CHAPTER XXVIIN WHICH BEN KNUTTON GROWS CONFIDENTIAL
Reillyreturned shortly afterwards with a budget of information. When we had traversed the little wood and were out on the highway he told us certain facts that were interesting.
The village was called Bringhurst, distant a mile and a quarter from Caldecott. The place where we had emerged was called the Glebe Farm, and was occupied by an old man called Page, who had as lodgers a gentleman named Purvis and his niece. They often had visitors, two gentlemen who came over from Kettering, and from their description one was Bennett. Purvis had lived there on and off for three weeks, but the young lady had only recently come.
Reilly had learned all this at the little beerhouse at Bringhurst. And he had learned something more, namely, that there was some village gossip regarding the young lady.
“Gossip!” I demanded. “What is it?”
“Well,” answered Reilly, “the old innkeeper says that she’s been seen out walking late at night with that drunken scamp who sold Purvis the parchment.”
“What!” I cried. “With old Ben Knutton, of Rockingham?”
“That’s so.”
“Then he knows her,” I exclaimed, quickly. “He’ll be able to tell me something. I must see him to-day. A pot or two of beer will make him talk.”
According to Reilly the villagers of Bringhurst had no suspicion of the reason Purvis lived at the Glebe Farm, nor were they aware of the existence of the secret communication between the two villages. It was certain, however, that Purvis and Bennett knew of it, and for that reason the former had taken up his quarters there. The man Page was probably unaware of the tunnel, for it led from beneath his barn with the entry well concealed. One fact, however, I had not overlooked. At the bottom of the steps which led up to the surface a wall had been recently broken down, showing that the tunnel had been closed up for years and had only recently been opened.
The men who had worked so assiduously during the night were probably within the farmhouse. At any rate, on our walk back to Caldecott along the white highway through the village of Great Easton we saw nothing of them.
When we returned to the Manor a ridiculous position presented itself. We were locked out! All windows and doors we had barred on the inside; therefore Reilly, an adept at scaling walls, clambered up a rain-spout and effected an entrance by one of the upper windows.
We took counsel together and arrived at two conclusions, namely, that our rivals had by some means obtained possession of the secret of the underground passage, and, secondly, that they, like ourselves, were convinced that the treasure lay hidden upon the premises we occupied.
This caused our excitement to increase rather than diminish; but after lunch at the Plough I strolled down to Rockingham, while my companions returned to resume their investigations.
I found that Ben Knutton was at work. He was cleaning out a ditch on the edge of Thoroughsale Wood, and I was directed to the spot, about a mile away. I discovered the old fellow without much difficulty, and my appearance there was something of a surprise to him.
At my request he put down his spade and came to the stile whereon I seated myself.
“Well, Knutton,” I said, “I’ve come to have another little chat with you—a confidential chat, you understand. Now look here, before we begin I’ve one thing to say, and that is if you answer all my questions truthfully there’s half a sovereign for you.”
“Thankee, sir,” responded the bibulous old rascal, touching his hat. “What did you want to know, sir?”
“Listen,” I said. “There’s a young lady staying over at Mr. Page’s at Bringhurst. You know her?”
“Yes, sir, I knows ’er. I’ve knowed ’er since she were a little girl.”
“Then tell me all about her,” I said.
“Well, there ain’t very much to tell,” responded the old man. “I don’t know who was ’er father. She came to my sister-in-law as a nurse-child from London when she was about two years old. They say ’er father and mother were rich people. But Fanny Stanion, my sister-in-law, who lived over at Deenethorpe, brought her up, and got paid for it by a lawyer in Oundle. You don’t know Deenethorpe. It’s about five miles from here.”
“Near Deene?” I suggested, for I had been photographing in Lady Cardigan’s beautiful park.
“Yes, close by,” was the labourer’s reply. “Fanny had ’er with ’er nigh on twelve years and was like a mother to ’er, and often brought ’er over to Rockingham to see us. Then, when Fanny died, she was sent back to London, an’ some lady, I believe, took charge of ’er and sent her to boardin’ school somewhere in Devonshire. I ain’t seen little Dolly these seven years till the other day when she came to my cottage. My! Ain’t she grown to be a fine young ’ooman? I didn’t know ’er ag’in,” and the old man leaned upon the rail and laughed. Men who work in the fields at all hours and in hot and cold weather age very early; the furrows grow deep on their faces and the skin is crossed and recrossed with multitudinous lines like a spider’s web, the spine gets bent from the long hours of stooping over the earth, and the heat and the damp and the frost all turn by turn enter into the bones, and stiffen and cramp them before old age is due.
“Is nothing known regarding her parentage?” I asked. “Have you never heard any story about her?”
“No, nothing. The lawyer in Oundle who used to pay Fanny monthly probably knew all about it, but he’s dead now. Fanny had the child brought to her through answerin’ an advertisement in theStamford Mercury. My poor wife used to be particular fond o’ little Dolly.”
“And why did she call to see you? Had she an object in doing so?”
“I suppose she wanted to visit the cottage ag’in,” was the old man’s answer. “But she’s growed such a fine London lady that I was quite taken aback when she told me she was Dolly Drummond.”
“Drummond! Why, that’s not her name,” I cried. “I mean Miss Bristowe.”
“You said the young lady who lives at Mr. Page’s, eh?”
“Certainly. A tall, dark young lady.”
“That’s Dolly Drummond. There’s only one lady livin’ there. She’s with her uncle, Mr. Purvis.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“Only that he’s ’er uncle—’er guardian, too, I fancy. She didn’t tell me much about him, and I haven’t seen him myself.”
“Well,” I said; “you may be surprised to know that he’s the man to whom you sold that piece of parchment.”
“What!” cried the old man, glaring at me. “Is he ’er uncle? Why, then, that accounts for the questions she put to me.”
“What about?”
“About the old secret way from the Glebe Farm into the Manor House at Caldecott. My father knew about it, and told me of it, but nobody’s been able to find it yet.”
“And the young lady came to you for information?”
“She’s heard me mention it when she were a girl, so I suppose her curiosity was aroused and that was why she came to me for information.”
“More likely that the man Purvis sent her. Perhaps they’ve discovered what was written on that parchment, and are now making use of it. But I hear you’ve met her at night.”
“Who told you so?” he asked, starting at my words.
“It is common gossip in Bringhurst.”
The old fellow laughed heartily, and in his broad dialect said: —
“They’ll be saying next that I’m the young lady’s father, and that I want it kept secret.”
“Why did you meet her at such late hours?”
“Because she wanted to talk to me about her youth. She seems very anxious to find out who were her parents, and for that reason I believe she’s down here.”
“Isn’t it rather remarkable that Purvis should be with her?”
“It is. I don’t like that man. I’m very sorry I didn’t show you the parchment afore I sold it to him, sir.”
With that latter sentiment I heartily coincided. Had I not been forestalled, the treasure would have undoubtedly been ours long ago.
“But tell me more about Miss Drummond,” I urged.
“What is there to tell? When she was old enough Fanny sent ’er to the national school at Deenethorpe. But she wasn’t at all like the village children. She was always the lady, even when quite young.”
“Your sister-in-law was well paid, I suppose?”
“Yes. She was a widow, and only had the money from the lawyer to live upon. Her husband was a wood-cutter, and was killed by a tree falling on him over in Carlton Purlieus. One time Fanny fell ill, and we had little Dolly with us at Rockingham for nigh on a year.”
Little wonder was it that she should have sought out the good-for-nothing old labourer who had in his younger and more sober days been as guardian to her.
“But I can’t understand why she should wish to meet you late at night,” I remarked.
“She didn’t wish her uncle to know of our meetin’, she said. Besides, she had a lot to ask me about her earlier days, and a lot to tell me of how she had fared since she had left these parts.”
“Did she make any mention of that story about the fortune of the Knuttons?”
“Well, sir, she did,” responded the old fellow, rather puzzled at what I had divined. “She told me how she remembered me telling her all about it when a girl, and how her Aunt Fanny, as she called her, used to prophesy that one day we should be very rich.”
“And what else?”
“She made me point out the route which I believed was taken by the old subterranean passage. That’s why we walked through the fields and were seen together.”
“Well,” I said at last, “I want you to do something for me, Knutton, and if you carry it through successfully I’ll give you a sovereign instead of half a sovereign. I want you to go over to the Glebe Farm this afternoon and take a letter to her. It must be given to her in secret, remember. Ask for a reply, merely yes or no. You understand?”
“Oh, I’ll take the letter, sir, an’ be glad to do it,” the old labourer cried eagerly.
“Very well, we’ll go back together to your cottage and I’ll write it. Then you take it, and I’ll wait at the Sonde Arms until you return with the reply. You must be careful, however, that this man Purvis doesn’t see you, or you may make it awkward for Miss Drummond in a variety of ways.”
“Trust me, sir,” was his response. “I knows my way about the Glebe Farm. I worked there on and off for three years.”
“Then you know the big barn. Underneath it is a door leading to some steps. Do you know them?”
“Know them, why, o’ course I do. The steps lead nowhere. There was once a well at the bottom, they say, but it’s been bricked up because it used to over-flow up to the barn door.”
It was evident that the entrance had been unsuspected, and that the subterranean communication had only very recently been opened.
The old fellow shouldered his spade and with bent back walked beside me into Rockingham, where, upon a leaf from my note-book, I wrote an urgent line to the woman whose great beauty and sweet grace had enchanted me. I prayed of her to do me a favour and give me an appointment at a spot on the high road between Great Easton and Caldecott which I had noticed that morning—a place where, according to the sign-post, the road to Market Harborough joined that to Wellingborough. I sealed the note and, having watched the old fellow down the road, turned into the Sonde Arms to smoke and kill time until his return.
What he had told me added a further touch of romance to that pale-faced, troubled woman who had so strangely entered my life. Impatient and fidgety I lounged in the inn, smoking and trying to read the newspaper, until at last Ben, after an absence of an hour and a half, returned.
“I managed to send a message in to her by old Sam Lucas, the shepherd, and she came out and met me behind the barn. She read your letter, sir, and turned a little red. She seemed to hesitate like, and then asked me if I knowed you. When I told her I did, she said I was to say she’d meet you at eight o’clock to-night at the place you mentioned.”
My heart leaped for joy.
I slipped the coin agreed upon into the old fellow’s horny palm, and with injunctions to secrecy left the place and hurried along the road, over the level crossing, into Caldecott, where I told my companions of my tryst.
During my absence they had taken up the flooring of one of the downstairs rooms, but the search had been in vain, and they were now working in their shirt-sleeves replacing the boards.
“We shall have another visit from them swabs to-night, doctor,” Seal said, as he mopped the perspiration from his sea-bronzed face. “There’ll be some fun in this house before morning, that’s my firm belief.”
By “fun,” the skipper meant fighting, for if he met Black Bennett we knew there would be blows—and hard ones too.
Punctually at eight o’clock I halted beneath the weather-worn sign-post. The crimson after-glow had faded and the still evening was far advanced. Away in the west the red glow still showed from behind the hills, but in the east crept up the dark night-clouds. The hour struck from the church towers of several villages, and away in the far distance the curfew commenced to toll solemnly, just as it has ever done since the far-back Norman days.
With eyes and ears on the alert, I stood awaiting her coming.
She was late—as a woman always is—but at last I saw the flutter of a light dress approaching in the twilight, and went eagerly forward to meet her.
In the fading light I saw her face. To me it looked more beautiful than before, because the cheeks were slightly flushed as I raised my hat to greet her.
I took her hand, and it trembled in my grasp. She looked for a single instant into my face, then dropped her eyes without uttering a word. By that sign I felt convinced that the satisfaction of our clandestine meeting was mutual.
Ah! how deeply I loved her! So deeply, indeed, that in the first moments of our meeting I was tongue-tied.
Surely ours was a strange wooing; but, as will be seen, its dénouement was far stranger.
CHAPTER XXVIIDOROTHY DRUMMOND PREFERS SECRECY
Dorothylooked more worn and anxious than on that morning when I had walked with her in Westbourne Grove. But the air of mystery enveloped her still, and to even the casual observer her face was interesting as that of a woman with some tragic history.
“Miss Drummond,” I said, “it is a real pleasure to me that we meet again.”
She started at the mention of her name, but made no comment, except to say, in her sweet, well-modulated voice: —
“The pleasure is mutual, I assure you, Dr. Pickering.” Then she asked: “How did you know I was staying in this neighbourhood?”
I explained how I had seen her emerge from the farmhouse and gather the flowers, and what old Ben Knutton had told me of her youth.
“I had no idea that you knew this district,” I added.
“Yes,” she responded, looking around her, “I’ve known it all my life. Every house, every field, every tree is familiar to me, for here I spent my happiest days,” and a slight sigh escaped her as her memory ran back.
We were walking together slowly along a path beside the winding Welland. She knew the way, and had led me through a gate and across a small strip of pasture down to the river. We were safer from observation there than upon the open highway, she said.
After we had been chatting some time she suddenly grew serious, and said: —
“Do you know, Doctor Pickering, why I’ve come to you to-night?”
“No, but I hoped it was to resume our pleasant companionship,” I said.
“It was to warn you.”
“Of what?”
“Of your enemies.”
“You mean those men Bennett and Purvis,” I said, hoping to learn something from her. “Purvis is your uncle, is he not?”
She glanced at me quickly, and responded in the affirmative.
“Tell me, Miss Drummond,” I urged, “are you aware of the reason I am staying here?”
“I know it all,” she replied, in a strained voice. “I am well aware that you are searching for the hidden gold, which you cannot find. I am aware, too, that you hold the key to the plan, and that by aid of that key the place of concealment could be at once ascertained.”
“Mr. Purvis bought the plan from old Knutton,” I remarked.
“Yes; the drunken old idiot sold it, even though it had been in possession of his family for centuries. The treasure would be partly his if it could be discovered.”
“But does Mr. Purvis know anything definite regarding the place where it is hidden?”
“He believes it to be in the Manor House, and for that reason they have reopened the old subway from the Glebe to the Manor. He has with him the man Bennett, said to be one of the worst characters outside the walls of a gaol.”
“I know; they call him Black Bennett,” I said.
“Beware of them,” she urged. “They will hesitate at nothing to possess themselves of the treasure. They would kill you.”
The recollection of what Reilly had witnessed in London flashed through my mind. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention it, yet I feared to do so, not knowing what effect it might have upon her highly strung temperament.
“What Knutton has told me regarding your romantic life has aroused my interest, Miss Drummond,” I said presently. “Did you never know your parents?”
“Alas! no. They died when I was quite young. All I know about them is that they lived somewhere in Norfolk, and that my father was ruined by speculation just before his death. I was fourteen when the good woman who brought me up died, and my Aunt Lewis sent me to school. Then on her death, quite recently, Mr. Purvis became my guardian.”
“But who and what is this man Purvis?” I asked. “I know you are unhappy. Confide in me everything. I give you my bond of secrecy,” I said earnestly.
“I knew nothing of his existence until a few weeks ago, when Aunt Lewis died and Mr. Purvis came forward and promised to look after me. I had taken up typewriting and obtained a clerkship in a City office, which I held until I resigned a fortnight ago to come down here.”
“At Purvis’s suggestion?”
“Yes, because I am acquainted with the district.”
“Then you lived alone in Bayswater?” I suggested.
“Yes. I have never lived under the same roof with Purvis, except here at Page’s, because I—I hate him.”
“Why?”
Her pale, quivering lips compressed, but no word escaped them.
I knew the truth. The man was implicated in the assassination of her lover, if not the actual murderer. Therefore she held him in loathing.
“Well,” I said at length, as we strolled along beside the dark, silent stream, “tell me the story of the treasure as my enemies know it. We are friends, Miss Drummond, and our enemies are mutual. Cannot we unite forces and combat them?”
“Oh!” she sighed, “I only wish we could. I fear, however, that it is impossible.” There was a pathos in her voice which showed that the words came direct from a heart overburdened with grief.
“What do these men know about me?” I inquired.
“Everything. They have watched you vigilantly day and night, and are aware of every movement on your part. They know the whole story of how you discovered the derelict, and what you found on board. They even know the contents of certain of the parchments you recovered—one, I think, had a number of signatures upon it.”
“The one stolen from Mr. Staffurth’s?” I cried.
“Yes. But they had a copy of that long before. From what I’ve heard, there was on board your steamer a man named Harding, who had sailed as seaman, but who was a professor of Latin who had come down in the world. It was he who made the copy and translation and sold it to some one, who afterwards sold it to Purvis. The latter lost no time in coming here and buying the parchment from Knutton, thus forestalling you.”
“Was Harding previously acquainted with Purvis?”
“I think so. The copy and information were not, however, sold direct, but through a third person.”
“Are they sanguine of success?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “By some means they’ve discovered evidence that the gold is concealed in the Manor House.”
“In what part?”
“Ah! That is not known. They intend to make a search. To-night they will probably break through—four of them. Therefore be on the alert.”
I explained how we had been aroused on the previous night by the cutting of the door, and how we had explored the passage as far as the Glebe Farm. Then, laying her hand upon my arm, she said earnestly —
“Oh, Dr. Pickering, do be careful! I fear that you may come to harm at the hands of these unscrupulous men.”
“But why have you associated yourself with them?” I asked, taking her hand and speaking very seriously.
She was silent. Then at last she answered: —
“Because I am unfortunately compelled.”
“But the fact that this man Purvis is your guardian is no reason why you should participate in his scheme. He seems an adventurer, just as Bennett is known to be one.”
“Ah! doctor,” she cried, turning to me suddenly, her whole form trembling, “do not argue thus! You do not know; you cannot know all.”
But I knew, and regarded her with pity born of love.
Those men held her to them by threats of exposure. She had enticed that unknown man to his death, and was therefore an accessory. The hideous truth was plain. She was the puppet and decoy of these scoundrels. She had decoyed me on that night when she had taken me to Blackheath, but at the last moment her better nature had rebelled and she had sent me back without any explanation more than a lame excuse.
I saw how utterly helpless she was in the hands of that pair of assassins. When I questioned her I found that the sum Purvis allowed her was very small, and that long before the death of her Aunt Lewis she had earned her own living as a typewriter.
By dint of careful questioning I endeavoured to obtain from her some facts regarding Purvis’ private life, but she appeared to know but little of it. He now lived at Hammersmith, she said, but she never visited his house unless at his orders, and then the motive was generally in connexion with their scheme to gain possession of the treasure.
It is always advantageous to have a friend in the camp of the enemy, and in this case what Dorothy Drummond told me ultimately proved of the greatest service to us.
I longed to explain the knowledge I possessed regarding the murder at Kilburn, yet how could I? If she suspected that I knew the truth she would, in her present agitated state of mind, flee from me in terror lest I should betray her.
“Cannot you sever yourself entirely from these men?” I suggested. “Indeed, Miss Drummond, I hate to think of you participating in the desperate schemes of such adventurers. Suppose they should fall into the hands of the police, you also may be implicated!”
She burst into a torrent of tears at my words and, halting, covered her face with her hands. Tenderly I strove to console her, and placing my hand upon her shoulder, there in the darkness, I bent to her ear and in hot, fervent words told her my secret—that I loved her.
She heard me in silence, sobbing till the end. Then, in a hoarse, broken voice, she answered: —
“No. It is impossible! You must not tell me this—you must not entertain any affection for me.”
“Why not, Dorothy?” I asked, calling her for the first time by her Christian name. “Have I not confessed to you how I love you with all the passion of which a man is capable? For weeks and weeks you have been my all in all. Waking or sleeping, your face has been ever before me, and I feel by a mysterious intuition that our lives in future are bound to one another.”
“Ah, spare me!” she cried, through her tears. “Spare me! I cannot bear to hear your words. Would that I might return your love, but I dare not. No, I dare not—for your sake, as well as for mine.”
Was she thinking of her dead lover, and of the traitorous part she had been compelled to play? Yes. She hated herself, and at the same time held me in fear.
“But you love me, Dorothy?” I whispered. “Tell me, truthfully and honestly.”
“No, no,” she urged. “Do not seek to wring the truth from me. Let us part. We must never meet again after to-night. I—I saved you once from death, that night when I took you to Blackheath,” she went on breathlessly. “It suddenly dawned upon me that they meant to kill you and secure all the documents which you had found on board the derelict. They awaited you in a house they had taken for the purpose, and compelled me to come to you with a fictitious story regarding my brother, and to induce you to walk into the trap. Held in bondage, I dared not disobey, and came to you. But at the last moment I compelled you to return and went back to face their anger. Why did I act as I did? Cannot you guess?”
“Perhaps, Dorothy, it was because you entertained a spark of affection for me?”
A silence fell between us for some moments. Then she answered in a low voice, only just audible: —
“You have guessed aright. It was.”
I leant towards her and kissed her cold, hard-set lips. She made no remonstrance, only she shuddered in my grasp, and a second later returned my caress and then burst again into tears.
“Ah, you must not care for me,” she declared. “I am unworthy. You don’t know everything, or you would hate me rather than love me.”
“But I love you with the whole strength of my being, Dorothy!” I declared, in deep earnestness. “That is enough. Now that you reciprocate my affection I am satisfied. I want for no more. You are mine, darling, and I am yours—for ever.”
“But I fear that you may bitterly repent this—I fear that when you know all my past your love will turn to hatred and your admiration to loathing.”
“The past does not concern us, dearest,” I answered tenderly, with my arm about her slim waist. “It is for the future we must live, and to that end assist one another.” And again I pressed my lips to hers fondly in all the ecstasy of my new-found happiness.
What further description can I give of those moments of bliss? You, my reader, know well the sweet idyllic peace that comes in the stillness of night when two hearts beat in unison. Wisely or unwisely, you have loved with all the ardour of your nature, just as I loved. You remember well the passion of those first caresses, the music of those fervent words of devotion, and the opening vista of happiness unalloyed.
Pause for a moment and reflect upon first your own love, and you will know something of my tender feelings toward the poor hapless woman whose pure and loving heart was frozen by the terror of exposure.
CHAPTER XXVIIIWE RECEIVE MIDNIGHT VISITORS
I tookleave of my love reluctantly at ten o’clock, just outside Bringhurst village. She was anxious to be back at the farm before the return of Purvis, who had gone that morning to London on some secret errand, and was returning by the last train.
She had entirely enchanted me. The more I saw of her, the more graceful, the more charming, she seemed. There was nothing loud or masculine about her; she was a sweet, modest woman, yearning for love, sympathy, and protection.
The manner in which she was bound to this clever gang of rogues was still a mystery. In me she had confided many things during those two calm hours of our new-born love, but from me she still concealed the real reason why her interests were bound up in those of Purvis, Bennett, and their two accomplices. I guessed, and believed that I guessed aright. The tragedy at Kilburn held her to them irrevocably. She was entirely and helplessly in their hands, to fetch and carry, to do their bidding; indeed, to act unlawfully at their command.
If that were so, surely no woman could be in a more horrible position—compelled to be the accomplice of assassins.
I thought it all over as, in the darkness, I walked back to Caldecott.
True, I had gained her affection that night. Yet, together with the perfect bliss that comes in the first hour of true love, there had also come to me the hideous truth of her bondage.
The last train from Rugby having rushed past, sparks flying from the engine and awakening the echoes of the night, stopped for a moment at Rockingham Station and then continued its journey eastward. And presently, as I walked onward in the darkness, I encountered a man whose face I could not see, for we passed each other beneath the shadow of some trees. I saw he was tall and thin, and wore a long light overcoat. He was whistling to himself, as a lonely man sometimes whistles to keep himself company.
His silhouette stood out distinctly in the gloom, and although I saw not his countenance I knew well that it was my enemy Purvis—the man who held my love in bondage.
Back at the Manor I found everything prepared for siege. Seal was not a man to stand idle if there was any chance of a scrimmage. Like all giants in strength, he loved fighting. His hesitation to face Black Bennett had now entirely disappeared, and over his rum that night he expressed a most fervent hope that the “white-livered swabs,” as he termed them, would appear in the secret passage.
On the table between us lay three revolvers, and as we took counsel together each of us smoked furiously. I told them something of what Dorothy Drummond had related to me, how our enemies meant to raid us, and of their firm belief that the treasure was concealed there. But I said nothing of my tender passion, nor did I allow them to suspect the real object of our clandestine meeting.
“Ah!” remarked Reilly. “If you could only get Miss Drummond, or Bristowe, or whatever is her real name, to secure that parchment of old Knutton’s, then the game would be entirely in our own hands.”
“That’s unfortunately impossible,” I answered. “The man Purvis has it securely put away. I have already mentioned it to her, and she tells me that she has no idea where it is.”
“Well,” remarked the skipper, “Black Bennett and his men are just as much in the dark as we are. Let ’em come. They’ll get a warm reception. How many of ’em are there?”
“Four. Bennett and the other two are lodging in Kettering.”
“The only reason of the secret attack upon us, as far as I can see, is in order to gag and secure us while they make a thorough search of the premises. They surely wouldn’t dare to kill the whole three of us in our beds!” said Reilly.
“They won’t kill Job Seal, you can bet your sea-boots on that,” remarked the skipper with a grin upon his great furrowed face.
But my mind was running upon the tragedy at Kilburn, and I was trying to devise some means by which we might denounce the whole gang, and hand them over to the police.
There was, alas! one fact which would ever prevent us taking such an action. If we boldly charged them with murder, Dorothy must be implicated. To arrest them would mean arrest for her. She had acted as decoy, and could not deny it!
So I was compelled to abandon all hope in that direction. By sheer force we would be compelled to combat this quartette of unscrupulous adventurers, and to that end we awaited their coming.
So thoroughly and carefully had we examined every hole and corner of the house that all three of us were beginning to despair of ever discovering the hidden hoard. In an old-fashioned mansion of that character there were a thousand and one places where gold might be stored. In chimneys, under stairs, beneath the flags of the big, vaulted cellars, behind the large, open fireplaces—some of which still had their quaint iron dogs of ancient days—all these places we had investigated in vain. Not a single room was there but bore traces of our chisels, picks and crowbars. The result of our search consisted in two or three copper coins, an old letter dated in 1796, a skeleton with rings upon the fingers, an old leathern mug, and two or three articles not worth enumeration.
We were sorely disappointed. We could not conceal from ourselves the bare fact that at any rate in the Manor House the treasure of Bartholomew da Schorno was non-existent, and, furthermore, we feared that some one in generations past had been before us and secured it in secret.
Nevertheless, the careful and ingenious actions of our enemies in order to gain entry into the place puzzled us. From what my love had told me, they were evidently in possession of some information of which we were in ignorance—information which made it plain that, after all, the treasure was actually there.
They meant mischief; we had no doubt about that. But, being forewarned, we calmly awaited their coming, Seal chuckling to himself at the reception they would receive.
The church clock struck midnight. We had moved into the room from which the secret way opened, and, Reilly having produced a pack of cards, we played nap in under-tones, our weapons lying at hand in case of need.
Now and then—indeed, after every game—one or other of us rose and listened within the secret chamber for the approach of the invaders. One o’clock passed, two o’clock, yet no sound save the familiar thumping and squealing of the rats and the dismal howling of the wind in the wide, old-fashioned chimney.
Seal had lost five shillings, and had therefore become engrossed in the game, when of a sudden we heard a low grating noise. In an instant we were on our feet, revolver in hand, and according to our pre-arranged plan our light was at once extinguished.
It was our object to watch and take the intruders by surprise.
Without a sound we all three moved across the room and out into the corridor, concealing ourselves in a big cupboard upon which Reilly had placed an inside fastening. Our bedrooms we had locked and had the keys in our pockets, intending that our enemies should believe us to be asleep. In the cupboard door Reilly had bored holes that enabled us to see without being seen, while beside us were lamps ready to be lit in case of emergency.
Boxed up there, we waited, scarce daring to breathe lest we should betray our presence. We could hear low, gruff whispers and expressions of surprise as the invaders crept out of the secret chamber into the room. From their muffled tread we knew they had stockings pulled over their boots, and from our spy-holes we saw Bennett, lantern in hand, emerge into the corridor and look up and down to see that all was clear. Then he crept out, followed by three others, one of whom, I saw, was tall and gaunt, with fair moustache—the man who held my love beneath his thrall.
Creeping along quietly, they passed us in procession, carrying chisels and picks, and taking every precaution against surprise. Having traversed the corridor, they descended the wide oaken stairs to the ground floor, where the uncertain light of the lanterns was quickly lost to view.
As soon as they had passed out of hearing, Reilly took up the hurricane lamp and opening the cupboard let us out, whispering: —
“Watch them, doctor. See where they try, but don’t give the alarm until I return.” Then he left us, and we heard nothing more of him. His quick disappearance was a surprise to both of us, for he had previously told us nothing of his intentions, and had apparently acted on the spur of the moment.
At first Seal had been inclined to meet them at their entrance and drive them back, but to me such a proceeding seemed useless. My idea was to watch and ascertain where they went. Their own actions would betray the spot where they believed the gold was concealed. Our council had been a long one, but my suggestion had been adopted. Hence our retirement into the cupboard.
Job Seal had no love for Black Bennett, and as we crept along the corridor after them he gave vent to a strong nautical imprecation between his teeth. At the top of the staircase we listened, but could hear no sound. Therefore we crept down, fearing every moment the creaking oak might betray us, for the thin-worn old stairs were loose in places and gave forth sounds that in the night awakened the echoes of the empty place.
We arrived safely in the stone hall and halted, our ears strained to catch the slightest sound. We, however, heard nothing. All was silent as the grave. Indeed, the invaders with their swinging lanterns had passed by us silently in single file and seemed to have disappeared.
“They must have gone down to the cellars,” I whispered to Seal. Therefore we passed through the big stone kitchen into a small scullery beyond, from which a flight of stone steps led into the deep vaulted basement. The stout door was closed, but listening at it we heard voices quite distinctly. Our enemies were below, apparently divided in opinion as to the exact spot to open.
We heard one authoritative voice, which the skipper at once recognized as Bennett’s, saying: —
“I tell you that it’s here, in this side wall. Don’t you remember that the old fortune-teller said three times three from the bottom of the steps. Look!” and we heard him count one, two, three—to nine, as he measured the paces. “It’s in this wall, here. Come, let’s get to work, and don’t make any noise, either. Is the door above closed?”
Somebody gave an affirmative response, and soon afterwards we heard the sound of chisels upon the stones. They worked with very little noise, so little, indeed, that had we been asleep the sound would not have reached us.
With Seal standing beside me, his fingers itching to come in contact with Bennett, I think I must have stood there nearly half an hour. The work went on unceasingly, silently, hardly a word being spoken. Reilly’s absence surprised me, but soon we heard a low whisper inquiring where the intruders were, and our companion stood beside us listening.
“They evidently know something of the right spot,” I whispered to him. “They’re taking down part of the foundations. Hark!”
A man was speaking—probably Purvis.
“Now we’re here, we ought to see whether they’ve made any investigations. Come, Harding, let’s go up and have a look round while they’re getting those stones out. We’ll only be ten minutes or so. Have you got the torch?”
“All right,” responded the other, and I knew by the name and the voice that it was the seaman of theThrushwho had read those documents and who had been insolent at my remonstrance.
The instant, however, we heard their intention we sprang out of the kitchen and upstairs to our previous hiding-place. The cupboard was not in the least suspicious—one of those generally built in old houses for the storage of linen. If they found it locked they would not risk awakening us by forcing the door.
Up came the two men a few minutes later, passing from one open room to the other, taking a general look at the place with an electric torch, and expressing whispered surprise at the havoc we had played with the walls. Finding the doors of our two bedrooms locked, they did not touch them for fear of disturbing us.
Seal was impatient to make an attack upon them, but I considered that discretion was best, and that to watch was more politic than to show fight. So we waited in silence, until the grey dawn shone through the long corridor. Then at last we heard a slight movement, and the men re-passed in procession as noiselessly as they had come, and disappeared into the room.
Reilly opened the cupboard and listened. We heard a bang as the door in the flooring was shut down after they had descended to the underground burrow; then in a moment he was all excitement.
“Come, help me quickly!” he cried, rushing forward into the secret chamber. “Quick! pile up these stones so that they cannot re-open the flap! They will return very soon. Quick!” And he began frantically heaping upon the trap-door the stones that we had taken from the wall, a work in which Seal and I assisted with a will.
When at last we had secured it by wedging two crowbars across the heap of stones so that it could not possibly be opened from below, Reilly burst into loud laughter and danced with delight, saying: —
“We’ve trapped them, doctor! Trapped them all like vermin! When I left you I rushed down the passage to the well and found it bridged. I drew the boards away and tossed them down into the water. They can’t get across by any means. Come! Let’s close the door!” And he pulled back into its place the stout, iron-studded oak with the supreme satisfaction of knowing that he had entombed the invaders in that damp, dismal burrow which they themselves had discovered.