George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“Well, lay hold,” said Tom, sharply; “look alive! Can’t you see the gentleman’s a-waiting?”

The head van-man chuckled, and together they lifted in chest Number 1, the professor smiling and looking deeply interested.

“On the mat, if you please,” he said, “and when you have carried in the other, I should be very much obliged if you would take them both downstairs, where I can open them without making a mess.”

“Suttunly, sir,” said Tom, and they set down Number 1 and went after Number 2, upon which the boy sat, drumming the side with his heels.

“Right, Tommy?”

“Right you are, mate.” And the men went on with their task muttering—

“Don’t see how it would make a mess if they were opened in the front passage. Long time since there’s been a broom there.”

“See the spiders too?”

“No, but I saw the webs.”

“But what does he do with all these books? He can’t read ’em all.”

“Collects ’em, I should say. Steady! Got it?”

“Right!” and the second chest was carried in. “One moment while I shut the door,” said the professor, rubbing his hands; “then I’ll show you the way. Now then, please; mind the book-cases as you pass. It is rather dark. Very heavy, I suppose?”

“Oh, tidy, sir. Nothing to signify. Books is heavy things.”

“Yes, very heavy, my good man. That’s right, through this door, and down these stone stairs. I’m afraid you find it very heavy.”

“Oh, we’re all right, sir. Used to it,” grunted Tom. “We’re always lifting things in or out; but we has a good rest between, sir, and rides about in the company’s carriage.”

“Down there, please, under that window, where I can see to unpack them. Thank you.”

The two men went up the stone staircase again, noting the empty chests and book-cases with which the walls were lined, and above all the dust of years collected thickly. Then the second chest was carried down, and the quaint-looking old gentleman smiled and made his round-glassed spectacles twinkle as they reached the hall.

“I must sign the paper and pay you, my men,” he said; and then in a drily comical way he crooked his right index finger, and beckoned to them to follow him into the gloomy book-lined dining-room, where he signed the delivery book, paid the carriage, and then took a bottle from a cellarette and a glass from a closet under a book-case, and poured out for the men, while they tossed off the rich spirit in turn.

“That’s prime, sir,” said the first man.

“’Eavenly,” sighed Tom.

“Old and good, my men. I’m glad you like it. It’s soft and mellow, and will not hurt you. Have another glass?”

“Hurt yer, sir!” said the second man, with a sigh; “that stuff wouldn’t hurt a babby.”

It did not hurt him when it came to his turn. To use his own figurative way of speaking, he only made one bite at it, and then glanced at the black bottle as if it were a little idol which ought to be worshipped, before following his leader out into the hall, the old professor closing the door after them and immediately after, drawing himself up straight, taking off his goggle glasses and thrusting them into his pocket, looking now a keen-eyed, elderly man, with the sharp, yellow-tinged face of a New Englander.

Going back with a firm step into the dining-room, and with the weak old stooping manner entirely wanting, he took a fresh glass from the closet, filled it and tossed off the contents.

“Hah! yes, that is a good glass of brandy,” he muttered; and taking a cigar from the same receptacle he lit up and began to smoke, as he seated himself at a table, drew forward a blotter, and spent some time reading and writing letters, before throwing himself upon an old well-worn couch and going off into sleep which lasted a couple of hours.

He woke and in the most business-like way went downstairs into the basement, where from a cupboard he took a large screw-driver, walked to the chests, cut the ropes, and carefully examined the seals attached to the lesser cords before disturbing them. Then, apparently satisfied, he cut these in turn, and began to take out the screws from the lid of the first chest.

He had reached the last screw when he suddenly stopped short and stood listening. The next minute he had walked to the end of the passage, to stand listening again, till apparently satisfied, he went into a dark corner and pulled at a knob as if ringing a bell. Then he went sharply back to the chests, laid down the screw-driver, and hurried up the stairs to the dining-room with all the activity of a man of forty.

Here he went to a book-case and took down an ancient-looking massive tome, laid it upon the table, lifted the cover, and showed that it was only an imitation book, the cover proving to be the lid of a box in which lay a mahogany case, from which he drew out a small revolver, and after examining its six chambers to see if they were loaded, he carefully concealed it in the breast of the vest he wore beneath the old dressing-gown.

Then the spectacles were resumed, and the slow, stooping, aged aspect came over him, as he went into the hall, threw off his dressing-gown and took an old-fashioned coat from a peg, donned it, and then completed his old-world aspect with a quaint broad-brimmed hat.

He looked the most peaceable of elderly gentlemen as he took a baggy umbrella from the stand, went out, closed the door after him, walked slowly along by the area railings for a few steps, and then turned up the steps to the Clareboroughs’ door, passing into the hall so quickly that it seemed as if the door was opened from the inside, though anyone who had watched would have seen that there was a very quick, clever application of a latch-key.

His movements now were slow, deliberate and silent. He laid down umbrella and hat upon a table, and, apparently quite at home, went from room to room on the ground floor before ascending to the drawing-rooms; but finding no one, he went a floor higher and then descended to the hall, where from the top of the stairs he stood listening to the hammering going on below.

For some time he seemed undecided how to act, but at last he was in the act of descending, when steps below made him retreat, and he stepped back, listening, and hearing Roach go into the pantry. The next minute the man began to ascend, and as actively as a cat, and with as silent a step, the professor ran to the foot of the grand staircase and bounded up to the drawing-room floor, ensconced himself behind a heavy curtain which draped one of the doors, and made out that whoever it was reached the hall and went into dining-room, library, study, lobby and morning-room, before he went back to the stairs and descended once more to the basement.

The professor was after him directly, and at the head of the stairs in time to hear Roach come out of the pantry again, and the chink of a glass against a bottle.

He descended the gloomy stairs by slow degrees, listening the while to the work going on, and hearing the sound of tools, the whisperings, and after a long period of waiting and another forced retreat when Roach went again to the pantry to make sure the housekeeper was safe, he finally stood thinking.

“Someone who knows the place well,” he said to himself. “Quite at home. Where can the old woman be? They can’t have killed her.”

He raised one hand quickly to his breast, as the thought sent a thrill through him, and taking advantage of a busy time when tools clinked and voices whispering were heard, he stole right down, stepped cautiously along the passage, and then darted into the first open doorway, for there was an impatient utterance from somewhere ahead, and he felt that he was on the point of being discovered. But the work went on again, and he glanced round, found that he was in the butler’s pantry, and saw at the same instant more—the tightly-bound woman upon the table.

He was at her side in an instant, and as he bent over her the wild eyes were opened and gazed intently in his.

There was no occasion for him to raise his finger to his lips, for the old housekeeper, as the tapping went on, gave him a meaning look and jerked her head side-wise, before lying perfectly still again.

The professor nodded sharply, tapped his breast, and then drew a pen-knife from his pocket, with whose keen blade he quickly divided the rope which bound hands and feet. Then, pressing his finger to his lips once more, he went silently out of the pantry, followed by the housekeeper’s eyes, as breathing hard she watched him and then lay perfectly still with her face contracted by pain and dread, waiting for the dénouement.

It was long in coming, for the professor’s movements were slow and cautious in the extreme. But there was to be no more retreat. He did not know who were there for some time, but he was ready to meet the enemy, whoever it might be.

At last he was in a position from which he could peer round the angle where the passage turned sharply, and as he gazed into the lobby a few yards off, where Roach directed the light of the bull’s-eye lantern with quivering hand, his own trembled and the revolver he held shook when it was raised again and again to take aim.

At last a grim smile of satisfaction tightened his lips into a line, for he saw his opportunity.

In the very nick of time, after stealing close up, he threw himself forward, and with one heavy thrust drove the butler forward over his companion, banged to the door and locked it, bringing out the key, before he retreated and turned the corner to listen for the explosion which did not come.

“Light went out, I suppose,” he muttered. “Pity too. Pleasanter for others, and it would have been accidental.”

He thrust back the revolver, placed the key in his pocket, and without stopping hurried into the pantry.

“Got them—safe,” he said, and ran upstairs to the handsome library, where he unlocked a cabinet, touched a button and waited for a minute, before a little weird voice answered—

“Who is it?”

He gave his number to the questioner, and asked to be switched on to X987654321.

In a few minutes, in obedience to the modern magic of the telephone, there came another signal and question and satisfactory proof of identity, before the professor said sharply—

“Krakatoa. Come quick.”

“Hah!” sighed the operator, as he closed the little cabinet; “now for the old lady. Is the danger scotched or killed?”

He hurried down to the pantry, to find that the housekeeper had not moved; and as soon as he reached her side, he took her in his arms, while hers feebly clasped his neck.

“My poor old darling!” he whispered tenderly. “In much pain?”

“A good deal. My ankles are numbed. Is there any danger now?”

“Not for us, I think,” he said grimly. “There, hold still, and I’ll carry you up to the library;” and lifting her from the table as easily as if she had been a mere girl, he bore her up the stairs and laid her upon a couch, kneeling afterwards by her side to chafe her ankles and wrists in turn, while she told him all that he did not know.

“What will you do now?” she said anxiously at last.

“Go on chafing my poor old darling’s ankles,” he said quietly.

“No, no; you know what I mean—those two men.”

“Did anyone see them come, dear?”

“Not that I am aware of,” she replied.

“Humph!”

“Well, you do not speak.”

“Why should I? It is not your business—not entirely mine. We must see what they say.”

“You have sent for them?”

“Of course; directly. It is a vital question.”

“For us?”

“For them, I fear.”

The old woman shuddered.

“Why that?” he said quietly. “Ought we to sympathise so much with burglars who stand at nothing?”

“But it is so horrible,” she whispered.

“It would be as horrible for us,” he said sharply; “and we are of more consequence than they.”

“But surely they will not—”

“Kill them? Possibly. Something must be done to silence them. It is their own doing, the scoundrels! We cannot go to the wall.”

The old woman closed her eyes and sighed.

“God help us!” she said softly. “Harry, I am getting very weary of my life now; it is so near the end.”

“Hush!” said the professor, gently. “There are things which you ought not to see or know. You are weak from the shock and injuries you have received.”

“But listen, dear.”

“My dear old wifie,” he said tenderly, “it is of no use to look in that imploring way at me. You know what Jem is, and I am too old now to set myself in antagonism with him. There, be at rest; I will do all I can. Don’t think me so bloodthirsty as to desire their end. Still, so many interests are at stake. It is a case of burglar against housekeeper. The scoundrels came armed.”

“Armed?”

“Yes, I saw a revolver in the trunk with their burgling tools. If I had come upon them suddenly, and they had had time, they would have fired at me.”

“Oh, surely not!”

“Humph! You are a woman, my dear, with a woman’s gentle heart, ready to defend and palliate. After the way in which I found you, I do not feel so merciful. Let me ask you one question; If there was nothing to fear from them, why did they come armed?”

The old housekeeper made no reply, but lay back upon the couch weak and trembling, while the professor slowly paced the room, till she opened her eyes wildly, and signed to him to come to her side.

“I am more upset than I thought for,” she said feebly. “Help me up to my room; I think I can walk now.”

The professor’s brow lightened, for it was a relief to him to hear the old woman’s words; but she noted the change and sighed as she rose painfully.

“You will wait until they come?” she said, trembling at the thought of that which she dreaded.

“Need you ask?” said the professor, gravely. “Come, you will be better after lying down for a few hours. Try to forget everything in the remembrance that I am doing all for you that I can.”

“Yes, Harry,” she said softly; “I have never had cause to complain of your want of love for me in these forty years; but for my sake, dear, let there be no more crime.”

“For your sake I will do everything I can,” said the professor, gravely, as he bent down and kissed her while leading her to the door and then slowly up to a bedroom on the third floor, where he left her at the end of a few minutes, apparently sinking into a doze.

As he stole out softly he silently removed the key, replaced it on the other side, and locked her in, before descending quickly to the hall, where he stood listening for a few minutes, and then went down into the basement and stepped softly forward to listen at the outer door of the plate vault.

A faint muttering of voices could be heard as he placed his ear to the key-hole, but all else was still; there was no sound of an effort being made to escape, and he went back to the hall, where he took out and re-examined his revolver.

“I wonder,” he said to himself, “whether a shot or two could be heard in the street. Pish! Absurd! No one heard the reports when poor Bob went down. Ah, here they are. They haven’t been long.”

For there was a faint rattle of a latch-key in the door, and Robert Clareborough entered, in company with the brothers, the former looking excited and anxious, the two latter stern and as if prepared for the worst.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Grim Death.

As the door banged to and was locked, Roach uttered a wild cry and threw himself upon the floor, covering the back of his head with his hands, as he thrust it into the corner farthest from where the powder was sputtering and sending up tiny clouds of smoke.

Arthur shrank away against the wall for a moment, glancing wildly at the broken lantern and the lamp-wick, burning still in a little pool of oil, while the powder kept flashing out, darting from grain to grain, where they had been scattered about the floor. Then the tiny flames divided, one set running towards the portmanteau, in which the partially-emptied tin had been thrown, the other going by fits and starts in the direction of the iron entry.

This nerved the younger man to desperation, and he made a dash at the grains upon the floor, to sweep them away before they reached the loaded door, feeling convinced, in his agony of fear, that the little burning train would somehow communicate with the powder with which he had charged the lock. But in spite of his efforts the fire was too quick, the flame running swiftly along by the bottom of the frame, and with a yell of despair he dashed to the other corner of the far side of the lobby, to imitate the butler, expecting to hear the charge explode, and then the iron door driven back to crush them to death.

It seemed long minutes to the two wretched men as they crouched there with their eyes shut, but it was only the matter of a few seconds’ suspense before the little chamber was in total darkness, and filled with the dull, dank reek of the burnt powder.

At last the footman raised his head cautiously, with hope reviving. The charge had not gone off and the tin had not been reached.

He looked in the direction of the great safe, but all was black, and, rising slowly, he felt his way to the door to try if it were really fast; while as his hands glided over it he found that it fitted so closely that he could hardly make out the crack between door and frame. The main object of his search, though, was for the lock, in the hope that he should be able to force it off with one of the wedges, and then, armed as they were, he and his companion might escape.

But there was no lock to attack, no key-hole. That which he sought was of the mortice pattern, buried in the heavy lining, and wherever he passed his hands, the surface was perfectly smooth.

“Curse the old Jezebel!” he muttered. “Here, Roach, old man, rouse up. We’re done, but we can’t stay here—we must get out somehow. Did you see her? I wish I’d tied her up a little tighter.”

“No, no, no,” groaned Roach. “I did not see her. She must have got free somehow. I only felt her hands as she jumped upon me from behind and drove me forward on to you. Is—is the powder going off?”

“No! Get up. There isn’t a spark now. Phew! it’s enough to stifle a fellow. Where’s that wine?”

“I put it somewhere in this corner. Yes, here.”

“Give us hold. Be sharp.”

There was a clicking noise in the utter darkness and after feeling about for a few moments, the younger man grasped the bottle, drank heavily, and passed it to his trembling companion, who snatched at it and drank deeply in turn.

“That’s better,” cried Arthur, sharply. “Now then, the matches.”

“No, no, don’t strike a light. Are you mad?”

“Pretty nigh, but we must risk it or we can never get out.”

“We never shall get out alive,” groaned Roach.

“Well, I mean to,” said his companion; “so here goes. I can’t use the hammer and chisels and wedges in this blessed darkness.”

There was the crackle of a match, and the elder man uttered a cry of horror as he shrank into his corner again, but as the wax taper burned up steadily in Arthur’s fingers, and no explosion followed, he obeyed his companion’s order and picked up the lamp, which proved not to be utterly drained of oil, and after a little patient effort began to burn again as it was replaced in the broken lantern.

“Now, then, sharp’s the word,” said Arthur. “Hold the light while I chisel out the wood till I can get at the lock. Mustn’t use the hammer, or it will put her on her guard. Wonder whether she’s outside listening.”

There was not a sound to be heard, and with Roach tremblingly holding the light, Arthur worked away with the sharpest-edged wedge, but made little progress, for a few cuts were sufficient to prove that the door was of the hardest oak, and when the man had been carving away for nearly an hour, with the perspiration streaming down his face, it was to throw down the chisel in despair, for the wood proved to be only the casing of an iron door of great strength.

“Give me the bottle,” said Arthur, panting. “Can’t you do something beside shivering there?”

Roach groaned as he handed the bottle.

“Man wants a bit o’ Dutch courage over a job like this.”

“We shall never get out,” groaned Roach.

“Not if it’s left to you, old man. You’d turn it into a tomb at once. Here, I’ve left you a drop. Tip it off, and see if it’ll put some pluck into you. There, I’ve tried fair play and quiet; now it’s got to be foul play and noise. Give me hold of the hammer and let’s see what a wedge’ll do.”

“Hist! What’s that?”

Arthur needed no telling to be silent. Snatching the light from his companion, he reached over to the portmanteau and took out the two small revolvers, handed one to his companion, and whispered to him—

“It was the lock. Someone coming. Don’t fire without you’re obliged. I’ll try the hammer first.”

As he spoke he blew out the little lamp, and set it down, before standing facing the door with his hand raised, ready to strike down the first who entered.

Some minutes must have elapsed without further alarm, and the two men were ready to believe that the sharp snap they had heard must have come from the iron door of the closet, the frame springing back after being strained by the application of the wedges that had been driven in.

All at once, just as an attack was about to be made once more upon the way by which they had entered, and Arthur had taken a fresh match from his box, a soft light began to dawn, grew rapidly, and dazzled their eyes, as they strove to make out whence it came, and stood ready once more to strike.

It was not from the passage door, but from the ceiling just over the great safe, and as the men stood trembling with fear and excitement, there was a spurt of smoke from the great iron safe, a dull concussion, and the footman fell back. While as the butler stood staring upward, his face ashy grey in the soft light, as the smoke curled about a glowing bulk, there was a second spurt of smoke, and concussion, the wretched man fell forward across his companion, and the light grew dimmer in the heavy clinging vapour, slowly dying out into utter darkness, while the silence was as that of the tomb.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Under the Beeches.

It was a lovely morning in the sylvan solitude by The Towers, and leaving Mrs James and Mrs Dennis Clareborough in the drawing-room, Marion took her sunshade and a book, to wander away across the lawn to the gate in the ring fence, and then along the path at the edge of the beech wood, ostensibly to find a seat in the shade of one of the great spreading trees, and have a calm, quiet read.

But ere she had gone a couple of hundred yards the fever in her blood and the throbbing of her temples told her that the idea of calm and rest was the merest farce.

She had hailed the departure of the gentlemen for Paris, as they had said, as a relief from the quiet, insidious siege laid to her by James Clareborough, who rarely spoke but on the most commonplace topics, and was always coldly polite; but there were moments when she met his eyes and read plainly enough that his intentions were unaltered, and that sooner of later he would again begin to make protestations of his love.

Her position seemed harder than she could bear. His wife hated her with a bitter, jealous hatred, but she was too much crushed down and afraid of her fierce lord to show her dislike more openly, though there were times when she seemed ready to break out into open reproach.

“Oh, if I could only end it all!” thought Marion again and again. “Will Rob never break with them?

“Never,” she said to herself, despairingly; “they would never let him go. And yet surely the world is wide enough, and somewhere surely he might find peace.

“No, he would never settle down to another life. It is fate. There is neither peace nor happiness now for me.”

She had wandered on for quite a mile before, feeling hot and wearied, she seated herself on one of the great gnarled mossy buttresses of a beech and leaned her head upon her hand, thinking of him whom she could not keep out of her thoughts, but still only in despair. Then her thoughts turned once more to James Clareborough, and, brave and firm as she was, a thrill of horror ran through her at the dread which oppressed her and set her heart throbbing wildly.

What if this Parisian journey was only a ruse and James Clareborough were back on purpose to try and gain a meeting with her while her brother was not by her side?

The thought was horrible, and it grew more intense, her cheeks flushing and then growing ghastly white from her emotion.

“What madness to come out here alone!” she thought. “He would have been watching for me, and be ready to read it as an invitation.”

She looked round wildly, and started as a sharp tap was heard close at hand.

“Am I growing such a nervous, feeble coward,” she said, “that I am afraid of a rabbit? What have I to fear from him?”

She laughed at her weak folly, and to prove to herself that she was no longer under the influence of dread she took her book and opened it at random, but did not read a word, for her musings began again.

“It is excusable,” she thought. “All these years of dread of discovery, of some end coming to their plans, and for the sake of what? A miserable gilded life of luxury that is hateful to me and makes me shiver when I look into his pleading eyes. He loves me and would marry me to-morrow in his ignorance; and then what would he say when he knew the truth? I cannot bear it; there must—there shall be an end. It is not life; it is one miserable nightmare of fear.”

She sprang to her feet, uttering a faint cry of horror, and turned to run. For there was some truth in her suspicions; she had been followed. There was a quick step behind, and she had run some little distance before, glancing back, she saw that it was not James Clareborough, but Chester, standing beneath the trees which had sheltered her, and now gazing after her with a look of anger and despair.

She stopped, and he came up to her side.

“Have I grown so hateful to your sight?” he said bitterly.

“No, no!” she cried, holding out her trembling hand, which he seized and pressed passionately to his lips. “I thought it was James Clareborough.”

“Then he has dared to insult you again?” said Chester, angrily.

“No, no; indeed, no,” she cried.

“But you live in fear of him. Oh, Marion, Marion, how long is this weary life to last? Once more let me plead. Would not a quiet life with my devotion be a happier one than this miserable luxury, where you are constantly persecuted by a scoundrel?”

“Oh, hush, hush!” she murmured. “I have told you it can never be.”

“Yes, but these are words. Your woman’s honour forbids you to stay.”

“Hush, for pity’s sake! You torture me,” she cried. “Must I explain, but you must see and know that I am tied down to it, that I cannot leave my brother—that he would never let me go.”

“I cannot—I will not believe but that all this is imaginary,” said Chester, firmly. “Will you not trust me? Will you not tell me what it all means, and let me, a man, be the judge?”

“No,” she said, mastering her emotion and speaking calmly now. “Once more, I cannot, I will not explain. Why have you come down here?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You know,” he said. “Where should I be but near the woman who is my very life?”

“But it is madness—it is misery and torture to me.”

“Poor wretch that I am,” he said bitterly. “Still, I cannot help it.”

“But,” she cried imploringly, “your life would not be safe if they knew of your being here.”

“Indeed? Well, what of it? My presence is a torture to you. I am a torture and misery to myself. They would not dare to kill me. I don’t know, though,” he said, with a mocking laugh, “by accident, perhaps.”

“Dr Chester,” cried Marion, appealingly, “does it please you to inflict this agony upon me?”

“No, no,” he said, snatching at her hand. “I would give my life to save you pain.”

“Then go. Leave me and forget me. I am not the true, innocent woman you think. I am not fit to be your wife.”

“What!” he cried, turning ghastly pale, while as she saw his agony her face grew convulsed and she half raised her hands to him pleadingly, but let them fall.

He saw the movement and snatched them to his breast.

“It is not true,” he cried proudly. “Some false sentiment makes you say this. I will not believe it of the woman I love.”

She did not resist until he tried to take her to his heart. Then she shrank away.

“No,” she said. “You must not touch me like that. Once more, believe me, all this must end. You must think of me no more—you must go at once, and we must never meet again.”

“You have told me that before,” he said, “but I am not a free agent. I was obliged to come. I have been here these three days past, watching for an opportunity to speak to you; and when I do you once more cast me off—you drive me away. Well, I have borne it so long; I can go on bearing it till you relent, or—I die,” he added softly.

She looked at him wildly for a moment, and his hopes rose, for the relenting seemed close at hand, but she was stern and cold again directly.

“And your betrothed wife,” she said. “What of her?”

He was silent for a few moments, and then he made a deprecating sign with his hands.

“What do you know of her?” he said.

“Everything,” she replied. “How basely and cruelly you have behaved to her. Is this your honour as a man?”

He heard a deep sigh.

“I have only one thing to say in my defence,” he said slowly. “I believed that I loved her; but then I had not seen you. I was not under this spell.”

“It is no spell,” she said firmly. “Go to her, and forget me. I tell you that I am not worthy to be your wife, and that such a union is impossible for reasons which I dare not explain. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he said sadly, “I hear you.”

“Then good-bye for ever.”

She turned from him, but a piteous moan escaped her lips, and the next moment he had clasped her to his heart.

“Marion, my own!” he whispered, as he pressed his lips to hers; “then you do love me!”

“Yes,” she said, as she clung to him, and for a moment or two returned his embrace. “You know I love you and shall never love another, but go now, for Heaven’s sake! I tell you it is impossible. Good-bye—good-bye.”

She tore herself from his grasp and fled through the wood, not daring to turn her head to see if he followed, lest in her woman’s weakness she should give way and dare everything for his sake.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Caught Once More.

Marion did not check her pace till, hot and breathless, she was forced to rest for a few minutes. Her brain was in a state of bewildering confusion, and had Chester been there then to plead his cause, her heart would have made but a poor defence. She would have been his, and his alone.

But in a few minutes she began to grow calmer; the dangers of such a course were more and more apparent, and at last, as she walked on towards The Towers, her thoughts of the future assumed their wonted current, and she began to plan.

She was not long in deciding what to do. Chester was evidently staying somewhere near at hand; he would grow more and more persistent, and she could see nothing in the future but his presence being discovered by James Clareborough or his brother, and then some terrible mischief would arise, and fresh misery ensue.

There seemed to be but one course open, and that was to escape from Chester’s pursuit and to this end she went quietly into her own room to try and grow more composed, joined the others at lunch, and then in the most quiet, matter-of-fact way ordered the pony carriage to be round directly after for a drive.

“You will not go with me, I suppose, Di?” she said to James’s wife.

“I? No, thank you, Marion. I am not well to-day,” said the lady, flushing.

“Will you come, Hester?” she continued.

“I can’t; I am going over to the Ellistons’ to tennis,” was the reply.

“Then I’ll have my little drive alone,” said Marion, smiling; and shortly afterwards she stepped into the phaeton, the boy groom sprang up behind, and the spirited little ponies started off along the park drive at a rapid pace.

“How nice Marion always looks,” said Mrs Dennis, “and how well she drives.”

“Yes,” said her sister-in-law, bitterly; “everyone admires her. It is always Marion, Marion! Why did he not marry her? He would if I died. How long does it take, Hester, to break a woman’s heart?”

“Oh, hush, hush, dear!” whispered her sister-in-law, soothingly. “I know how sad it is, but you ought not to be so cold to poor Marion. I honestly believe that she absolutely hates James.”

“Hates? when she does all that she can to lure him on?”

“That is not true, dear,” said Mrs Dennis, gravely. “I know Marion better than you do, because you have always shut your heart against her.”

“Well, can you wonder?”

“Yes and no. It is a terrible position, and I pity you, dear; but believe me, James’s advances fill Marion with disgust and shame, and some day you will find this out.”

“I’d give the world to believe it,” sobbed the wretched woman, “but I cannot, and I am certain that she has gone to keep some appointment with him now.”

“You are unjust, Di dear,” said Mrs Dennis, kissing her lovingly.

“I am a miserable, unhappy woman, ill-treated and scorned by the man who swore to love me. What else can you expect? Why did I ever enter this wretched family?”

“Dazzled as I was by the wealth and show, I suppose,” said Mrs Dennis, coldly. “But we are their wives, and must bear our lot.”

“It is easy for you, Hester,” said Mrs James, clinging to her sister-in-law now. “Paddy is always manly and kind. He is never like James.”

“No,” said the lady addressed. “I could not—No, no, don’t let’s talk about that. There, there, dear; believe me, it would be best to try and wean him from her. Some day there may be a great change. I believe that sooner or later Rob and Marion will break away.”

“Or James and Marion,” said her sister-in-law, bitterly.

“No, no. Try and be just, dear, and do all you can to win Jem from his wretched madness. We want no more terrible quarrels. Next time someone else might suffer from a pistol shot, and then—”

“You mean James,” cried his wife, with a spasmodic movement of her hand to her breast.

“Yes,” said Mrs Dennis, “I mean James. Rob would certainly resent it fiercely.”

The unhappy wife turned pale, and shivered as she walked away. Meanwhile, in accordance with her plans, Marion drove by a cross road to the pleasant little Kentish town half a dozen miles away, pulled up at the station, and on alighting handed the reins to the young groom, told him to wait for an hour, and if she were not back by the next train to drive home.

Then entering the station she took a ticket for London, too deeply intent upon her own thoughts to notice who followed her into the office; and as soon as the train drew up, she stepped into an empty compartment and drew up the glasses, to go on thinking out her further proceedings, for her mind was now made up.

She had ample means, her brother having well provided her with a banking account of her own, and her intention was to go straight to the town house, pack up a couple of trunks, and take the night boat for Dieppe, and thence go on to Switzerland, where she could extend her projects, though where she went mattered little so long as she could avoid another meeting with her pursuer.

The train was gathering speed for its straight run on to the terminus, and she was congratulating herself upon her decision, and then thinking that there was only one difficulty in her way—the opposition which might arise on the part of the old housekeeper. But she concluded that a little firmness would suffice; if not, a frank avowal of the dangers she foresaw would win the old woman to her side, and then, once free from the trammels which surrounded her, she would perhaps regain her peace of mind, so broken since that terrible night when she fetched Chester to her brother.

“And he will soon forget me and return to her who is his by right, and then—”

She uttered a wild cry of alarm and shrank back for a moment or two in the corner of the compartment, for, in spite of the great speed at which they were going, the carriage window on her left was suddenly darkened, the door thrown open, and a man climbed in, fastening the door again, and then sinking panting upon the opposite seat.

“You here?” she cried wildly. “Oh! what madness!”

“Yes, hardly the work of a sane man, with a train going at express speed.”

“You might have been killed!” cried Marion, trying hard to be firm, and descending to commonplaces.

“Yes, it seemed very likely once, for the carriages were a good way apart; but if I had been, what then? Not the first man who has died for a woman’s sake.”

“Why have you come?” she said hurriedly.

“Why have I come?” he replied contemptuously. “You ask that! Well, let me tell you; because I knew that sooner or later you would try to elude me; and I have watched night and day to prevent that. Correct me if I am wrong; my heart tells me that you are going up to town to avoid me, and are then going further to be where I cannot find you. Am I correct?”

“Yes, quite,” she replied gravely. “I did not know that I was so weak. I know it now, and, as I have told you, we must never meet again.”

“I will not argue with you,” he said, “only tell you once more that you take a woman’s view of imaginary danger. I take that of a man determined to sacrifice life sooner than lose sight of you again—a poor stake, perhaps, for without you it is a worthless thing, but it is all I have.”

She sighed and he saw that her face grew harder, as she avoided his gaze and sat looking out of the window in silence.

“Do I understand you,” she said at last, “that you mean to follow me?”

“To the world’s end,” he cried.

“Is his manly, to force yourself upon a helpless woman?”

“No; it is despicable perhaps, but I am lost now to reason. You are everything to me; to be near you is to live—to lose sight of you is to die. You are my fate, and you draw me to your side.”

“To your ruin, perhaps to your death,” she said wildly. “You must have grasped what kind of men my relatives are. You must have seen what risk you run.”

“Yes, I have seen and thought out all this, but it is as nothing to your love.”

“And would you see me suffer through your folly and imprudence?”

“I would give anything to spare you suffering.”

“Then leave me before my agony becomes too great to bear.”

“I—can—not!” he cried. “Drive me from you, and when I find that all hope is gone, then I will seek for rest.”

“What!” she cried.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I am no boasting boy,” he said sadly. “Everything to make life worth living will be gone, and an easy painless death beckoning me on. I am a doctor, I have but to go home, and there it is, to my hand.”

She said nothing, but sank back in the corner of the carriage, covering her face with her hands; and he saw that her breast was heaving with the painful sobs struggling for exit.

He bent over towards her, and touched her arm.

“Marion,” he whispered.

She started from him as if she had been stung, and her eyes flashed as her hands fell into her lap.

“Don’t touch me!” she said wildly. “You are mad.”

The train sped on rapidly, taking them nearer and nearer to their fate, as both sat back in silence now—she trembling, battling with her heart in her struggle to devise some means of escaping him, he sinking into a dull, stolid state of determination, for, come what might, he was resolved never to leave her now.

At last the train slowed up to the station where the tickets were taken, and Marion handed hers.

“I have no ticket,” said Chester, quietly, handing the man a sovereign. “I had not time to go to the booking-office. I got in at Bineleigh. This lady will bear me out.”

The man quickly wrote a receipt and handed it with the change. Then the train glided on once more, and in a few minutes they were in the great terminus.

“You have no carriage waiting?” Chester asked.

“No,” she said quietly; “I’ll take a cab.”

Chester summoned one, and handed her in.

“Where do you wish to be driven?” he said.

“Home.”

“May I come with you, or must I follow in another cab?” he asked.

“I am at your mercy, Dr Chester,” she replied sadly.

He hesitated for a moment, then told the driver the name and number of the street, and sprang in.

Marion drew a deep catching breath as he took his seat by her side, and then remained silent till they reached the familiar doorway. Here, in the most matter-of-fact way, Chester alighted and handed out his companion and they walked up to the door together, Chester reaching out to pull the bell.

“No,” she said, speaking in a quick, startled tone of voice, and he looked at her wonderingly, for she opened the door with a latch-key, stepped in, holding the door with one hand and extending the other.

“Now,” she said firmly, “good-bye.”

For answer he stepped forward with a smile, but not to take her hand. He pressed the door gently, but with sufficient force to make her give way, and his foot was on the step.

“No, no, for pity’s sake!” she almost moaned; “it may mean your death.”

“Well, better that than an empty life,” he cried, as she slowly gave way, mastered by the force that held her in its strange power. The next minute the door was closed, and they stood together in the great, dim hall.

He saw that she was struggling to be firm, but a wave of triumphant joy carried him on, for he knew that he had won.

“My own!” he whispered passionately; “at last! at last!” and he clasped her in his arms.

“No, no!” she cried, making one last effort for the supremacy; and, thrusting him violently away, she turned and fled towards the end of the hall, darted through the open doorway into the great darkened dining-room and tried to shut the door.

But he was too close, and this time he caught her in his arms, raised her from the carpet, to bear her to the couch that had borne her wounded brother for so long, and there, letting her sink down, dropped upon his knees at her feet.

The room was very dim, the electric light being only slightly raised, but he could see her half-closed eyes and trembling lips, as she bent over towards him now till her brow rested upon his shoulder.

“This is not death, but life,” he whispered passionately. “Tell me, you were going to escape from me?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you going?”

“Abroad—Switzerland.”

“When?”

“To-night.”

“Yes, to-night,” he said softly, “and I with you, dearest. Your slave—yourself—one with you always. Marion, we must never part again.”

“Never part again,” she whispered back, as his lips sought hers. “You have mastered. I can resist no more; take me, dearest—I am yours. But we must go at once. At any moment they may return.”

“Who may? Your brother and James Clareborough?”

“Yes. Come away.”

“To the world’s end with you,” he whispered, but she uttered a cry and sprang to her feet.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“Didn’t you hear? Come.”

She led the way quickly into the hall, and the voices her preternaturally sharpened hearing had detected came from below.

Marion caught Chester’s hand and ran with him towards the great front door, which they had almost reached, when there was a sharp, quick rattling sound before them and the dull movement of feet upon the stone step.

The next moment the door was opening towards them.

Hemmed in, with peril on either hand.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Light in Darkness.

As Chester turned to face what he knew must prove to be a desperate encounter, Marion snatched at his wrist.

“Quick!” she whispered, and hurried with him through a door on their right, which led into a library with two windows facing the street; but the shutters were closed and the place was dimly lit by four diamond-shaped holes cut in their top panels, each of which sent a broad white ray across the room, to strike upon the end nearest the door, and to avoid their light Marion led him quickly close up into one corner by the window curtain.

They had hardly taken refuge there, to stand close together, when a hand struck the panel a sharp pat, and gave the door, which had gently swung to, a thrust which sent it back against the stop.

“Come in here,” said James Clareborough in a low, surly voice; and Chester felt his companion shiver, and the blood surged to his brain as he dimly saw the shadowy figures of four men enter the room, three of whom took chairs and threw themselves into them, the other standing against a book-case with a dull patch of light from the window shutters striking full upon his breast, about which his hand kept on playing nervously.

It seemed to Chester that it was only a matter of moments before they would be seen; but so far the party were unconscious of their presence, and a couple of dull red spots of light waxed and waned as the aromatic fumes of cigar smoke began to pervade the room.

“Throw open one of the shutters, uncle,” cried James Clareborough, hoarsely.

“No, no,” half shouted a voice which Chester recognised at once as that of his old patient.

“What! Why?” cried James Clareborough, and the violent throbbing of Chester’s heart grew less painful as he heard Robert Clareborough’s reply—

“Because if ever men wanted the darkness it is now.”

It was a respite, for no one uttered a word for a few moments. Then in a low, angry voice, James Clareborough spoke again, and, with his every nerve on the strain, Chester noted that he took his glowing cigar from his lips and held it down between his knees.

“Curse them! Who would ever have thought of the fools attempting that?”

“Where’s your wife, uncle?” said a voice which made the hand with which Marion clung to Chester’s wrist give a slight twitch.

“Upstairs, lying down, my boy,” said another voice, and it was Chester’s turn to start as he recognised it as one he had heard before, though he could not make out where.

“Is she much hurt?” said Robert Clareborough.

“More frightened than hurt,” said the same voice. “Of course it is a terrible shock.”

“Horrible! Here, this must be the end of it. What do you say, Paddy?”

“Confound it! yes. I’m sick.”

“Will you stop this cursed preaching, Rob?” snarled James Clareborough. “You fools! You know there can be no end to it. What are you talking about? It was their own fault.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Rob in a tone which made his sister shiver.

“Look here,” continued James Clareborough; “are you two going to show the white feather? Take the case fairly, Paddy. Suppose this had been at The Towers in the night, and we came upon a couple of scoundrels—with revolvers, mind!—carrying off the girls’ jewellery, would either of you have hesitated about firing?”

“I suppose not,” said Dennis, heavily, “but it seemed such cold-blooded work.”

“Been more cold-blooded if they had dropped us two. Now, then, no nonsense; let’s look the matter straight in the face. One thing is enough at a time. We can discuss Rob’s ideas of a dissolution of partnership later on,” was added, with a sneer. “Now, uncle; what about their coming? We had better have the old lady down.”

“No, let her be; she can tell you no more than I can. They must have asked for leave to come up as you were all away, and come straight here ready to pitch some tale, and your aunt unsuspectingly let them in. They must have set upon her, tied her fast, and carried her down.”

“Must, must, must!” cried James Clareborough, impatiently. “You were not here.”

“No, boy, but it tells its own tale. Arthur was dressed as if for a holiday, and the other fool too.”

“But what did it mean?” said Rob, hoarsely; “suspicion—an effort to find out—or robbery?”

“Robbery, my boy, for certain. They thought that they would get at the girls’ jewellery.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said James Clareborough, sharply; “an interrupted burglary. Curse them! They had all the professional tools. Well, they won’t want them any more.”

Marion started, and Chester passed his arm round her as he felt her trembling violently. For something like light was beginning to dawn upon her—a light which grew clearer as the thought of the butler asking leave for him and the footman to have a day in town, to see to some business, as the gentlemen were away. That morning at breakfast, and now—

The light was growing hard, clear and ghastly.

“Now, then,” said James Clareborough, sharply, “let’s look the position in the face. Everything turns upon whether anyone knows beside ourselves that the hounds came here.”

“Yes, everything,” assented the voice which puzzled Chester still. “Would anyone know?”

“Is it likely?” said James, cynically. “They were coming on a burglarious expedition; they began by half killing the poor old aunt, and they were trapped trying to blow open the iron door. Is it probable that they would tell anyone they were coming here?”

“No; absurd,” said Dennis, shortly.

“But still—”

“Will you hold your tongue, Rob?” cried his cousin. “Do you think they would have spoken?”

“No.”

“Then we’re safe in that direction,” continued James Clareborough. “The next question is, then, did anyone who knew them see them come to the house? The odds are a million to one that no one did, for they would take pretty good care that their faces were not seen as they stood waiting. Besides, where does the inquiry begin? Down yonder. We were away; they ask for a holiday of my wife; she gives them leave; and they come away and do not return. Their relatives, if the poor devils have any, may make inquiry, but it is doubtful. I daresay we shall find that the scoundrels have been plundering us, and at the worst we could prove this. There it is in a nut-shell. They have disappeared like hundreds more, and the world will never be any wiser.”

A chill of horror ran through Chester as he listened to all this, and he was conscious that his companion hung more heavily upon his arm, as if about to faint.

The pale, ghastly light was growing broader and clearer now, and as he grasped the fact that he was being made the recipient of the acknowledgment of a terrible deed, he felt strongly, knowing as he did the character of one of the men present, how perilous his position was growing. A few minutes more, he had strung himself up for a sharp encounter with the relatives who had, as it were, surprised them in a secret meeting. There would, he felt, be angry words, there might be blows, but the Clareboroughs would not dare to proceed farther. Now matters had assumed a dangerous shape, and his thoughts went towards the fireplace as he felt that the necessity might arise for him to defend himself and his companion—one against four.

His heart beat fast, but mingled with the feelings of alarm which would assail the stoutest in such a position, he felt thrill after thrill of delight. For Marion clung more tightly to him, as if trusting to his protection, and he mentally swore that he would protect her, come what might.

His thoughts came fast, but he had little time for musing; and as his arm tightened round his companion he listened eagerly for the next utterances of those who were grouped together some twenty feet away.

“Well,” said James Clareborough, after a pause, “what have you all to say to that?”

Chapter Thirty.

Love is Master.

There was another pause, as if each of the other three waited for his companions to begin.

“James has spoken very well,” said the owner of the hands which Chester could see playing about his breast; and as he uttered these words he too sank into a chair, and the ray of light struck across his face for a brief space, one, though, sufficiently long for Chester to recognise the features of the quaint old bookworm upon whom he had called during his search for the house which had been the scene of such strange adventures.

“Uncle!” he thought to himself, as the old man went on—

“It seems to me that we have nothing to fear. It is our own secret. What do you say, Dennis, my dear boy?”

“It looks all right, curse it!” said the young man, slowly. “I can’t see how anyone can find it out. All we have to do is to go on as we have before—take care that everything is kept dark. What do you think, Rob, old man?”

“Think?” cried the latter, sharply; and as he spoke Chester felt a quiver of excitement run through her whom he clasped. “I think it is impossible to keep such a thing as this is quiet. Say what you like—that it was in your own defence you fired, there are the men’s pistols to prove it lying with their burgling tools; say that they were surprised in the act—the marks on the iron door and their false keys will speak for that—but we can’t go on with it in the way you propose; the police must be called in.”

“You cursed fool!” snarled James Clareborough. “Bah! you always were an idiot and a hindrance to our enterprise. You could spend your share readily enough, but you were always like a log to drag at our heels.”

“My dear boy!” cried the old professor, quickly, “hush, please; there must be no quarrelling now; we have too much at stake.”

“Yes, hang it all, Jem! do keep that vitriol tongue of yours quiet,” cried Dennis.

“Who is to keep quiet when he listens to such idiotic drivel? Bring the police in—set their detectives to examine the iron safe that they were trying to force—to look at the jewels and plate stored up inside. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” he laughed discordantly. “Has Rob any brains at all?”

“Yes, yes; he spoke without thinking,” said the old man, eagerly. “Rob, my dear lad, you see it is impossible.”

“Yes, Rob, old man, don’t you see?” growled Dennis. “You can’t say to the hounds of the law, ‘You must stop your scent here.’ Why, it would, as they say, be blowing the whole gaff.”

“Well, let it,” cried Robert, bitterly; “let them find it out. I’m sick of it all, and have been for years.”

“Then you must get well again,” said James Clareborough, fiercely.

“Yes, yes, he is upset,” said the old man, quickly. “Robert’s never been himself since you fired at him, Jem. It was a mad act on your part; but there, there! don’t let’s open old sores. Let me speak. Rob, my dear boy, this is not a position in which a man can study self. We are all linked together in this business, and the one who talks of throwing it up talks of throwing his partners over. Think, my lad, of what it means. You cannot draw back. It is impossible. This is a most unhappy business, but the poor wretches brought their fate upon themselves. They have fallen in our battle of life, and there is that something to be done for all our sakes—our wives’ and your sister’s sake. They must not know of this.”

“That’s right, uncle; that’s right,” growled Dennis. “Come, Rob, old man, you must feel that this is good sound sense.”

“Yes,” said Rob, with a groan; “I suppose it is. There, uncle, go on.”

“Yes, yes, my dear boy,” cried the old man. “Well, here is our position, to finish up what Jem has said. It would be easier and better for us if we could call in the police and go through the inquest, but you know it is impossible. Now then, has either of you anything to propose over what must be done at once?”

There was utter silence, and Chester, as he stood there with a cold perspiration making his hair cling to his temples, wondered that those present did not detect the beating of his and his companion’s hearts.

“No one speaks,” said the old man, quietly; “well then, the old inventor has to come to the front again, as he always has since we held the first meeting, and had to look starvation in the face. Hark ye here, boys,” he continued in a low, deep whisper; “I have turned it all over in my mind, and there is only one thing to be done. I am not going to be troubled about the disposal of what is, after all—speaking as a chemist—so much matter which has to be resolved rapidly into its primary constituents. There is the far cellar beneath the other house; we must dig there. Then a few bags of cement, and a carboy of acid, etcetera, and the matter is at an end.”

Dennis drew a deep breath, and a low, hissing sound arose, which Chester felt must have come from between Robert Clareborough’s teeth.

“Well, have I spoken rightly?” said the old man.

“Yes, that’s right,” said James Clareborough.

“You others are silent, but of course you acquiesce. You must keep the women down at The Towers, or take them to the Riviera for a month, and your aunt will know nothing more. There, the administrative has spoken; it is for the executive to go to work.”

“The executive has done its work,” said James Clareborough, sharply, “while you two stood behind a door and listened.”

Chester felt a spasm run through Marion as these words were spoken.

“Well, well,” said the old man; “you two are young and strong, and have steady hands. I do not wish to hang back from anything for ensuring the safety and prosperity of all. Robert, my boy, my muscles are not what they were; I shall be obliged to ask you to help me.”

Another spasm ran through Marion, and Chester, as they stood there in the darkness, felt her crane forward as if to hear her brother’s answer.

It came on the instant, in sharp, fierce tones,—“No, uncle. I wash my hands of it all. I cannot help what has passed, and I will be silent for the benefit of all, but help further in this—no, I would sooner die!”

“What!” cried James Clareborough, savagely. “Curse you, then, die, and rid us of our miserable clog. Look here, all of you—I will not stand by and let him sneak out of the business in this cursed cowardly way. You, Rob—you have got to help the old man over this, or—”

“Or what?” cried Rob, as fiercely. Marion made a movement as if to rush to her brother’s help, but Chester tightened his grasp.

“My dear Jem! My dear Rob! for Heaven’s sake!” cried the professor, interposing.

“You hold your tongue, old man,” cried James Clareborough, springing up; “I’ve had enough of this. For a year past now I’ve had to put up with his cursed objections, and hanging back from nearly everything, like the coward he is, and I’ll have no more of it. Paddy and I have done our bit of work to save the family from utter ruin and destruction, and now he is asked to help you in necessary work he begins to ride the high horse and dictate. I say he shall help you, and at once, or, if I hang for it, I’ll make him.”

“You make me, you cowardly, treacherous beast!” cried Robert, fiercely. “I defy you to. You two know that our quarrel has not been on account of my shrinking from the work. I always hated it, but I have still done my part. Why did he fire at me that night but because I struck him down for his cowardly, brutal insults to my poor sister, whose honour ought to have been sacred and the object of his defence?”

“You miserable hound!” growled James Clareborough. “Go with the old man at once, or you sha’n’t live another day!”

“Go yourself, beast, and keep your hand from that pistol, or I’ll fire, I swear!”

The utter silence in the room after these words were spoken was broken by the sharp clicking of two pistols, and half stunned for the moment, as he listened for the reports, Chester, recalling what must have happened on the night when he was first called in, threw himself before Marion to screen her from any bullet which might come there.

The act necessitated the loosening of his grasp, and with a wild cry Marion sprang from him, to rush in the direction of her brother’s voice.

“The door!” shouted the professor, and it was banged to and bolted by Dennis, as the old man sprang to his side, touched the stud, and the room was suffused with the soft electric light, showing the two adversaries, not a couple of yards apart, and Marion clinging to her brother’s arm, Chester just behind.

James Clareborough burst into a yell of mocking laughter.

“Picture—tableau—curtain!” he roared. “End of Act the Second, gentlemen. Loud cries for author and heroine. A success—a success! Marion, my charming, sweet, chaste, innocent cousin, I congratulate you. Beautifully done. Doctor, I salute you. Brave, honourable, noble, frank, winner of the heroine’s love—what a happy combination of gallantry and business! I presume that, vulture-like, you scented carrion, and came for another job; but sweet, innocent Marion here was premature. Marion, beloved one; caught here in the dark! Oh, fie!”

“Curse you! hold your mocking tongue!” cried Robert, fiercely. “You, Chester, how came you here?”

“Ha-ha-ha!” cried James Clareborough, “what a question! Our sweet Marion.”

“Hound! Speak of my sister in that way again, and I’ll fire.”

“Bah!” retorted his cousin, contemptuously, and, without heeding him, he turned to Chester, covered him with his pistol, and in a low, fierce growl bade him sit down in the nearest chair.

Chester did not stir.

“Once more, you meddling idiot, sit down!” cried James Clareborough, menacingly, and Marion sprang from her brother’s side to stand between them.

“Very well, I can wait. Now, all of you, our plans are known. Like a set of idiots, we have sat smoking and babbling before this fool, who could not be content with his last visit, but must intrude again, play the spy, and suffer for his knowledge. Uncle—Dennis, my lad, you agree with me?”

No one spoke, but the three others stood gazing fiercely at the interloper.

“Now, Rob,” continued James Clareborough, “our quarrels can keep. Act the man. You see how we stand—you know what is at stake for all. Dr Chester, you are our prisoner again. Now—quick!”

Pistol in hand, he took a step forward, the others following his example, and Chester sprang towards the fireplace to seize the poker, while Marion tried to throw herself between him and his enemies.

The efforts of both were in vain. The professor baulked the brave woman’s effort. He swung her lightly towards the window and joined the others, who, in spite of a brave struggle, easily mastered Chester and got him down, after they had swayed here and there close by the locked door.

“Now,” said James Clareborough, pistol in hand, as Dennis knelt upon the prostrate man’s chest, Robert and the professor each holding an arm. “You will lie still, doctor, or you will force me to prescribe. You see that the situation is critical—Ha! Marion! Come away!”

He pointed his weapon at the window, but Marion did not stir. She had sprung to it while they were occupied with their prisoner, swung open the heavy shutters, and the window had yielded silently, leaving the room open to the street. Then she had reached out, holding on by the lower bar of the sash, but turned her head to look back.

“Now,” she cried wildly, “fire if you dare! Fred Chester! Here. Rob, help him, for my sake. Ah! keep back, or I shriek for the police.”

Chapter Thirty One.

“Sauve Qui Peut.”

Marion, in her desperation, thoroughly now at bay and fierce in her reckless determination to save her lover’s life, uttered her warning words to James Clareborough, who had been stealing round the table to spring at her.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” cried a gruff voice at the area railings, and Marion turned to see, to her horror, the sturdy figure of a helmeted constable. “Fight? Pistols? All right.” A piercing whistle rang out, and the man signalled with his arm, while the passers-by began to stop and collect.

“Curse her! she has done it,” cried James Clareborough, savagely, and he was in the act of taking aim at the trembling woman, when the pistol was struck up by Robert.

“All right,” said the scoundrel, without resenting the act, and thrusting the pistol into his pocket. “The game’s up, gentlemen—sauve qui peut.”

Robert had passed him by this time, caught his sister’s hand, and meeting with no resistance, he drew her from the window, shut and fastened it, and closed the shutters again, just as a loud peal was heard at the door bell.

The next minute Chester was at her side, the library door unlocked, and his other assailants gone.

“He’s right,” said Robert, hoarsely; “the game is up, Marion, and it is sauve qui peut.”

“You villain!” cried Chester, excitedly.

“That will do, doctor,” said Robert, coolly. “She’s fainting; help me to get her away. Poor old girl! she loved me,” he continued, kissing his sister’s ghastly face, “and she did it to save you, not to hand me over to the police. One moment. Hold her; I’ll be back directly.”

Chester caught the half-fainting burden willingly, and glanced after the young man as he darted from the room.

“Gone,” muttered Chester. “Marion, look up, love; we are safe. They have escaped.”

“Now then,” cried Robert Clareborough, returning; “I have slipped the bolts, and it will take them an hour to break in. Come!”

“Come! Where?” cried Chester angrily.

“Where you will, doctor, only we must escape from here. The others are off, and I must go and help save the rest. You don’t wish to see her in the hands of the police, appearing against her brother and his confederates?”

“God help me, no!” cried Chester.

“Come along, then, man. It’s all over now. I knew it must come. Doctor, you saved my life. I must trust you. I know you love her, and that she loves you. I trust her to your honour as a gentleman.”

“You may,” said Chester, “and—”

“Don’t talk, man. Come while the way is open. They’ll break in, as sure as we are here. Come.”

Chester lifted Marion in his arms and bore her toward the door, Robert Clareborough having caught up the doctor’s hat, and led the way into the hall, where the police were thundering at the door; and then downstairs, where sounds were heard from the area, as if someone was trying the door there.

“Shall I take her?” said Robert, as they reached the lower passage.

“No; I can carry her easily.”

“This way, then,” and to Chester’s astonishment he turned into the short passage at the end of which was the ordinary-looking door.

“Humph! shut,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Jem’s parting act of kindness; he must have been the last.”

“Where does that door lead?” cried Chester, as Marion uttered a sigh indicative of recovery.

“To safety, doctor,” said the young man, sadly. “Foxes always have a second hole, and a way of using it.”

He drew a key from his pocket, flung open the door, and made room for his companion to bear his sister into the square lobby, which was littered with wedges, the powder tin, pistols, keys, hammer, and the other contents of the portmanteau standing in one corner, while in one spot a quantity of sawdust seemed to have been spilled.

All was plainly seen by a bright reflected light which shone out from the small glass bulb in the ceiling, shedding a strange glow, while the odour of exploded powder struck on Chester’s nostrils at once.

As soon as they were inside, Robert calmly drew the door close, and just then Marion opened her eyes and looked wildly from one to the other.

“Where am I?” she said faintly.

“Where you have never been before, sis, but quite safe,” replied her brother. “There, don’t look like that; the doctor and I are friends.”

“Ah, I remember now,” she cried wildly, and she struggled to her feet, and seized her brother’s arms. “Oh, Rob, what have I done?”

“The best thing you ever did in your life. I am glad it has come to an end; but I must be off. I can’t face the dock. Too great a coward, I suppose, dear. There, God bless you! I hope you’ll be very happy now.”

“No, no, Rob! I cannot leave you.”

“Eh?” he said, smiling bitterly, as he took out another key. “Yes; he has promised me, dear, and he is as true as steel. There, I trust him, and you feel as if you can. Take her somewhere, doctor, where the police cannot find her out. She’s innocent enough, but no one would believe. Come, we may as well get right away, though I suppose it would be hours before they could get through here. I never thought I should some day be showing you our secrets, sis,” he continued lightly; “certainly not to Dr Chester. There we are.”

He had thrust the small bright key he had held into the lock of the iron door, and turned it, the bolts yielding easily in spite of the grit of powder still left in; and clinging now to Chester’s arm as the door was swung open, Marion, at a word from her brother, stepped forward into the iron-floored receptacle, then he followed and closed the door behind him with a sharp metallic clang.

In the demoralisation which had ensued it had been undoubtedly sauve qui peut, only one of the party seeming to think of anyone else. This was the old professor, who hurried upstairs, unlocked the chamber door, and brought down his wife, who proved well enough to follow him.

The result was that when Robert Clareborough, to Chester’s wonderment, hurried his companions through passage and crypt, and up again into the book-cumbered house, all was perfectly still, the dusty place looking as if it had not had a soul therein for years.

“This way, Marion,” said Robert, coolly. “Poor old uncle! he will break his heart about leaving his books; pretty choice, too, some of them.”

There was no reply, and he led sister and doctor out through the back door, down a weed-grown, desolate-looking garden, and into the stables at the bottom, the entrance being open.

“Now then,” he said, “you must lose no time. Once out in the mews, make for the street, and you are safe. Good-bye, Marion dear.”

“No, no, Robert!” cried Marion, flinging her arms about his neck; “you are still weak and ill. I cannot leave you.”

“You prefer to go with me?” said the young man, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Ah, well, it’s very good of you, old darling, but you can’t; perhaps in an hour I shall be in a police cell.”

“Rob!”

“True enough, old girl; and if I am, with the knowledge that you are arrested too, I shall make an end of myself.”

“Oh no, no, no!”

“But I shall. You know me. I don’t make empty threats. Listen: you must escape. Jem and Paddy are on the way to the station by now, to fetch those two away from The Towers. Be sensible, and we shall all get away. You will obey me, dear?”

“I always have, Rob.”

“Then go with the doctor. We’ll trust him. Now, not a word. If you keep me still talking, we shall have the police round here at the back, and be all taken before we can get away. Chester, I trust you, even if I am a scoundrel. Now then, out in the mews, and walk together. Take no notice of me, and don’t think I am forsaking you, Marion. I must go, or you will be taken too.”

Chester took Marion’s hand and drew it through his arm, as he stepped out into the mews, and making a desperate effort to preserve her calmness, the trembling girl walked steadily by his side as they made for the end of the place, Robert Clareborough passing them coolly enough on the other side, lighting a cigar as he walked on fairly fast.

Just as Robert reached the end of the mews, a dozen yards in front of them, Marion started as if a sudden spasm had shot through her, for a couple of policemen suddenly turned the corner, hesitated as they saw him and seemed about to stop, but the young man’s coolness saved him. For just as they were hesitating he turned off the narrow pavement into the road and crossed diagonally toward them.

“Can you direct me to Vincent Square?” he said.

One of the constables gave the route, with the firsts and seconds to right and left, and as Chester and Marion were passing, the young man said shortly—“Thanks, I see,” and they heard his step behind, while the police continued their way down the mews.

“I’ll take a cab as soon as we get a little farther away. Try and be calm,” whispered Chester. “Your brother has escaped.”

“Is—is he followed?” said Marion, faintly.

“No; his coolness saved him. The police have gone on down the mews, but I dare not look round to see if they are on our track.”

She made no reply, but hung more heavily upon his arm, while he tried hard to recover his own composure and think out what was best to be done under the circumstances.

His first thought had been to take a cab, but feeling that they might still be watched, or, if not, that the various cabmen about would be questioned as to whom they took up close to the mews, or else, upon the matter getting into the papers, that they might volunteer the information, he decided to make first for the railway, and with Marion hanging more and more heavily upon his arm he led her out into the main street, nodded to the first passing cab-driver, and said, “Victoria.”

“Where are you taking me?” said Marion, faintly, as he sank back beside her.

“Where you will be safe,” he replied, pressing her hand. “You have promised to trust me, so sit still and take no heed of the way I take you. I don’t think we are watched, but it is impossible to say.”

He heard her draw her breath painfully, and as he glanced sideways he could read in her face the effort she was making.

She saw that he was watching her, and met his eyes firmly.

“Do you think Rob will escape?” she asked.

“I feel sure that he will. The police did not know him by sight. But he was only just in time. A few seconds more, and he—we—must have been taken.”

She was silent for a time, and then she said bitterly, “I ought not to have left him, poor fellow! It was cowardly at such a time.”

“You did quite right,” said Chester, firmly. “Your presence would have been a hindrance to him in his endeavours to escape, and for your sake, horrible as all this is, I hope he will get right away.”

“But I ought not to have left him,” sighed Marion, and further conversation ceased, for the cab stopped and they entered the station.

Here Chester took tickets for Kensington. Then he crossed to the other side of the line, and took tickets back right to the City, and leaving the station there, plunged with his companion amongst the busy throng which filled the streets, and finally, feeling pretty confident that they were not followed, he ended by taking a cab to Raybeck Square.

Marion started as she heard the address given, and there was a look of reproach in her eyes as she said once more—

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where I believe you will be safe,” he said gravely; “to my aunt and sister, who will welcome you as the lady who will be my wife.”

“Your wife! Oh no, no, no!” she said sadly. “That is impossible now.”

“Why?” he whispered tenderly.

“Why?” she cried. “Did you hear? Can you not see how I am linked with those who are flying from justice? Heaven help me! I ought to be with them still.”

“Hush!” he said gently; “you are wildly excited now. Your brain is not in a condition to think calmly and dispassionately of your position. It may be days before it recovers its balance. Till then, Marion, try and think this one thing—that you are watched over by one to whom your honour and safety are more than his own life. Marion, my own—my very own—let the past be dead; the future shall be my care.”

She sighed piteously and shivered, as she lay back in the corner of the cab, and, startled by her manner, he hurriedly took her hand.

She shrank back, looking wildly at him, till she fully realised his object, and then with a weary smile upon her lip she resigned her hand.

“You are utterly prostrated by the shock of what you have gone through,” he said gravely. “We shall not be long now. Try—try hard to be calm. The distance is very short, and then you will feel safe and soon grow composed.”

She gave him a grateful look, and then closed her eyes, lying back with her face ghastly pale, and the nerves at the sides of her temples and the corners of her lips twitching sharply at times, as if she were in pain.

But she sat up when the cab stopped, and gave Chester her hand as she alighted, and walked with him up the steps and into the house.

As the door closed she turned to him wildly and tottered slightly, but when he made a movement to catch her in his arms, she shrank away, and he drew back and offered his hand.

She laid hers within it, and his first thought was to take her into his consulting-room, but he led her upstairs towards the drawing-room, and she walked firmly enough till they were nearly at the landing, when he felt her swerve, and but for his quick action she would have fallen back.

“My poor darling!” he whispered, as he lifted her in his arms. “You have done most bravely. It has been too much for any woman to go through.”

It was but a few steps, and then he paused upon the landing while he threw open the drawing-room door and bore her in, quite insensible now to all that passed.

For as he entered the room Chester found himself face to face with his sister; but she was not, as he had anticipated, alone. Isabel was with her, and they stood gazing at him as if stunned by the sudden intrusion.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Something in the Sawdust.

Highcombe Street gradually became blocked by the eager crowd always ready to gather, discuss and microscopically magnify the event that has been the attraction, and in a very short time it was current that a dreadful deed had been perpetrated in open daylight at the window of the ground floor room on the left of the front door. The victim was said to have been seen shrieking wildly for help, till a man had dragged her away, closing the window afterward and shutting the shutters, so that, with the blinds of the upstairs windows drawn down, the whole of the mansion had a strangely-mysterious aspect which, to the over-heated brains of many of the lookers-on, exactly suggested the place where, a murder might have been committed.

It did not occur to the wonder-gulpers that there were several houses in the same street presenting precisely the same aspect consequent upon their owners being out of town, and that the mansion next door, with its gloomy, unkempt aspect and soot-coated windows, was much more forbidding; but then it had no policeman stationed at the area gate and two more at the front door, who objected vigorously to boys climbing over the railings and others trying to peer through the long, slit-like windows on either side of the entrance.

An Englishman’s house is said to be his castle, and serious steps generally have to be taken by the police before they break in, the great exception to the rule being in the case of firemen, who as soon as they are convinced that their enemy is in the place, make no scruple about using their axes against door or window, setting up a ladder, and climbing in.

In this case, in despite of the excitement, matters moved slowly, the principal steps taken being upon the arrival of more police, the stationing of these at the back where there was the mews, and an attempt to get in through the garden; but here a difficulty presented itself at once; there was no garden, the space existing between the houses and stables at the bottom being built entirely over, and the stables swept away. There was no back exit, but constables were stationed in the mews all the same so as to keep an eye upon the stabling to right and left.

Soon after, while the superintendent and sergeant were discussing proceedings, an occupant of the opposite house pointed out the fact that one of the drawing-room window blinds was flapping to and fro, suggesting that a French window in the balcony was a little way open.

The suggestion was acted upon at once. A ladder from the nearest fire station was brought, and the police were watched with breathless interest and cheered as they mounted and reached the balcony, another cheer following as half a dozen entered the great mansion and disappeared to commence searching the house, the excitement increasing as they were seen to throw open the shutters of the library windows, in which room not so much as an overturned chair caught their attention.

It due course the magnificently-furnished place was searched, the only thing peculiar there being that the bed in a quiet-looking chamber on the third floor had been evidently made that morning, but lain upon since, while the key of the door was outside.

No way out at the back was discovered from the ground floor, and after a careful search for the missing occupants in every room, the police descended to the basement, everything above being in so quiet and orderly a state that the whole affair began to assume the aspect of imagination on the part of the constable who had given the alarm.

“Didn’t dream you’d got a case on, Dick, did you?” said the superintendent, banteringly, as the pantry was entered.

“Don’t look like it, do it, sir?” replied the man, triumphantly pointing to the table, on which lay the freshly-cut rope which had bound the housekeeper.

“Humph! Don’t see much in that,” said the superintendent. “There’s the plate-closet. Well, that’s all right. Someone’s been having wine. Nothing to wonder at in that when there’s plenty. Splendid place; but the case begins to look to me like a flam.”

“Why, there’s plenty outside saw the lady, too, sir,” grumbled the constable.

“Then where is she?”

There was no answer, and the various domestic offices were examined, everything being in perfect order, and the only exit apparent being through the area door, which was locked, bolted and barred, as were all the windows.

“Where does this lead?” said the superintendent, as he entered the passage farther back. “Another cellar, perhaps.” They followed to the end, one of the men striking a match or two, for the extreme part was dark. “Humph! locked. Well, that can’t be a way out, for there is no mat.” Sniff, sniff! “What’s that—powder? and what’s that empty Gladstone doing there?”

Just then the constable who had given the alarm suddenly stepped forward and stooped down.

“What is it, Dick? One of the straws out of the mare’s nest?” said the superintendent.

For answer, the man drew at something quite low down by the floor, and it came away in his hand, to prove, on being held to the light of a wax match, a mere scrap of a handsomely-braided silk dress.

“Ah!” cried the superintendent, showing the first signs of excitement, “smell of powder—that bit of silk!”

He thumped with his knuckles on the panel of the door, and exclaimed—

“There’s an iron inside; dress caught as they passed through, and as the door was shut the edge cut that off like a pair of shears. There’s a way out here, my lads, and we’ve got hold of the clue.”

It seemed easier to point out the clue than to follow it, for the door was strong, and it was not until suitable implements had been fetched, to further excite the crowd, and a sturdy attack made at the end of the passage, that the outer door gave way, the bolts of the strongly-made lock being broken right off.

“By George! you’ve got hold of a case this time, my lad,” cried the superintendent; “but it’s an attempt at a big burglary. This isn’t a way out; it’s the principal plate-closet, and they’ve been trying to get it open, and failed. Hammer leather-covered, wedges, pistols, dark lantern smashed, tin of powder, and marks on the front of the safe door where the wedges have been. Powder smells quite strong here. They must have tried to blast the door open. Out, all of you; they’re hiding somewhere. They can’t have got away.”

The men turned back, all but the one who had given the alarm, and he had struck a fresh match, for the bulb in the ceiling gave forth no light, and was stooping down to sweep away some of the sawdust on the floor.

“Come along, Dick,” cried the superintendent. “What have you got there?”

“Look, sir,” said the man, holding out a handful of the sawdust he had scraped up. “There’s a bottle yonder that’s had port wine in it, but this looks to me like blood.”

Chapter Thirty Three.

Tom Tiddler’s Ground.

“Blood of the grape!” cried the superintendent, contemptuously. “Where were you brought up? Never in a gentleman’s wine cellar before? You should go down to the docks and see the floors there. By Jingo! but it is blood!”

More of the sawdust was scraped aside, and the truth was plain enough; a broad patch had lain there, and the granulated wood had been thrown over to soak it up.

But the constable was not satisfied yet; he kept peering about, made his way to the iron door, and then dropped upon his knees.

“Here you are, sir,” he cried. “They’ve put the body in here, it seems to me, for there’s a tiny smutch just against the edge. There’s been murder done.”

“You’re right, Joe,” cried the superintendent, sharply; “but where are the men? You stay here, I’ll have the place searched again.”

Every nook and corner of the basement was examined without result, and then the rest of the house was carefully gone over once more, but the place proved to be empty, and the superintendent returned to where his sentry was on duty.

“Made anything out, sir?”

“No.”

“What about the roof? Must be a trap, and they’ve got through there.”

“There is a trap, my lad, but the cobwebs over it show that it can’t have been opened to-day.”

“What about the cellar, sir?”

“I have searched all but the wine cellars, and we can’t break in there. I’ve sent orders to find out who lives here and telegraph to the family to come up.”

“But you won’t wait, sir, before getting this iron door open?”

“No, I sha’n’t wait for that.”

“That’s right, sir. They’ve killed the poor lady I saw, I’m afraid, and she’s lying in there. That must be a bit of her dress.”

There was no further hesitation. Suitable workmen were obtained, and after many hours’ toil the great iron door was drilled and prised off, the police stepping forward at once to raise the body they expected to find, and then standing dumbfounded at seeing that there were a couple of shelves upon one side. The rest of the iron closet was perfectly empty.

A little further investigation by the aid of lights soon showed, though, that the supposed strong-room full of costly jewels and plate was only the entrance to another place, one side forming a door.

This was attacked in turn, and after a long resistance was forced off by the workmen, and once more the police advanced on the tip-toe of expectation, to find themselves in a passage leading into a crypt-like chamber which had evidently been carefully elaborated out of the old cellarage, traces of which still remained. But there was no sign of occupation, and for a few moments the police hesitated as to which of the two closed doors they should attack. These were both of iron, which, like those of the safe they had passed through, were evidently of Belgian manufacture, from the name embossed thereon.

But the hesitation soon passed away, for while one proved to be locked the other was unfastened, and after leaving a couple of men on guard, the superintendent passed on, leading the way through the farther door. Beyond was a dark passage cumbered with packing-cases, stacked on one side from floor to ceiling, while on turning into another passage which ran at right angles, they came upon a couple of heavy chests in the course of being unpacked, a heap of old books standing upon the corner of one.

They examined the place, the basement of a mansion with double kitchens, servants’ hall, pantry, and the like, and the cursory glance obtained showed them that the crypt-like vaults through which they had passed must be beneath the garden at the back of the house.

But after satisfying themselves that no one was there they ascended a flight of stone steps, to find themselves in the book-encumbered hall of the professor’s home. Then followed a quick search through the chambers of what proved to be an enormous library, room after room being covered with dusty book-shelves, the home of spiders innumerable, while only one chamber on the second floor proved to be a bedroom.

Still, there was no trace of those they sought, and a little further examination showed that they must have passed out into the garden, entered the stabling at the bottom, and gone out into the mews at the back, and without doubt before the men were sent round to watch.

“No capture yet,” said the superintendent, grimly; “but it seems to me, Dick, that you’ll get your promotion over this bit of mystery, for a nice game of some kind has been carried on, and we haven’t got to the bottom of it yet I want that other door open now.”