"Are you not pleased to see me, Cyril?" she faltered.
"I am very pleased," he returned gravely, and pushed forward a chair. "Will you not be seated?"
"Not until you explain why you receive me in this way," she declared indignantly. "You send for me, and I come at once only to find displeased looks."
"Our last interview explains my looks, Bella."
"No, it doesn't," she cried, up in arms at once; "I admitted my fault in suspecting you then, and asked your pardon. You left me without a kiss, and—and——" She stopped with an angry gesture. "It seems to me that I am the one who has the right to be displeased."
"No," said Lister, decidedly. "I love you very dearly, as you know; but——"
"How can I tell that you love me dearly?"
"My desire to meet you again shows that I do. Many a man would have left you for ever on learning, as I did, your cruel suspicions. You have no right to be displeased, as you said a moment since. I am the wronged person, for if you really loved me you would believe nothing against me."
"I do not; I do not."
"But you did."
"Only for a single moment. Oh!"—Bella uttered a cry of despair—"I am only a human being, and I saw you—as I thought—entering the house. I knew that on my account you had quarrelled with my father, so what could I think but that you had killed him? I don't pretend to be an angel." She broke off and sat down, pressing her hands hard together, then looked up with feigned self-control. "We discussed all this before," she said coldly, "did you invite me here to ask me to defend myself again?"
"No. I asked you here to learn from your own lips that you believe me to be guiltless."
"I do. I swear I do." Bella rose in her excitement. "And I ask your pardon for my wicked suspicions."
"Bella!" He sprang forward and caught her hands within his own. "Then you really and truly love me?"
"If you had gone away," she breathed faintly in his ear, "I should have died."
Cyril drew her closely to his breast. "My darling," he whispered, smoothing her hair, "I love you too dearly to leave you. I ask your pardon for my harsh words. On the face of it, I don't see what you could do but suspect me. It was unreasonable for me to ask you to do otherwise. That you believe my mere word, in spite of the strong evidence against me, shows that you love me as dearly and strongly as I love you. So far, all that is right. We trust one another."
"Wholly. Entirely. To the death we trust one another."
"That is well." Cyril sat down in the arm-chair, and drew Bella on to his knees. "Unity is strength. With you by my side I am not afraid."
"Then you have been afraid?" she asked softly.
"Of losing your love—yes. But now I am satisfied on that point, there is another thing that makes me afraid."
"What is it?"
"I may be accused of this murder. Other people may have seen me, as you saw me, dear."
"Then itwasyou?" she gasped.
"No, no! I have explained myself. If necessary, I can put forward analibi."
"Who was the man then?"
"I can't tell you that." Cyril pushed her away, and rose much agitated.
"Then you know?" Bella stood back from him doubtfully.
"I can't be sure. I think—that is, I fancy—Bella, don't ask me anything just now. Later I may be able to explain."
"And you will explain?"
"If it be possible. Remember, I said that Imightbe able to explain, but of this I cannot be certain."
"I do not understand," sighed the girl, seating herself again. "Cyril, has this matter anything to do with you?"
"The matter of the murder?"
"Yes. I don't mean to ask if you are guilty, as I know you are not. But are you connected in any way with the matter?"
"No," he rejoined promptly, "if I were, I should be an accomplice after the fact. All the same——" He paused, looking paler than ever, and his face became peaked and haggard. "Don't ask me anything yet," he murmured.
"I am willing to trust you, dear," said Bella quietly, "but, as you remarked yourself some time ago, other people——"
He interrupted her. "Other people?"
"Yes. Some one else did see you on that evening."
"The person saw my double," corrected Cyril. "I was in London, as I told you, and as I can prove. Who is this person?"
"Silas Pence."
"Ah!" Lister's hands clenched. "He hates me because you are to be my wife. He will go to the police."
"I don't think so," said Bella slowly. "He threatened to go, but as yet he has held his tongue."
"Why, when he hates me so?"
"I think—I think," said Bella slowly, "that Mr. Pence knows more about this matter than he chooses to admit."
Cyril uttered an exclamation. "Do you suspect him?"
"Not of the murder," she replied promptly; "he is too weak and timid a creature to commit a crime. But I know that he was poor; now he is unexpectedly rich, and we are aware," she added with emphasis, "that one hundred pounds was stolen from my father's safe on the night of the murder."
"But surely you do not connect a harmless man, like Pence, with the crime?"
"I say nothing, because I know nothing, Cyril. But if Mr. Pence is entirely innocent, why does he not accuse you, whom he hates."
"He has no grounds to go upon, dear."
Bella shook her head. "He thinks that he has," she answered, "as he believed it was you he saw when he met your double at the boundary channel. Since he would like to see you in trouble, the very fact that he delays telling the police shows that his own conscience is not easy."
"It is strange," assented Lister. "However, if he does accuse me, I can prove analibi."
"But what about your double?"
The young man turned away abruptly to the window. "I can say nothing on that point at present."
"When will you explain?"
"I can't say; sooner or later." Lister, with his hands in his pockets, looked out of the window as though to avoid further questioning. This behaviour puzzled Bella, as she felt sure that Cyril could tell her much if inclined to do so. But it was odd that he should so decline. She abruptly reverted to an earlier thought in her mind. "You did not tell me that you had a negro servant called Durgo."
Lister wheeled sharply. "I have no servant, negro or otherwise," he said in a decisive tone. "Why do you say that?"
Bella, wondering still more, gave him details, which Cyril heard with a perplexed frown. He made no comment until she had finished. "You say that this man recognised my portrait. In that case I can guess"—he did not finish his sentence, but became paler than ever.
Bella found the interviews with Cyril eminently unsatisfactory. It was perfectly plain that he entertained strong suspicions regarding the unknown person whom she termed his double. But even when questioned point-blank he declined to explain himself. Yet if Lister knew of someone who resembled him more or less closely he surely could place his hand on that someone. When he did so the assassin of Captain Huxham would speedily be found. This being the case it was strange that Cyril should hesitate, and again and again Bella questioned him bluntly, only to find him more determined than ever to keep his own counsel. Under these circumstances it was useless to prolong the conversation, and the girl left the cottage feeling extremely despondent. It seemed to her that the problem would never be solved, in spite of the certainty she entertained that Cyril could solve it if he so wished.
Nor did Bella feel any brighter when she returned to the Manor, for Mrs. Coppersley chose to take umbrage at her niece's absence. Bella declined to say where she had been, and dismissed the matter in a few cold words. Not feeling sure of her ground, Mrs. Coppersley retreated for the time being, but next day returned to the attack with the evident object of making the Manor-house too hot for the girl. Bella was strong enough to quell open mutiny on the part of her aunt, but she could not defend herself against incessant nagging. Since the death of her brother, Mrs. Coppersley had become as bold as hitherto she had been meek, and in many skilful ways contrived to make her niece feel thoroughly uncomfortable. As Bella had quite enough to bear without being taxed further with these petty worries she became restive, and on the third day of hostilities demanded what her aunt meant by behaving so aggressively. Mrs. Coppersley, better at ambushes than in open warfare, would have shirked the battle, but Bella forced the quarrel since it was absolutely necessary to bring matters to a head.
"You never leave me alone, Aunt Rosamund," she complained wearily.
"Because you are a drone," retorted Mrs. Coppersley. "You eat, yet you do not work. And as St. Paul says——"
"I don't wish to hear what St. Paul says, thank you."
"It would be better if you did. I have your good at heart."
"Nothing of the sort; you merely wish to get rid of me."
Mrs. Coppersley grew vividly red, but did not make any denial. "Why should I not?" she cried loudly. "You treat me as though I were dirt under your feet, miss. Who are you to behave like this, I should like to know?"
"I am my father's daughter," said Bella, very distinctly, "who have been cheated out of my inheritance."
"I'll make you prove those words," said Mrs. Coppersley, turning from scarlet to white. "Go and see Mr. Timson in Cade Lane, and you will find everything has been done to make the will legal."
"I am quite sure of that, Aunt Rosamund, as you are too clever a woman to risk losing your spoil. But you have cheated me by inducing my father to disinherit me in your favour."
"I did not! I did not!" Mrs. Coppersley stamped wrathfully. "Your father borrowed money from me to pay for the farm ten years ago. I lent it on condition that I inherited Bleacres. I told you this before, and——"
"That will do," interrupted Bella imperiously. "I shall see Mr. Timson, and learn for certain if what you have told me is correct. Meantime, as it is quite impossible for me to remain in the house with you, I shall go and stay with Dora Ankers."
"She won't have you," taunted Mrs. Coppersley.
"I have already arranged to live with her until I am married."
"Then you are going to marry that wastrel?"
"I don't know who you mean."
"Mr. Lister, the man who was so hated by your father."
"Whether I marry Mr. Lister or not is my business," said Bella, drily; "and so far as I can learn, my father had no reason to hate him. Do you know why he did so, Aunt Rosamund?"
"No," said Mrs. Coppersley reluctantly, for she would have dearly liked to put a spoke in Bella's wheel, as the saying is. "Jabez's life before he came here was not known to me. But I am quite sure that it was shady, and——"
Bella interrupted again. "Leave the dead alone. You are benefiting by my father's work, whatever it might have been, and have no call to abuse him."
"I only got my own money back," said Mrs. Coppersley defiantly; "but if you leave my house you leave it for ever. I wash my hands of you."
"I am quite content that it should be so," said Bella icily; "but I can't leave my home penniless. Give me fifty pounds until such time as I can see Mr. Timson and learn how I stand."
"What?" Mrs. Coppersley became shrill in her anger. "Give you money to bring lawsuits against me?"
Bella looked at her very directly. "If everything is fair and square, as you say," she observed severely, "there is no danger of lawsuits. Come, Aunt Rosamund, I wish to leave Bleacres this afternoon. Give me the money."
"No!" shouted the older woman, and sat down with folded arms and a dogged expression. "You get no money from me."
Bella was perplexed. She could not use violence, and her aunt seemed very determined. For the moment she was nonplussed, and scarcely knew what to say. But at this moment Henry Vand entered. The conversation had taken place in the study, and Vand came into the room from the hall. Apparently he had just entered the house. In fact, he explained as much, and also confessed calmly that he had listened.
"I heard your voices raised," he said quietly, "and knowing Rosamund's violent temper I waited, so that I might interfere on your behalf, Miss Huxham."
"I want no interference," said Mrs. Coppersley jealousy. "I can manage my own business."
"That may be," said the young man drily, "but you seem to forget that I am your husband."
"Husband!" echoed Bella amazed.
"Yes," said Vand; while Mrs. Coppersley—or rather Mrs. Vand—looked sullenly at the floor. "We have been married for three months, secretly."
"Why secretly?" asked Bella, still wondering at the news.
"That's our business," said her aunt insolently.
"Pardon me, Rosamund," said Vand, who was as polite as his wife was rude. "It is only fair that Miss Huxham should understand the position."
"Have it your own way, then," muttered Mrs. Vand, tossing her head, "only make her understand that I have had enough of her airs and graces. She can clear out of our house as soon as she likes, and leave us to ourselves."
"She is willing to do that for fifty pounds," said Vand politely.
"I shan't give her that amount."
"You are quite right, Rosamund; you will give Miss Huxham a cheque for one hundred pounds."
"Are you out of your senses?" raged his wife, starting to her feet.
"I don't want so much as that, Mr. Vand," said Bella, pleased to think that her new uncle by marriage was taking her part.
"It is a mere question of justice, Miss Huxham. My wife has inherited the Solitary Farm, so it is only right that she should recompense you."
"Mind," said Bella, suddenly, and thinking that this might be a bribe, "if I find anything wrong when I see Mr. Timson I shall bring an action."
"I told you so, Henry," remarked Mrs. Vand triumphantly.
"I have seen the will and the lawyer," said the man quietly, "and everything is correct. There is no flaw. With regard to my marriage, Miss Huxham, I agreed to a secret ceremony since your late father was opposed to my courtship of your aunt. But the time has now come to proclaim the marriage, so I have brought my luggage here to-day."
"And that is why my aunt wishes me to leave the house," said Bella, with a curling lip.
Vand, who was much the most self-controlled of the trio, looked at her very straightly. "You can come or stay as you please," he said gently. "I am quite willing that you should remain."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Vand furiously, "so you want her to remain. Perhaps you are in love with her; perhaps you would like to——"
"Aunt," interrupted Bella, blushing with annoyance, "how can you talk so foolishly. Mr. Vand loves you, or he would not have married you. As for me, I am going away to Dora's as soon as you give me the money."
"Not one penny."
Vand gazed steadily at the furious woman. In spite of his club foot he was certainly handsome, and looked as refined as his wife looked coarse. He must have had good blood in his veins in spite of his lowly birth, and, without appearing to do so, managed, on this occasion at least, to dominate the more animal nature. Bella neither liked nor disliked the cripple, but she could not help admiring the skilful way in which he mastered her aunt. Perhaps he magnetised her with his large blue eyes or the calmness of his manner may have had a soothing effect. But, whatever was the cause, Mrs. Vand winced under his silent gaze and lowered her voice, as she consented unexpectedly to do what he suggested. "I shall give Bella a cheque for one hundred pounds on condition that she does not trouble me again," she grumbled, going to the desk with an affectation of generosity.
"You seem to hate me so much that there is no need for me to see you any more," said Bella bitterly.
"But I warn you that if the will is not right I shall take steps to recover the farm, which I look upon as my property."
"It is not your property, it is mine; and Jabez's income also," said Mrs. Vand, looking up from the cheque she was writing, "and if you don't promise to leave things alone you shan't have the money."
"I refuse to sell my heritage for a mess of potage," cried Bella, impetuously.
"There is no need that you should," interposed Vand gently. "Rosamund, sign the cheque."
Mrs. Vand scowled, hesitated, but finally did as she was ordered, throwing it on the floor afterwards in silent fury. Her husband picked it up and handed it, with a bow, to Bella.
"There you are, Miss Huxham," he said with marked courtesy. "I hope you will be happy at Miss Ankers'. So far as I am aware, everything has been left to my wife, but later I shall endeavour to make some arrangement with Rosamund by which you will be benefited. And I beg of you not to leave this house in anger."
"I shall make no arrangement, now or hereafter," cried Mrs. Vand. "Bella has received all that she will receive. For my part, I'm glad to see the back of her," and with a red face and a scornful look she flounced out of the room, much to the girl's relief.
"I wonder why my aunt hates me so?" she asked Vand with a piteous look. "I have never done her any harm."
"She only gives way to her temper, Miss Huxham," said the cripple soothingly, "and doesn't mean half she says. Don't trouble any more about Rosamund. I am your friend. You will shake hands, will you not?"
Bella did not hesitate to take the hand extended to her, as she admitted silently that if Vand had not interposed she would not have received the money. Besides, her new relative throughout had proved himself to be so courteous and thoughtful that she had no reason to mistrust him. Howsoever Mrs. Vand had become possessed of the farm and income of the late Captain Huxham, her husband was at least innocent. "But I do not bind myself to take no steps if necessary to recover Bleacres," Bella warned the young man, as she shook his hand. "You understand that?"
"Perfectly; and indeed, if Rosamund has come wrongfully by the estate she must surrender it. Still, Miss Huxham, you cannot expect me to doubt my own wife, especially as Rosamund has been good enough to marry a cripple such as I am."
"I think, without flattery to you," said Bella, walking towards the door, "that my aunt has got the best of the bargain," and the last thing she saw when throwing a glance over her shoulder was Vand blushing crimson at the unusual compliment. But Bella meant what she said, as even ease and wealth were hardly purchased by marriage with a furious, coarse-natured woman such as Rosamund Vand. The girl wondered how she had ever come to have such an aunt; she might have wondered also how she ever came to have a parent so common and ruffianly as her late father had been.
That same afternoon Bella packed all her belongings and had them carried by Tunks to the hither side of the boundary channel. There they were placed on a hand-cart and wheeled to Miss Ankers' cottage. Mrs. Vand discreetly kept out of the way when Bella departed, or perhaps her husband insisted that she should not drive forth the girl with insults, as she certainly would have done. At all events she remained invisible, and it was Vand alone who said good-bye to the homeless girl. Bella felt a pang when she looked back along the narrow path of the corn-fields to see a stranger standing in the doorway. She was certain of one thing—that Mrs. Vand had found a master, and that for all his quietness and polite ways her husband would not allow her to have her own way as she had hitherto done. Doubtless her aunt had deemed Vand would be as harmless and innocuous as the scarlet-coated scarecrow, of which Bella caught a last glimpse; but there was no doubt in the girl's mind as to which of the happy pair would rule the house. Mrs. Vand's coarse bullying could do very little against the quiet persistence of a polite man, who was determined to govern. So far as Bella knew from Huxham, her aunt had ruled her first husband with a rod of iron; now she was about to be governed in her turn. "And much good may it do her," thought Bella, who was much too human to be forgiving.
Dora was delighted that her best friend should board with her, and received Miss Huxham with open arms. After tea, the two arranged Bella's bedroom to their satisfaction and unpacked her boxes. Then they had a talk as to the advisability of going to Cade Lane for the purpose of questioning Mr. Timson regarding the will. "You should attend to the matter at once, my dear," said Dora, who was extremely practical for all her doll-like looks. "Lose no time, for I am certain that your aunt has employed some trickery in getting possession of the property."
"I shall consult Cyril first," said Bella wearily, and little more was said on that night, as the girl was quite worn out with the events of the day.
Next morning Miss Ankers had to teach in school as usual, and Bella was left to her own devices. She assisted Dora's small servant to tidy the rooms and make the beds, after which she put on her hat and walked into the village to make some small purchases. Also—and this was by Dora's advice—she saw the manager of the small local bank, and opened an account with him by paying in her aunt's cheque for one hundred pounds. The manager courteously promised to send the cheque to London, and to notify Bella when it was honoured. Miss Huxham was somewhat relieved at this promise, as she did not trust her aunt, and knew that she was quite capable of stopping the cheque, especially when she had not given it with a good grace. But Bella need not have troubled her head; the cheque was duly honoured, as Mr. Henry Vand saw to that.
Having dispatched her business, Bella strolled out of the village, and found herself on the common. This was a vast expanse overgrown with gorse and broom, and with a miniature forest of saplings springing from an undergrowth of fern and bracken. Through this fairy wood, as some people called it, narrow paths were cut, so that one could wander for hours in and out of a kind of natural labyrinth. The saplings were scarcely six feet in height, so that an extra tall man could look over the green sea of vegetation. Bella loved this place, as she had often sauntered therein with Dora, and indeed with Cyril also. The wonderful tangle of fern and bracken and many-hued grasses, the brilliant colouring of flowers, and the fecund blossoming of the golden broom, made the common a home of delight. Bella walked meditatively through the cool green paths, and emerged at intervals on to wide, waste spaces where the purple heather grew thickly. Butterflies floated through the still air, bumble-bees visited the flowers, and the birds sang as in an enchanted garden. Bella stopped to hear the silvery carol of an invisible lark, for the bird, raining its music lavishly from the sky, was quite hidden by the dazzle of sunshine. As she paused, she felt a light hand touch her shoulder, and turned with a glad cry.
"Oh, Cyril, how you startled me!" she said, pleased with the unexpected encounter. "I am so glad to see you, dear. Have you heard——"
Lister threw himself contentedly on the fragrant heather, and drew Bella down by his side. "I have heard, and I am very angry," he said hotly. "Dear, what does your aunt mean by treating you in this way?"
Bella shrugged her shoulders. "I expect she wants the Manor to herself now that she is married. Who told you?"
"Miss Ankers. I met her coming out of school. She told me that you were returning to dinner, so I came to fetch you. I guessed that I should find you here, and so——" he waved his hand lazily.
"I am glad to see you," said Bella again, "but you look ill, dear."
Cyril shrugged his shoulders. "I am worried about this mysterious double of mine," he muttered, and lying full length on the burnt grass he tilted his hat over his eyes. He did indeed look ill, for his face was very pale and lines appeared on his forehead which should not have been there at his age. In some extraordinary way he seemed to have aged, as it were, in a moment. "I am very much worried," he sighed; "everything is going wrong. Now this abominable treatment to which your aunt has subjected you to makes things doubly difficult for me."
"In what way?" asked Bella, sitting up and hugging her knees.
"I don't know how to move," explained the young man. "While you were safe at Bleacres with your aunt I could wait. But now that you have no home, I should like to marry you at once." He sighed again. "But that is impossible, dear, owing to circumstances."
"You need not trouble about me," said Bella promptly. "I have got one hundred pounds, and I am quite glad to be away from Aunt Rosamund's incessant nagging. I can live with Dora and pay my way until such time as you can marry me."
"Heaven only knows when I can marry you!" groaned Cyril dismally.
"I can tell you," said Bella, removing the hat from his anxious face in order to look into his eyes; "as soon as you are frank with me."
"I have come to be frank with you," said Lister reluctantly.
"It sounds like it."
"My dear"—he sat up to speak more forcibly—"when I am frank you will be as unhappy as I am."
"What do you mean?"
"Mean? I scarcely know what I mean—that is, I scarcely dare put my thoughts into words. Of course, I may be wrong. I sincerely trust that I am wrong. All the same, there is no denying that I have grave grounds for my belief."
"What belief?" Bella asked the question in scared tones, as Cyril looked so wretched.
He did not reply at once, but moved restlessly about, evidently bracing himself to speak plainly. Even when he did open his mouth he was evasive. "I have an idea that my double—that is, the man who was mistaken by you and Pence for me on that night—might be—oh!"—he rested his head between his hands with a groan—"I dare not tell you who he might be."
"You have some idea?"
"Yes; I wish I hadn't."
"Is it anyone I know?"
"No."
"Is it——"
"Oh, my dear! don't ask questions which I dare not answer."
"You must answer," said Bella firmly. "I must share your griefs as well as sorrows. Tell me everything. Go on, Cyril, tell me quickly!"
"Hush!" Lister started to his feet with an alarmed look. "What's that? I swear that I heard a rustling in the underwood. Someone is listening." He glanced around anxiously, looking pale and nervous. Bella rose at the same time and caught his hand to give him courage, although she could not understand what he meant by his words and looks.
But the two had not to wait long. A distant crackling was heard, and in a moment or so a tall bulky man stepped from out the underwood.
"Durgo!" breathed Bella, recognising the negro.
He ran towards Cyril and dropped on his knees. "My master!" he cried; then leaped up. "You are not Edwin Lister," he growled with widely open eyes.
"My father! my father!" groaned Cyril in despair. "I knew it; I was certain of it. Now I know the worst," and he sat down to hide his face.
Bella looked from the astonished Durgo to the despairing Lister, and wondered what the scene meant. That the matter at issue was serious Cyril's demeanour gave her fully to understand. But what the matter might be she could not guess, save that it had something to do with this mysterious double who had caused all the commotion. The negro appeared to be as puzzled as herself, and stared at the seated figure with an open mouth, scratching his woolly head meanwhile.
"Not my master, but like my master," he muttered, staring hard, and speaking in his usual guttural manner but not in the usual negro dialect, so rude and clipped. "If you're not my master, Edwin Lister," he added, addressing himself to the young man, "who are you, sir?"
"Answer him, Cyril," said Bella, seeing that her lover did not speak. "Did you ever see this man before?"
Lister looked up, pale and hollow-eyed. "Never," he said briefly.
"Did you ever meet Mr. Lister before?" Bella asked the negro.
"Lister! Lister!" gasped Durgo, retreating a step. "Is this young gentleman called Lister?"
"Cyril Lister," said that young man.
"But my master had no son."
"I am his son. Edwin Lister is my father."
"Oh!" A sudden light broke over Bella's face, and she clapped her hands. "And your double?"
"Yes," said Cyril in low tones; "now you can guess how afraid I was to lay my suspicions before you."
"No," she said boldly. "Why you should be afraid I cannot guess."
Cyril rose slowly, laid two heavy hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. "My dear," he said in a hard voice, "can you not understand that this double was my father, who resembled me so closely that this man"—he jerked back his head towards the still staring negro—"mistook me for him."
"Well," said Bella, inquiringly.
"Well," repeated Lister, impatiently, "You thought that I had committed the murder, but now that you know the truth——"
Bella shook herself free and grew pale. "It was your father who struck the blow!" she said in a low, horrified tone.
"Yes. And if my father killed your father, how can we marry?"
There was a dead silence, and the unfortunate lovers looked at one another with white faces. If Cyril's surmise was true, a barrier had indeed been placed between them, and for the moment they saw no chance of over-leaping it. Quite oblivious of Durgo, they stared until the black man grew impatient of the silence.
"What does this mean?" he growled, looking from one to the other. "I come to find my master, Edwin Lister, and he is not here. But I find one who calls himself the son of my master, Edwin Lister." He peered into Cyril's face. "My master never told me that he had a son, and yet"—he looked again—"I believe that you are my master's son."
"Am I so like my father, then?" asked Cyril smiling faintly.
Durgo struck his huge hands together. "The same in every way," he said firmly; "figure and face and colour and walk. Even the clothes"—he ran his eyes over Cyril's grey suit—"yes, even the clothes."
"Oh!" It was Bella who spoke. "Cyril, do you remember that the grey clothes worn by your father on that night aided me to make a mistake?"
Lister nodded. "That was a suit of mine," he said, "made for me. When my father came home from Nigeria he had no ready-made clothes, so he borrowed that suit until he could get fitted out in civilised garments. Well?"
Cyril addressed this last question to Durgo, who had started violently when Nigeria was mentioned.
"I am a Nigerian," he said in reply to the inquiry. "I was with your father at Ogrude, on the Cross River, for years. I came with him to London three months ago; but my master never said that he had a son."
"He had his reasons for keeping silence, no doubt," said Cyril quietly; "but I never saw you, Durgo, nor did I hear my father mention you."
"Yet you know my name," said the man suspiciously.
"Only because Miss Huxham mentioned it when you appeared just now."
"And I mentioned it to you before," Bella reminded him. "I told you how Durgo entered the Bleacres drawing-room and took your photograph, frame and all, from his pocket, and handed it to the girl."
"I thought that it was one of my master, Edwin Lister, taken when he was younger," he said simply, "but I see——"
"Yes! yes!" broke in Cyril impatiently. "I know what you see. I am a younger edition of my father."
"Yes! yes! yes!" cried Durgo, staring again. "Never did I see two so alike."
Bella glanced at the photograph and slipped it into her pocket. Her face was pearly white, and she dreaded the full explanation of what was to come. "We are still perplexed," she said quietly, and controlling herself with great difficulty. "You know nothing of Durgo, and he knows nothing of you. I think it will be best for us to sit down and discuss the matter quietly."
"I agree with you," said Cyril, dropping down promptly. "Durgo, tell your story and then I shall tell mine. When we each know what the other knows, we may be able to arrive at some conclusion."
"Regarding the murder," said Bella. "Perhaps," she added hopefully, "perhaps your father did not kill mine after all."
"I fear he did," said Cyril heavily. "Remember what was said at the inquest about the West African knife with which the crime was committed. Nigeria is in West Africa."
"My master had no knife of that sort," said Durgo bluntly.
"Have you a description of the knife," asked Bella.
"I read it in the newspapers," said the negro. "When you told me of your father's death, I read the papers."
"You can read."
"I can read and write and do many things," said Durgo quietly. "I have a black skin, but my education has not been neglected."
"So I should think from the way in which you speak English."
"The missionaries taught me much, and Edwin Lister taught me the rest."
Cyril frowned. "I notice that you do not say 'Mister' when you speak of my father," he said pointedly.
"I am a chief and the son of a chief," said Durgo proudly. "And for love of your father, who saved my life, I left my tribe and came with him. I called him master as a title of honour because I loved him, so why should I not say Edwin Lister?"
Cyril, with the white man's inborn superiority, objected to this familiarity, and, but that Durgo's services were necessary to the unravelling of the mystery, would have pointed this out. As it was, he simply nodded and asked the black man to be more explicit. Durgo sat down and complied without any argument. His manners for a negro were singularly good.
"There is not much to tell," he said in his guttural tones. "Edwin Lister was my friend and a trader in Nigeria, my country. He saved my life from a lion and won my gratitude. I helped him with his trading and left my tribe to do so. We heard of a treasure in the wilds of my country, and wished to fit out an expedition to find that treasure. Edwin Lister did, that is, and I was glad to do as he desired. But we required money, and it could not be had. Edwin Lister then thought of an old friend of his, Captain Huxham, who had also been in Nigeria——"
"My father!" cried Bella, startled.
"Yes, missy," said Durgo, bending his head towards her with grave respect. "He was well known in Nigeria many years ago, as he had a river steamer there. Edwin Lister then came to London with me, and afterwards came to see Captain Huxham here. That was some weeks ago, and he promised me to return. As he did not, I came down and then heard of the murder of Captain Huxham. But where is my master, Edwin Lister?" and Durgo looked from one to the other.
"Have you not seen him since?" asked Cyril anxiously.
"No." Durgo shook his head profoundly.
"What do you think has become of him?" asked Cyril, still white.
Durgo reflected. "I think," he said gravely, "that Edwin Lister killed Captain Huxham and ran away. Soon he will write to me and I can join him. Then we can return to Nigeria and hunt for the treasure."
"But why should Mr. Lister kill my father?" asked Bella.
"He wanted money," said Durgo simply. "If Captain Huxham would not give the money, Edwin Lister would kill him. It is quite simple. But I wish," added the negro wisely, "that my master had let me kill Captain Huxham."
"Would you have done so?" cried Bella, horrified.
Durgo looked up in surprise. "Oh, yes, if Edwin Lister had wished it."
Cyril and the girl looked at one another. Durgo was still a savage, in spite of the veneer of education and civilisation, which the missionaries had given him. He would have killed Huxham as easily as he would have killed a fly. Perhaps also Edwin Lister had become de-civilised, and had acted in the same way.
"But what has become of my father?" asked Cyril.
"You do not know?" inquired Durgo politely.
Cyril shook his head. "I do not know," he said gloomily, "unless, as you say, he murdered Huxham to get money, and then ran away into hiding. He may be on the Continent—in Paris."
"In that case, I shall hear from him soon," said Durgo, rising. "When I do, I shall let you know."
"Come back," said Cyril, in an even tone, as Durgo was about to stalk away, "it is necessary for me to have your assistance."
"In what?" asked Durgo, looking over his huge shoulder.
"In finding my father."
"But if he is in Paris, I can go there."
"Have you the money?"
"I have plenty of money," said the negro with gravity. "I have my own money, so it is easy for me to search for my master."
"He may not be in Paris," said Cyril hastily; "that is only a guess on my part. Before searching for him over there, it will be best for you to assist me in looking for him in this district. He may be in hiding."
Durgo pondered, then returned to lie full-length on the grass. "I think that my master would have run further away after killing Captain Huxham," he said reflectively; "he is very cunning, is Edwin Lister. And, of course, he would have the money."
"What money?" asked Bella impatiently.
"The money for which he killed Captain Huxham."
"The sum stolen was only worth a trifle: one hundred pounds is the amount."
"Oh!" Durgo opened his eyes. "And my master wanted five thousand. It is a very difficult expedition right into the centre of Nigeria, and one hundred pounds is of no use. I could have lent that amount to Edwin Lister myself. Hai!"—he nursed his chin in his hand—"what you say, missy, makes me think that my master is waiting here to get the money for which he killed Captain Huxham."
"My aunt, Mrs. Rosamund Vand, has both the money and the estate."
"Then Edwin Lister will wait and see her," said Durgo gravely. "I must learn where he is hiding," and he half rose again.
Cyril put out one slim hand to prevent him. "Wait for one moment," he said quietly, "you must hear what I have to say, and then we can arrange what to do. Durgo, you loved my father?"
The negro nodded. "I would rather lose my life than see him dead."
Cyril looked at him curiously. "Strange! I did not think that my father was a man to inspire such devotion."
"He saved my life," said Durgo impressively.
"Humph!" murmured Cyril under his breath. "I'll be bound if he did so, that he took back the full value of his heroic act."
Bella looked pained. "Cyril, why do you speak in that tone of your father?"
"Because I know him better than Durgo," he retorted. "My father is a—but that is neither here nor there"—he waved his hand impatiently. "Durgo, I am about to speak plainly. I see that you love my father, so I don't wish to hurt your feelings. All the same, I must tell you something about my father which you will not like."
"Let me hear," said Durgo frowning, "and I can judge. But you are his son——"
"And therefore should speak well of him," ended Cyril bitterly. "I wish I could, but I have suffered too much at my father's hands to have any love for him. However, I shall be as brief as possible."
"And as kind," said Durgo meaningly.
"And as kind as I can be," retorted the young man cynically; "although my father will be the first to laugh at the idea of my talking kindly of him."
"He loves you," said the negro rebukingly.
"Did he ever tell you that?"
"No. He never mentioned your existence."
"Judge then how he loves me," said Cyril coolly.
"However, in spite of all, Edwin Lister is my father, so I shall speak as respectfully of him as I possibly can." He threw away a blade of grass he was chewing, and laughed ironically. Bella looked pained.
"Cyril! Cyril! your own father!"
"Quite so, dear. He is my father. I can say no more, and no less. As to what I know relative to this mystery, you shall hear."
The sky had clouded over, and the sun no longer shone. The lark was silent, and a chill wind seemed to breathe over the golden broom and the yellow blossoms of the gorze. Bella shivered, as the change of temperature seemed to suit with cruel exactitude the cynical tones of her lover. She had never heard him talk in this way before, but then she knew very little about him, and absolutely nothing of his past life. Now she was about to hear it, and, from the hard expression of his face, she judged that the story he had to tell was not a pleasant one. As for Durgo, he waited silently, and nothing could be read of his feelings from the dark mask of his face. Edwin Lister had saved his life, and no matter what was said, Durgo did not intend to change his opinion of his master, as the finest man in the wide world.
"My mother died when I was young," said Cyril, after a pause, "and I was brought up by a maiden aunt. My father I rarely saw, as he was always travelling round the world in search of a fortune which he never seemed to find. Sometimes he returned to England, and treated me with careless affection, but I saw very little of him. But for my aunt I should have been utterly neglected. Bless her! she is dead," and he raised his hat.
"Poor Cyril!" murmured Bella affected by this picture of a dull childhood.
"Thank you, dear!" he said, taking her hand. "My aunt did everything for me out of her small income, and I don't think my father gave one penny towards my education."
"But surely——"
"No, dear!" said Cyril, interrupting her; "my aunt told me, on her death-bed, that she had done everything, so you can see that my father was only one to me in name."
"He was working to make your fortune in Nigeria," said Durgo quickly.
"So he said when he came home, but I have not seen that fortune yet. Well, to continue; my aunt sent me to a public school, and afterwards to Oxford. I then became a journalist, and my aunt died, leaving me a trifle of money on which to live. My father came to London and borrowed that money—the principal of my small income—for one of his wild schemes, and I was left without one penny."
"It was your duty to assist your father," said Durgo uneasily.
"'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings,'" quoted Cyril, with a side glance—"the missionaries have taught you well, Durgo."
"I am a Christian," said the negro proudly.
"So am I, in a way. However, I must get on with my confession. I saw my father at various intervals, and meanwhile earned my bread by reporting and writing articles, and all the rest of it. My father appeared at intervals, like the rolling stone which gathers no moss, and always borrowed. I did not grudge him the money, and he always said that he was about to make his fortune, which he never did."
"He will make it this time," said Durgo vigorously; "the treasure is certainly hidden in the Hinterland of Nigeria, and when we reach it——"
"Yes, when!" scoffed Cyril. "I don't believe in my father's schemes, I tell you. The last time he came home was five months ago."
"With me," said Durgo gravely; "but I remained near the docks, and my master, Edwin Lister, went to the grand part of the town, coming down to see me when he required my services."
Cyril nodded. "That sounds like my father," he said, with a shrug; "however, on this occasion he told me that he intended to hunt for buried treasure in Nigeria, and wanted money. He did not mention Captain Huxham, so I expect that he intended to keep that part of his business secret. But"—Cyril hesitated—"well, my father—that is, he—he—never mind," he broke off abruptly, "I can't tell you just now. But he wanted the sum of one thousand pounds, which I tried to get for him."
"Oh, Cyril! was that the money you mentioned?" asked Bella in dismay.
"Yes. The sum for which you thought I had killed your father," said Cyril, nodding; then seeing that she looked pained, he hastily added, "Never mind, dear, that is all over, and we understand one another thoroughly. I went to Paris, as you know, to get the money. When I returned I heard of the murder, and when I called at my father's lodgings in the West End could learn nothing of his whereabouts. When you mentioned the double, Bella, it was forced on my mind that my father must have been that person. But, as I could see no connection between my father and Captain Huxham, I refused to believe this. However, from what Durgo says, there seems to be no doubt but that my father did come by stealth to the Manor on that night, with the idea of getting the loan of money. Perhaps he and Captain Huxham quarreled, but it seems clear that my father did commit the murder with that sacrificial knife, since it came, as he did, from Nigeria."
"I never saw that knife," said Durgo abruptly.
"You did not see many things," said Cyril, rising, for he felt somewhat cramped. "My father was probably as secretive with you as he was with me. You are well educated, Durgo, and have your wits about you. Ask yourself if it is possible for two men to have come, on this particular occasion, from Nigeria, and——"
"Two did come," interrupted the negro—"myself and my master."
"Quite so; but if you are innocent, my father must be guilty."
Durgo shrugged his great shoulders. "For myself I think very little of killing anyone," said he gruffly, "but you white men think differently, so you should not believe your father guilty, unless——"
"Oh!" Cyril clenched his hand and grew pale. "Do you not think that I would give the world to believe him innocent? I love Miss Huxham, and this murder by my father places a barrier between us. If you knew all"—here Cyril broke off hastily, as he remembered that he was speaking to a black man. Already he regretted that he had said so much, but he had been carried away by the tide of his emotion. "The matter stands like this," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "My father has killed Captain Huxham, and has disappeared with one hundred pounds."
"But I thought that Mr. Pence——" began Bella, only to be interrupted.
"He is innocent," said Cyril hastily. "On the face of it, he is innocent. I go by the evidence of the knife from Nigeria, where Pence has never been, and by the fact that you saw my father, whom you mistook for me, enter the Manor about the time the crime was committed."
"I dare say you are right," said Bella vaguely, and regretted that she had so hastily condemned the preacher. After all, the truth of the legacy left by his aunt was not a fiction. "But what will you do now?"
"I ask the same question," remarked Durgo, sharply. "We are no nearer the truth than we have been."
Cyril looked in astonishment at the negro who spoke such excellent English, and so much to the point. Durgo, undoubtedly, in intellect was equal to, if not superior to, many Englishmen, and Lister saw in him a helpful coadjutor in solving the mystery. "We must work together to learn the whereabouts of my father," he said wearily, passing his hand across his forehead. "It will be necessary to get him out of the country, if what we believe is correct. But it may be, that my father has crossed the Channel."
"If that is so, he will write to me," commented the negro; he paused, and then asked abruptly, "If you learn that your father is guilty?"
"I shall do my best to get him away from England. Why do you ask?"
Durgo turned away, after a piercing glance. "I thought, from what you hinted, that you would not be sorry to see your father hanged."
"Don't talk rubbish, man," said Lister sharply. "My father is my father, when all is said and done. I only trust that we are mistaken, and that he is not guilty of this brutal crime."
Durgo shrugged his massive shoulders. "As to that, I care very little. From what I have heard of Captain Huxham in my own country, he was not a good man. He is better out of the world than in it."
Bella grew crimson. "You speak of my father," she said angrily.
The man bowed politely. "I ask your pardon, missy!" Then he turned to Cyril ceremoniously. "I am stopping at 'The Chequers Inn,' at Marshely," he informed him; "so if you will call there we can speak about this matter. Women should have nothing to do with such affairs. They are for men."
Lister frowned, as he did not approve of the superior way in which the negro talked. However, Durgo gave him no chance of making a remark, but swung off with a noiseless jungle step. Cyril watched him pass out of sight, and confessed that the man puzzled him. In spite of his barbaric origin and black skin and rough dress, Durgo spoke and acted like a gentleman, though he certainly had been somewhat rude regarding the feminine sex. "Yet I like him," commented Cyril half to himself; "he seems to be a square chap, and to have brains. He is not the usual Christy minstrel of Africa. Humph! After all, I dare say that if you scratched him you would find the savage. His devotion to my father does him credit. I wonder"—here he was interrupted by a low sob at his elbow, and turned to find Bella in tears. "My dearest, what is the matter?" he asked in dismay.
"Can you ask?" she moaned despairingly. "If what you think is true, we must part for ever."
"Don't look at the worst, but hope for the best," he entreated; "we can't be sure that my father is guilty!"
"You contradict yourself," she said, wiping her eyes.
"I wish I could; I am trying to think that my father is innocent. But I do not know. My father has been my evil genius all my life."
A thought occurred to Bella. "Why did your father require one thousand pounds?"
Cyril looked at her sideways. "I did not like to speak out before Durgo," he said hesitatingly, "but the fact is, my father forged a cheque for that sum."
So far it appeared extremely probable that Edwin Lister was the assassin of Captain Huxham. From the evidence of her own eyes, Bella knew that Cyril's father had called to see the old sailor, and that she had not seen him depart was owing to the fact of the drugging. By putting laudanum in the girl's tea Huxham had precipitated his own death, since Bella, with her wits about her, might have made a third at the interview, and so the blow would not have been struck. Neither Bella nor Cyril thought that Edwin Lister had come to the Manor intending to murder Huxham, although it certainly seemed strange that the former should have carried with him the Nigerian knife with which the crime had been committed. But howsoever this particular point might be explained, it was probable that the tragedy was the outcome of a sudden quarrel.
Edwin Lister had profited but little by his crime, since the sum of one hundred pounds was all that he had been able to find in the safe. Certainly many papers had been carried away, but there was nothing to show that these were of value, save the fact that they had been thieved. If Edwin Lister could only be found, an explanation might be forthcoming; but he seemed to have vanished completely. It was not improbable that he had walked to Tarhaven, some miles away, to escape on a steamer to the Continent; but if this was the case it was strange that he had not communicated with his savage friend. Durgo was a man upon whom Edwin Lister could rely entirely, setting aside the fact that Durgo was needed to guide the expedition into the Hinterland of Nigeria, where the treasure was concealed. It was now some weeks since the death and burial of the skipper, but as yet Edwin Lister had given no sign of his existence. And until he did so, there was no chance of solving the mystery.
True to his promise, Cyril called at "The Chequers Inn" to see Durgo, and found that the negro was looked upon as a royal guest. The lean landlady believed him to be an African prince, on a secret mission to England concerning the missionary question. She was right in one way, for Durgo undoubtedly was a chief, and the son of a chief; but it was questionable if he was the friend of the missionaries. However—as Cyril found—he made this excuse for his presence in Marshely, and Mrs. Giles, the landlady, a red-hot fanatic, was delighted that her house should be so honoured. Also Durgo paid largely for the sitting-room and bedroom which he occupied.
Cyril was amazed when he called one evening, to see this same sitting-room, as he saw evidence of great luxury in the articles brought by the negro to decorate the somewhat bare apartment. The furniture of the parlour—as Mrs. Giles called it—was plain and cheap, but there were evidences that it was occupied by a wealthy guest. Indian coverlets, gorgeously embroidered, adorned the chairs; there were splendid wild-beast skins on the floor, and on the side-tables appeared several silver vases rudely but skilfully wrought. Cyril noted a bronze incense-burner in which pastilles smouldered, several small golden images of ugly tribal gods, some beautifully-made spears and war-clubs, brightly-hued feathers, curious shells, and photographs of native towns and their inhabitants. Why Durgo should travel with such a collection of rubbish was not clear; but probably he did so, that he might be surrounded by memorials of his sunny country in the land of fogs and greyness.
Durgo himself was a surprise, as he received Cyril in a well-made smoking suit, and, quite in the conventional manner, offered him cigarettes of a good brand and the orthodox whiskey and soda. "Or champagne if you prefer it," said Durgo, laying his black hand on the old-fashioned bell-rope.
"Coffee for me," said Lister, throwing himself into a comfortable arm-chair, and accepting a cigarette. "Do you know, Durgo, that you are something of a puzzle to me?"
The negro rang the bell, gave an order for coffee to Mrs. Giles, who entered, and when she had retired turned to his guest. "How so?" he asked.
"Your very good English, the adornments of this room, your present dress—I did not look for such things in a—a——" Cyril hesitated.
"In an African negro," finished Durgo, sitting down, with a grave smile.
"Well, yes. People of your colour," added Cyril, with the covert insolence of the white towards the black, "don't usually——"
Durgo raised one large hand. "I know: don't proceed," he said with suppressed anger; "you think we are barbarians."
"Well, you are, as a rule."
"I am the exception to this rule." Durgo paused, and his eyes wandered to some photographs over the mantel-piece. "I told you that the missionaries educated me," he continued, "but if you look at those photographs, you might learn who was my real Alma Mater."
"Alma Mater," repeated Cyril, rising to approach the mantel-piece; "why, these are University photographs."
"Oxford. I was at Oxford some years ago."
"You?" Cyril looked at the groups of boating-men, cricketers, football players, and wondered. He wondered still more at a portrait of Durgo in a Master of Arts gown. "You!" said Cyril, completely surprised.
"Yes. Why not? My father was a great chief—a king, as you might say. But it was Edwin Lister who first fired my ambition to learn the lore of the white men, so that I might civilise my tribe. He induced my father to give me much money, and took me to England himself many years ago. I was at school, and at Oxford until I took my degree. Then I returned to my tribe in Nigeria—in Southern Nigeria—and as my father was dead I attempted to teach my countrymen and subjects what I had learned. Your father helped me, and it was then that he saved my life when a lion attacked me. I could do nothing, however," continued the negro bitterly, "as my countrymen were too much under the sway of the fetish priests. These raised an outcry against me, and nominating a cousin of mine as chief, drove me and your father away. We only escaped death by an accident, but I managed to bring some treasure with me, and came with your father to England."
"And now I suppose you want to find this treasure you spoke of, and regain your chiefdom," said Cyril, interested in this strange story.
Durgo fingered a cigarette carefully, and lighted the same. "There is no treasure," he remarked quietly.
"But you said——"
"I know I did, when Miss Huxham was present. Women, as I say, should know nothing or hear nothing of these things. To you I speak plainly, as you are the son of my master, and so are entitled to my regard and trust. I came here with your father," added Durgo slowly, "to get money from Huxham, so that we both might buy guns and swords and rifles, to re-conquer my tribe."
"But the British Government?"
"Quite so. The Government would not approve, so for that reason I remained in rough clothes, in rough lodgings, near the docks; while Edwin Lister went to live in the West End. He interested several adventurous spirits in our proposed expedition, but money was sadly needed, and I had not enough. Thus your father came down to see Captain Huxham, and get that which was required. Captain Huxham, whom your father had met in Nigeria, owed my father a lot of money, which he did not pay. I was only employing Edwin Lister to get back my own."
"I see. But how did my father learn the whereabouts of Captain Huxham?"
"Youtold him," was the negro's unexpected reply.
"I told him! I don't recollect——"
"Perhaps not, as you spoke hurriedly. But don't you remember that when your father one day asked you for money, you said that you wished to save all you could, as you desired to marry Miss Huxham. Your father questioned you, and learned that she was the daughter of an old sailor. It was therefore easy for him to guess that he had found the man for whom he was seeking."
"But I did not tell my father where Captain Huxham lived."
Durgo waved his hand, as Mrs. Giles brought in the coffee. "That was easy," he remarked, when she left the room, "you were followed here by your father. But now that you understand the position, will you work with me?"
"I will work with you to learn the truth about this murder."
"I understand," said Durgo shrewdly, "so that you may prove Edwin Lister's innocence."
"Yes," said Cyril, accepting the cup of black coffee which his host passed to him. "I am hoping to see my father and to learn that he did not kill Captain Huxham. If he did, there is no chance of happiness for me, as I cannot then marry Miss Huxham."
Durgo stirred his coffee calmly. "No, that is true. I am sorry for you. But if such is the case, and your marriage is an impossibility, why not come with us on our expedition to the Hinterland of Nigeria? If I win back my chiefdom, I can do much for you."
"I don't want to go with my father," said Cyril, turning pale, "especially if he has—as I suspect—spoiled my life's happiness. If he is innocent, I can then marry Miss Huxham, and will stay at home."
"Quite so. I understand. But my offer is always open to you, if you choose to take it. Meanwhile, the first thing to do is to learn what Edwin Lister took away with him."
"One hundred pounds."
"Yes, and some papers. I wish to learn what those papers are, as Captain Huxham may have made a memorandum of the property he possessed. There may be other papers which may cast light on those which were stolen."
"But I don't understand," said Cyril perplexed. "Whatever property Captain Huxham possessed went to his sister, now Mrs. Henry Vand."
"The English property," said Durgo with emphasis; then seeing that his guest was still puzzled, he laughed in his guttural way. "Never mind. I have an idea which may or may not turn out to be correct. I shall know when Mrs. Tunks comes here this evening, and then I can explain myself fully."
"Mrs. Tunks—Granny Tunks! What has she to do with the matter?"
Durgo smiled in his slow way. "My friend, I have not been idle while in Marshley looking for my master Edwin Lister. I wished to search the Manor-house for possible papers to reveal that which I desire to know."
"What is that?"
"I shall tell you when I am sure," said the negro doggedly, "and not until then. But it was impossible for me to enter the Manor-house and search, as this man Vand is very clever and cunning, and more of a watch-dog than his stupid wife. I could have managed her had she been unmarried, by posing as a wealthy prince—in fact, I could have cajoled her as I have done Mrs. Giles—but her husband is suspicious and sharp. I could do nothing. Then I learned that this gipsy woman, Mrs. Tunks, is in the habit of charing at the Manor-house. I therefore offered to pay her a large sum if she would bring to me certain papers which are hidden in a sandal-wood chest, carved with the figures of the gods of my tribe."
"How do you know that such a chest exists or is in the Manor-house?"
"After I see Mrs. Tunks I can tell you," said Durgo softly.
"How will Mrs. Tunks know the chest?"
"I have described it to her. The figures of the gods are carved on soft white wood, and the lines are filled in with red and blue and yellow pigment. The design and the decoration are very noticeable. The work is, what you call in English, skrimshanking."
"I thought the word was a military slang one, meaning to shirk work," said Cyril, after a pause.
"Quite so, but I think the word is a nautical one. Sailors carve and colour their carvings in the way I mention, and call such work skrimshanking. I expect that when a sailor was not at his post the excuse made was that he was skrimshanking; hence the slang meaning of the word."
"Very interesting from a philological point of view," yawned Lister, taking another cigarette; "but had we not better get back to our talk of my father's whereabouts?"
"We can do nothing until I know what Edwin Lister took away with him," said Durgo again, "and that I can only learn if Mrs. Tunks brings the papers I mentioned this evening." He glanced at the travelling clock on the mantel-piece. "Nearly nine; she should be here soon."
"But will she have the papers?"
"Yes. Yesterday she told me that she saw the chest in an attic under a pile of rubbish, but had no chance of opening it. To-day she is charing at the Manor-house, and will be able to get what I want."
"But if Mrs. Vand catches her?"
"Mrs. Vand won't," was the confident reply. "Granny Tunks is too clever to be caught and moreover wants to earn the fifty pounds I promised her."
"Great Scott! are you so wealthy as to——"
"Yes, yes!" interrupted Durgo impatiently. "I have much money, but not enough for my expedition. Unless indeed Edwin Lister has carried these papers, which will show us how to get the money."
"Then my father knew about this chest also?"
"Yes. I expect he looked for it in Captain Huxham's study after the crime was committed. Unfortunately it happened, according to Granny Tunks, to be in the attic, so he missed it. But Huxham may have had the papers in his study."
"And that was why the room was so upset?" asked Lister thoughtfully.
"That was why. After the crime was committed——"
"Great heavens! man," burst out the other irritably, "don't talk as if it was certain that my father killed the man."
"If he did not, who did?" demanded Durgo coolly; then, as Cyril was markedly silent, he continued, "I think very little of the killing myself. If what I believe about the papers I require is correct, Captain Huxham deserved his death as a thief and a false friend."
"You speak in riddles," said Lister bewildered.
"Granny Tunks can solve them," replied the negro significantly. "Have some more coffee and try these cigars. They are superfine."
Cyril silently accepted this further hospitality, and stared furtively at the calm black face of his host. The nose was aquiline and the lips extraordinarily thin, so it was apparent that Durgo had Arab blood in his veins. Perhaps he was a descendant of those conquering Mohammedans who came down like a storm on Central Africa, in the Middle Ages. What with Durgo's looks, his educated speech and his air of command, Cyril wondered that he had ever taken the negro for an ordinary black. All the same he believed that, given the necessary environment, the savagery would break out from under the thin veneer of civilisation which the man had acquired at Oxford. Scratch a Russian and you find a Tartar; scratch a modern man, semi-civilised or wholly civilised, and you find the prehistoric animal.
While Cyril was thinking in this manner and watching the black man's face through the smoke, he saw Durgo suddenly listen intently, with the air of an animal scenting danger. Shortly footsteps were heard in the passage without, and the door opened to admit Granny Tunks, who was shown in by Mrs. Giles. The toss of the lean landlady's head, and her air of disdain, showed that she was by no means pleased with the ragged visitor. But a glance from the glossy Romany eye of Mrs. Tunks sent her shuddering out of the room. In spite of the religion taught by Silas Pence at the Little Bethel chapel, Mrs. Giles was primitive enough to believe in the power of the evil eye. And she had some reason to, for people who offended Mrs. Tunks invariably underwent a spell of bad luck.
"Here I am, master," said Mrs. Tunks with a cringing air, and Cyril started to hear her so address the negro. He was further surprised when he saw how commanding were the looks of Durgo.
"Have you got those papers?" asked the negro, extending his large hand.
Granny Tunks had them and said so, but it took her some time to find them, so ragged were her garments and so hidden her pocket. She still wore the brown dress tagged with parti-coloured ribbons, and her plentiful white hair still hung like seaweed from under the dingy red handkerchief. Also as usual she jingled with the multiplicity of coins which dangled from her neck, her wrists, and from various parts of her picturesque dress. In sixty or seventy seconds she managed to find a bundle of dusty papers tied up with faded red tape, and passed them to Durgo with ingratiating smiles. "There you are, deary——"
"Master!" snapped the negro, with sudden ferocity.
"Yes, master," stammered the woman, turning slightly pale under her brown skin. "I found them in the chest you spoke of. The cat"—she meant Mrs. Vand—"didn't see me, master, so no one knows but this gentleman; but he won't say a word; no, no, I'll be bound he won't."