be hideous. Whether the revulsion of feeling caused a permanent blindness of my eyes to her beauty I cannot say. Knowing what I do of India and its mysteries—mysteries that scientists have failed to solve—I am more than inclined to think that the girl was never so beautiful as she first appeared to me. My very eyes had been deceived before now by the marvellous tricks of the native conjurers and fakirs. In my own mind, I have noshadow of doubt that the girl Lilla, by the powers she possessed, led me to imagine the charms I had only a day before seen in her, and by means of which she had fascinated me.
"Her words and the sight of her enraged as well as disgusted me.
"'You she-devil!' I shouted. Then I stopped because words failed me.
"The girl showed no astonishment at the epithet I had bestowed upon her. Instead, she softly stepped down from the sofa and glided, snake-like it seemed to me, towards where I stood.
"'You shall kiss me,' she hissed, and again I was impressed by her resemblance to a serpent.
"Even when I attempted to cast her away as she crept nearer and nearer to me I felt that I was powerless. My loathing for this creature was none the less, yet I could not prevent her from pressing those cruel thin lips, that had seemed so rosy and fascinating on the previous day, against my cheek.
"'There,' she whispered; 'I knew you loved me, Harold. You must marry me!'
"You fiend!' I shrieked; 'I detest you—I loathe your very existence. Away! I will not stay for another moment under the same roof with you. Sorceress, you have ensnared me, but——'
"'My love,' she replied, beneath her breath, 'asyou say, you are ensnared. You are mine. You shall not leave this house until you are even more mine—until you are my husband.'
"Then as she spoke I suddenly became aware of the fact that a face was peering through the half-closed door of the den—a shrivelled, yellow face, with oval slits of eyes, which were directed towards me.
"Then, evidently perceiving I was aware of this fact, the door was pushed open, and a hideous Chinese woman shuffled in, at once engaging Lilla in conversation in her native tongue.
"From what I gathered the woman was the mother of the girl!
"With startling suddenness the elder female turned on me after a moment's conversation with Lilla.
"'Sahib likee mazinloree?' she said with an intonation that implied a question.
"I shook my head, not understanding the creature's remark.
"'She says, "Does the gentleman like his mother-in-law?"' explained Lilla, with a leering laugh.
"'I have had enough of this nonsense,' I shouted, bubbling over with rage; 'let me pass or I shall clear you both out of the way.'
"'No marry this girlee?' asked the old hag.
"'No, once again,' I exclaimed, and I thrust the woman to one side, and found myself in the dark passage.
"'Ha—ha—ha!' screamed Lilla; 'how will you like it when we tell the General where you have been?'
"I stopped short, horrified by her words. At once I saw how I had been 'let in.' The diabolical cunning of the enchantress—the siren—was only too plain. Unless I married Lilla she would report my visit to the forbidden quarter to the commanding officer at the barracks.
"'Tell me,' I said, ill-disguising my rage, 'how much you want!'
"'Hundred thousand seventee hundred 'pees,' giggled the old woman.
"'Nothing,' laconically remarked Lilla.
"'Name your price, you witch,' I said to the girl.
"'Your love,' she replied, in a tone that caused me to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself from striking her.
"There was the soft pat-pat of footsteps in the passage; then I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Turning, I confronted a gigantic Hindoo in gorgeous costume, who had come upon us from whence I did not know.
"'This is the man?' he asked Lilla in Hindustani, a language with which I had a passing acquaintance.
"The girl replied in the affirmative. 'He refuses,' she added.
"The other evidently knew who I was, for, learning this intelligence, he at once sprang upon me, bearing me to the ground. Then I felt a sudden sharp blow on my throat, and I lost consciousness."
"When I recovered I found myself in a pitch-dark room. A terrible pain in my neck when I first moved was the first reminder of what had gone before.
"With difficulty (for I was weak and faint) I rose to my feet, thankful that, at any rate, I was not bound or fettered in any way. The darkness was unbearable. I sought the pocket in which I kept my vesta-case. It was empty, as were all my pockets. My watch was gone, likewise my cigar-case, match-box, scarf-pin, and, in fact, everything of any value. Fortunately, I discovered a couple of matches loose in my waistcoat pocket. One of these I struck on the sole of my boot. The bright light almost blinded me, but, after a moment, I was able to discover that I was in a large empty room. Empty? No, for what was that dark object in the far corner? I crept over towards it.
"It was the prostrate body of a man! Moreover, it was an Englishman, and a fellow-officer with whom I was very intimate. And he was dead.
"What did it mean? How came Lieutenant Aubrey in the cellar (for such it was) of an opium den? Of what had he died? Not till afterwards did I learn of the man who had been seized with cholera in the den on the previous day. Otherwise I might have thought, for the moment, that my brother officer and the unhappy wretch were one and the same. But something about the position of the body caused me to give it a further investigation.
"Then I perceived that, without a doubt, Aubrey had been the victim of foul play. He had been murdered!
"What seemed even more significant to me, bearing in mind the nature of my own attack by the gigantic Hindoo, was that the head of the corpse was almost entirely twisted off. The face looked upward, pale, grim, and terrible; yet the body lay on the stomach. A thin red line was marked across the throat. The neck was evidently broken.
"'What did it mean?' I asked myself again and again.
"My last match had died out, burning my fingers. I was alone in an empty room—empty save for that terrible thing in the corner.
"And the door was securely fastened from without.
"There was some kind of window, though, the bars of which, though stout, were rusty, as was their setting.
"Gifted, for the moment, with almost super-human strength, I managed to remove two or three of these, and then raised myself on to the ledge. I saw that it was pitch dark, and could not tell whether there was an easy drop or no. However, there was only one thing to do. I must risk it. And I did. Fortunately, I only had to fall a few feet. Then I found myself in a small courtyard.
"How I made my way out of this, what streets I traversed, and how long it took me to reach the barracks I do not know. I recollect being challenged more than once. But I made no reply, and in the darkness I passed through unobserved until I reached some kind of a shed, in which I fell down and slept heavily until daybreak.
"Of course, my absence had been noticed, as had that of Aubrey. Hurriedly deciding my course of action, I craved an interview with the commanding officer, Sir Bromley Lestrange, who had always been most kind and sympathetic to me in the matter of my love affairs, concerning which I had told him all.
"My first idea was to invent some satisfactoryexplanation of my absence, making no reference to my discovery of Aubrey's dead body, or to the fact that I had laid myself open so indiscreetly to infection.
"To a stranger I might have been able to invent a tissue of lies, but to a friend, no. Accordingly, in the privacy of his own chamber, I told Sir Bromley the whole story. His horror on learning my news was as great as mine had been on perceiving how I had been ensnared by the girl Lilla, and more so when I made the gruesome discovery in the empty room.
"'We must hush this up—that's quite clear,' said Sir Bromley; 'it would never do to publish these facts abroad. Young Aubrey was no doubt drawn to the opium den by the same devilish means as those employed in your case. It will be a lesson to you, Carrington. But of that more anon. First we must recover poor Aubrey's body, and have it decently buried. Then we must do all in our power to have the wretches in the den handed over to justice. I think I can manage this quietly. Leave me now, and I will arrange the best I can. I am sorry for you, truly sorry, Carrington, but you might have expected it.' I knew that in his last sentence he referred to the paragraph in theTimes, for I had not withheld any of the facts from him.
"I took my departure shortly after, first explaining the exact locality in which the opium den was to be found.
"My misconduct was never known to anyone but Sir Bromley. Consequently, it was with unusual regret I learned a year or so back that the General had died suddenly of heart disease in India. I left the regiment shortly after, under circumstances I will proceed to explain, and never saw Lestrange again, but I cherish the memory of his kindness and leniency to this day.
"I subsequently learned that a police raid had been made on the premises of the opium den, when the body of Lieutenant Aubrey was found, and secretly returned to the barracks. I forget exactly how his death was explained, but as we had one or two cases of fever in the hospital about that time, I presume his relatives were led to believe that the young man succumbed to that disease.
"Of course, on discovering that I had escaped, or, perhaps, immediately after robbing me of all I possessed, the proprietors of the opium den decamped.
"But the corpse of my unhappy fellow-officer afforded a distinct clue to the clever, but lazy, native police. Aubrey had been slain by Phansigars, or, as they are better known to the world, Thugs!
"The police were able to inform us, from my description, that Lilla was a well-known 'sotha,' or entrapper. How many victims she had secured for her terrible gang the police did not know, but she was considered a queen among her people—a position she owed to the fact that she had bewitched and ensnared more victims than any other candidate for the nominal honour. The old Chinese woman, her mother, was a 'guru,' or teacher, her occupation being the instructing of children in the art of Thugee—the so-called religion of Kalee, the goddess of scientific murder. The giant Hindoo, who was the husband of Lilla, combined the callings of 'bhuttote,' which means strangler with the noose, and 'lughaee' (grave-digger). There were several other members of the gang, which subsisted entirely on plunder.
"Once on the track of these inhuman scoundrels, the police quickly managed to effect the arrest of the whole gang, with the single exception of Lilla (or the girl I knew by that name). The latter was never captured.
"Exactly what punishment was meted out to the captives I never learned. I feel sure, though, that the death sentence was passed upon them, for the treatment of Thugs is very severe in India, as it necessarily should be.
"The strangest part of my story still remains to be told.
"A few months later I was walking down an almost deserted street in Madras, when my attention was arrested by a roll of thin yellow parchment lying in the pathway, and on which was written my own name!
"Very naturally I picked up the sheet, and, unrolling it, was astounded to read the following message in Hindustani:—
"'My baby was born nine days ago. Siva (the husband of Kalee) has decreed that it should be a male. My vengeance will be slow. The boy shall be brought up as an expert "Phansigar" (another name for "Strangler") until he shall have reached manhood in five-and-twenty years. He shall be taught to avenge his father, and, as his father's and mother's son, shall give his life for that purpose and the fraternity. I am dying, but my mother will bring him up, and, after eight years, sixteen years, and four-and-twenty years, shall inform you of his progress, lest you forget the day when you despised Lilla, the "sotha." When five-and-twenty years shall have passed away, your doom shall be sealed by Lilla's gift to the world. If you are dead, then shall the doom descend upon your dear ones. The curse of Devi (another name forKalee) be upon you, but not until five-and-twenty years have passed. In those years all that you shall do will prosper, but there shall be no peace for you, for the doom of Kalee and Siva shall rest upon you and your seed until that which I have prophesied shall have come to pass.'
"To say that I was frightened by the words in this strange letter would be to exaggerate my feelings. In those days I did not know what I do now about the Thugs and their so-called religion, or I should have given more heed to the warning. One thing I did, that was to lay the letter before Sir Bromley, who took a very grave view of it.
"'Those Thugs,' he said, with an ominous shake of his head, 'are devils. No other word can be so aptly applied to them. I have made a study of their art, for such it is, and I can say that there are thousands of authentic cases in which they have done marvels—really marvels—of brutality. Beware, my boy! If I were you I would try to change my regiment, and get out of the country as quickly as possible. Murder is not as uncommon in this part of the Queen's Empire as you might think; and the relatives of these captured Thugs would consider that they had done a good deed if they were able to put an end to your existence.'
"It was not for this reason, though, that I returnedto England shortly after. The fact was, I learned, about this time, that a man in London, for whom I had once been able to do a good turn, had recently died, bequeathing to me a sum of money which would, at any rate, make it unnecessary for me to work for my daily bread. 'Ah!' I thought, when I heard the good news, 'if only Edith had waited a few months longer!'"
"And so it came about that I returned to the old country, and, out of mere politeness, discovered old Colonel Rawson's address, and called one afternoon. I was ushered into the drawing-room, where sat a lady, whom I at once recognised as my beloved Edith.
"'Harold!' she cried, as she sprang forward.
"I looked at her left hand. There was no ring on the third finger!
"It was, as you, my son, may have suspected, all a mistake (how costly a one you have yet to learn) on my part. The Edith Rawson who had married was not even any relative of my Edith.
"Within three months, though, the latter was a bride.
"In the midst of all my happiness there was one troubling thought that disturbed me more than anyone knew.
"The prophecy contained in the parchment was coming true!
"I mean that prosperity had been promised mefor the five-and-twenty years that would elapse before the child which, according to the message sent me in so mysterious a fashion, had then just been born should reach what was evidently considered by his people his majority. Had I not experienced that prosperity in receiving the unexpected legacy and winning for my wife the woman whom I had believed to have proved false to me? But I felt that twenty-five years was a long time. It was no use worrying about a possible calamity in the distant future. And so I forgot the weird prophecy and my connection with India, and settled down to the four years of bliss that were my portion before you, my son, were born, and my darling, in giving you birth, sacrificed her own dear life.
"That was not prosperity, you will say; and I agree to a certain extent. But if she had not died perhaps I might, and then—if there was anything in the prophecy—the doom of the girl Lilla might have fallen upon her instead of upon me. But to proceed with my actual narrative.
"It was nearly four years after my Edith's death when I received a letter bearing an Indian stamp and a blurred postmark that I was unable to decipher. It was addressed to me at the War Office, with instructions to be forwarded, in a shaky handwriting—the work, probably, of an old man; andthe sheet contained in the dirty, thin envelope bore the single word—'Remember!'
"My feelings on receiving this epistle from a world that I had come to hope was dead to me were indescribable. I had learned from Sir Bromley some years before that the police believed Lilla was dead, since another queen had been appointed for the district over which my enchantress had held nominal sway, and thus I had put less belief in the prophecy contained in the parchment letter; but now, with the knowledge that my existence had not been forgotten by the Thugs, a great fear for my life came upon me.
"It was impossible for me to change my name, as my friends would have required some explanation of my conduct, and such explanation I should not feel inclined to give. One thing I could do—I could become a civilian, and give up all connection with the army. This I accordingly did. I took the Manse at Northden, in Yorkshire, managed to persuade people to call me and address me as Squire instead of Major Carrington, dropped the latter title altogether, and as my friends died or were lost sight of, I found as years went by that my connection with the Indian Army or any other army was unknown, or, at any rate, forgotten. The name Carrington I knew was no rare one, and I accordinglyhoped that I should never be recognised as the Major Carrington who had visited the Madras opium den, and fallen a victim to the charms of the queen of the Thugs.
"Eight years passed after the receipt of the letter from India; then one day I caught sight of a paragraph in the agony column of theTelegraph, which caused me to shudder and dream of all manner of horrible things for months. The paragraph consisted only of a couple of words, and, I found, it had appeared for a week in every London paper.
"This was it—'Carrington, remember!'
"For fear of revealing my identity I took no steps to inquire at the offices of the newspapers whence the instructions for the insertion of the message had come. I should probably have done myself no good by making such inquiries.
"I knew well what those harmless-looking words meant. Sixteen years had passed since I had found the parchment in the deserted roadway. Only nine remained.
"From that day forward I have had no real peace of mind. Perhaps I have appeared harsh to you, my boy. Have I not had cause enough to make me irritable? I have made a point of never mentioning your mother to you, for several reasons. In the first place, it would be most painful for meto do so. In the second, you might have discovered that Miss Edith Rawson (had I told you your mother's maiden name) had married a Major Carrington. An explanation would then have been necessary, and I had no wish to burden you with the secret which has ruined my life.
"The third message from across the seas reached me a few months ago, and was the cause of all the precautions I adopted. It was, as before, a paragraph in the agony column of the leading London newspapers, and ran—'Carrington, the bhuttote (strangler) left Madras to-day.'
"Possibly, those who had heard the queer name were puzzled by the message. You will understand how plain it was to me. It meant that my doom was sealed; that from that day forward I was in the position of a hunted criminal—to be hunted down by a more tireless, more terrible sleuth-hound than any that Scotland Yard possesses.
"The rest you know, or most of it. How the son of 'Lilla' found me out I cannot say. As I have stated, the marvellous powers possessed by these Thugs are terrible, beyond the realisation of the ordinary European. That he has done so you know. Now you know, too, why I would tell you nothing about my secret, why I would not assist you in your investigations, why I would not allow adetective to enter my house. What good would a hundred detectives do when this creature is so determined to slay me at any cost? The attack on the moor is known to you. It is but a few hours since that happened. I am writing these words in the full anticipation of their being perused by you, my son, within a few days, though I have requested that this book shall not be opened until after my death. Thank God, I have never been coward enough to take my life, and lay you open to the attack of the avenger. If you have ever wondered whether my secret in any respect concerned your dear mother or your birth, set your mind at rest, and do not despise
"Your Loving Father."
There was silence for a few moments when the end of the Squire's story was reached. Then Laurence said—
"The mystery is well-nigh solved. We can now see what blunders we have made, how we have unjustly suspected 'Doctor Meadows' (or whatever his name is), and been led a dance by the freaks of coincidence. Our suspect, Meadows, has proved to be not only innocent of the charges we brought against him, but the man who, by some means we have yet to learn, has been able to put into our hands the key to the mystery. But for him I should not have obtained access to this book, and without it we might have gone on blundering in the dark for months, or even years. Take my word for it, Miss Scott, we are neither of us born to be investigators of mystery."
"How dare you say so!" replied the girl, with pretended anger, "when I have this very day made a most startling discovery, which may lead to the revelation of 'Doctor Meadows'' secret."
"Oh," cried Laurence, "is that so? Of course, I mean that I am the poor hand at detective work, and you——"
"A poorer," Lena ended the sentence. "But for all that I really have made a strange discovery."
"Well, and what is it, if it is not criminal to ask?"
"You remember the envelope addressed to Major Jones-Farnell that we found in the garden?"
"Certainly. It was addressed in a lady's hand, from somewhere abroad; or, rather, from either Scotland, Wales, or Ireland, since it bore a penny stamp, and was marked 'England' in the address."
"Well, I have found out the name of the person who addressed that envelope to 'Doctor Meadows.'"
"And her name is that of someone I know well. I am convinced of that. Don't keep me in suspense any longer, please."
"Her name is that of someone you know very well—someone, though, that you know no better than I or auntie or—well, Kingsford does."
"What do you mean? Tell me, or I shall succumb to my anxiety." Laurence spoke in jest, but he was really more than interested to learn the identity of the "doctor's" fair correspondent.
"Well, then, the unknown lady is none other than the Princess H——!"
"The Princess H——! No; you must be mistaken. It cannot be!"
"Two people do not write the same 'fist,'" Lena responded, warmly. "Where have you seen that writing before?" she added, taking up a magazine from a table. Opening it at a page the corner of which had been turned down, she pointed to a facsimile autograph letter by Princess H——, the wife of Prince H——, whose death, under mysterious circumstances, had caused much gossip some years before, and who, as the mother of a little prince who, had he lived, would in due course have ruled over Queen Victoria's dominions, was one of the Royal celebrities of the day.
"Well, do you doubt your own eyes?" asked Lena quietly.
"No; I apologise," Laurence replied. "I agree with you that the 'doctor's' lady correspondent is Princess H——. The writings are precisely alike. There can be no doubt about it. You have made a most important discovery."
"Further, I can prove my theory, if proof is required. The Princess was residing at Dublin up to a few days ago. That was why she wrote 'England' at the end of 'Major Jones-Farnell's' address. What her connection is with this gentleman of aliases I cannot guess. The discovery, however, tells usone thing—that what the 'doctor' said about the nature of his secret was true."
"You mean that——"
"That he said if his secret was revealed to the world it would cause a general sensation—that it would do great harm to the world. The secret concerns the mysterious death of Prince H——!"
"But who, then, is 'Meadows'? What has he to do with secrets of such great importance?"
"That I cannot say, but I believe your father may know. Note this, though: your father denies the fact that he confided his secret to 'Doctor Meadows.' We have discovered that Meadows not only holds his secret, but has been bound by your father not to reveal it. If your father denies this, and is, nevertheless, really connected in some way with the 'doctor,' but will not confess to the fact, is it not possible that he, in his turn, knows something about Meadows' secret? I grant you that it does not follow that such is the case, but it is a distinct probability, to my mind."
Laurence could not reply. The argument was a fair one, but Lena's former hypothesis concerning Horncastle's connection with the attacks on the Squire's life had seemed so ingenious and probable a one and yet had been proved to be wrong in every particular.
"At any rate," he remarked, after a pause, "you will agree that we have reached the beginning of the end of this mystery?"
"Certainly; but we have yet much to learn. I doubt not but that the secret of 'Doctor Meadows' will prove less easy to solve than that of your father. I agree with Meadows that much of the mystery we have almost solved should have been explained long ago. The discovery that the Squire had been an Indian officer, coupled with the fact of the unknown assailant's agility, etcetera, should have suggested to us the possibility of the creature being a Thug. The Squire's story has revealed one thing—the reason why he fainted at my mention of the woman in coloured skirts. He thought the avenger had come in the person of Lilla herself (whom he believed to be dead), when what I had seen was this Indian, whose clothing must certainly be somewhat similar to that we associate with a female. Now we know, too, that the 'robbery' of the gardener's coat was effected in order that the assassin might be less recognisable. One thing, though, strikes me as strange. How did this creature learn to ride a bicycle?"
"You mustn't forget that India, like all other countries, is advancing with the times. No doubt the Thugs encourage such a form of athletics amongtheir children. Why he did not return the bicycle to the shed, though, seems difficult to understand; and what is another mystery to me is why he used a pistol on the first occasion, when that weapon is little known among the Thugs."
"Perhaps, finding it so difficult to get into the house and murder your father, he cast caution and his usual weapon to the winds, and essayed the attack on the moor. By chance he discovered the secret passages and room when lurking in that splendid hiding-place, the barn. Then, having lost his pistol, he entered the Squire's room by means of the secret door in the wall, and would have murdered the old man had it not been for the bat."
"But how do you know that the unexplored secret passage does lead to the Squire's room, as Meadows suggested that it might?"
"Because," replied Lena triumphantly, "I noticed that the wardrobe in that room had been shifted since the Squire's return to consciousness, and for no apparent reason. Mrs. Featherston, moreover, informed me that it was moved at the Squire's particular request."
It was the following morning.
Nothing eventful had transpired since Laurence's return from Durley Dene, save that in the night watches the young man had fancied he heard occasional sounds from the garden of the adjoining mansion. What these sounds were he could not say, and as it was too dark for him to perceive anything outside when he rose and peered out of the window, he was unable to discover whether or no anything unusual had taken place.
The Squire's condition continued to improve, but he made no mention to his son of the little red note-book and the life story it contained; nor, in fact, did he in any way refer to the matter foremost in point of interest.
Laurence was breakfasting with Lena and Mrs. Knox, who, as usual, did justice to the array of dishes judiciously placed within her reach by the elderly butler. The three had been conversing upon every-day subjects, when the door opened, and Kingsford came hurriedly in.
"Please, sir," he said, "there's a man outside wants to see you very pertikler, at once, if you please."
Obtaining the ladies' permission for him to leave the table, Laurence followed the butler outside into the front hall, where stood a little man in a loud check suit and tight leggings. The man looked as though usually his face was rubicund; now it was white as the traditional sheet.
"Oh, my God, Mr. Laurence!" he almost shrieked on catching sight of Carrington; "they're after him! They'll kill him! They'll tear him in pieces! Quick, quick! What can be done, sir? Oh, they'll hang me for murder!"
"Calm yourself, my dear Nichols," replied Laurence, "and tell me distinctly what's the matter. Anything happened to the Marquis?"
"No, sir," replied Nichols, trembling with fear; "the Markiss's all right, but it's your visitor!"
"What visitor?"
"Why, the gent with the black face and the dress!"
"Gent with black face and dress!" echoed Laurence. "Quick, what do you mean? What has happened to him?"
"I was taking Tiger and Nap for exercise, sir, when suddenly, as though they scented somethingunusual, they both jumped forward, knocking me down. When I fell down I let loose of the leash, and they simply flew away across the fields in this direction—me after them. I vaulted the gate by the common in time to catch sight of a queer little gent with black face and an old black coat, and some kind of dress on, tearing down the road with the hounds after him. I tried to follow, but lost sight of 'em in no time. Then I ran back as hard as I could for a horse, and a lad at the gate told me he'd seen the black gent come out of your gate. Let me have the mare, sir, quick."
"Yes, yes! Fetch her out at once. I will follow you on my bicycle." And the two men rushed from the house.
Laurence knew in an instant what had happened.
The Marquis of Moorland's savage bloodhounds were in pursuit of the Squire's enemy—the Thug!
Two minutes later Nichols (one of the Marquis's coachmen) was thundering down the road on the bare-backed mare, while Laurence, pedalling as hard as he could, followed close behind.
Villagers were scattered about along the lane. They shrieked out that the hounds had passed a few minutes before.
On and on the riders sped, Nichols freely using the hunting crop he had caught up on leaving theManse stables. Still there was no sign of either the hounds or their quarry.
There were trees at intervals along the narrow lane. Out of one of these, as the riders passed, there protruded a head and a white startled face. Laurence glanced up, though knowing well that it could not be that of the Thug, since the bloodhounds were not visible.
To his astonishment he perceived that the man who had taken refuge in the tree was Horncastle, the convict servant from Durley Dene!
Now they had left the village—straggling though it was—far behind them. The road began to get steeper and steeper. They were ascending to the great moor. The pace began to tell upon the mare, and Laurence, being out of training, was beginning to feel pains in his calves; but still they kept on, the cyclist now abreast with the horseman.
How was it possible that a man on foot could keep up such a pace?—such was Nichols' thought. Laurence did not wonder. His father's story—contained in the little red note-book—had opened his eyes to the weird and wonderful accomplishments of the Thugs, and he had seen the activity demonstrated by this particular individual in the barn.
The road now became more and more uneven.In places the grass grew upon it. It had formerly been used by carriers' and other carts, but the advent of the railway had thrown it into disuse. Now it was seldom, if ever, that a cart passed along it.
Once the mare stumbled and nearly fell, but Nichols managed to retain his seat. Then, with a din only equalled by the report of a gun, the tyre of the front wheel of Laurence's bicycle punctured, terrifying the already alarmed mare, who was cantering abreast of the cyclist. But neither stopped. The work for both cyclist and horse was becoming harder, the incline steeper, and the surface of the pathway less even. But the pace did not suffer.
At last they were on the plateau. Now they could see for miles over the flat scrubby moorland, on which hardly a tree appeared to break the monotony of the scene. Yet, wonder of wonders, there was no sign either of the hounds or their victim! And yet they could not have turned off in any other direction. Here and there on the wet road impressions of dogs' toe-pads had been visible even from the saddle. What had become of the fleet-footed Thug, tracked to his doom by the fierce bloodhounds of the Marquis of Moorland? Nichols pulled up his mount, drew a powerful-looking whistle from his pocket, and blew a long, loud blast on it. Why he had not done so before was a mystery.
But there came no response.
It was impossible that either the man or the hounds could have disappeared out of sight, since, as has already been said, it was now possible to see for many miles across the flat country.
Nichols was wiping his ashy face with a red handkerchief.
"Good Lord, sir, what shall we do?" he moaned. "Those dogs are worth two hundred pounds, and—the gent, what's become of him?"
"Goodness only knows," replied Laurence. "They have all disappeared as though the earth had swallowed them up!" Then, as he uttered the words, an idea struck him.
Had the earth really swallowed them up?
"Come!" he shouted; "the Wizard's Marsh!" But on the rough, uneven surface of the ground he could not proceed on his machine.
"Leave the mare where she is," he called to Nichols, as he jumped from his bicycle and threw it down; "leave the mare, and let us run over to the marsh. Perhaps this——" But his words were lost, save to the sharp north wind, for he had rushed forward in the direction of a stone pillar that rose some thousands of yards on.
That stone quaintly announced that to proceed any farther in a certain direction would be fatal.The traveller would suddenly step from hard, dry ground into a dark, fathomless depth of marsh, half a mile square—a grim pitfall for the unwary, of Nature's design, known to the local yarn-spinners as the "Wizard's Marsh," and to geologists as a queer and interesting natural freak.
Fresher than his companion, the young coachman quickly overtook Laurence, and the two coursed along in the direction of the venerable moss-grown warning stone. In places there were dots of marsh, in which the runners' feet sank to the ankle; but, heedless of anything in their excitement, they did not pause until the stone was reached.
Then, treading with the utmost caution, they commenced to circle the treacherous quagmire, seeking for some trace of the vanished man and his savage canine pursuers. And they did not search in vain.
Suddenly Nichols stopped. Pointing to a mark on the ground, he exclaimed—
"Someone has stepped here lately. A man in stockinged feet."
"That's right," cried Laurence; "the Indian does not wear boots."
"And never will," replied the coachman grimly. "His body and the hounds have gone down, down into the marsh. See, here is the mark of one of thehounds. They have all gone down together. Oh, Lord, how awful, and all my fault!"
"No, not your fault, Nichols. You couldn't help the hounds escaping. They scented the Indian, and for some reason or other started in pursuit. But what's this?" He bent down, picked up something that lay on the very brink of the bubbling marsh, and examined it.
It was a long, narrow strip of yellowish hairy cloth—the harmless-looking weapon by means of which the Thug had attempted the murder of Squire Carrington!
No possible shadow of doubt remained but that the terrible avenger from over the sea had perished in the Wizard's Marsh.
The Squire's dread and danger were at an end. His merciless foe was no more.