Any stranger looking along the terrace at Ravenspur would have been inclined to envy the lot of those who had their habitation there. It looked so grand, so dignified, so peaceful. Brilliant sunshine shone upon the terrace; against the grey stone of the grand old façade, the emerald green of the lawns rose refreshing to the eyes, those old lawns like velvet that only come with the passing of centuries.
People from the rush and fret of cities, excursionists, who had their sordid, humdrum life in towns, turned longing eyes to Ravenspur. Anybody who lived in a place like that must be happy.
And some of them looked it. Geoffrey, for instance, as he lounged on the terrace with a cigarette between his strong white teeth. He was seated with a cap over his eyes and appeared to be given over to a pleasant reverie. A rod and an empty fishing basket stood by his side.
Ralph Ravenspur lounged up to him. Perhaps he had been waiting for his nephew. At any rate, he always knew where to find him. He sat with the sunshine full upon his sightless eyes and smoked his pipe placidly.
"There is nobody about?" he asked.
"Nobody," Geoffrey replied. "Do you want to say anything to me?"
Ralph made no reply. Geoffrey watched him curiously.
"Do you know you seem to be a long way off to me this afternoon?" he said presently. "I can't quite explain mymeaning. Since you have worn those glasses you look a different man. There, now you are yourself again."
Ralph had taken off the glasses for a moment.
"Is the difference very marked?" Ralph asked.
"Very marked, indeed. Honestly, I should not have known you."
Ralph gave a sigh, whether of sorrow or satisfaction Geoffrey could not say.
"Time will prove whether the disguise is of any value or not," he said. "I came to ask you about this evening. Are you going?"
"Of course I am. Mrs. Mona May fascinates me. On the whole, I have deemed it advisable to say nothing to the others. We cannot call upon Mrs. May and they need not know that I have had any intercourse with her."
Ralph nodded. Perhaps he alone knew the real need for secrecy in this matter.
"Quite right," he said. "The less said the better. She wrote to you, of course?"
"Oh, yes. I had the letter yesterday."
"And destroyed it, of course?"
"Upon my word, I've forgotten. I see you are angry with me. Well, I will try not to make a similar mistake again."
From the expression of his face Ralph was greatly moved. His features flamed with anger, he was trembling with passion to his finger-tips. Then his mood suddenly changed. He laid a kindly hand on Geoffrey's knee.
"My boy," he said, earnestly. "There are reasons, weighty reasons why I cannot take you entirely into my confidence. If I did so, you would see the vital necessity of caution even in the most minute matters. You will see that Mrs. May's letter is destroyed at once."
"I will, uncle. The rest of the family believe I am going to Alton to-night."
Ralph nodded. He seemed already to have forgotten the circumstances. He had fallen into one of those waking reveries that were deep as sleep to most men. Geoffreyspoke to him more than once, but failed to gain the slightest attention. Then Ralph rose and moved away like a man in a dream.
Geoffrey lounged about till he had finished his cigarette. He tossed the end away and then proceeded towards the house. He would get that letter and destroy it without further delay. But this was easier said than done, for the simple reason that the letter was nowhere to be found. High and low Geoffrey searched for it, but all to no purpose.
Had he left it in the dining-room or the library? Possibly in the latter place, seeing that he had written a couple of notes there earlier in the day. It was dim, not to say gloomy in the library, and for a moment Geoffrey failed to see that Vera was seated at the table.
He crossed over and touched her caressingly on the cheek. She looked up coldly.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"A letter, dearest," Geoffrey replied. "But why do you look so strange——"
"Oh, you ask me that! It is a letter you are looking for. Then perhaps I may be so fortunate as to assist you. I have just found a letter lying here addressed to you. As it lay with face open I could not but read it. See here!"
A square of thick scented notepaper filled with a dashing black caligraphy shook before Geoffrey's eyes. It was Mrs. May's writing beyond a doubt. Geoffrey flushed slightly as he took the note.
"Read it," Vera said quietly, "read it aloud."
Geoffrey did so. It struck him now—it had never occurred to him before—that the writer was slightly caressing in her manner of phrasing. There was a suggestion of something warmer and more personal than the stereotyped lines implied.
"So this is the Alton where you are going to-night?" Vera went on. "Who is the woman? How long have you known her?"
The quick blood came flaming to Geoffrey's face. He had never seen Vera hard and cold like this before. It was a woman and not a girl who was speaking now. Geoffrey resented the questions; they came as a teacher addresses a child.
"I cannot tell you," he said. "It has to do with the family secret."
"And you expect me to believe this, Geoffrey?"
"Of course I do," Geoffrey cried. "Did you ever know me tell you a lie? And, after all the years we have been together, you are going to be jealous of the first woman who comes along! Have I been mistaken in you, Vera?"
The girl's beautiful eyes filled with tears. She had been sorely vexed and hurt, far more hurt than she cared Geoffrey to know. For it seemed to her that he had wilfully deceived her, that he was going to see this creature of whom he was secretly ashamed, that he had lied so that he could seek her company without suspicion in the minds of others.
"If you give me your word of honor," Vera faltered, "that you——"
"No, no," Geoffrey cried. "I merely state the facts and you may believe them or not as you please. Who Mrs. May is I decline to say. How I became, acquainted with her I also decline to explain. Suffice it that she is Mrs. May, and that she has rooms at Jessop's farm."
"And that is all you are going to tell me, Geoffrey?"
"Yes, Vera. If you have lost faith in me——"
"Oh, no, no! Don't say such cruel things, Geoff. Whom have I beyond my parents and you in the whole world! And when I found that letter, when I knew what you said about Alton was—was not true——"
She paused unable to proceed. Her little hands went out imploringly and Geoffrey caught them in his own. He drew her to his side and gazed into her eyes.
"Darling," he whispered, "you know that I love you?"
"Yes, dear, it was foolish of me to doubt it."
"I love you now and always. I can never change. Idid not intend to tell you about this woman because it was all part of the secret. The wise man among us has said it, and his word is law. I am speaking of Uncle Ralph."
Vera nodded with a brighter glance. Had not she a secret in common with Ralph?
"Say no more," she whispered. "I am ashamed of myself."
Geoffrey kissed the quivering red lips passionately.
"Spoken like my own, Vera," he said. "Now I will give you my word of honor——"
"No, no. It is not necessary, Geoff. I was foolish. I might have known better. Not another thought will I give to Mrs. Mona May."
Vera spoke in all sincerity. But our thoughts are often our masters and they were so in this case. Mona May was a name graven on Vera's mind, and the time was coming when with fervent gratitude she blessed the hour when she had found that letter.
Mrs. Jessop's simple parlor had been transformed beyond recognition. The fine Chippendale furniture had been brought forward; the gaudy settees and sofas had been covered with fine, Eastern silks and tapestries. A pair of old Dresden candlesticks stood on the table, and under pink shades the candles cast a glamor of subdued light upon damask and silver and china.
As Geoffrey was ushered in Mrs. May came forward. She was dressed entirely in black, her wonderfully fine arms and shoulders gleamed dazzling almost as the diamonds that were as frosty stars in the glorious night of her hair. One great red bloom of some flower unknown to Geoffrey was in her breast. As to the rest, the flowers were all scarlet. The effect was slightly dazzling.
Mrs. May came forward with a smile.
"So you have managed to elude the Philistines," she said. "Ah, I guessed that you would say nothing to your friends about our little dinner."
There was an eager note in the words that conveyed a half question. Geoffrey smiled.
"May I venture to suggest that the knowledge is not displeasing to you?" he said.
"Well, I admit it. In the circumstances to explain would have been a bore. Your people cannot call on me and, being old-fashioned, they might not care for you to come here alone. Therefore, being a man of the world, you told them nothing about it."
Geoffrey smiled, as he took the proffered cigarette. Had he not been warned against this woman by Ralph,her subtle flattery would have put him off his guard. It is always so sweet and soothing for a youngster to be taken for a man of the world.
"You have guessed it all," he said. "My grandfather is a grand seigneur. He has no toleration for anything that is noten règle. What an exquisite cigarette!"
Mrs. May nodded. They were excellent cigarettes, as also was the liqueur she insisted upon pouring out for Geoffrey with her own hands. He had never tasted anything like it before.
And the dinner when it came was a perfect little poem in its way. Not a flask of wine on the table that had not a history. Long before the meal was over Geoffrey found himself forgetting his caution.
Not that Geoffrey had anything to be afraid of. He knew that in some way this woman was connected with the tragedy of his race; for all that he knew to the contrary, she might be the spirit directing the tragedies.
She was his enemy, though she smiled upon him with a dazzling fascination calculated to turn cooler heads than his. But, at any rate, she had not asked him here to poison him at her own table. Mrs. Mona May was too fine an artist for that.
Presently Geoffrey came out of his dream to find himself talking. Mrs. May seemed to be putting all the questions and he was giving all the answers. And yet, directly, she asked no questions at all. She was sympathetic and interested in the family, as she explained with kindness and feeling.
"And there is that poor blind gentleman," she said sweetly.
Her eyes were bent over her dessert plate. She was peeling a peach daintily. There was just for the fraction of a second a ring in her voice that acted on Geoffrey as a cold douche does to a man whose senses are blurred with liquor. Some instinct told him that they were approaching the crux of the interview.
"My uncle Ralph," he said carelessly. "He is amystery. He keeps himself to himself and says nothing to anybody. Sometimes I fancy he is a clever man, who despises us, and at other times I regard him as a man whose misfortunes have dulled his brain and that he strives to conceal the fact."
Mrs. May smiled. But she returned to the charge again. But strive as she would, she could get no more on this head out of Geoffrey. She wanted to know who the man was and all about him. And she learned nothing beyond the fact that he was a poor nonentity, despised by his relations. Geoffrey's open sincerity puzzled her. Perhaps there was nothing to learn after all.
"Strange that he did not stay away," she murmured, "knowing that the family curse must overtake him."
Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
"What can an unfortunate like that have to live for?" he asked. "He is broken in mind and in body and has no money of his own. It is just like the old fox who crawls to the hole to die. And we are getting used to the curse by this time."
"You have no hope, no expectation of the truth coming to light?"
It was on the tip of Geoffrey's tongue to speak freely of his hopes for the future. Instead he bent his head over the table, saying nothing till he felt he had full control of his voice once more. Then he spoke in the same hopeless tones.
"I have become a fatalist," he said. "Please change the subject."
Mrs. May did so discreetly and easily. And yet in a few moments the doings of the Ravenspurs were on her tongue again and, almost unconsciously, Geoffrey found himself talking about Marion, Mrs. May listening quietly.
"I have seen the young lady," she said. "She has a nice face."
"Marion is an angel," Geoffrey cried. "Her face is perfect. You have only to look at her to see what sheis. Nobody with a countenance like that could do wrong, even if she wished it. No matter who and what it is everybody comes under Marion's sway. Men, women, children, dogs, all turn to her with the same implicit confidence."
"Marion seems to be a warm favorite," Mrs. May smiled. "And yet I rather gather that she does not hold first place in your affections?"
"I am engaged to my cousin Vera," Geoffrey explained. "We were boy and girl lovers before Marion came to us. Otherwise—well, we need not go into that. But I never saw any one like Marion till to-night."
Mrs. May looked up swiftly.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked.
"I mean exactly what I say. In certain ways, in certain lights, under certain conditions your face is marvelously like that of Marion."
As Geoffrey spoke he saw that the blood had left the cheek of his companion. Her face was deadly pale, so pale that the crimson flower in her breast seemed to grow vivid. There was a motion of the elbow and a wine glass went crashing to the floor. The woman stooped to raise the fragments.
"How clumsy of me!" she said. "And why are you regarding me so intently? My heart is a little wrong, the doctors tell me—nothing serious, however. There!"
She looked up again. She had recovered and her face was tinged with the red flush of health again. But her hands still shook.
But Geoffrey was taking no heed.
He had dropped the match he was about to apply to his cigarette and was staring out of the window. The blind had not been drawn; the panes were framed with flowers.
And inside that dark circle there came a face, a dark Eastern face, with awful eyes, filled with agony and rage and pain. Across the dusky forehead was a cut from which blood streamed freely.
"You are not listening to me," Mrs. May cried. "What is the matter?"
"The face, a face at the window," Geoffrey gasped. "A horrible-looking man, not of this country at all; a man with a gash in his forehead. He seemed to be looking for something. When he caught sight of me he disappeared."
Mrs. May had risen and crossed to the long French window opening on to the lawn. Her back was towards Geoffrey and she seemed determined, or so he imagined, to keep her face concealed from him.
"Strange," she said, carelessly, though she was obviously disturbed. "Surely you were mistaken. Some trick of the brain, a freak of imagination."
Geoffrey laughed. Young men at his time of life, men, who follow healthy pursuits, are not given to tricks of the imagination. His pulse was beating steadily; his skin was moist and cool.
"I am certain of it," he said. "What is that noise?"
Something was calling down the garden. Long before this time the good people of the farm had gone to bed.
"Shall I go and see what it is?" Geoffrey asked.
"No, no," Mrs. May whispered. "Stay here, I implore you. I would not have had this happen for anything. What am I saying?"
She passed her hand cross her face and laughed unsteadily.
"There are secrets in everybody's life and there are in mine," she said. "Stay till I return. There will be no danger for me, I assure you."
She slipped out into the darkness and was gone. Geoffrey stooped and bent over a dark blot or two that lay on the stone still at the bottom of the window.
"Blood," he muttered, "blood beyond a doubt. It was no delusion of mine."
From outside came the swish of silken drapery. It was Mrs. May returning. She seemed herself again by this time.
"The danger is past," she said, "if danger you choose to call it. The next time we meet we shall laugh together over this comedy. I assure you it is a comedy. And now I am going to ask you to leave me."
The woman was playing a part and playing it extremely well. With less innate knowledge, Geoffrey would have been thoroughly deceived. As it was, he affected to make light of the matter. He held out his hand with a smile.
"I am glad of that," he said. "You must let me come again, when, perhaps, you may be disposed to allow me to assist you. Good-night and thank you for one of the pleasantest evenings of my life."
The door closed behind Geoffrey, and he stumbled along in the darkness until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Out in the road some one crept up to him and laid a hand on his arm. Like a flash Geoffrey had him by the throat.
"Speak, or I will kill you," he whispered. "Who are you?"
"Come with me at once," came the hoarse reply. "And release that grip of my throat. I am Sergius Tchigorsky."
Geoffrey recognized the deep rasping tones of Tchigorsky directly. His hand dropped to his side. No need to tell him that danger was in the air. It was the thick, still kind of night that goes with adventure.
"Something has happened?" Geoffrey asked.
"Something is going to happen unless we prevent it," Tchigorsky replied. "The enemy has been foiled three times lately and is getting uneasy. He begins to realize that he has to cope with somebody who understands the game. It is no use to work in this deadly mysterious fashion as long as certain people can read the danger signals and act upon them, and therefore it has been decided to fall back upon more vulgar methods. You are not afraid of danger?"
"Not in the least. Try me."
"The danger is great. You are dealing with some of the cleverest people on earth. If you are discovered you will be put away. Your courage will be tested to the utmost. Are you ready?"
Geoffrey hesitated but for a moment. His senses seemed to be braced and strengthened. He seemed to hear better all at once; his eyes penetrated farther into the gloom. There was a feeling of eagerness, of exultation upon him. He took Tchigorsky's lean claw and laid it upon his left wrist.
"Feel that," he said. "Is not my pulse steady? I am longing to go forward. Only give me a chance to find the truth."
Tchigorsky chuckled. This was the kind of grit he admired.
"You will do," he said. "And you will go alone on your expedition. You are acquainted with all the vaults and passages of the castle by this time; every inch of the ground is known to you. Give me your coat and shoes."
Geoffrey handed them over, getting a pair of rubber-soled shoes and a rough pea jacket in exchange. In the pocket of the latter he found a revolver.
"Now what am I to do?" he demanded.
"Stand here," Tchigorsky explained. "Presently you will see a figure or two, perhaps more. You will not understand what they are saying, but that makes no difference. You are to follow them, stick to them. If nothing happens by dawn you can afford to leave them to their own devices. If circumstances place you in dire peril, be brave, for help is not far off."
Geoffrey might have asked another question or two. But Tchigorsky turned away abruptly and was speedily lost in the darkness. And then followed for Geoffrey the most trying part of the business, waiting for the first sign of the foe.
Half an hour passed and still no sign. Had the affair miscarried and the miscreants got away in some other direction? Strain his ears as he would, Geoffrey could catch nothing. Then at length something soft and rustling seemed to be creeping along on the lawn on the other side of the hedge.
Geoffrey crept through the gate into the garden. Almost instantly he dropped on his face, for somebody carrying a lantern was softly creeping in his direction. It was the figure of a woman, a woman who had a black lace shawl so wrapped about her that in the feeble light it was impossible to make out her features. She paused and made a hissing sound between her teeth.
As if they had been evolved out of Geoffrey's inner consciousness, there appeared two men upon the lawnOne was lying on his back, his head supported on the arm of his companion. They were Indian natives of some kind, but of what race precisely Geoffrey could not say. The prostrate man had an ugly cut across his forehead; it was the same man that Geoffrey had seen looking through the window.
A crafty, ugly, sinister face it was, full of cunning malignity. The eyes were dull, but the fires of hate were still in them. The woman stooped down and produced cool bandages soaked in some pungent liquid, which she proceeded to bind round the brows of the injured man. Even at his respectful distance Geoffrey could catch the odor of the bandages.
He watched the weird midnight scene with breathless interest. There was something creepy about the whole business. If these people had nothing to conceal, all this surgical work might have taken place indoor; they might have called assistance. Geoffrey tried to catch sight of the woman's features.
But that was impossible. Still, there was something familiar about her. Geoffrey felt quite sure that he had seen that graceful figure before. She stood up presently and Geoffrey no longer had any doubt.
It was Mrs. Mona May.
The injured man rose also. He staggered along on the arm of his companion and Geoffrey could with some difficulty see them enter the sitting room. He paused in some doubt as to his next move, but before he was called upon to decide, Mrs. May and the other native came out again.
Evidently they had left the injured man behind. Then they emerged into the road and started off rapidly toward the cliffs.
"Going some way by the pace they are walking," Geoffrey muttered, "and at the same time they must be back before daylight, or they would never have dared to leave that fellow at Jessop's. What a good thing I know the country."
Geoffrey followed at a respectful distance, his rubber shoes making no sound. For the time of year the night was intensely dark, which was in Geoffrey's favor. Also, with his close knowledge of the locality, he had no fear of making mistakes.
The couple were not more than fifty yards ahead of him. They had not the slightest idea they were being followed, seeing that they were talking earnestly and none too quietly in a language that was Greek to Geoffrey. Now and again he caught the low laugh that came from the woman's lips.
By and by the cliffs were reached, and here the two began to descend a path that would have been dangerous to unaccustomed feet even in the broad daylight. But the man seemed to know the way perfectly and the woman followed without hesitation. They came presently to the firm sand, fringed by the ebbing tide.
Then they turned to the right, pausing at length before a solid-looking expanse of cliff that stood right under Ravenspur Castle. One moment they loomed darkly against the brown rocks, the next minute they seemed to be swallowed up by the cliffs. They had entered the mouth of a cave.
Geoffrey followed still more cautiously. On and on they went, until at length they paused. Then the light from the lantern grew stronger. From behind a ledge of seaweed-clad granite Geoffrey watched them furtively. They were waiting for something—a signal, probably—before going farther.
The signal seemed to come at last, from where it was impossible for Geoffrey to judge, and then the advance was resumed. Presently they emerged into the deep below-tide level vault under the castle, where Geoffrey had seen Marion walking in her sleep.
Mrs. May turned to her companion and gave him some sharp command. She had lost all her levity and Geoffrey could see that her dark eyes were glowing. The native salaamed and laid his hand upon the lantern. Thenext instant the place was plunged into pitchy darkness. Five, ten minutes passed, and nothing was heard but the lap of the ebbing tide on the shore. Then a hand was gently laid on Geoffrey's arm.
So startled was Geoffrey that he felt the moisture spurt from every pore like a rash. But, fully conscious of his danger, he suppressed the cry that rose to his lips, nor did he move as he felt a thick cloak thrown over his head. He slipped his revolver into his hand and fumbled it against the cold cheek of his antagonist.
But the antagonist took it coolly. A pair of lips were close to Geoffrey's ear and the smallest, faintest voice spelt out the letters, T-c-h-i-g-o-r-s-k-y. Geoffrey put the weapon back in his pocket. At the same time he felt about till his fingers touched the hand of his companion. No doubt about it. The other was Tchigorsky beyond question. Perhaps he had been testing Geoffrey's courage and resolution; perhaps the danger had deepened unexpectedly.
Presently the light of the lantern popped up again, in response to some subtle signal, and once more the conspirators moved on to the vault above. Tchigorsky lifted his head.
"Where are they going?" Geoffrey asked.
Tchigorsky responded with one of his diabolical chuckles.
"They imagine that they are going into the castle," he said. "But they are not going to accomplish that part of the program."
"But what do they want there?"
"What should they want? You know something of those now whose business it is to wipe you out root and branch. More artistic methods having failed, they maydeem it necessary to fall back on more vulgar plans. There are five people sleeping in the castle—six with your Uncle Ralph—who stand in the way. It is possible if the fiends are lucky that the castle may be devoid of life by daybreak."
Geoffrey could not repress a shudder.
"Fiends, indeed!" he said. "But why not stop it? Why not let them enter and then take them all red-handed?"
"What could we gain by that? We could not connect them with past crimes! At worst they would get a few months in gaol as suspects. When the time comes we must smash them all. And the time is coming."
Tchigorsky rose as if to go.
"I follow them," he said, "you remain here, in the darkness. And if any one attempts to pass you do not let him do so. Don't forget this thing. At all hazards you are not to let any one pass."
Geoffrey nodded as Tchigorsky passed on his way. For a long time all was quiet, and then from above there came a startled cry followed by the sound of strife and a scream of pain and terror. It was all that Geoffrey could do to restrain himself from yelling in response and rushing to the spot. Then he became conscious that somebody was coming rapidly through the cave. He reached out his hand and grabbed at and caught a sinewy, slippery brown ankle.
It only needed that touch to tell Geoffrey that he was at grips with the native. Down the fellow came on the slippery rocks, and the next instant the two were engaged in a life or death struggle.
Young, strong, vigorous as he was, his muscle knitted like iron with healthy exercise, Geoffrey knew that he had met his match. The native had a slight advantage of him in point of years; he was greased from head to foot, rendering a grip difficult, and his flying robe came asunder like cobwebs at the first strain. He fought with theabandonof a man who is reckless of life.
Over and over on the slippery rocks they rolled, each striving to get the other by the throat. By this time they were both breathing thick and fast, and Geoffrey's mind began to wander toward his revolver. But to release his grip to get that might be fatal. He could hear his antagonist gasping as he rolled off a ledge of rock, and then Geoffrey lifted his opponent's head and brought it down with a bang on the granite.
In the very instant of his triumph something whistled behind him, and a jagged piece of stone came smashing on to his temple.
He had a confused view of a native on his feet again, fast hurrying away, heard the rustle of garments and a further rustle of more garments, and then his arm was closed upon a female figure whom he pulled to the ground by his side.
He felt the woman open her lips to scream, but he clapped his hand over her mouth.
"No, you don't," he said grimly. "One of you has escaped and my friend the nigger has had a narrow escape, but I've got you, my lady. I've got you safe and I don't mean to let you go."
He felt the slight figure in his arms tremble and palpitate; he heard voices above. Once more the slim figure shivered. His hand was torn from her mouth and the woman spoke.
"They are calling you," she said; "for God's sake let me go, Geoffrey."
For an instant Geoffrey was too dazed and stunned to speak.
"Marion?" he gasped presently. "Marion?"
Marion cowered down, sobbing bitterly.
"You are surprised," she said. "No wonder. You wonder what I am doing here and I will tell you presently. But not now; I will place my secret in your hands; I will disguise nothing from you. For the present leave me."
"Leave you here! Impossible!"
"But I am safe, quite safe, Geoffrey. Oh, if you have any feeling for one of the most miserable creatures in the world, leave me. Tell them above that those abandoned wretches have gone, that no sign of them remains. Consider what I have suffered and am suffering for your family, and try to help me."
Conscious of his own weakness, Geoffrey pondered. He might be doing a serious injury to the delicate plans formed by Ralph Ravenspur, but he had given the promise and there was an end of the matter.
Marion was in some way bound up with these people, but Marion was pure as the angels and Marion would do no wrong. Why, then, should her good name be dragged in the mire?
"You are so good, so good to me," Marion murmured. "Go before they become alarmed at your silence and leave me here. Say that you saw nothing. And when the house is quiet I shall make my way back again."
Geoffrey retired upwards without further words. In the basement of the castle he found Tchigorsky and Ralph Ravenspur.
"They managed to elude you?" asked the former.
Geoffrey pointed to the ugly bruise on the side of his head.
"Yes," he said, "they both got away. But for this bit of an accident fighting in the dark I might have captured the dusky conspirator."
"Rather you had not, on the whole," Ralph said. "Something gave them the alarm as they reached the passages. Of course their idea was to murder some or all of us in our beds, and our idea was to take them in the act. But they got the alarm and vanished. One of the fellows attacked me in the shrubbery just before dark, but I fancy he will not do it again."
"I saw him," said Geoffrey. "He came to Mrs. May's for assistance. She pretended that I was mistaken, butshe had to give in at last when circumstances became too strong for her. How did you manage to deal him that blow on the head, uncle?"
Ralph smiled grimly.
"I have my own means of protection," he said. "What became of the fellow?"
Geoffrey explained all that had happened during and after the dinner at Jessop's farm. His two listeners followed his statement with flattering interest. Yet all the time Geoffrey was listening intently for signs of Marion. Was she still in the vaults or had she managed to slip away to her bedroom? The thought of the delicate girl down there in the darkness and cold was by no means pleasant.
"We have managed to make a mess of it to-night," said Ralph. "How those people contrived to discover that there was danger afoot I can't understand. But one thing is certain, they will not be content to leave things as they are. They may try the same thing again or their efforts may take a new and more ingenious direction."
"Which direction we shall discover," said Tchigorsky. "Can you let me out here, or shall I go by the same means that I entered?"
To Geoffrey's relief Ralph volunteered to open the hall door for his friend.
"Come this way," he said. "All the bolts and bars have been oiled and will make no noise."
They slipped away quietly together. Geoffrey listened intently. He fancied that he could hear footsteps creeping up the stairs, and in the corridor a door softly closed. Then Ralph Ravenspur came back again.
"Tchigorsky has gone," he said. "After this it will be necessary for us to vary our plan of campaign a little. You have learned something to-night. You know now that our antagonists are two Indians and a woman who is dangerous as she is lovely and fascinating. Ah, what a woman she is!"
"Who is she?" Geoffrey asked.
"Ah, that I cannot tell you. You must be content to wait. I do not want you to know too much, and then there is no chance of your being taken off your guard. When the surprise comes it will be a dramatic one. The more you see of that woman and the more you cultivate her the more you will find to wonder at."
"But can I cultivate her after to-night?"
"Why not? She does not know the extent of your knowledge; she has not the remotest idea that you have been helping to foil her schemes. Next time she will meet you as if nothing had happened."
Geoffrey thought of Marion and was silent. That one so pure and sweet should be mixed up with a creature like that was horrible. Ralph Ravenspur rose with a yawn. He seemed to have lapsed into his wooden state. He felt his way down the big flagged hall toward the staircase.
"We can do nothing more," he said. "I am going to bed. Good-night."
The door closed and then Geoffrey was free to act. He could go down into the vault and bring Marion up. But first he would try to ascertain if she was in her room. He passed up the stairs and along the corridor. Outside Marion's door he coughed gently.
The door opened and Marion stood there clad in a fair white wrap, with her glorious hair hanging free over her shoulders. Her eyes were full of tears.
"Geoff," she whispered. "Geoff, dear Geoff."
She fell into his arms, and pressed her lips long and clingingly to his. Her hole frame was quivering with mingled love and emotion. Then she snatched herself away from his embrace and, with the single whispered word, "To-morrow," closed the door behind her.
A brilliant sunshine poured into the terrace room where the Ravenspurs usually breakfasted. An innovation in the way of French windows led on to a tessellated pavement bordered with flowers on either side and ending in the terrace overlooking the sea.
A fresh breeze came from the ocean; the thunder of the surf was subdued to a drone. In the flowers a number of bees were busy, bees whose hives were placed against the side of the house. They were Vera's bees and there were two hives of them. Vera attended to them herself; they knew her and she was wont to declare that in no circumstances would they do her any harm. That was why, as Geoffrey dryly put it, she never got stung more than once a week.
"I believe one has been arguing with you now," Geoffrey laughed.
He was standing in the window as he spoke. He and Vera were the first two down. The girl was on the pavement gravely contemplating the palm of her right hand.
"No, indeed," she said. "And, anyway, it was my own fault."
"Irish," Geoffrey cried. "That makes the second since Monday. Let me see."
He took the little pink palm in his own brown hands.
"I can't see the spot," he said. "Does it hurt much?"
"A mere pin prick, dear. I suppose you can get innoculated against that sort of thing. I mean that you can be stung and stung until it has no effect at all."
"Even by bees that know you and never do you anyharm," Geoffrey laughed. "But I dare say you are right. Five years ago when we had that plague of wasps Stenmore, the keeper, and myself destroyed over a hundred wasps' nests in one season. I must have been stung nearly a thousand times. After the first score I never noticed it; was not so bad as the touch of a nettle."
"What! Has Vera been arguing with the bees again?"
The question came fresh and clear from behind the hives. Marion stood there, making a fair picture indeed in her white cotton dress. There was no shade of trouble in her eyes. She met Geoffrey's glance squarely.
Her hand rested on his shoulder with a palpably tender squeeze.
It was the only kind of allusion she made to last night's doings. She might not have had a single care or sorrow in the world. She seemed to take almost a childlike interest in the bees, the simple interest of one who has yet to be awakened to the knowledge of a conscience. Geoffrey had never admired Marion more than he did at this moment.
"Marion is afraid of my bees," Vera said.
Marion drew away shuddering from one of the velvety brown insects.
"I admit it," she said. "They get on one's clothes and sting for pure mischief. And I am a sight after a bee has been operating upon me. If I had my own way, there would be a fire here some day and then there would be no more bees."
They trooped into breakfast, disputing the point cheerfully. It was impossible to be downcast on so perfect a morning. Even the elders had discarded their gloom. Ralph Ravenspur mildly astonished everybody by relating an Eastern experienceaproposof bees.
"But they were not like these," he concluded. "They were big black bees and their honey is poisonous. It is gathered from noxious swamp flowers and, of course, is only intended for their own food. Even those bees——"
The speaker paused, as if conscious that he was talking too much. He proceeded with his breakfast slowly.
"Go on," said Marion. "I am interested."
"I was going to say," Ralph remarked in his croaking voice, "that even those bees know how to protect themselves."
It was a lame conclusion and Marion said so. Geoffrey glanced at his uncle. As plainly as possible he read on the latter's face a desire to change the conversation.
It was sufficiently easy to turn the talk into another channel, and during the rest of the meal not another word came from Ralph Ravenspur. Once more he was watching, watching for something with his sightless eyes.
And Geoffrey was watching Marion most of the time. She was gentle and gay and sweet as ever, as if strong emotions and herself had always been strangers. It seemed hard to recall the stirring events of the night before and believe that this was the same girl. How wonderfully she bore up for the sake of others; how bravely she crushed her almost overwhelming sorrow.
She stood chatting on the pavement after breakfast. She was prattling gayly to Geoffrey, as the other gradually vanished on some mission or another. Then her face suddenly changed; her grasp on Geoffrey's arm was almost convulsive.
"Now then," she whispered. "Let us get it over."
Geoffrey strolled by her side along the terrace. They came at length to a spot where they could not be seen from the house. Marion turned almost defiantly.
"Now I am going to speak," she whispered.
"Not if it gives you any pain," said Geoffrey.
"My dear Geoffrey, you don't want to hear my explanation!"
"Not if it causes you the least pain or annoyance. I couldn't do it."
Marion laughed. But there was little of the music of mirth in her voice.
"Never be it said again that man is a curiouscreature," she said. "You find me down in the vaults of the castle at midnight mixed up with murderers and worse; you compel me to disclose my identity and take me prisoner; you force me to plead for mercy and silence. And now you calmly say you don't want to know anything about it! Geoffrey, are you indifferent to myself and my future that you speak like this?"
Geoffrey laid his hand on the speaker's arm tenderly.
"Marion," he said, "it is because I think so highly of you and trust you so implicitly that I am going to ask no questions. Can you be any the worse because you are bound by some tie to that woman yonder? Certainly not. Rest assured that your secret is safe in my hands."
"But I must tell you certain things, Geoff. There is some one who comes to the castle, a friend of Uncle Ralph's, who is an enemy of this—of Mrs. May's. I don't know whether you know the man—his name is Tchigorsky?"
No muscle of Geoffrey's face moved.
"I fancy I have heard the name," he said. "When does he come here?"
"I—I don't know. Secretly and at night, I expect. Oh, if I could only tell you everything! But I cannot, I dare not. If this Mr. Tchigorsky would only go away! I fear that his presence here will eventually endanger Uncle Ralph's life. You may, perhaps, give him a hint to that effect. Between Mrs. May and Tchigorsky there is a blood feud. It has been imported from Tibet. I can't say any more."
"And you interfered to save the life of others?"
"Yes, yes. Some day you may know everything, but not yet. I am endangering my own safety, but I cannot sit down and see crime committed under my very eyes. It is all a question of an ancient secret society and a secret religion as old as the world. Tchigorsky has certain knowledge he has no right to possess. Don't press me, Geoff."
"My dear girl, I am not pressing you at all."
"No, no. You are very good, dear old boy. Only get Tchigorsky out of the way. It will be better for us all if you do."
Geoffrey murmured something to the effect that he would do his best. At the same time, he was profoundly mystified. All he could grasp was that Marion was bound up with Mrs. May in ties of blood, the blood of ancient Tibet.
"I'll do my best," he said, "though I fear that my best will be bad. Tell me, do you ever see this Mrs. May by any chance?"
"Oh! no, no! I couldn't do that. No, I can't see her."
Geoffrey began to talk about something else. When at length he and Marion parted she was sweet and smiling again, as if she hadn't a single trouble in the world.
For a long time Geoffrey lounged over the balcony with a cigarette, trying to get to the bottom of the business. The more he thought over it, the more it puzzled him. And how could he broach the matter of Tchigorsky without betraying Marion?
Ralph Ravenspur was in his room smoking and gazing into space. As Geoffrey entered he motioned him into a chair. He seemed to be expected.
"Well?" Ralph said. "You have something to say to me. You look surprised, but I know more than you imagine. So Tchigorsky is in danger, eh? Well, he has been in danger ever since he and I took this black business on. We are all in danger for that matter. Marion does not know what to do."
"Uncle, you know there is some tie between Marion and Mrs. May."
"Certainly I do. It is the crux of the situation. And Marion is to be ourdea ex machina, the innocent goddess in the car to solve the mystery. But I am not going to tell you what that relationship is."
"Marion hates and loathes the woman, and fears her."
"Fears her! That is a mild way of putting it. Never mind how, I know what Marion was talking to youabout on the terrace. Suffice it that I do know. So last night's danger was not ours, but Tchigorsky's."
"So Marion said, uncle."
"Well, she was right. Tell her that Tchigorsky is profoundly impressed and that he is going away; in fact, has gone away. Tchigorsky is never going to be seen at Ravenspur Castle any more. Are you, Tchigorsky?"
At the question the inner door opened and a figure stepped out. It was one of the natives that Geoffrey had seen in the hollow of the cliffs that eventful day. He could have sworn to the man anywhere—his stealthy glance, his shifty eye, his base humility.
"Tchigorsky has disappeared?" Ralph demanded.
The man bowed low, then he raised his head and, to Geoffrey's vast surprise, gravely and solemnly winked at him.
"Never mind," he said. "How's this for a disguise, Master Geoffrey?"
It was Tchigorsky himself.
Geoffrey was lyingperduamong the gorse on the cliff uplands. He had a field glass and a rook rifle by his side, for he was waiting for a rabbit. Also he had stolen out here to think over the many matters that puzzled him.
He was slightly disturbed and, on the whole, not altogether well pleased. Why had his uncle and the mysterious Tchigorsky taken him so far into their confidence and then failed him at the critical moment? He was prepared to take his share of the danger; indeed he had already done so and had proved his steel.
And was not Marion equally mysterious? True, he might have got more out of her, but had refrained from motives of delicacy. Perhaps, after all, his elders knew best. A word slipped, a suspicious glance, might spoil everything.
Then Geoffrey looked up suddenly. Some two hundred yards away he saw a rabbit lopping along in his direction. At the same instant two figures came along the cliff. They were ladies and the sight of them astonished Geoffrey, for it was not usual to see anything more modern than a shepherd or a dog at this wild spot.
The figures paused. They were picked out clear against the sky line as Geoffrey lay there. He recognized one of them. Surely the tall lady, with the easy, swinging carriage and supple grace, could be none other than Mrs. May.
Geoffrey arranged his glasses. They were powerful binoculars, and through them he could see Mrs. May'sfeatures quite plainly. He looked through them again long and earnestly. And her companion was Marion!
Just for an instant Geoffrey doubted the evidence of his senses. He wiped the glasses with his handkerchief and looked through them long and earnestly. No doubt could any longer be entertained.
It was Marion—Marion who had declared that she had never spoken to the woman—Marion, who hated the sight of her. And here she was, walking along with Mrs. May as if they were something more than friends.
Yes, it was Marion beyond a doubt. She had discarded her white dress for one of blue; her sailor hat was replaced by a red tam-o'-shanter. All the same, it was not possible to mistake the graceful figure. Even without the glasses Geoffrey would have been prepared to swear to her.
He lay low under the bushes. The two were coming in his direction. Geoffrey did not want to listen, but something forced him there, some power he could not resist. Nearer and nearer they came, until Geoffrey could hear Mrs. May's voice.
"That is impossible, my dear Zazel," she said. "But you are safe."
"I am not so sure of that," was the reply. "And I'm only a pawn in the game."
It was Marion's voice; the same, yet not the same. It was a hoarse, strained voice, like the voice of a man who smokes to excess. Certainly Geoffrey was not prepared to swear to those as the tones of Marion.
"Absurd, Zazel. Of course you know that we are all in it together. And look at the glorious reward when our task is over. We must succeed ultimately, there is no doubt about that in spite of Tchigorsky. It is only a question of time. Am I to believe that you are not going to be true to your oath?"
"I shall not forget my oath. Can the leopard change his spots? But I am getting so tired of it all. I should like to end it at one swoop. If you can do that——"
"I have just shown you how it is possible."
"There is sense in that suggestion. And it is so artistic. It would be quoted in the scientific papers and various ingenious theories would be put forth. But some might escape."
"One, or two perhaps at the outside. Let them. Nobody could suspect us over that. And I have the bees safely in my possession."
Geoffrey heard no more. The figures passed by him and then repassed in the direction whence they came.
No sooner were they out of sight than Geoffrey rose to his feet. He felt that he must ascertain at once whether that girl was Marion or not. The face was hers, the figure hers, but that voice—never!
He would find out, he would know, he would——
Then he paused. He came over the knoll of the irregular cliff and there strolling towards him in her white dress and straw hat was Marion. She was gathering gorse and did not see him until he was close upon her. The pause gave Geoffrey time to recover from his absolute amazement.
So that creature had not been Marion after all. A deep sigh of thankfulness rose to his lips. The sense of relief was almost painful.
By the time that Marion became conscious of his presence he had recovered his presence of mind. Marion plainly could know nothing about her double and he was not going to tell her.
"I heard you were here, Geoff," she said. "Jessop told me so just now. Are you going home?" Geoffrey nodded; he had no words for the present. "It is so lovely," Marion went on. "I am quite proud of my courage in coming alone. Do you see anything else here?"
"Nothing but rabbits," Geoffrey replied, "and few of them to-day. You are the only human being I have seen since I started."
Then they walked home chattering gayly together. Geoffrey felt his suspicions falling away from him one by one; indeed he was feeling somewhat ashamed of himself. To doubt Marion on any ground was ridiculous; to doubt the evidence of his own senses was more absurd still. Thank God he had met Marion.
All the same there were things to tell Ralph Ravenspur. He, at any rate, must know all that had been heard that morning. Ralph was seated in his room with his everlasting pipe in his mouth, much as if he had not moved since breakfast.
"I have news for you, uncle," Geoffrey said as he entered the room.
"Of course you have, my boy. I knew that directly I heard your step on the stair. I hope you have stumbled on something of importance."
"Well, that is for you to say. I saw Mrs. May. She came quite close to me on the cliffs. She had a companion. When I looked through my glasses I saw it was Marion."
Ralph did not start. He merely smiled.
"Not our Marion," he said. "Not our dear little girl."
"Of course not. Singular that you should have our love of and faith in Marion when you have never seen her. I had my glasses and I could have sworn it was Marion. Then they came close enough for me to hear them speak, and I knew that I was mistaken. It was not Marion's voice. Besides, I met the real Marion a few minutes later dressed in her white dress and hat."
"So that is settled. What did the other girl wear?"
"A loose blue dress. A serge, I should say."
"And her hat?"
"A Scottish thing—what they call a tam-o'-shanter."
"So that acquits our Marion. She couldn't be in two places at once; she couldn't even wear two dresses at the same time. And our Marion's voice is the music of the sphere—the sweetest in the whole world. But the face was the same."
"The likeness was paralyzing. What do you make of it, uncle?"
Ralph smiled dryly.
"I make a good deal of it," he replied. "Let us not jump to conclusions, however. Did you hear anything they were saying?"
"Of course I did. Mrs. May was urging her companion to do something. She was pointing out how rich the reward would be. It was something, I fancy, that had a deal to do with us."
"I shouldn't be surprised," Ralph said grimly. "Go on."
"Something artistic that would be commented on in the scientific papers, a thing that would not lead to suspicion."
"Yes, yes. Did you manage to get a clue to what it was?"
"I'm afraid not. Mrs. May made one remark that was an enigma to me. She said that she had the bees safely in her possession."
A queer sound came from Ralph's lips; his face glared with a strange light.
"You have done well," he said. "Oh, you have done well indeed."
And for the time not another word would he utter.
It was a long time before Ralph Ravenspur spoke again. He remained so quiet that Geoffrey began to imagine that his existence had been forgotten. He ventured to lay a hand on his uncle's knee.
The latter started like one who sleeps uneasily under the weight of a haunting fear.
"Oh, of course," he said. "I had forgotten you; I had forgotten everything. And yet you brought me news of the greatest importance."
"Indeed, uncle. What was it?"
"That you shall know speedily. The danger had not occurred to me for the moment. And yet all the time it has been under my nose."
"Still, you might easily be forgiven for not seeing——"
"Seeing has nothing to do with it. And there is nothing the matter with my hearing. The danger has been humming in my ears for days and I never heard it. Now it is roaring like Niagara. But, please God, we shall avert the danger."
"You might take me into your confidence, in this matter, uncle."
"That I shall before a day has passed, but not for the moment. We are face to face now with the most dangerous crisis that has yet occurred. The enemy can strike us down one by one, and nobody shall dream that there is anything beyond a series of painfully sudden deaths. Failure of the heart's action the doctors would call it. That is all."
At that moment Tchigorsky returned to the room. Nolonger was he in the disguise of an Indian. Perhaps he had donned it to surprise Geoffrey; perhaps he was just discarding the disguise after putting it to some practical use. To him Ralph repeated all that Geoffrey had said.
He followed with the most rapt and most careful attention.
"Danger, indeed," he said gravely, "the danger that moves unseen on the air, and strikes from out of nothingness. I prophesied something like this, Ralph."
"Ay, my friend," Ralph replied, "you did. But not quite the same way."
"Because I did not know that fortune had placed the medium so close at hand. Where are the bees?"
Geoffrey was listening intently. Up to now he had failed to understand why his story had moved Ralph so profoundly. And what could the bees have to do with it? Yet Mrs. May had mentioned bees.
"They are in two hives outside the morning-room window," said Ralph. "The bees are Vera's pets, and they thrive for the most part along the flower borders of the terrace. They are ordinary bees."
"In the ordinary bar-frame hives of course?"
"Oh, yes, they are quite up to date. You can see the insects working and all that kind of thing. The hives can be moved."
"I suppose they are a nuisance occasionally?" Tchigorsky asked.
"Yes," Geoffrey smiled. "We have all been stung now and again."
Tchigorsky appeared to be satisfied on that head. He smoked a whole cigarette while he revolved a plan in his mind.
"It is necessary to get the whole family out of the way for a time," he said slowly. "It will be necessary to do so without delay. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the mischief has already been done. Ralph, can you induce your father and the whole family to go away for a time—say till after dark?"
"Perhaps," Ralph replied. "But not without explaining, and it is impossible to do that. But Geoffrey might manage it. Unless he does manage it one or more of us will pay the penalty before daybreak."
"I will do anything you desire," Geoffrey cried eagerly.
"Then go to your grandfather and get him to arrange a picnic over to Alton Keep. It is a perfect day, and it will be possible to remain out till dark, returning to a late supper. I know the suggestion sounds absurd—childish in the circumstances—but it will have to be done. Say that there is a great danger in the castle which has to be removed. Say that nobody is to know anything about it. Go."
Geoffrey went at once. He found the head of the family in the library trying to interest himself in a book. He looked up as Geoffrey entered, and a slight smile came over his worn face. There were two people in the house who could do anything with him—Geoffrey and Vera.
"You look as if you wanted something," he said.
"I do," Geoffrey replied. "I want you to do me a great favor."
"It is granted—granted on the principle that we make the last hours of the condemned criminal as comfortable as possible."
"Then I want you to get up a picnic to-day."
Rupert Ravenspur dropped his glasses on the table. He wondered if this was some new kind of danger, a mysterious form of insanity, brought about by the common enemy.
"I am perfectly serious," Geoffrey said, with a smile. "Not that it is any laughing matter. Dear grandfather, there is a great danger in the house. I don't know what it is, but Uncle Ralph knows, and he has never been wrong yet. It was he who found out all about those dreadful flowers. And he wants the house cleared tilldark. Unless we do so, the morning will assuredly see the end of one or more of us."
"Is it a painless death?" the old man asked grimly. "If it is, I prefer to remain here."
"But there is always hope," Geoffrey pleaded. "And you always thinks of us. Won't you do this thing? Won't you say that it is a sudden whim of yours? Mind, everybody is to go, everybody but Uncle Ralph. I shall ride and when I have ridden some distance I shall pretend to have forgotten something. Perhaps you deem me unduly foolish. But I implore you to do this thing."
Rupert Ravenspur hesitated no longer. He always found it hard to resist that young smiling handsome face. Not that he was blind to the folly of the proceedings. On his own initiative he would as soon have danced a hornpipe in the hall.
"I will go and see about it at once," he said.
He had put off his somber air, and assumed a kind of ill-fitting gayety. Gordon Ravenspur and his wife received the suggestion with becoming resignation. To them it was the first signs of a mind breaking down under an intolerable strain. Vera and Marion professed themselves to be delighted.
"It sounds odd," said the latter. "Fancy the doomed and fated Ravenspurs going on a picnic! And fancy the suggestion, too, coming from grandfather!"
Vera looked anxious.
"You don't imagine," she said, "that his mind——"
"Oh, his mind is all right. You can see that from his face. But I expect that the strain is telling on him, and that he wants to get out of himself for a time. Personally, I regard the idea as charming."
The preparations were made, no great matter in so large and well-regulated an establishment as Ravenspur Castle. If the servants were astonished, they said nothing. The stolid coachman sat solemnly on the box of the wagonette; the demure footman touched his hat as heput up the step with the air of a man who is accustomed to do this sort of thing every day.
Geoffrey stood under the big portico and waved his hand.
"You should drive with us," Marion cried.
"And you won't be long?" Vera asked.
"Oh, I am duly impressed with the importance of the occasion," Geoffrey laughed. "My horse will get there almost as soon as you arrive. Call the spaniel."
Tut, the pet spaniel, was called, but no response was made, and finally the party drove off without him. Geoffrey watched the wagonette with a strange sense of unreality upon him. He felt that he could have scoffed at a situation like this in the pages of a novel. And yet it is the truth that is always so improbable.
Our most solemn and most trivial thoughts always run along the grooves of the mind together, and as Geoffrey passed round the house he caught himself wondering where the dog was. He whistled again and again. It was a most unusual thing for Tut to be far from the family. Outside the morning room window the dog lay as if fast asleep.
"Get up, your lazy beast," Geoffrey cried; "after them, sir."
But the dog did not move; he made no sign as Geoffrey cuffed him with the side of his foot. The dog was dead.
He lay still and placid; there was no sign of pain. There was nothing about the carcass to suggest poison. Close by the bees were busy among the flowers. In the hives there seemed to be more noise than usual. Geoffrey opened the windows of the morning-room, leaving the casement flung back behind him. A long claw was put forth to shut it.
"The window must be kept closed," Ralph Ravenspur said quietly. "In fact, I have given orders that every window in the house is to be closed. Why, you will see presently. Did you notice anything as you came along?"
"I was too excited," Geoffrey replied. "I have just found poor Tut outside. The dog has died suddenly. Half an hour ago he was perfectly well, young, full of life and vigor. And now he is dead."