CHAPTER XXIXDOROTHY MAKES A CONFESSION
“Trappedthe swabs!” cried Job Seal, rubbing his big hands with undisguised delight, although he seemed disappointed that we had not allowed him to come face to face with Bennett. From the skipper’s determined attitude I knew that murder would be done if the two men met, therefore I took to myself some credit for having kept them apart, even though they had passed within a yard of one another.
“Trapped the whole four of ’em!” he exclaimed, his great face lit by a grin as he placed his hands to his sides. “Mr. Reilly,” he added, “I’ve respect for you, sir. You’ve checkmated ’em entirely.”
“I’d thought it all over,” was the younger man’s reply. “And if any of them fall down the well it isn’t our look-out. They had no right to intrude here.”
“But can they get across by any means?” I queried, knowing well the characters of the quartette.
“Impossible—absolutely impossible,” Reilly replied. “I can jump as far as most men, but I couldn’t jump that. They have no ropes, or any means by which to bridge the death-trap.”
I glanced at my watch. It was then a quarter past four. Morning broke, bright and sunny, with a slight mist rising from the river, but still we waited in that upstairs room for signs of the invaders returning.
Half an hour went by, and suddenly we heard noises below.
They were trying to raise the trap-door down which they had passed, but we knew that all efforts to do so were useless, for, besides the stones upon it, we had so wedged the crowbars across and into holes in the wall that to push up the flap was utterly impossible.
From where we stood we could hear their voices mingled with the groans of their united efforts.
“Stay there, you unutterable sons of dogs!” growled Job Seal, and although those were not exactly the words he used, they were synonymous.
I stood listening, and could hear the low curses of the men whom we had captured like rats in a run.
Together we went downstairs and out into the early sunshine. The bright air refreshed us, although our thoughts were with those four men consigned to a living tomb.
Presently we re-entered the house and descended to the cellar where they had been at work. By the light of a candle which the skipper carried we were surprised to see what an enormous hole they had made through the foundations into the earth beyond. Indeed, they had taken out a great piece of the wall, and through the rough arch had driven a tunnel two yards high and some three yards long. It was there they had evidently expected to discover the treasure, but, like ourselves, they had worked in vain.
The strong-smelling earth excavated lay piled in the cellar up to the roof, and the manner in which the work had been performed showed that at least one of the party was used to such operations. But there was nothing else there, save a few candle-ends.
It struck us all three as very remarkable why the intruders should have gone straight to that spot and commenced their investigation there. Evidently they were in possession of certain precise information of which we were in utter ignorance, yet, holding them entrapped in that long, subterranean passage without exit, we should now be enabled to pursue further investigations in the direction they themselves had indicated.
Seal, without coat or vest, spent an hour in tapping every part of the wall, but was compelled to admit that he discovered no hollow place. Therefore, recollecting the mention of the paces from the bottom of the steps, we measured them in an opposite direction and began to attack the wall.
Through the whole morning we all three worked in the semi-darkness, but having cut out a great circular piece from the huge wall we only found the soft, chalky earth beyond, and no sign whatever of the presence of gold.
All was disappointing—utterly disheartening.
At noon we made ourselves presentable, and went over to the Plough for lunch. While we were still seated at table the inn-keeper’s sister entered and told me that Ben Knutton wished to speak with me, a request to which I responded with alacrity.
Outside I found the bent old fellow awaiting me. The very fact that he would not enter the inn told me that what he wished to say was in secrecy.
“Mornin’, sir,” he exclaimed, in a low voice, touching his battered hat respectfully. “Dolly’s sent me, sir, with a message to you.” And fumbling in his trousers pocket he placed in my hand a crumpled letter.
We were standing behind a blank wall, with none to watch our movements; therefore I tore open the missive eagerly and read the few hastily-scribbled lines therein.
“Dear Paul,” she wrote, “I am returning to London at once. If you write, do not address the letter to the library at Kensington, but to me at 120, Cornwall Road, Bayswater. Recollect the warning I gave you yesterday. Mr. P. went out last night, but he has not returned.—Yours, D. D.”
“Has Miss Drummond left Bringhurst?” I asked the old labourer.
“Yes, sir. I saw her off by the train for London. She’s not coming back, she said.”
This surprised me. What, I wondered, could have occurred to take her away so suddenly, especially after our exchange of vows on the previous night? Re-reading the letter I found it cold and rather reserved, scarcely the communication of a woman filled with passionate love, as I believed her to be. She gave no reason for her sudden flight, although she warned me again of impending danger. Evidently she did not know that the four malefactors were entombed.
I returned to my companions, and became filled with a longing to go up to London.
I think Job Seal had had almost enough of the Manor House. That skeleton troubled his superstitious mind, therefore he was the first to hail my suggestion with approval. He had to see his owners, he said, and wanted to run down and see how theThrushwas progressing in dry dock. Reilly, however, seemed rather loth to leave the place before he had ascertained the fate of the invaders. He prided himself upon his ingenuity, and he certainly was a smart fellow, and never at a loss to wriggle out of a difficulty.
We locked up the place carefully, and although neither Reilly nor myself took any luggage, the skipper insisted upon taking his bed. He could sleep on no other, he declared. That night I slept in my own rooms at Chelsea, and next morning about eleven I met Reilly by appointment at Notting Hill Gate Station and took him with me to Cornwall Road, in order to introduce him to my well-beloved. I really don’t know what induced me to do this, save that I felt that the interests of all three of us were in common, and a man is always eager and proud to introduce to his friends the woman he loves.
When we were ushered by the maid into Dorothy’s small, neatly-arranged sitting-room on the second floor, she rose from a little writing-table to greet us with a cry of surprise. She wore a black skirt and clean cotton blouse, which gave her countenance a bright, fresh appearance. As her eyes met mine her cheeks flushed with pleasure, but at Reilly she glanced inquiringly, as though she considered him an intruder.
At once I introduced him, and they were instantly friends.
The arrangement of the room betrayed the hand of a refined and tasteful woman. The furniture was of the type found in every Bayswater lodging-house, but by the judicious addition of a few art covers, Liberty cushions, and knick-knacks, the general aspect was changed into one of good taste and perfect harmony.
“Really, Dr. Pickering, this is indeed a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you were coming to town,” she exclaimed, placing chairs for both of us.
I briefly explained that, finding our search in the Manor House fruitless, we had relinquished our investigations for a few days. I also told her that my companion was my assistant, and that we had been at work together.
“But I’ve heard that you had another friend with you—a man called Seal, I think, a sea-captain,” she remarked.
“True. But who told you?”
“I heard Mr. Purvis talking of him with his friends. Mr. Bennett seems especially antagonistic towards him.”
“And well he may be,” I answered. Then in a few brief words I told her the story which the skipper had related to us. My words did not surprise her in the least. She evidently knew Black Bennett too well.
Upon the mantelshelf in a heavy silver frame was a half-length cabinet photograph of a clean-shaven and rather good-looking young man. My eyes fell upon it once or twice, and I wondered who was the original. Perhaps it was my natural jealousy which caused that sudden interest.
Presently, while we were talking, a rap came at the door, and the servant called my love outside to hand her something from a tradesman.
The moment she had disappeared behind the screen placed across the door Reilly bent to me and, in a quick whisper, said: —
“See that photo? That’s the man who was murdered at Kilburn! Ask her about him. I’ll make an excuse to go.”
I looked again at the picture. He was not more than twenty, with well-cut, refined features, a pair of merry eyes, and a well-formed mouth that in some way bore a slight resemblance to hers.
When she re-entered Reilly rose and stretched out his hand, expressing regret that he had an appointment in the City.
“I won’t take Dr. Pickering away from you, Miss Drummond,” he laughed mischievously. “You are one of our rivals in this treasure-hunt, but perhaps you both can arrange to combine forces—eh?”
She laughed in chorus, and although she pressed him to remain I saw that at heart she was glad when he had taken leave of us. Every woman likes to be alone with her lover.
“Well, Dorothy,” I said, as she came back again, smiling, to my side, and allowed me to kiss her sweet lips, “and why have you fled from Bringhurst like this? Tell me the whole truth.”
“By Mr. Purvis’ orders. After leaving you I returned to the farm, half an hour before he got back. Then he told me I was to pack and return to London by the morning train. I have not seen him since.”
“You are unaware of the reason he wished you to leave Bringhurst?”
“Quite. After I had gone to bed I heard Bennett’s voice, but they went out together late, and I heard no more of them.”
“Bennett is not your friend?” I suggested, watching her the while.
Her eyes lit up in an instant.
“My friend!” she cried. “Bennett my friend! No, Paul, he is my worst and most bitter enemy.”
“Tell me, Dorothy,” I asked, after a brief pause, during which I held her soft, slim hand in mine, “who is that young man there—the photograph in the silver frame?” And I pointed to it.
For a moment she did not reply. “That—that!” she gasped, her face blanching as she caught her breath quickly, her lips trembling, her eyes fixed upon me in abject fear. “A friend,” she laughed, falteringly. “Only a friend—no one that you know.”
And her breast rose and fell quickly as she strove to conceal the storm of conflicting emotions that arose within her.
“But I really think you ought to tell me who it is, dearest,” I said. “Now that we are lovers, I surely have a right to know!”
“He is dead,” she cried. “Dead!”
And with trembling fingers she took up the frame and turned it with reverence face towards the wall.
“It is the picture of a dead friend, Paul,” she added. “Need I tell you more than that?” she asked, with an effort.
“What was his name?” I demanded in a low, serious voice.
“His name!” she cried in blank dismay. “No. Paul! I cannot tell you that. I love you—I love you with every fibre of my being, but in this,” she cried, clinging to me with trembling hands, “in this one small matter I beg of you to let me keep my secret. Be generous, and if you really love me let the dead rest.”
“He was your lover.” I blurted forth.
“Ah! no!” she cried. “You misjudge me! He was never my lover, although I confess to you that I—I loved him.”
And she buried her face upon my shoulder, and sobbed as though her overburdened heart would break.
CHAPTER XXXTHE SILENT MAN’S STORY
Onthe following morning I entered Dr. Macfarlane’s consulting-room in response to a letter from him.
“Your foundling is a lot better, Pickering,” exclaimed the great lunacy specialist, rising and giving me his hand. “I’ve got him round at last. Not only is he quite rational, but he has found his voice, or as much of it as he will ever have. Brand, the surgeon, has discovered that he has an injury to the tongue which prevents him properly articulating.”
“Is he quite in his right mind?” I asked, eagerly.
“As right as you are, my dear fellow. I thought from the first it was only temporary,” he answered. “He has told me his story, and, by Jove! it’s a remarkable one.”
“What account does he give of himself?”
“Oh, you’d better come with me down to Ealing, and hear it from his own lips. I’m going to High Elms in half an hour.”
When the Mysterious Man entered the doctor’s private room at the asylum I saw at once what a change had been wrought in him. Neatly dressed in blue serge, his grey hair was well-trimmed, and he no longer wore that long Rip Van Winkle beard of which the hands of theThrushhad made such fun. He was now shaven, with a well-twisted white moustache, smart, fresh-looking, and no longer decrepit. He walked with springy step, and seemed at least twenty years younger. Only when he spoke one realized his infirmity, although he seemed an educated man. His mouth emitted a strange, hollow sound, and several letters he could not pronounce intelligibly.
“I have, I believe, to thank you, doctor,” he said, politely, as he came in. “You were one of those who rescued me.”
“Yes,” I answered. “I found you on board the old ship, theSeahorse, and we took you with us to the steamer.”
“Ah!” he sighed. “I had a narrow escape, doctor—a very narrow escape. I’ve been mad, they say. It’s true, I suppose, otherwise I should not be here, in an asylum. But I assure you I recollect very little after I boarded that coffin-ship.”
I watched his dark eyes. They were no longer shifty, but calm and steady. He was quite sane now, and had at Macfarlane’s invitation seated himself between us.
“We are all very much interested in you,” I said. “Will you tell me the whole story?”
“Well, I can’t talk very plainly, you know, but I’ll try and explain everything,” he said. Then with a renewed effort he went on: —
“It is no sailor’s yarn, but the truth, even though it may sound a remarkable story. You see, it was like this. I’d been at sea all my life, and in Liverpool Bob Usher, first mate of theCity of Chester, was well known twelve years ago. Like a good many other men I got sick of my work, and in a fit of anger with the skipper I deserted in Sydney. After theCity of Chesterhad sailed for home I joined another steamer, theGoldfinch, bound for Shanghai, but instead of putting in there we ran up the Chinese coast, and when a couple of cannon were produced and the forecastle hands armed themselves with rifles and cutlasses, the truth dawned upon me. It was not long before we painted our name on the bows, and commenced doing a bit of piracy among the junks. Our quick-firing guns, manned by old naval men, played havoc among the Chinese boats, and before a fortnight we had quite a cargo of loot—silks, ivories, tea, opium, and such things—all of which we ran to Adelaide, where the skipper disposed of them to one of those agents who asked no questions.
“At first I had thoughts of leaving the ship, for I had no desire to be overhauled by a British cruiser, nor to be sunk as a pirate. Still, the life was full of excitement, and the hands were as adventurous and as light-hearted a crew as ever sailed the Pacific. Although the gunboats were constantly on the lookout for us, we had wonderful good luck. In the China seas there is still a lot of piracy, mostly by the Chinese themselves, but sometimes by European steamers. We always gave the British squadron a very wide berth, constantly changing our name and altering the colour of our funnel. This went on for nearly a year, when at last the chase after us grew a bit too hot, and we sailed out of Perth for Liverpool. We had rounded the Cape and were steaming up the West Coast of Africa, when one day a Danish seaman named Jansen made a trifling mistake in executing one of the captain’s orders. The skipper swore, the Dane answered him back, whereupon the captain shot the poor fellow like a dog, and with the aid of the second mate pitched him to the sharks before he was dead. This was a bit too much for me. I remonstrated at such cold-blooded murder, but scarcely had the words left my mouth when the captain, Bennett by name, fired point-blank at me.”
“Bennett!” I ejaculated, interrupting. “Do you mean Black Bennett?”
“Yes. The same man,” he answered. “Do you know the brute?”
“I do. Go on. I’ll tell you something when you have finished.”
“Well, the skipper fired at me. He was the worst of bad characters. They said he’d secured a big fortune after a few years, and that it was locked up in Consols in England. All I know, however, is that he was the most cold-blooded, heartless blackguard that I’ve ever met. Of course Chinese don’t count for much, but I’d be afraid to estimate how many he’d sent to kingdom come during our exciting cruises in Chinese waters. But that’s neither here nor there. We quarrelled, he and I. Having missed me, he at once decided on another plan of getting rid of me. We were just then hugging a long, broken, and unexplored coast line, therefore he stopped the vessel and ordered the crew to lower a boat and put me ashore, knowing too well the fate of a single unarmed man among the barbarous Moors. It was a fiendish revenge to maroon me, but I was helpless. That was the last time I saw Bennett—nearly ten years ago now.”
The man Usher paused for a few moments, the effort of such a long narrative having been too much for him.
“Well,” he continued, “I was put ashore without food or water on a sandy, desolate spot. The surf was so strong that we narrowly escaped being upset, but getting to land at last I discovered the mouth of a river, and pushed my way beside it for a good many miles. The river, I afterwards found, was called the Tensift, and I had landed in South Morocco. I need not describe all the adventures that happened to me, save that I was seized a week after landing and carried as a slave to Morocco city, where I was sold to a powerful sheik, who probably considered that it increased his social status to possess an English slave. I was taken across the deserts and over the Atlas to a place called Aksabi, and for several years was kindly treated although held in bondage. After some time, however, my master was ordered by the Sultan to raise an army against the Riff tribes on the Mediterranean coast, and I was, of course, enrolled as a man who knew something of war. Our expedition travelled first to Fez, where we were reviewed by the Sultan himself, and then we penetrated into the fertile mountain country held by the revolutionary Riffs. But disaster after disaster befell us in that unknown country, falling into ambushes almost every day, until with others I was taken prisoner, and passed from hand to hand until I became slave to one of the powerful Riff chiefs. All my companions had been massacred in cold blood, but being a European my life had been spared, probably because my captors expected they might hold me for ransom. As slave of a tyrannical barbarian, mine was a dog’s life. On any day or at any hour I knew not whether my capricious master might not order me to be put to the torture, bastinadoed, or shot, while the work in the broiling sun under a harsh negro taskmaster was so hard that it sapped my manhood. The Sheik Taiba, whose slave I was, defied the Sultan and lived in a mountain stronghold a few miles from the blue Mediterranean. Day after day I could see the open sea stretching away beyond. Ah! how I longed to be free to return to England. On one or two occasions I had been sent with other slaves (all negroes) to obtain stones from the seashore. On one occasion, at the mouth of the small river that flowed down the valley to the sea opposite the island of Alhucemas, there had been pointed out to me by one of my hapless companions, a decrepit old negro, the submerged hull of a ship lying about a quarter of a mile up from the sea, and only just covered by the clear, swift-flowing stream. It lay like this,” and taking a pencil and paper he drew a plan of its position.
“It was theSeahorse!” I said, quickly.
“Yes. It had been there for ages, a ship the like of which I had never before seen, but by standing upon the projecting rock above I could look down upon it. Many times I visited it, for the mystery of it attracted me. Among both Moors and negroes there was a strange legend that evil spirits were contained within, hence it was held in superstitious awe. When it rose to the surface there would, it was believed, emerge from it a terrible pestilence that would sweep the whole of the Riff tribes from the face of the earth. I, however, had no such fear. Many times I dived off the rock and examined the black old hull, finding that the projecting stern had become wedged beneath the overhanging ledge, and that this apparently kept it in its place. Through the windows I could see that the water had not entered, hence it occurred to me that some buoyancy might be left in it. For two whole years I held this theory, and it was strengthened by the fact that instead of lying heavily on the sandy bottom, the bows were raised a foot or two. I could see that it was a very ancient vessel, which in some remote period had drifted over the bar into the estuary, and had stranded there when the river was low. Then when the winter snows of the Atlas had melted, the flood had risen rapidly, the projecting rock had held down the stern of the old craft, and the waters had closed over her. The one thought that possessed me was that if that overhanging rock could be removed the hull might float again. With this object I waited in patience. From the traders at Tetuan the Riffs frequently purchased explosives which they used in their periodical fights against the forces of the Kaid Maclean and the Sultan. Hence, about two years afterwards, I found in the possession of the Sheik Taiba some strange-looking substance which, although the Moors were unaware of its potency, I knew to be dynamite. I managed to secure some of it, and a week later placed it in the great rift in the rock and in the middle of the night blew it up. The quantity I used must have been much more than necessary, for the rock was split, and the ledge, blown right off, fell into the water ten yards away from the vessel, while to my great delight the craft came up to the surface, the strangest-looking object I had ever seen afloat. I swam to it, and having broken out one of its windows crept into the cabin, the current carrying me slowly out to sea.
“The explosion had alarmed the Riffs, who poured down to the spot in hundreds, only to see the strange craft which they held in such dread actually floating down the stream. The sight of it filled them with terror, and they fled, attributing the explosion to a supernatural cause. My object, of course, was to escape from slavery, and in order not to attract the attention of my enemies, the Riffs, should they board me, I threw off my slave’s clothing, and finding in the cabin a pair of old Elizabethan breeches and a doublet, I donned them. The door communicating with the other part of the ship was secured so firmly that very soon I realized my position.
“Days passed, how many I cannot tell. I only knew that want of food and water—of which I had none—told upon me, as well as the punishment that had been inflicted upon me a month before my escape. For a trifling offence the Sheik Taiba had ordered my tongue to be cut out, a cruel mutilation common among the Moors. This had not actually been done, but so severely was my tongue injured by my inhuman captors that I was now unable to articulate a single word. What more can I tell you? Alone on that strange craft, hunger and thirst consumed me, my mind wandered, I grew worse, and eventually went stark mad and oblivious to everything. All I recollect is that I was placed in charge of Ben Harding, the man who acted as Bennett’s second mate on theGoldfinch—a broken-down gentleman who knew little about the sea, and whose previous career included a long term of imprisonment at Brisbane for being implicated in the murder of a mail-driver. But you said that you know Black Bennett,” he added, with anger flashing in his eyes. “He marooned me because he feared that I should tell the truth of poor Jansen’s murder when we got to Liverpool. Where is he to be found?”
CHAPTER XXXITHE HOUSE AT KILBURN
Robert Usherreturned with me to Chelsea and again took up his abode in Keppel Street.
To him I explained the whole of the curious circumstances, our exciting search after the hidden loot, and our utter failure—a narrative which interested him greatly, and caused him to become enthusiastic in his desire to render us assistance. I introduced him to Seal, Reilly, and old Staffurth, and we all closely analyzed his story, which at first seemed so extraordinary to us as to be beyond credence. Seal, however, as a practical seaman, examined the plan which Usher drew, and gave it as his opinion that theSeahorsehad been preserved in the manner described by Usher. His theory was that the antique vessel had been battened down for a storm, and that the rudder being carried away the men on board were helpless. The gale also carried away the masts and blew the wreck over the bar into the river, where she became wedged by the rocky ledge, as Usher described. Then a sudden flood of the river caused the waters to rise so rapidly that before the crew could open the hatches and escape the vessel became submerged.
I suggested that the reason the crew stayed below was that being storm-driven to the land of their enemies, the Corsairs, they feared attack, therefore remained within their stronghold, hoping to float away when the gale abated, but were unfortunately overwhelmed so suddenly that escape became impossible. Death had no doubt come upon them quickly, for we recollected that the interior showed no sign of recent fighting, and that asphyxiation was evidently the cause of death.
The fate of Bennett and his men in that underground burrow caused us considerable apprehension. We had, up to the present, successfully combated the efforts of the gang to secure the treasure, but so ingenious and ubiquitous were our enemies that we knew not when or where they would turn up again. Reilly was of opinion that they were entombed, but my own idea was that with Black Bennett as leader they would certainly escape in some ingenious manner or other. I had a kind of intuition that we had not yet seen the last of that interesting quartette.
So far as we were concerned we had given up all hope of discovering the gold at Caldecott Manor. It was surely tantalizing to read that long list of the treasure in English, covering eighteen pages in the vellum book—plates and dishes of gold, jewels in profusion, collars of pearls, jewelled swords, packets of uncut gems, golden cups, and “seven chests of yron each fylled wyth monie,” a list of objects which, if sold, meant an ample fortune.
Accompanied by Reilly, I visited the house at Kilburn wherein the secret tragedy had been enacted. We had but little difficulty in finding it, a good-sized semi-detached place lying back behind some dark green railings. A board showed that it was to let, and having obtained the key at a house-agent’s in Edgware Road, we went over it as prospective tenants. The furniture had been removed, but on the floor-boards of the upstairs room in which the helpless man had been so foully done to death we found a small dark stain, the size of a man’s palm—the stain of blood. It was, according to Reilly, the exact spot where the poor young fellow lay, his life-blood having soaked through the carpet.
We looked outside the window, and there saw the great hole in the conservatory roof through which my companion had fallen, while a piece of broken lattice-work hung away from the wall. The autumn sunshine fell full upon that dark stain on the floor, but the attention of the observer would not have been attracted thereby; it was brown, like other stains one so often sees upon deal flooring, and none would ever dream that it was evidence of a foul and cowardly crime.
On the following day I called upon Dorothy at Cornwall Road, and almost her first words were to convey to me a piece of news from Rockingham—namely, that old Ben Knutton had met with a fatal accident. While in a state of intoxication two nights before he had attempted to cross the river by the foot-bridge that leads to Great Easton, had missed his footing, fallen in, and been drowned. There was no suspicion of foul play, as a young labourer named Thoms had been with him, and had been unable to save him. The inquest had been held on the previous day at the Sonde Arms, and a verdict of “Accidental Death” returned.
The old fellow was a sad inebriate, it was true, but in common with Dorothy, I felt a certain amount of regret at his tragic end. Had it not been for the presence of a witness I should certainly have suspected foul play.
“Have you heard anything of your friends Bennett or Purvis?” I asked her as we sat together.
“Mr. Purvis was here last night,” she answered. “He has told me how you entrapped them in that subterranean passage.”
“Then they have escaped!” I cried. “Tell me how they managed it!”
“It appears that on leaving the Manor, and descending into the secret way, they found that you had removed the planks that bridged the well. They returned to the Manor only to discover that you had also closed down the exit securely.”
“What did they do then?”
“Well, for a time there seemed no solution of the problem until Mr. Bennett, more ingenious than the rest, suggested that they should dig a hole straight upwards from the roof of the passage. This they did, and in half an hour emerged in the centre of a cornfield!”
“By Jove!” I cried, laughing. “I never thought of that! Then they are all four back in London again?”
“I think so. It seems as though they have, like you, given up all hope of making any discovery.”
“Yes,” I said, with a sigh, “we are, unfortunately, no nearer the truth than we were when we started.” My eye fell upon the mantelshelf, and I noticed that in place of the portrait of the dead man there was now a photograph of a well-known actor. She had removed it, and had probably placed the picture among her most treasured possessions.
This thought pained me. It was on the tip of my tongue to refer to it, but I feared to give her annoyance.
I openly declare that I now thought far more of my sweet and winsome love than I did of that sordid treasure. The first-named was a living reality, the soft-voiced woman who was my all-in-all; but the latter was nothing more than a mere phantom, as fortune is so very often.
While my friends still discussed the ways and means of solving the problem I thought only of her, for I loved her with all my heart and with all my soul. How I wished she would set my troubled thoughts at rest regarding the poor fellow who had been done to death at Kilburn, yet when I recollected the reason of her secrecy I saw that she was held silent for fear of consequences. Hers was a secret—but surely not a guilty one.
Still she had admitted to me having loved him, and that had aroused the fierce fire of jealousy within me. I felt that I had a right to know who and what he was.
We sat chatting together, as lovers will, and when evening fell we went out together and dined at a restaurant. I suppose that if we had regarded conventionalities I ought not to have visited her at her lodgings, yet I found her a woman overwhelmed by a sadness; one in whose life there had been so little joy, and whose future was only a blank sea of despair. My presence, I think, cheered her, for her soft cheeks flushed, her eyes grew bright when she chatted with me, and her breast heaved and fell when I spoke of my affection.
She was so different to other women; so calm, so thoughtful, so sweet of temperament, though I knew that in her inner consciousness she was suffering all the tortures which come to the human mind when overshadowed by a crime. It was because of that I tried to take her out of herself, to give her a little pleasure beyond that dreary street in Bayswater, and to prevent her thoughts ever wandering back to that terrible night in Kilburn when those brutal men forced her to touch the cold, white face of the dead.
When dining together in the big hall of the Trocadero the crowd and the music brightened her, for evening gaiety in London is infectious, and she expressed pleasure that we had gone there. Over dinner I told her how for the present we had abandoned the search at Caldecott, and related to her Usher’s remarkable story.
“And this man Bennett actually cast the poor fellow away without food or water!” she cried, when she had heard me to the end. “Why, that was as much murder as the shooting of the unfortunate Dane! I hate the man, Paul!” she added. “Truth to tell, I myself live in fear of him. He would not hesitate to kill me—that I know.”
“No, no,” I said reassuringly. “He dare not do that. Besides, you now have me as your protector, Dorothy.” And I looked straight into her great dark eyes.
“Ah! I know,” she faltered. “But—well, there are reasons why I fear he may carry out his threat.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Has he threatened you?”
She was silent for a few moments, then nodded in the affirmative.
I knew the reason. It was because she was aware of the secret at Kilburn. Perhaps he feared she might expose him, just as ten years before he had feared Robert Usher.
“If he attempts to harm you it will be the worse for him!” I cried quickly. “Remember we have in Seal and Usher witnesses who could bring him to the criminal dock. At present, however, both men are remaining silent. The whole truth is not yet revealed. There is still another crime of which certain persons have knowledge—a tragedy in London, not long ago.”
Her face blanched in an instant, and next second I regretted that I had hinted at her secret.
“What is that?” she asked in a hollow voice, not daring to look me in the face.
But I managed to turn the conversation without replying to her question, and resolved that in future, although anxiety might consume me, I would refrain from further mention of the ugly affair. She would tell me nothing—indeed, how could she, implicated as she was, even though innocent?
Yet I hated to think that my love should be an associate of those malefactors, and was striving to devise a plan by which she might escape from her terrible thraldom.
After dinner I suggested the play, and we went together to see an amusing comedy. But afterwards, as I sat beside her in the cab on our return to Bayswater, she sighed, saying —
“Forgive me, Paul, but somehow I fear the future. I am too happy—and I know that this perfect contentment cannot last. I am one of those doomed from birth to disappointment and unhappiness. It has been ever so throughout my life—it is so now.”
“No, no, dearest,” I declared, taking her little gloved hand in mine. “You have enemies, just as I have, but if we assist each other we may successfully checkmate them. This fight for a fortune is a desperate one, it is true, but up to the present it has been a drawn game, while we hold the honours—our mutual love.”
She gripped my hand in silence, but it was more expressive than any words could have been. I knew that she placed her whole trust in me.
Yes, ours was a strange wooing—brief, passionate, and complete. But I felt confident that, even though she might have entertained an affection for the man so ruthlessly assassinated at Kilburn, she loved me truly and well.
In that belief I remained perfectly content. She was mine, mine alone, and I desired no more. For me her affection was all-sufficient. I had searched for a hidden treasure, and found the greatest on earth—perfect love.
CHAPTER XXXIIWHAT WE DISCOVERED AT THE RECORD OFFICE
A monthdragged slowly by. I saw Dorothy daily, and we were happy in each other’s love. She had resumed her post of typewriter at an insurance office in Moorgate Street, and on her return home would generally spend each evening with me. Robert Usher continued to live with me in Keppel Street and proved a most entertaining companion, and Philip Reilly, bitterly disappointed, had also returned to the bank, while Job Seal had sailed from Cardiff with his usual cargo of steam coal for Malta.
Worn out with all the confusion, we had all of us given up hope of ever discovering the treasure, and my chief regret was that we had played such havoc with the interior of Caldecott Manor. What the landlord’s claim for dilapidations would be I dreaded to think.
Usher was, of course, a typical adventurer. His whole life had been spent upon the sea, and yet, curiously enough, his speech was never interlarded with nautical phrases like Seal’s. Some men, however long they are at sea, never become “salts,” and Robert Usher was one of them. Over our pipes he often related to me his exciting adventures as slave in the interior of Morocco, and times without number gave me vivid descriptions of the oldSeahorseas he found it held beneath the clear water by the ledge of rock. At first it had puzzled me greatly why the water had not entered the cabins when the flood closed over the vessel, but both Seal and I recollected how, after hacking away the growth of weeds and shells from the deck, the men had found the hatches covered tightly with a kind of waterproof tarpauling, which had evidently been placed there by those on board to prevent the heavy sea that washed the decks from entering the cabins. The commander and his officers had closed themselves down tightly, trusting to the one officer and his men on deck to manage the ship, but, alas! they had all perished.
At first it had seemed utterly incredible that the ship had retained its buoyancy all those years, and that the water had never entered; yet it was evident that the decomposition of the bodies of those unfortunate victims had generated gases that had increased its buoyancy, and that, being held within the river bar, there were no waves to beat and break the thick, green glass of the tightly-secured windows. Had the vessel sunk in deep water, the pressure of the latter would, of course, have broken the glass at once, but resting on that soft, sandy bed, only just submerged, it had been preserved quite intact through all those years, a tribute to the stability of the stout oak and teak of which our forefathers constructed ships in Queen Elizabeth’s day.
I introduced Robert Usher to the secretary of the Royal Geographical Society, and he was invited to deliver a lecture before the Fellows describing the interior of Morocco, about which so very little is known even in these days. His wanderings in the Anti-Atlas and the Jeb Grus to Figig, his captivity in Aksabi and with the warlike Riffs, and the information he gave regarding the power of the latter and the weakness of the Sultan’s army were extremely interesting, and were afterwards printed in the journal of the society as a permanent record. His map of the sources of the Muluya River, on Jeb Aiahin, in the Great Atlas, was of considerable value, and was afterwards marked on the map of Morocco. It will, indeed, be found upon the revised maps of that country now published.
In the privacy of my sitting-room he related many stories regarding the man known as Black Bennett. As far as I could discover, the latter had led a curious double life for years. He possessed a small but comfortable house out at Epping, where he posed as a retired sea captain, but now and then he would disappear, sometimes for a whole year, occupying his time in depredations on the sea. The common belief in England is that piracy is dead, but it was certainly not so a dozen years ago, when Chinese waters were not watched by Japanese and European war vessels as they now are. To commit acts of piracy in the Yellow Seas would nowadays be a difficult matter.
About Harding, the man who had so cleverly copied the documents I had taken from theSeahorse, Usher told me a good deal. Formerly a professor at Cambridge, he had committed some fraud, and fearing arrest had, it seemed, escaped to sea. An adventurer of the same type as Bennett, the pair became inseparable, and Harding had assisted the former in many of his most daring schemes.
So the weeks went on, autumn drew to a close, and I began to glance at theLancetanxiously each week to ascertain where alocum tenenswas wanted, for, even though compelled to go to the country and leave my love alone and at the mercy of that quartette of unscrupulous scoundrels, I saw myself compelled to earn my living.
I recollected that long and tantalizing list of gold and jewels in the vellum book which I had given again into Mr. Staffurth’s hands to re-examine, and sighed that they were not mine that I might marry Dorothy and give her a fitting and comfortable home.
One day I received quite an unexpected visit from Mr. Staffurth. As soon as he entered my room I saw by his flushed cheeks and excited manner that something unusual had occurred. He had even forgotten to remove his big spectacles, as he always did before he went out.
“It’s briefly this,” he said in reply to my eager demand. “The day before yesterday, while going through that vellum book again, there were two things that struck me for the first time. The first you will recollect, namely, that in the covers and on various folios is written in brown ink, very faded, and at a different date than when the book was first compiled, the numerical three. There are no fewer than nine huge threes in different parts of the book, but none of them have anything whatever to do with the context. The mystery of that sign puzzled me. It seemed as though it were placed there with some distinct object, for each was carefully drawn, and so boldly that it was evidently intended to arrest attention.”
“I recollect quite distinctly,” I said, interested. “I pointed them out to you one day, but they did not then appear to strike you as curious.”
“No,” answered the old man, “I was too engrossed in deciphering the manuscript at the time. But the second discovery I have made is still more curious, for I find in the back of the cover, which, as you know, is lined with vellum, there is written in the same hand as that which penned the book itself the curious entry: ‘3ELIZ:43.5.213.’ At first I was much puzzled by it, but after a good deal of reflection I disposed of the threes at each end among those in the body of the book, and read the entry as a date, namely, the twenty-first day of May in the forty-third year of the reign of Elizabeth, or 1591. This aroused my curiosity, and I lost no time in searching at the Record Office for any documents bearing that date. I spent all yesterday there, and at last my search among the indices was rewarded, for I found an entry which indicated something of interest preserved among the Oblata Rolls. I have seen it, and I want you to come to Chancery Lane and assist me in copying it.”
“When? Now?” I cried in excitement.
“Certainly. I have a cab at the door.”
On our drive Staffurth told me little regarding his find, declaring that I should be allowed to inspect it in due course. You may, however, imagine my own state of mind, for I saw how highly excited the old expert was himself, although he strove not to show it.
Arrived at the new Record Office, Staffurth, who was well known there as a searcher, filled up a request form for No. 26,832 of the Oblata Rolls, and in due course an attendant handed to us at the desk, whereat we had taken seats, a small roll of rather coarse parchment, to which were attached three old red seals and a tablet bearing the catalogue number.
Staffurth unrolled it before me and exhibited the three signatures at foot. They were those of “Clement Wollerton,” “John Ffreeman,” and “Bartholomew da Schorno.”
My eager eyes devoured it. Near the foot was sketched a strange device, very much like a plan, for in the centre of three unequal triangles was a small circle, and with them certain cabalistic signs.
“You see it is unfortunately in cipher,” Staffurth pointed out. “But it no doubt has something to do with the treasure.”
“But we have the key,” I exclaimed. “It is written in the vellum book.”
He shook his white head, saying: “No. I have already tried it. Our key is useless. This is entirely different.”
“It may be a copy of the document sold by Knutton,” I cried. “Possibly it has been placed among the Government records for safety, in case the Knuttons should lose the one entrusted to their care.”
“Possibly,” was his answer. “But our key to the cipher gives us absolutely no assistance. What I want you to do is to copy it. Take that pen and write down the letters at my dictation.”
I obeyed, and with care printed in capitals as he read them off as follows —