Introductory material (continued 5)

Leslie listened, petrified. Now she understood!

The food was not for the police—it was for Harry! Harry, held prisoner in Chelford Abbey—by whom?

XLVIII

The bane of life that day had been the London reporters. The Red Lion Inn at Chelfordbury was already filled with them, and not an hour passed that one did not make his way to the house in a vain endeavour to interview the Second Son. One intercepted him in Elm Drive, and to him, as to the rest, he gave the same reply.

“You boys can’t expect me to tell you any more than I already know,” he said, at bay. “My brother has disappeared, but I believe he is still alive.”

“Who do you think is responsible for these outrages, Mr. Alford?” asked the reporter.

Dick shook his head.

“If I knew, it isn’t reasonable to suppose that I should be discussing the matter with you.”

“Is it the Black Abbot?”

“The Black Abbot has nothing whatever to do with this crime,” said Dick shortly. “Unless I credit you with being so foolish as to believe in ghosts, it is unnecessary for me to tell you that there is no such thing as a Black Abbot, and the figure that has been seen in these grounds was somebody masquerading for his own purpose.”

“A practical joke?” suggested the newspaper man.

Dick shook his head.

“I don’t think it was a practical joke; indeed, I am sure there is something very serious behind it. But I can’t tell you any more.”

“Mr. Alford,” said the reporter, “I’m going to ask you a very delicate question, and I hope you won’t think it an impertinence. If your brother is dead, then the title comes to you, does it not?”

“Yes,” said Dick.

“You won’t be offended if I tell you that there is a little talk in the village of some antagonism between your brother and you. I am told there have been frequent quarrels.”

Dick mastered his anger with a great effort, realizing that the reporter was not intending to be impertinent, but simply epitomizing the gossip of the countryside.

“My brother was very nervous and quick-tempered,” he said, “but I’ve never had a serious quarrel with him in my life.”

“Is it true that Lord Chelford’s fiancée, Miss Leslie Gwyn, recently broke off her engagement with your brother?”

“Perfectly true,” said Dick, stifling his impatience.

“And yet she is staying at Fossaway Manor as your guest?” The keen eyes of the reporter were watching him closely. He saw the blood mount to his victim’s cheeks and hastened to add: “I’m merely telling you what other people will tell you, Mr. Alford. I have a much wider experience of the uncharity and suspicion that surround every man associated with a crime like this. If you are annoyed with me I can understand it, but I can assure you that I only want to help you.”

“That I quite believe,” said Dick with a smile. “But you can understand just how embarrassing your questions are. I will tell you the truth and you may put it into your paper. I am satisfied there is a very terrible danger overhanging Miss Leslie Gwyn, and it is for that reason, and that reason alone, I have asked her to stay at the hall, which is under police protection and where I know she will be safe. Her brother has gone abroad, and I cannot allow her to stay at Willow House alone.”

“You mean she is in danger from the same person that killed Thomas the footman, and who is responsible for the disappearance of Lord Chelford?”

Dick nodded, and the newspaper man made a mental note.

“Thank you,” he said. “You will find that this little talk has cleared the air. In cases like this, if you clear up the minor mysteries as you go along, it makes for everybody’s comfort.”

Dick, who had been trembling with anger through the interview, had to agree, in the calm moments which followed, that the reporter had taken a sane view of the matter. When he met Leslie a few minutes later, he told her of the interview. She was in the study alone, and had just finished writing a letter, which lay face downward on the blotting-pad. She saw him glance at the envelope and turned it up. It was addressed to Fabrian Gilder.

“What have you said?” he asked.

“I’ve told him that I’ve considered the matter, and I’ve decided that I could not marry him—in any circumstances it would be impossible now, so soon after Harry’s disappearance.”

He picked up the letter and, taking out his pocket case, tore off a stamp and affixed it.

“I’ll see that this goes,” he said grimly. Then, seeing her tired face: “Poor old girl, you’re having a bad time.”

The pressure of her hand, the love and sympathy in her voice, were almost too much for him, and he had to set his teeth or he would have taken her in his arms, and, in that place of tragedy and horror, told her of the love that was shaking him, and which had added a new and fearful burden to his overstrung nerves.

“Go to bed early,” he said, with an effort at gaiety, “and rise with the dawn. I shall be busy till very late.”

“The butler was telling me that you have ordered a basket of food for the policemen.”

Not a muscle of his face moved.

“That is so; one or two men who are patrolling the cutting need a little light refreshment. They cannot get to the house and we haven’t men to relieve them.”

She was sensible enough not to pursue the subject.

It was only on her earnest entreaty that, as the night grew on, Mary Wenner remained. The girl was a bundle of nerves, started at every sound, paled and flushed with the opening of a door, and the sound of a falling plate in the servery whilst they were at dinner had made her scream.

“I can’t help it, my dear; I’m naturally temperamental,” she explained. “And this house has got me shivering. I can’t leave another young lady without a chaperon, or I’d fly off to London before it got dark.”

She had been in the library that afternoon, she told Leslie, and the sight of that familiar room with its empty chair had been almost the last straw.

“I had to have a good cry,” she confessed, “and I’m not ashamed of it. Harry was one of the best—you don’t mind me calling him Harry, do you, dear?” And, when Leslie shook her head: “I can’t say that I was fond of him as a young girl ought to be fond of a man she loves, but he was very nice. He had his tempers, the same as the rest of us, but they were only his high spirits. I could never understand why he hated Mr. Alford.”

Leslie looked at her incredulously.

“Hated Mr. Alford?” she repeated. “Surely you’re mistaken? They were very good friends.”

Mary shook her head.

“No, they weren’t,” she said. “It all arose out of her ladyship’s picture.”

“The late Lady Chelford?”

“That was the lady,” nodded Mary. “It happened three years ago. Dick Alford suggested that the portrait should be moved to the gallery. I think he was silly to say it, knowing how Harry adored his mother, and when he said the picture was depressing—and that was the silliest thing of all—Harry got right up in the air! It was dreadful, the things he said to Mr. Alford—and before me, too! Dick Alford realized his mistake: I could see that, and he tried to pacify Harry, but for a fortnight they didn’t speak.”

Leslie was silent. Slowly the inner life of Fossaway Manor was beginning to reveal itself to her; she had seen nothing of these cross-currents, had not suspected, even dimly, the conflicting antagonism which must have been visible to Harry Chelford’s secretary.

“They were very friendly sometimes. You’d think that Harry was fond of him, and I think he was,” Mary continued; “but the quarrels used to break out every now and then, once because Dick always stood with his back to the picture, and never looked at it at all. He hated it, I’m sure of that. Of course, he never took me into his confidence. We were not what you might term good friends. I suppose it was foolish of me to take up Harry’s quarrel, but I never liked Dick—you don’t mind me calling him Dick?—after that.”

She glanced nervously through the window. The sun had set, and dusk was creeping over the great park.

“If I get any sleep to-night I’ll be lucky,” she said. “Do you mind if I leave my door open and keep a light burning?”

“Why, of course not,” smiled Leslie.

“There is a lock on the door, and I asked Glover to find me the key,” Miss Wenner went on. “And I’ll tell you frankly, Leslie, that if he hadn’t found it I wouldn’t have stayed, not for all the money in the world.”

Leslie felt that it would be indiscreet to offer encouragement to a further discussion of this subject, for she was as reluctant to spend the night under that roof as her new-found friend.

XLIX

Though she waited up till nearly eleven, she did not see Dick, and, in response to the repeated hints of the girl, they went upstairs together.

The Manor was lighted by a power plant which was accommodated in a small shed midway between the house and the Ravensrill, and owed its installation to Dick’s enterprise.

Harry had always had candles in his room, Mary told her, but had accepted the lighting of his library as a compromise.

“It’s a very strange thing,” said Mary from her inner room, “but Harry was afraid of electricity. In thunderstorms he always went down into the cellar and stayed there until they were over. He used to have a bed which was made every day in the summer, in case of a storm coming on in the night, and——”

At that moment all the lights in the room went out.

“Have you turned the lights off?” asked Mary’s anxious voice.

“No, I haven’t been near the switch; I expect a fuse has gone,” said the girl.

There were matches and candles on the dressing table, she remembered, and, groping her way to the table, she lit the two candles. Mary was standing in the doorway, very pale and wide-eyed.

“What was the meaning of that?” she asked, her voice sharp with fear, which was beginning to communicate itself to Leslie.

She forced a smile.

“That happens in the best regulated houses,” she said, with spurious gaiety. “The door is locked, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

And then she heard footsteps in the corridor; there was a knock at the door that made Mary jump.

“Are you there, Leslie?” It was Dick’s voice. “Something has gone wrong with the lighting arrangements; we’ll put it right in a minute or two.”

“Are the lights out everywhere?” asked Mary, but he was gone.

Twenty minutes passed and again Leslie heard his footsteps approaching.

“I’m afraid we sha’n’t be able to fix up the lights till the morning. Have you candles? Did Glover put a flash light for you?”

“We’ve everything we want,” said Leslie. “Don’t worry about us: we shall be asleep in ten minutes.”

“Not me,” murmured Miss Wenner tremulously. “I sha’n’t sleep a wink!”

By the light of her candle she had replaced most of the garments she had discarded when the lights went out.

“I knew I oughtn’t to have stayed—there’s somebody coming along the corridor!”

“It is only Mr. Alford.”

But her ears caught the sound of two pairs of feet, and presently Dick’s voice spoke.

“Do you mind if I leave one of Puttler’s men outside your door?” he asked. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear him walking about in the night.”

“Is anything wrong, Dick?”

“No, no, nothing wrong; only I knew Miss Wenner was rather nervous.”

“I am,” quavered Miss Wenner loudly. “It’s very good of you, Mr. Alford.”

“You had better keep your windows fastened,” said Dick. “There is a system of ventilation in the room, so you needn’t be afraid of waking with a headache. Good-night.”

When he had gone, Mary Wenner looked solemnly at her companion.

“Did you hear what he said about keeping the windows shut?” she asked hollowly. “My Gawd!”

“Don’t be silly, Mary.”

Leslie was past feeling comfortable, but she had need to set an example.

“Come along, I’ll help you fasten the windows.”

“ ‘Keep the windows fastened,’ ” repeated Mary Wenner. “There’s something doing!”

They went from one to the other of the leaded windows, closed them and pressed down the catches. Suddenly Mary clutched the girl’s arm fiercely.

“There’s a man under my bed!” she gasped, staring wildly at the drooping counterpane.

With a fluttering heart Leslie lifted the cover, and pulled out a pair of riding boots, the soles of which the frightened secretary had seen, and they both laughed hysterically.

“I wish I could bring my bed into your room.” Mary looked helplessly at the heavy four-poster to which she had been assigned.

“You can come and sleep with me,” said Leslie. “I’ve got a big bed.” And this offer was most gratefully accepted.

“Have a look under your bed first,” said Miss Wenner nervously, and not till this ritual had been observed did she commence very slowly to undress.

Down below in the library, Dick was in consultation with Puttler, who had just returned from a hasty visit to Scotland Yard.

“The batteries were smashed, and an attempt had been made to cut the main cable,” reported Dick. “I got to the power house just after it happened, but I saw nobody.”

Puttler pulled at his comic little nose and there was a look of trouble in his brown eyes.

“The Commissioner thinks you ought to have a dozen men down here and make a clean-up,” he said. “I’ve brought three, and I think they all ought to be inside the house. One we’ve got in the east wing, another in the west, and a patrol in the hall. That will leave you and me and the local ‘flatties’ for the grounds. Though I think we might as well stay here—you want a battalion to patrol the estate properly. By the way, when I was looking round early this morning I found a great mound of earth in the northeast corner of the estate, near the river. One of your gamekeepers told me it was called Chelford Greed. What is the idea?”

Dick was not in an archæological mood, but he explained.

“One of my ancestors—I don’t know which one—planned and carried out a big steal. You probably know that the charter by which we received these lands from King Henry confines the northern boundary of the estate to the course of the Ravensrill, and the ingenious Chelford of the times had the idea of changing the course of the Ravensrill so that the estate would embrace another thousand acres. The Chelford Greed was the dam he built. The natural course of the Ravensrill runs through the Long Meadow. It was one of those clever little pieces of robbery that have made us landed proprietors what we are! As I say, I don’t know which of the Chelfords planned this piece of larceny, because there is no written record, and the legend has come down from mouth to mouth, so to speak.”

He looked up at the big portrait above the fireplace and shook his head.

“Lady,” he said softly, “you’ve given me a lot of trouble!”

Puttler was interested.

“As how?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you one of these days,” said Dick. “I wonder if those girls are asleep?”

He stole quietly up the stairs. The man on duty in the corridor flashed a lamp upon him as he approached.

“No sound,” he whispered, and Dick crept downstairs again.

It was arranged that he and Puttler should snatch a few hours’ sleep in turn, the other patrolling round and round the block of buildings. At two o’clock in the morning he was aroused from a deep slumber to feel Puttler shaking gently at his shoulder.

“Nothing has happened,” said the detective, eyeing with a friendly look the sofa from which Dick struggled. “I’ve warmed up some grub for you.”

A spirit stove was burning on the desk and the kettle above was steaming. Dick poured the black coffee into a glass and scalded himself to wakefulness.

“One of the local men thought he saw somebody moving and challenged,” reported Puttler, settling himself down with a luxurious sigh. “But it was probably only a bush. These birds are jumpy—they see a Black Abbot in every shadow!”

Dick sipped at the boiling fluid and broke a biscuit with his disengaged hand.

“Thank God, this can’t go on much longer!” he said. “By the way, did you bring those papers from London?”

“I gave them to you in the library: they were in the blue envelope.”

Dick put down the glass.

“I’d better keep them in my safe,” he said. “I don’t want the servants to see them.”

He crossed the hall, unlocked the door of the library and went in, mechanically switching on the light, and only then remembering that for the time being Fossaway Manor was denied the service of the little power house. He went back to the study and got his lamp and picked his way across the room to the desk. The envelope was where he had put it, and he slipped this into his pocket. As he did so, he was aware that a cold wind was blowing. He sent his light along the windows. That at the end was open; one of the curtains, which had been drawn across lay in a heap on the ground.

He went to the door and called Puttler softly and the detective joined him.

“Somebody has been here,” he said, and pointed to the curtain and the twisted pole that had supported it.

It was easy to see how the intruder had made his way into the library. Two of the panes near the iron handle which fastened one leaf of the window had been broken, and evidently the midnight visitor, in entering, must have fallen and, catching hold of the curtain to save himself, brought it to the ground, breaking away the pole which was hanging drunkenly.

“I passed here ten minutes ago, and the window was shut then,” said Puttler.

“He may have been inside at the moment,” replied Dick thoughtfully. “I wonder what has been taken?”

He examined the desk. Evidently the intruder had not opened any of the drawers, though, if he had done so, his labours would have been in vain, since Dick had cleared every document out of the room early in the day. As they circulated the room, Puttler stumbled over something.

“Where did this come from?” he asked.

It was a light ladder, and Dick recognized it as one of two that were part of the library furniture, and was employed to reach books from the top shelf of the lower tier.

“When I saw this last it was standing at the end of the room,” he said.

He flashed his lamp up on to the shelves, looking for a gap in the long line of books. So doing, his lamp swept across that space intervening between the shelves which was covered by the portrait of the late Lady Chelford. He could see the big gold frame, caught a glimpse of one white hand hanging gracefully, and then something brought his lamp back. He heard the churchwarden detective swear softly. Himself, he was speechless. The light of his lamp focussed on the place where the woman’s face had been, and where now was a black emptiness.

The face and shoulders of the picture had been cut from the frame, and the ragged strands of canvas told him that it had been cut by an unskilful hand.

L

Neither man spoke until they were back in the little study, and then Puttler looked gloomily at his companion.

“What do you make of that?”

“Heaven knows!” groaned Dick.

The study door was closed, and he had pulled across a dark curtain which had been hung that day for the purpose.

“I suppose I’d better get out, though I don’t suppose I shall find anything.”

“Wait until I’ve had the remainder of your coffee and I’ll come with you,” said Puttler. “No, Mr. Alford, I never felt less like sleep. We shall have daylight in a couple of hours. Wait.”

He turned out the oil lamp which had been requisitioned from the kitchen, blew down the glass chimney, and the room was in darkness.

“Now you can pull open those curtains and go out,” he said, “if that is your way.”

Dick moved the curtains slightly and looked out. The world lay peaceful, silent, in the pallid light of the moon, and as he opened the door, the sweet scent of the earth and the cold morn greeted him fragrantly.

His foot was raised to step across the threshold when Puttler’s big hand closed round his arm.

“Wait,” he whispered again.

Dick stood motionless.

“I see nothing,” he said in the same tone.

Still Puttler held him, his head bent, listening.

“All right,” he said, released his grip, and stepped out on to the little terrace before the Second Son.

He gave a swift glance left and right.

“What was it?” asked Dick, in surprise.

“Somebody breathing,” was Puttler’s astonishing reply. “You won’t believe that I could hear a man breathing a dozen yards away, but I can. It’s one of my many animal qualities.”

He took a little run, cleared the gravel path in a bound, and went noiselessly along the grass to the left. Presently Dick saw him returning at a jog-trot. The detective went past and disappeared round the wing of the block. In a few minutes he returned.

“Hearing and scent are my two qualities. Can you smell anything?”

Dick sniffed the morning air.

“No,” he confessed.

“Come along with me.”

This time he walked softly across the path, explaining that he was afraid of waking the girls who slept almost immediately above them.

They went to the end of the wing, and then the sergeant halted.

“Now do you smell anything?” he asked.

Dick sniffed again. There was a sweet odour in the air, the scent of some exotic flower that seemed familiar to him.

“Does anybody in this house smoke scented cigarettes?” asked the detective, and Dick went suddenly cold.

“Harry!”

“Your brother, eh?” Puttler’s deep-set eyes surveyed him in the half light. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that he is smoking them. Where were they kept?”

“In the library as a rule.”

Puttler began searching the grounds with the aid of his lamp. He had not gone far before he saw something and picked it up. It was a half-smoked cigarette with a rose-leaf tip.

“Humph!” muttered Puttler, and continued his search—a search which yielded no further evidence.

Retracing their steps, they passed the study door, and Puttler, who was walking a little ahead, stumbled over something and put his light to the ground.

“You keep rather a lot of ladders about here, Mr. Alford,” he said, in a low voice. “A library ladder outside? What’s the great idea?”

The ladder was lying parallel with the gravel drive, and Puttler examined it rung by rung.

“That wasn’t here last night, I’ll take my oath,” he said.

“No,” said Dick, puzzled; “it usually hangs on two pegs near the garage.”

He lifted it up. It was a long, light, triangular ladder tapering to a point at the top, and used by the staff for outside window cleaning.

“You had better have it chained up,” was all Puttler said after he had finished his inspection. “The man who brought this here was the man who cut off your light supply and, incidentally——”

Far away in the grounds came the faint sound of a man’s voice, challenging in military fashion.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“That’s Renwick, a local man,” said Puttler immediately.

They ran toward the sound of the voice, and presently saw the flicker of his lantern; and it was a badly scared man who challenged them a few minutes later. He had seen nothing, he said, but he had heard voices.

“One of them was laughing. I thought at first it was you, Sergeant, but when I heard it again it was so wild that I got a little nervous.”

“Did anybody answer your challenge?”

“No, but the voices stopped. I couldn’t hear the woman’s voice——”

“The woman’s voice?” said Dick quickly. “Was it a woman? Surely you’re mistaken?”

“I could swear to it,” said the watcher. “It was the woman’s voice I heard first, and the man who laughed. I think the voices must have stopped as soon as I put my lamp on.”

“In what direction?”

The policeman pointed across Long Meadow, the shallow, valley-like depression which ran parallel with the rising ground on which the Abbey stood. To the left there were a number of cottages, occupied in the main by people working on the estate, two gamekeepers, a carter and a groom. It was from one of these cottages that the Black Abbot had been seen and reported by a terrified gamekeeper.

“They sounded as if they were walking away from you over the Mound to the river—or to the ruins?” suggested Puttler.

“Well,” confessed the man, “they might have been going that way: I can’t be sure.”

“That certainly beats the band,” said the sergeant, as they were moving in the direction the man had indicated.

“He must have been mistaken,” said Dick with emphasis. “They were walking away from him——”

“They,” repeated Puttler significantly. “I don’t think he was wrong at all.”

“There is another possible solution,” said Dick. “Sometimes the people at Chelfordbury avail themselves of a short cut across the park to a neighbouring village.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“There may have been a dance,” suggested Dick lamely.

“A short cut through a park that’s known to be haunted and where a murder was committed two nights ago?”

There was no answer to this.

They reached the bank and followed along the top till they were parallel with the Abbey, but there was no sign of man or woman, and they turned back. In spite of his protestations of wakefulness, Sergeant Puttler did not resist the suggestion that he should take his sleep. Dick was left alone to his vigil.

By the time daylight came he was a very weary man. Twice in the night he had visited the two men posted in the corridors above, found them awake, but in each case with nothing to report.

“Thank goodness, at any rate, somebody’s had some sleep!” he muttered, as he passed under the girl’s window and glanced up.

The morning wind which stirred the trees and filled the world with the pleasant music of rustling leaves moved also the casement window of the room which he had assigned to Mary Wenner. The window swayed to and fro slowly, and he inwardly condemned the girl for not carrying out his instructions.

By six o’clock the first of the servants was stirring; smoke was crawling lazily from one of the big twisted chimneys. He was sitting in envious contemplation of Sergeant Puttler when the door of the study burst violently open and Mary Wenner came in. She was in her dressing gown; her untidy hair floated over her face.

“Mr. Alford,” she asked agitatedly, “have you seen Leslie?”

He was on his feet in an instant and the movement woke the sleeping detective.

“No; she’s with you, isn’t she?”

“We went to bed together,” said the girl, in a tremulous tone, “but when I woke up just now she was not in the room. I waited awhile, thinking she was taking her bath, and then I went outside and asked the man you put there. He said she hadn’t come out of the room!”

Puttler, listening, dragged himself erect.

“The ladder!” he said simply, and Dick reeled under the blow. The Black Terror of Fossaway Manor had in his grip the woman for whom he would have given his soul and counted it no heavy price.

Running out on to the lawn, Puttler searched beneath the window. Yes, there were the marks of the ladder in the mould of a garden bed, and on the ladder itself he found confirmatory proof. Lifting it against the wall, he scrambled up, and came breast-high to the window-sill on its top-most rung. Drawing himself up, he sprang into the room and looked round for some clue. By this time Mary Wenner, followed by Dick, had come through the door.

“Her dressing gown isn’t gone!” whimpered Mary, pointing to the hook where it had hung. “But her shoes are. She must have dressed—and I didn’t hear.”

The tired man at the door had heard no sound in the night. A thick carpet covered the floor. Mary said that, when she woke, the door which communicated between the two rooms was closed.

She had heard no sound at all, and claimed that she was a light sleeper, which, in fact, she was not. When she had gone to sleep the candle was burning. Examining this, Dick saw that it would not have been alight for more than an hour. There were two burnt matches in the tray, which meant that the candle had been extinguished once and lit again.

“I wonder she didn’t wake me; I’m usually a light sleeper.…”

Dick left the girl explaining to the watcher who had been on guard outside the door.

“It was her voice, of course, that the patrol man heard in the dark. I blame myself that I didn’t jump at that idea.”

“I’d like to keep all the blame!” said Dick bitterly. “Oh, God! it doesn’t bear thinking about!”

He went away on a solitary search; none saw him slip through the back of the house, and he moved under cover of the river bank. When he returned, after an absence of two hours, Puttler told him that there was a message from the Home Office awaiting him. That institution had rung up twice. Dick got through after a wait, and learned that he was talking to an important under-secretary.

“Could you run up to London for an hour?”

“Is it necessary?” asked Dick, and he explained with all rapidity the happenings of the night.

“I’m afraid you had better see us as soon as you possibly can. In view of all the circumstances you cannot come too soon.”

With a curse Dick hung up the ’phone, and this time he took Harry’s big two-seater, a car that his brother had only used a dozen times, but the use of which he had steadfastly refused to anybody else.

Just as he was leaving he recalled a resolution he had made in the night; he ran upstairs into his room, and, bolting the door, opened a locked drawer of his dressing chest and took out something which he put carefully in his bag. That must be removed from Fossaway Manor as soon as possible, he thought. He put the bag in the boot of the car and sent the machine flying down the drive.

Midway between Horsham and Dorking, a motorist, coming from the opposite direction by another route, shot at a fast pace from a forked road right across his path. Dick jammed on the brakes and the big car skidded halfway round, struck the concrete curb with a thud, but no damage was done, and he went on, with a glare at the goggled driver of the machine at fault that was murderous.

He did not hear the cover of the dickey snap open, nor did he see the brown bag leap up and roll over on to the sidewalk. But the man in the other car saw all this through his big goggles, and, restarting his machine, brought it to the curb.

And there and then, Fabrian Gilder discovered the secret of the Black Abbot!

LI

At nine o’clock that morning Mr. Fabrian Gilder had risen intending to make a hurried visit to his country cottage. The newspapers had been full of the Chelford tragedy, but no mention had been made of the fact that Thomas had been Mr. Gilder’s guest. Such a happening, he realized, being an intelligent man, must necessarily upset all arrangements and plans that the girl had made.

There was a lot about Fabrian Gilder that was admirable. To his servants he was a kind master; to all who knew him superficially, an excellent and even a generous friend. He was in truth no worse than the average man in point of desires, a little better in his fairness of dealing. Arthur Gwyn had been legitimate prey, but he had, he thought, treated him with scrupulous fairness. He had succeeded, by the exploitation of the lawyer’s weakness, in amassing a very considerable fortune; but then, the City of London, and, for the matter of that, the City of New York, was filled with rich men who had founded their houses upon the cupidity or folly of men who were now almost penniless.

He glanced at the morning papers. There was nothing new reported from Chelford, except the little interview that one reporter had had with Dick, and that paragraph was, in many ways, very comforting to Gilder, for it explained why the girl—and then his eye caught sight of a line.

Mr. Alford said he had asked Miss Leslie Gwyn to stay at Fossaway Manor whilst her brother was abroad.…

Abroad? He frowned. If Arthur Gwyn had gone abroad he must have left very suddenly. He had seen him only a day or two before. But perhaps that was one of Dick Alford’s lies to save the girl’s face. Still, it was disquieting.

He was pondering this matter when the maid brought him his morning letters, and the first he saw was one in a well-known hand. It was from Leslie. He tore it open with trembling fingers, took out the half sheet of paper and read the few lines. He read it not once but many times. So that was that! She had changed her mind.

It did not occur to him that she had not made any promise but he was so sure of her, so satisfied in his mind that she would agree to his proposal, that he felt he had been tricked.

When the shock had worn off, his anger and resentment grew. Very well: if she could not keep her promise, he at least would keep his. He understood now, he thought. Arthur had bolted, and there was no necessity for the girl to make her sacrifice. He had been fooled, tricked. He pushed the chair back from the table, leaving his breakfast untouched, and, going into his library, turned the handle of the combination and pulled open the door of the safe with a savage jerk. There was the letter, all ready to post, and at the sight of it his heart grew hard and sour.

He took out the letter, made to tear it into fragments, and then remembered that inside was a blank check. He pulled out the sheet of notepaper and felt for the little pink slip that in his magnificence he had signed with a complacent flourish. It was not there!

Gilder peered into the envelope with a frown. Gone! He searched the safe: it might have fallen out, though how, he could not imagine; but there was no sign of the check. He unlocked his drawer and took out his check-book. There was the counterfoil, and written across it, “For Leslie——.” He had intended to show her that counterfoil one of these days, when she felt more kindly toward him.

With his head in his hands he tried to remember when he had last seen the check, and then he recalled that it was on the morning Arthur Gwyn had called to see him. At that thought he went white. Surely he had closed the safe? Again he struggled to remember, minute by minute, that fateful morning. He had been looking at the letter, he had put it away, he had closed the door, and then—the telephone bell had rung and he had forgotten to fasten the safe!

He pulled the ’phone toward him now and called furiously for a number. It was twenty past nine; most of the staff of the bank would be there. When the call was answered:

“I am Mr. Gilder,” he said quickly. “Is the manager there?… No? Then the sub-manager will do. It is very urgent.”

He waited whilst the clerk went to investigate. Presently he heard the voice of a man he knew—the manager himself.

“I just came in at this moment. Is anything wrong?”

“Fletcher, do you remember my telling you that I should be sending down a check for fifty thousand pounds and asking you to honour it?”

“Yes; I honoured it.”

For a second Gilder was speechless.

“You honoured it? Who presented the check?”

“Arthur Gwyn—it was made out in his favour. I notified you last night; didn’t you get my letter?”

“I haven’t opened all my post yet,” said Gilder steadily. “Thank you.”

He hung up the receiver, breathing heavily. For now he remembered clearly every event of the morning: the coming of Arthur Gwyn, and his seemingly absurd proposal, that Gilder should write a note expressing his willingness to lend the money. That was the trick of it! Not only had Arthur got the fifty thousand, but with that letter he had a complete answer to any charge of fraud.

He sat with clasped hands, every vein on his forehead swollen, and murder in his heart. Tricked! And she should know. She had been a party to the fraud—unwittingly, perhaps, but nevertheless a party. She must have told him of this money.…

Whatever else he was, Fabrian Gilder had the gift of clear thinking. Five minutes’ riotous fury, and he was his cold self again. Of course she couldn’t have helped in the fraud. It was the accident of leaving the safe unlocked, and Arthur Gwyn’s known inquisitiveness—he could never resist reading even Gilder’s private letters; Arthur had no sense of other people’s privacy.

What could he do now? He thought the matter out. He must tell the girl, and perhaps she would regard herself as being under an obligation to him. If she had any sense of honour she must fulfil her promise, whatever she had written in her letter that morning.

He telephoned for his car to be brought round from the garage, and came back to his breakfast table and made an attempt to eat.

He would try Leslie first, telling her nothing about the letter he had given to her brother, and threaten him with a warrant for fraud. Perhaps this strengthened rather than weakened his position. He grew cheerful as the thought took shape.

He passed slowly out of London, for all the streets in the metropolis seemed to be “up,” and at last struck the open country, avoiding the main roads and taking a more circuitous route which would bring him to the main Sussex road between Dorking and Horsham. With a clear road before him, he sent his car at full speed. He was not well acquainted with the road, but he knew that he joined the old Roman “street” at a gentle angle, and he did not slow down as he approached the principal thoroughfare.

Left of him, on the London side, the road was clear; to the right, the view was a little obstructed. He sounded his klaxon and came out on to the main thoroughfare at thirty miles an hour.

He saw the car just in time, jammed on his brakes, and threw the machine into reverse. The big car ahead of him skidded round; he caught one malevolent gleam from Dick Alford’s eyes, and then he saw the bag and, driving to the side of the road, picked it up. His first inclination was to leave it; he had no particular desire to help the Second Son; but there are certain innate decencies to be observed by motorists, even though they loathe each other, and he picked the little grip from the sidewalk and threw it into the back of his car.

As he did so, it opened, and, turning to fasten it, he saw something that made him change his mind. Getting out of the car, he lifted the bag to the sidewalk, opened it wide and pulled out—the sombre habit and cowl of the Black Abbot!

LII

So Dick Alford was the Black Abbot! It was unbelievable; he could hardly credit the importance of his find. Here, then, was the greatest lever of all. Beside this, the threat of a charge against Leslie Gwyn’s brother faded to unimportance. He snapped the lock, put the bag carefully back in the car, and, restarting his engine, moved at a slower pace toward Chelfordbury.

He stopped in the village, where he was recognized, and heard at first hand from the innkeeper the story of the strange happenings at the “big house.”

“They do say that something’s happened to the young lady from Willow House.”

“What!” Gilder almost shouted the word. “You don’t mean Miss Gwyn?”

“Yes, Miss Gwyn,” nodded the landlord. “I haven’t got the rights of it yet, it’s only a rumour down here, but, Lord bless your heart, Mr. Gilder, there’s never been so many rumours in this village since I came to live here forty-eight years ago. Some say that his lordship’s been murdered”—he lowered his voice and looked round—“by his brother! Mr. Alford is a very hard man, though the people who work for him have got nothing to say against him, but that doesn’t seem possible to me.”

Gilder’s mind was in a whirl. He did not want to know anything about Dick Alford or his reputation.

“Who told you this story about Miss Gwyn?” he asked, and the landlord, looking round the group that had formed outside the Red Lion, pointed to a man.

“He’s a carter up at the big house,” he said.

“Fetch him here,” said Gilder.

When the carter arrived:

“What is this story about Miss Gwyn?” Gilder asked.

The man looked a little sheepish to find himself the centre of interest.

“I don’t know nowt about it,” he said. “It’s only what I heerd that monkey-faced gentleman saying to Mr. Richard. He says, ‘I don’t think any harm’s come to her.’ And one of the maids says that that young lady who used to be his lordship’s secretary——”

“Miss Wenner? Is she there?” asked Gilder quickly.

“Yes, she come up last night.”

“What about her?” asked Gilder.

“They say she’s been crying her eyes out all the morning. That’s all I know about it. They do say something bad happened to the young lady early this morning, and the way Mr. Richard has been running about and him looking as ill as death——”

“I hope something’s going to be done about this Black Abbot,” interjected the innkeeper. “My womenfolk are so frightened they want to sit up half the night.”

Gilder looked at him with a queer expression.

“You needn’t be afraid of the Black Abbot,” he said. “I am going to lay that ghost to-day.”

“You, Mr. Gilder?” said the man, in surprise.

But it was not the occasion for confidences, and Gilder, getting back into his car, turned it about and went up the road till he came to the lodge gates. Here a policeman on duty would have barred his progress, but fortunately he was a local man who knew the lawyer.

“Mr. Alford’s away, sir. Do you want to see Sergeant Puttler?”

“Is that the man who has been staying at the hall? What is he—a policeman?”

“A Scotland Yard man, sir,” said the Sussex policeman, with a certain pride. “Though I don’t know they’re much better than our own detectives. You’ll tell him you saw me, will you, and I asked you not to go to the house unless you had business?”

Evidently these were the policeman’s instructions; Gilder promised faithfully to supply this exoneration, and continued up the drive. There was nobody to meet him when he pulled up before the old carved porch, but he had hardly alighted when a long-armed, queer-faced man came from nowhere.

“Good-morning,” said the visitor.

“Good-morning, Mr. Gilder,” said Puttler. “Mr. Alford has had to go to town.”

“I want to see Miss Gwyn,” said Gilder, watching the man closely.

If he had expected an experienced detective-sergeant to betray himself, he was to be disappointed. Puttler did no more than fix him with his melancholy eyes.

“Want to see Miss Gwyn, do you? I’m afraid she’s not at home either.”

“Then perhaps I could see Miss Wenner?”

The sergeant scratched his chin.

“She’s not very well,” he said; “in fact, she’s lying down, and the doctor says she’s not to be disturbed.”

“Is there anything wrong with her?”

“No, there’s nothing very much wrong with her. At the same time,” said Puttler juridically, “there’s nothing very much right with her! It has rather got on her nerves sleeping in this place, and I can’t very well blame her.”

“Do you know where Miss Gwyn has gone?”

Puttler shook his head.

“No,” he said truthfully, “I can’t tell you that; she didn’t tell me.”

“Perhaps you will answer this question,” said the exasperated man: “Has anything happened to her?”

“So far as I know,” said the imperturbable officer, “nothing whatever has happened to her. Are you a friend of hers?”

“I am her fiancé,” said Gilder, on the spur of the moment.

Here he had the satisfaction of seeing that the sergeant was startled.

“Oh, yes, of course, you’re the gentleman she isn’t going to marry.”

It was said in all innocence, without any trace of impertinence, but Mr. Gilder went red and white.

“You see, Mr. Gilder,” the sergeant went on, “I’ve heard quite a lot about—affairs in this neighbourhood; in fact, I’m an authority upon all the gossip and scandal for the past twenty years. And I’m very glad you came, because there are one or two questions I wanted to ask you. For example, I wanted to know how it came about that you placed your cottage at the disposal of an ex-convict. Thomas Luck—so called.”

But here Gilder was ready with his answer.

“I had no idea the man was an ex-convict,” he said. “He told me he had been discharged from the Manor, and as I wanted a caretaker, and he offered to come for a very small sum, I employed him. I was terribly surprised and shocked to hear of his death, but even more shocked to learn of his character.”

Puttler was politely interested. But if he thought that he was going to get rid of Gilder so easily, it was because he did not know the man’s pertinacity.

“I think I must see Miss Wenner before I go,” he said. “At any rate, I’d be glad if you’d send up my name——”

Puttler shook his head.

“It can’t be done, Mr. Gilder,” he said almost cheerfully. “Just now I’m a combination of the Earl of Chelford and the family doctor. In other words, I’m in charge during Mr. Alford’s absence. If you care to wait until he comes back, the drawing-room is at your disposal, but you understand, Mr. Gilder, that you are not in any circumstances to question the servants. I am a great admirer of amateur detectives in my leisure moments, but this is one of my busy days and I can’t afford to have any interference in this case, however well meant it may be.”

Gilder had to accept this invitation. He was determined not to leave the house until he had learned the truth about Leslie Gwyn. The detective conducted him to the drawing-room, the long windows of which were open.

“I’ll ask you not to leave here until Mr. Alford arrives,” he said. “If you require anything, perhaps you will ring?” And, seeing the light in Gilder’s eyes, he added: “One of my men, who is a first-class footman, will attend to you.”

He had not long to wait, as it happened. Dick, who had torn up to town, breaking every speed rule, and so intent upon the object of his visit that he had forgotten even that he had put the bag in the boot, was lucky enough to get through with his interview in a quarter of an hour. It was a very important interview: one on which his own future very largely depended; and there were too many things to think about for him to give a thought to the bag and its contents. His car, white with dust, sped up the drive and came to a halt in the wide space before the porch. He identified the other car and recognized it as the machine that had nearly brought about a nasty accident that morning.

“Gilder, is it?” he said, as he got down.

“Gilder it is, and full of interrogation marks. You saw the secretary?”

Dick nodded.

“Yes. He was very kind, but rather vague. He has given me twelve hours to find Harry, dead or alive.”

“Did you tell him about Miss Gwyn?”

“He wasn’t even interested,” said Dick, with a hard laugh. “Harry, the estate, the title—everything except Leslie! That was the burden of his conversation. In twelve hours I must find him—and believe me, Puttler, in twelve hours I will!”

He went into the drawing-room and greeted Gilder curtly.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I wanted to know what has happened to Leslie Gwyn,” said Gilder.

“I wish to God I knew!” said Dick.

The man stared at him.

“Nothing bad has happened?” he asked in a low voice, and Dick forgave him everything for the sincerity of his concern.

“I’m afraid it is something very unpleasant,” he said, and told the story.

As he did so, he saw the man’s face change and a sceptical smile curved his lips.

“I’ve got something to say to you, and I’d like to say it before a witness, Alford.”

“To me?” said Dick, in surprise, and called over his shoulder to Puttler, who was passing the door. “Mr. Gilder has something he wants to say—I presume it’s something of an unpleasant character,” he said. “Perhaps you had better listen to this, Puttler.”

“Alford has just told me that Miss Gwyn has disappeared, and the inference is, of course, that the Black Abbot has spirited her away. I think that is extremely likely, because the Black Abbot has every interest in holding fast to that young lady.”

“Sensation,” murmured the detective, but Gilder did not notice the interruption.

“For some time past there’s been a queer spook haunting this countryside, an object of terror to Lord Chelford, designed, if anything, to cover the series of outrages which have recently been committed. Chelford’s a weakling—you know that, Alford—but weaklings have children, and once a child is born to Harry Chelford your hope of succession went like that!” He snapped his fingers.

“What are you suggesting?” asked Dick steadily.

“I’m suggesting that you are the Black Abbot!”

Not by so much as a flicker of his eyelid did Dick betray himself.

“I not only suggest it, but I’m prepared to prove it. On your way to town this morning you nearly collided with my car. As you skidded, your bag fell out of the dickey. I picked it up, threw it in the car and found it was open. In that bag was the robe of the Black Abbot, well worn, often used! Do you deny that?”

“You’ve got to bring proof of this.” It was Puttler who spoke.

“Proof!” cried the other triumphantly. “I’ll give you proof!”

He walked rapidly through the hall to where his car was, the two men following him. He had left the bag under a rug at the back of the car.

“There is the bag,” he said, as he pulled the rug from its place. “And here”—he snapped open the bag——

It was empty!

“And here?” said Puttler encouragingly.

“It was there a few minutes ago: I saw it before I came into the grounds. Somebody has taken it. You!” he accused Dick.

Dick smiled.

“Sergeant Puttler will testify that I came straight from my car into your august presence,” he said sarcastically.

“Why don’t you accuse me?” asked Puttler. “I was out here all the time.”

The baffled man looked from one to the other. It was impossible to believe that these two were in league. He knew Puttler by name to be one of the best officers Scotland Yard had ever had. He shrugged his shoulders and dropped his hands to his sides.

“You’ve beaten me, Alford,” he said, “for the time being. But I’m satisfied the girl is within a mile from this house, and I’m not going to rest until she is found. Heaven knows why you’ve done it—she’s fond of you, and there was no need——”

“Don’t be a fool, Gilder,” said Dick roughly. “If you want to help, help! But you’re not going to help by thinking that I’ve raised my hand against Leslie Gwyn. I don’t care whether you’re a friend or whether you are an enemy, but if you can help us bring her back safely I will go on my knees to you!”

Dick’s voice was trembling, vibrant; there was a look in his eyes which not even Gilder, for all his prejudice, could mistake. He held out his hand and Dick Alford took it with a grip that made him wince.

LIII

Despite all her gloomy prognostications as to her sleepless night, the head of Miss Wenner had hardly touched the pillow than her breathing became regular and even noticeable. Leslie Gwyn smiled to herself as she turned over and stealthily extinguished the candle. She had not been lying ten minutes before she realized, from past experience, that many a weary hour would pass before her eyes closed in sleep.

She had the alternative of relighting the candle and reading, or counting myriads of sheep, and the first plan was somewhat hampered in its achievement by the fact that there was nothing in the room to read, and she dare not disturb the sentry, because that would probably wake Mary. So she lay perfectly still, overcoming a mad desire to turn every few minutes, trying to make her mind an absolute blank.

With so much to occupy her thoughts, with the past twenty-four hours and all the terrible shocks they had brought, her effort to turn her mind into a cabbage was a hopeless failure.

She heard a distant village clock striking the half-hours and the hours and was grateful when one o’clock chimed, for she felt she had turned the hill of the night and was approaching the blessed day. There were queer creaks and noises in this old house: strange, stealthy footsteps that seemed very real; fingers brushing along wainscotings, queer little chatterings as of laughter. In spite of her courage, Leslie got up and lit the candle again and felt happier.

She lay on her back, gazing at the ceiling, striving to concentrate upon one little crack that ran from corner to corner; and it seemed as though, as she looked, the room went perceptibly darker, and was filled with a strange unearthly light.

And then she saw behind the door a great steel clothes hook that she did not remember having seen before; and attached was a cord and a shapeless something that hung with terrible limpness… a woman! She opened her eyes wide, almost screamed, but put her hand before her mouth in time.

She had been dreaming, she realized, and she reached out for her handkerchief to wipe her damp face. There was no hook behind the door—nothing. She shivered and turned on her side, looked for the twentieth time at her watch. Twenty-five minutes past one.

Tap, tap!

That was distinct enough. It came from the room which Mary Wenner was to have occupied.

A silence, and then the unmistakable sound of gravel being thrown against a window. Perhaps it was Dick and he wanted to see her. She slipped out of bed, pulled a dressing gown about her, opened the door of the dark room and went in. The windows were closed, but as she entered the room she was startled by a third handful of gravel that sounded with terrifying distinctness.

With trembling hands she pulled up the catch and pushed the casement open. A man was standing down below, and for a second she did not recognize him. And then everything went round; she had to grip the window ledge for support.

It was Harry Chelford!

“Is that you, my dear?” His voice was little above a whisper but remarkably clear.

She managed to answer:

“Yes.”

She was so dumbfounded that she could not ask one of the thousand questions which crowded to her lips.

“Harry! And alive!”

“You are in terrible danger,” he said. “Will you come down? I can get a ladder.”

Before she could answer he had disappeared, and presently he came back, carrying a triangular-shaped ladder, and planted it against the side. The top came within a foot of the window ledge.

“I can’t come, Harry; I’m not dressed. Besides, Miss Wenner is here.”

He raised his finger to his lips.

“Don’t wake her,” he said.

He had a little roll of something in his hand and she noticed that he was bareheaded.

“Can’t you dress? I must see you.”

“Shall I call Dick?”

“No, no.” In his energy he almost raised his voice and looked back over his shoulder. “That would spoil everything, and it would endanger his life. Dress quickly, my dear.”

What should she do? Her first instinct was to run to the door and tell the guard what she had seen; her second was to obey him. His earnestness and the terror in his voice made her yield to his suggestion. Quickly she dressed by candlelight, hoping and praying that Mary Wenner would wake up. Once she knocked against the girl’s bed, but Miss Wenner slept peacefully, a seraphic smile on her good-looking face, and the only notice she took of the disturbance was to murmur, “Dick!”

It needed that ludicrous interlude to restore Leslie’s courage; for she could not be amused and afraid at the same time.

Perhaps Dick was waiting below, she thought, and swinging herself over the sill, she reached out her foot, found the top rung of the ladder, and came down. Harry was standing on the grass plot, curiously alert and watchful.

“What is it, Harry?” she asked in a low voice, but he put his finger to his lips again and led her, not, as she expected, toward the front of the house, but by a wide circuit, keeping to the shadow of the trees, until they went past the rosary and near to the stables.

A dog barked as they passed in silence.

“I can’t go any farther, Harry.”

“You must, you must!” His voice was urgent, compelling. “I tell you that not only my life, but your own is in danger.”

“But what of Miss Wenner?” She drew back.

“They will not touch her. My mother’s spirit will watch that poor girl—she died in that room.”

Leslie gasped.

“Your mother?” she asked, in an awestricken whisper.

“Come!” He was impatient, caught her by the arm and led her farther down, until she saw near at hand the gleam of the Ravensrill.

“But, Harry, I can’t go any farther.” She stopped resolutely. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Where have you been all this time? Everybody has been looking for you and Dick has been terribly worried.”

He laughed. (It was the laugh that the watchman heard.)

“Dick is worried? That is rich!”

And now, as the challenge of a distant voice came to her, she saw his face in the moonlight. He was unshaven, unkempt, grimy of face and hands; he wore no collar, and stood, a collarless man in a long frock coat with a wild appearance. Slowly she drew back, dread and fear on her face, and then he clutched her by the wrists.

“If you scream I will throw you into the river and kneel on you until you are dead,” he whispered in so calm and matter-of-fact a tone that she could not believe he was serious.

And yet she had an extra sense which told her that he was not only serious, but that she was in deadly peril. He kept hold of her wrist, or she would have taken to flight, though she would have little chance of escaping one who in his school days was a noted sprinter.… She remembered something else now and felt sick. Harry Chelford had captained his public school team at Bisley and had carried everything before him. This pale, anæmic youth was the greatest shot of his time. The greatest shot! She remembered the bullet that was meant for her, and he felt her dragging on his hand but said no word. She must not lose her nerve at this moment of crisis.

They were making for the ruins. Near the edge of the cutting, Puttler had told her, were stationed two men; they must see her soon. But Harry went no farther than the broken tower, and here he paused and pulled the block of stone aside.

Now she knew; they were going down to that dreadful underground cavern where Dick had taken her. Dick Alford knew his brother was there! She knew this long before she saw the basket, still filled with food, that stood at the bottom of the steps.

LIV

Harry had lit a candle, and, guided by this, she went down the steep circular stairway.

“He brought me that, food—the devil!” He pointed his shaking finger to the basket.

“Dick brought it?” she faltered.

He nodded.

“Poisoned,” he said. “But he didn’t catch me. Poisoned every bit of it!”

He carefully unwrapped a white napkin and showed a dainty pile of sandwiches, took one and opened it.

“You can see the crystals glittering on the meat,” he said, in so calm and matter-of-fact a tone that she almost thought she saw something glitter on the white flesh.

Then he lifted the bottle and looked at it with a smile.

“It was too childish. Nobody but a fool would have dreamt I could be deceived.” He put the bottle and sandwiches back again carefully and covered them with the napkin that had been over the basket.

“Come,” he said, and they went farther into the apartment.

She saw a big gap in the floor and a stone standing straightly up from the centre.

“I have a lamp below. I prepared this place a very long time ago against such an emergency. Light and food—and all the water you want. Will you go first?”

He was very courteous and polite, took her hand to guide her, and held the light so that she could see the stairs, and came down immediately after, stopping to swing the stone into place.

“Will you hold the candle?” he asked.

She was trembling so violently that her fingers were soon covered with hot grease, but she did not feel the smart of the boiling wax; her eyes were fixed upon the man, fascinated.

He was lighting a new storm lantern which burnt, she guessed, paraffin gas, and it took some time before a brilliant bright light illuminated the room in which she found herself. It was twice the size of the apartment above, and neither the walls nor the floor had fallen into decay. It was almost as new-looking as it had been when the Norman builders had handed it to the Black Fathers of Chelfordbury.

The first unusual things she saw were two sporting rifles that stood in a corner of the room. Following her eyes, he smiled.

“I shall not sell my life without a struggle,” he said firmly.

The furniture consisted of a very old refectory table, the top of which must have been at least four inches in thickness, a long form, and a high chair that looked like a bishop’s throne. There were no visible windows, but the ceiling did not quite reach the wall, and there seemed a space all round the room where air was admitted.

“Excuse me,” he said.

He took the thing he had been carrying, unrolled it, and to her astonishment, kissed it passionately before he carried it to a truckle-bed that she had not noticed before and tacked it to a beam which showed between the stone courses and was in truth the only wood she had seen in the building.

She looked in amazement, and knew the picture instantly. It was the head of his mother.

“How lovely!” he sighed. “How wonderful! Do you know, I feel that nothing matters now, Leslie!”

He smiled at her, and looked at that moment so happy that she could have cried.

“Richard hated her,” he went on. “He never lost an opportunity of speaking ill of her. I am told that in my absence he used to bring the servants into the library and together they would laugh and gibe at this beautiful martyr.”

“How absurd, Harry! You know Dick would do no such thing,” she said, stirred to his defence.

But he was not angry, nor did he show any resentment at her championship.

“You don’t know Dick,” he said simply. “Dick, of course, is the Black Abbot. I only found it out a week or two ago, when I went into his room and discovered the costume in a box. He had forgotten to put it away.”

She did not believe the only truth he had told her so far but she felt that it would be undiplomatic, to say the least, to argue with him.

“Harry, I can’t stay here, you know,” she said. “There is only one room, and I have a weakness for a daily bath——”

He walked across the room and pulled aside a sacking that hid one corner, and pointed dramatically.

“You will find everything you require here,” he said. “This room is yours. I shall sleep upstairs, only coming below at the first hint of danger, either to you or to me. The position calls for courage and patience, and I know that my wife-to-be has those qualities to excess.”

He was his old, smiling, genial self.

“By-the-way, there are plenty of books to read—I brought some away from the house. They were rather heavy and I had to drag them a little bit, but thank heaven I got just what I wanted.”

She noticed them now for the first time, piled at one end of the refectory table. He took up a volume and turned the leaves lovingly.

“You do not read German? I think you told me that before. It is a pity, because this is a very fascinating narrative, told by an outsider of the Chelfords of the period. You will be pleased to learn that I have located the treasure. It was not difficult. I knew all the time that it was behind the second door in the room above.”

“Have you known this place for long?”

He nodded.

“For six years,” he said. “I found it on the twenty-first anniversary of my dear mother’s death. I think I ought to say ‘murder,’ for there is no doubt that my father, who had all the worst qualities of Dick, killed her—hanged her.”

Her face contorted with horror.

“In that room?” she said, in a strained voice. “Behind the door?”

He nodded.

“The thing was hushed up. My clever father was too great a man to be put on trial for his life and the story was circulated that she had died by her own hand.”

Every word he said was a lie, as she knew, but he believed it. He explained quite rationally how the light was worked; showed her the little wash place with the stream of water running from the raw rock through a cavity into some invisible deeps; even gave her a short résumé of the history of the place. It had been built by the Black Abbot himself for his own especial purpose.

“My first idea was that there was another exit here, or rather an entrance for those peculiar friends of his, but that I have failed to discover.”

He took up one of the rifles, shot back the bolt with the air of an expert, and, going up the steps, unfastened the heavy oaken bar that kept the stone in place.

The slab pivoted round, and she had a wild idea that when it was closed she would fasten it; but he was evidently prepared for this, for she heard him drag a paving-stone to the edge of the hole and place it so that the trap could not close.

“Good-night, Leslie,” he said, peering down at her through his spectacles. “You will not mind my light? I want to read a chapter before I sleep.”

For a quarter of an hour no sound broke the silence. She sat on the bed, her hands clasped on her knees. And then she heard him move and her breath came faster, but he had only a question to ask.

“Tell me, Leslie, did Thomas leave any relations? I should like to provide for them. The man annoyed me, but I really do not regret killing him. But I should not like to feel that his relatives were suffering through my act of justice.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said, and it did not seem to be her voice.

LV

It seemed an interminable time before his light went out. Was he sleeping? Should she attempt to escape past him? From where she sat she could see his hand, which lay over the edge of the pit, and she remembered Dick telling her how light a sleeper he was. Systematically and without moving, she searched the place with her eyes, foot by foot. In one corner of the room square tins of every shape were piled. She supposed they were preserved provisions and she wondered how he got rid of the débris. She examined the wash place, cupped her hands and drank of the cool, refreshing water, afterward bathing her face. The touch of the cold spring water refreshed and invigorated her.

How long she sat there motionless, she could not tell. She was in a kind of coma, paralyzed by a sense of helplessness. It must have been hours before she heard him move and, his blanket over his arm, and rifle in hand, he crept down the steps and fastened the slab.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Don’t speak—it is he!” he whispered, and sat down by her side, his hand on her shoulder.

She heard the sound of footsteps above.

Dick!

She had to bite her lips to prevent the cry that came to her lips. Harry was watching her—a scream and she would be dead. Dick could never break open that trap in time, even if he could locate the sound. Presently the footsteps went away and she felt the hand on her shoulder relax.

“Sorry to disturb you.”

He picked up blanket and rifle and ascended the steps—she watched him pull the paving-stone forward and after a while there was quietness.

There must be some exit, if the legend of the disreputable Black Abbot were true. She took off her shoes and walked noiselessly over the even floor, examining it stone by stone. The walls were obviously impenetrable; the vaulted ceiling was decorated with the lines of a St. Andrew’s Cross that met in a great stone rosette in the centre.

He had left a box of matches and a candle on the table. This she lit and carried it into the tiny cavern where the water ran. She could see no roof; she guessed it stretched up the full height of the tower, and that somewhere above was the edge of the circular staircase that had brought her down to the first cavern.

Holding the light above her head, she strained her eyes upward and presently she saw great iron D-shaped projections fixed at intervals of a foot; they reached to the top, and, most blessed sight of all, she saw above her head a star.

And yet she was puzzled. The Abbot had a reputation for gallantry, and it was hardly likely that the visitors who shared his solitude would make their entrance by so precarious a means. She reached up, but her hand was three feet from the nearest rung, and there was nothing in the room on which she could stand. She went back to her bed noiselessly and pulled out one of the sheets; she took the remaining rifle and, by dint of great exertion, managed to push one end of the sheet through the nearest rung. After ten minutes’ work the end came down and she had a rope. She knotted together the sheets at the end, and tested her weight. The staple held, and, springing up, she climbed hand over hand to the lowest rung. Her arms were almost pulled from their sockets; she was breathless, but she held on, and, reaching up, caught the third rung and pulled herself up until her feet rested on the first. She waited a little while to gain breath and began to climb. Higher and higher, and then her heart sank. Above her, she saw a steel grille, fixed immovably across the exit. It was impossible even to put her arm through, the meshes were so small, and with a bitter sense of disappointment, she descended again and slid down the sheet to the floor.

There was no escape this way. She unknotted the sheet and replaced it in her bed, stained with rust and torn at the edges. She brought the rifle back with her. She was an enthusiastic miniature target shot and knew the mechanism of the weapon. Pulling out the magazine, she found it loaded to its full capacity. Here, then, was something; her confidence grew, though she prayed she might never have to use this weapon upon the madman who slept so quietly above. The weapon might be used to terrify him in an emergency.

She went back to the wash place and looked up. Day was breaking, and she took a sudden resolve. The man had been almost his normal self, as she had known, and she guessed that this was but an interlude and that there were periods when she must shoot to save her life. Stealthily she crept up the stairs, rifle in hand, and she heard him stir, and presently his shrill voice asked:

“Where are you going? Stay where you are, you vixen——”

She brought the butt of the rifle and smashed past the paving-stone that prevented the trap from closing. The stone thudded down, and instantly she swung round the heavy bar that kept it in place. She heard him stamping and screaming above; heard, with a shivering horror, the threats that, as she thought, no human tongue could frame; staggering down the steps, she fell.

LVI

A high official from Scotland Yard had arrived and was interviewing Dick in the library.

“I am wholly responsible. I have always known my brother was queer, and about a year ago I was certain that the horrible taint of madness which his poor mother transmitted to him was developing in a way which could only have one end. I begged of him to see a medical man, but he hated doctors. I brought down the best alienists from London in various guises, sometimes as bailiffs, and occasionally as prospective buyers of our property, but in their presence he behaved so rationally that it was impossible that I could get a certificate.

“My own position was a very delicate one. I am, as you know, the heir to the property. Any step I took meant that the estate came into my hands, and that eventually, when poor Harry died, as one doctor told he must die in a few years, I should be branded with the stigma of having put him away, and I was anxious to save the family name. My chief anxiety was that he should never marry.”

“Wasn’t it easy enough to take the girl into your confidence?”

Dick was silent for a while.

“Not in this case. There were reasons why——”

And the official, dimly understanding, changed the subject.

“Then you were the Black Abbot?”

“Mostly,” confessed Dick. “My brother was terrified of the Abbot and would never go out if there was a rumour that the Black Abbot was about. I was especially anxious to keep him in the house, where, under my eye, there was no chance for him to indulge in these extraordinary paroxysms that have really alarmed the countryside. The man whom the villagers feared and whom they call the Black Abbot, is really Harry. I was a very silent Black Abbot,” he smiled faintly, “and I had no other purpose than to keep Harry indoors. I’m going to say I did not always succeed.”

“I’m afraid the truth will have to come out now,” said the official, shaking his head.

“I wish it had come out last week,” replied Dick bitterly.

“Do you think your brother is responsible for the disappearance of Miss Gwyn?”

“Undoubtedly. He must have attracted her to the window and persuaded her to come down into the grounds. He was very plausible; no man would dream that he was not sane, only I, who have seen”—he drew a long breath—“what I have seen. I’ll tell you this, Colonel,” he said, with sudden vehemence, “not all the lordship of Chelford, not all the estates, not even the Chelford treasure, would make me live again my life of the past five years! There are times,” he said, his voice trembling with passion, “when I feel I would like to dig up the Abbey and scatter its stones in the dust, raze this house to the ground, and turn the place into a public park.” He laughed at his own excess. “I am talking like an idiot. This place belongs to a family that knows not Harry. He is just a terrible accident. My dear mother often told me how worried my father was about Harry, his queer, secretive ways. And yet in a way he is a sportsman, one of the best shots in England as a boy, a great runner, and a wonderful fellow over a country, until about eight years ago, when this treasure bug got into his brain and he shut himself away from us all and gave his mind and his soul to this wild chase.”

“The gold?”

Dick shook his head.

“No,” he said. “If it were only the gold, that would have been an intelligent interest in life.”

He described Harry’s search for the elixir, the famous Life Water of which the ancient Chelford had written in his diary.

“It is probably no more than a flask of a native wine—Arac or the like,” said Dick. “Poor Harry!”

Miss Wenner had intended to leave by the early morning train but had changed her mind. Possibly the arrival of Fabrian Gilder had been a factor. She had one solution for Leslie’s disappearance.

“Have you searched the Abbey?” she asked, not once but a dozen times.

Dick was weary; the Abbey had been his first thought. He had suspected this was Harry’s hiding place, and with his own hands had taken a basket of provisions for him, but this, he saw, was untouched.

There was one possibility about the underground cavern, and that was the second door, and he had ordered the blacksmith and his assistant to be at the stone tower at two o’clock that afternoon, with instruments, one of which had to be procured from London.

The presence of Miss Wenner was not as distasteful to Gilder as he thought it would have been. To use a phrase of childhood, she was “on his side.” In very truth, Miss Wenner was on anybody’s side if that person happened to be agreeable to her.

They were walking through the rosary before lunch, and certainly the trend of Mary Wenner’s remarks was very comforting to a man who had been so badly rebuffed.

“If I had my way, Fabrian, dear”—she assumed all the rights and privileges of an engagement which was somewhat illusory and he made only a feeble resistance—“if I had my way I’d put you in charge of this case. After all, you are the very man to solve this mystery and I must say you could have knocked me down with a feather when you told me you were fifty—you don’t look a day more than thirty—and you’ve got experience, you’re a lawyer, you’re up to all kinds of artfulness——”

“Not to all kinds,” said Gilder with a grim recollection of a certain blank check.

“Well, to most kinds,” conceded Miss Wenner. “And what are they all doing? This Dick Alford and this so-called detective? They’re just standing around, scratching their heads, whilst you could go, as it were, to the real heart of the mystery. Don’t deny it—I’m sure you would, Fabe.”

“Don’t call me Fabe, Mary,” he asked gently. “If you want to call me by my Christian name, let us have all the three syllables.”

“You’re a man of the world, Fabrian”—she accentuated the word as she would have done “Mary Ann”—“you understand the ins and outs of everything. Why don’t they come to you like men and say, ‘Mr. Gilder, what is your opinion of this mystery?’ Instead of which, they don’t so much as ask you if you’ve got a mouth!”

“Perhaps they know that,” said Gilder in good humour.

He lifted his head suddenly, a frown on his face. He had heard a shot; more than a shot, the whirr and whine of a bullet.

“What——”

Something fell at his feet with a “plop!” He saw a little hole, and, stooping, dug out a bullet with his fingers.

“Where on earth did that come from?”

He looked up at the sky, but the aëroplane which was later to make an appearance, and which had nothing to do with this mysterious shooting, was not yet in sight.

Dick had heard the shot and was running across the lawn.

“Did you——” he began.

Plop!

They heard it again, and presently Dick saw leaves fall from a laurel bush and heard the thud of an impact. One of the police who were still patrolling the grounds shouted to him, but he could not hear what he was saying, and raced across to him. Nearer at hand, he saw that the man was pointing to the ruins.

“It came from there,” shouted the constable, and Dick changed direction.

He was flying up the slope when the third shot sounded, and this time he located it with fair accuracy. Somebody was shooting from the tower.

Happily, he had made preparations for the blacksmith’s visit, and there was an assortment of lanterns near the entrance. He stopped long enough to light one, and, slipping back the catch with his knife, he pushed aside the stone corner piece and ran down the stairs. The room was empty. He tried the mystery door; that, too, was closed. Somebody shouted his name from the landing above and he answered:

“Come down, Gilder. There’s nobody here.”

Gilder descended the steps gingerly and looked round with his keen, shrewd eyes. And then he remembered and pointed to the slab.

“Have you tried that? I meant to tell you before.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, but I rather think that the stone turns on a pivot. If that is the case, there are pretty stout supports underneath that will want cutting through.”

Gilder sprawled flat on the floor, his ear to the crack.

“There’s nothing there that is audible,” he said. “Can’t you smell anything?”

He put his nose to the crack.

“There’s a petrol light burning down there, or else it has been burning recently.”

Flat on his face, Dick sniffed.

“Yes,” he said, and called: “Leslie!”

There was no answer. He called again, with a like result.

Gilder went up the stairs and searched amongst the tools that had been brought in readiness for the afternoon’s investigation. He selected two saws and a second lantern, and, lighting this, he descended to Dick’s side.

“It is pretty sure to be an oaken support; these old builders seldom used iron,” he said.

Throwing off his coat, he rolled up his sleeves. The thin blade of the saw worked down between the stones and after a while he began sawing gingerly.

“It’s wood,” he said. “You’ll find yours is the same.”

They both worked at one end, for, as he pointed out, there would only be one bar, the other end of the stone being bevelled to meet the edge of the floor. The wood was like rock, and both men were hot before they had half-sawn through the support. Presently Dick drew out his saw. He had gone through the oak and had heard the loose end fall below. A few seconds later, Gilder’s saw passed through the last obstruction. Gingerly he put his foot on the edge and pressed down, and the stone trap swung open.

They looked down into a dark vault; and now the smell of the burning lamp was very pungent. Dick lowered the lantern and peered down. He could see no sign of human life. He caught a view of the end of a bed, a table, and, on the floor, a rifle. He reached the bottom and, swinging his lantern round, called:

“Leslie!”

A mocking echo came back to him from the little cavern at the far end of the apartment. The place was empty; the man and woman who, five minutes before, had fought in a death struggle, had disappeared.

LVII

“Leslie!”

He called again, his voice hoarse with anxiety. He had seen two little shoes by the side of the bed. Her hat was on the floor, crushed into a shapeless mass. Picking up the rifle, he felt the barrel; it was still warm, and under the tower there were four empty cartridge cases. And then, holding his lantern high, he saw the rungs in the rough face of the wall, and jumped to the conclusion that she had escaped that way. Within a minute he leapt up, caught the lower rung and ran up the ladder to the top, oblivious of one or two ominous cracks as his man weight came upon the old ironwork. The grille at the top stopped him. He had seen it, but thought it might be movable.

“They couldn’t have gone that way,” he said breathlessly as he came down to the ground.

Gilder rubbed his gray hair.

“Then where on earth have they gone?” he asked irritably.

They searched every inch of the long room, pulled the bed from the wall, but beneath was solid stone pavement. The table seemed fastened to the floor; they could not move it.

“Do you notice anything about this floor?” Gilder asked suddenly. “It is not level.”

And when Dick looked, he saw this was true. The floor sloped gradually down from the wash cavern to the wall behind the steps. Gilder went in search of a hammer, and the two, now reinforced by Puttler and the Scotland Yard man, went over every inch of the wall and flooring, tapping and sounding. They struck no hollow place. The four men took hold of the side of the table and tried to drag it from its foundations, but they might as well have tried to move the wall itself. It had a thick oaken base, from which ran three pillars supporting the enormously heavy top.

It was very clear to Dick what had happened. The girl had been attacked, and, having discovered this opening to the sky, had procured a rifle by some means and had fired up the shaft to attract attention. Then she had been overcome and—what?

The water ran down through a crevice in the solid rock about six or eight inches wide. It was impossible that any human being could have gone down that narrow slit, but, to make sure, he had the edges of the water-worn rock broken away. The blacksmith by this time was waiting above. Dick had him brought down with his tools; the second door might yield some sort of solution.

For half an hour they worked with jacks and levers, and presently, with a deafening crack, the lock parted and the door was pushed open. There was revealed a room similar in shape and size to that which Mary Wenner had discovered; with this exception, that there were no stone benches, and in the centre of the apartment was a circular hole. Dick knelt by the side and held down his lantern; he heard the faint “clug” of water, and saw the light reflected at a considerable depth.

“A well,” he said. “All these old places have an interior well. There’s one in the Tower of London, in the centre of the dungeon.”

This room had been used as a prison at a distant period. At intervals along the walls hung rusted chains, with leg-irons attached. In one corner he saw a heap of rags, glimpsed a milk-white bone, and shuddered. What was the history of this poor wretch who had been shut away from the light of God’s sunshine, to die miserably in this dark and dreadful place?

“Well, there’s nothing there,” said Gilder, peering over.

Dick tied his lantern to the end of a cord and let it slowly down to the depths. Thirty feet below, as near as he could judge, the bottom of the lantern touched water. The old builders had builded splendidly. The green, weed-grown sides of the well seemed intact. And then his heart almost stood still. A hand was thrust out, seemingly from the solid brickwork of the well; a white hand on which flashed and sparkled a single diamond that he knew well. And from below he heard a muffled voice and in his agitation the cord which held out the lantern slipped from his hand into the water.

He cursed aloud in his rage at his own criminal carelessness.

“Give me the other lantern!” he called and pulling the other hand over hand, he untied it and flung it aside, fastening in its place the lighted storm lamp that Puttler handed to him. “And get a rope—quickly!”

But there was no rope nearer than Fossaway Manor, and he fumed in his impatience and would have made an attempt to slip down the treacherous sides of the well if Puttler had not restrained him.

After an eternity one of the detectives came running back carrying a rope and, dropping the free end, they fastened the other to a crowbar and placed this across the open doorway. Dick slipped down the rope, the handle of the lantern between his teeth. The sides were wet and slimy and presently he came to the place where he had seen the girl’s hand.

It was a small air hole about six inches by four. He tried to look through with the aid of his lamp, but he could see nothing but a rough rock wall. He called the girl by name, but no answer came and the word “Leslie” came echoing back from the interior.

And now he saw that these little apertures occurred at regular intervals. The first two were hidden by overhanging water weeds, but from below they were visible. Some sort of natural stone gallery existed on the other side of this stonework, and he remembered having heard at some remote period that the Abbey had been built upon an early English catacomb. In all probability each of those apertures represented a distinct “landing” or a place where some natural winding staircase touched the wall in its revolutions.

He had made a rough loop for his foot, and they passed him down a crowbar at the end of a cord. With this he attacked the hole in the wall, but found himself engaged in an impossible task. Nothing short of an explosive could blow these holes larger. He was almost exhausted by his efforts, and they had to haul him to the top for a rest. Puttler was anxious to go down, but Dick insisted upon being lowered again. This time he took with him a rod, to the end of which a small electric bulb had been attached. The flex ran along the rod, which was a bamboo cane, and terminated in a small battery in his pocket. He switched on the light and pushed the bulb through the opening. He could see now that the wall, which he thought was natural rock, had been roughly hewn, but he could not see the floor nor more than a foot in either direction. Withdrawing the rod, he put in his hand and felt around, but could touch nothing but the outer facing of the well.

“Look out!”

The warning shout was Gilder’s and came from above. He drew out his hand quickly.

“Away from the wall—push with your feet!” yelled Gilder.

He had a glimpse of a grimy hand thrust out from one of the square air holes, saw the flicker of steel and felt the rope giving as strand after strand was slashed. Then, with a crack, the rope parted, and he went down, down, until the bitterly cold waters engulfed him.

He struck the bottom with his feet and paddled up to the surface again. He was instantly chilled to the marrow. He saw the lantern come down toward him, and heard Gilder say:

“Hold to the cord just enough to keep you afloat.”

Dumbly he obeyed. His eyes were fixed on the airhole. So, too, were the eyes of Puttler, who, flat on the ground, his head and shoulders over the edge, covered with his revolver the place where the hand had emerged.

The cut end of the rope was passed down to him. By reaching up he could just grip it, but not sufficiently to obtain a sure purchase. Cramp had attacked his legs. The paralyzing coldness of the water was astounding, and in one moment of fear it seemed that his life was to end miserably in this dark hole. There was no foothold on either side, and unless help came quickly he knew he could no longer keep his senses.

Almost within reach was the lowest of the small apertures, but it did not seem worth while to reach for that. The cord of the lantern served to keep him afloat, the warmth of the burning wick was the only comfort he had.

“Dick!” He heard his name whispered with a fierce intensity. “Dick, take my hand!”