Lady Lechester was not a little envied. County families and others,

from whom she had kept aloof for years, overlooked the disrespect, and

called upon her with their congratulations. Invitations poured in upon

her; the whole county talked of nothing else but Lady Lechester’s

wedding; even the great fire was forgotten.

In London circles the name of Agnes Lechester, which from long

retirement had almost dropped out of memory, was revived, and the old

story of the attachment to the dragoon and his untimely end in the

East, was dug up and sent on its way from mansion to mansion. It was

nothing but pride that made her refuse poor De Warren who was a

handsomer man than Baskette, and came of quite as good a family as her

own. However, fortune seemed to favour these creatures—why, she must be

five-and-thirty; five-and-thirty, ay, closer on forty; older than

Marese—much older.

To Agnes, all the conversation that went on around, and the echo of

which reached her, was happiness itself. The intense pride and ambition

of her nature, which had partly kept her in retirement, blazed out in

all its native vigour. Her step was slow and stately; her manner grew

cold and haughty; her conversation distant. When poor old Jenkins’s

wife came with the ancient Bible, she bought it, indeed, and put it on

the library table, but barely looked at it. Six months before she would

have criticised it carefully, and entered a descriptive record of it in

the catalogue which she kept with her own hand. Now it was disdainfully

tossed upon one side.

A point that was sometimes discussed between these formal and distant

lovers was the place of their future residence, and as Lady Lechester

hated The Towers, and Marese said that the country house near

Stirmingham had of late been closely approached by the coal mines, it

was finally settled that they should reside in a mansion near Regent’s

Park, which belonged to Lady Lechester, until Marese could build a

suitable place. This he announced his intention of doing upon a

magnificent scale.

It was singular that old Sternhold, whose life was spent in adding

stone to stone and brick to brick, had never contemplated the idea of

building himself a palace.

His son determined to surpass all the mansions of England; and the

plans, when once they had been decided upon, were sent down to Lady

Lechester for her approval. They were placed upon a table in the

reception room, so that every visitor who called could not avoid seeing

them; and it became one of the pleasures of Agnes’ daily life to point

out the beauties of the new mansion, and to show her own sketches for

improvements. To such littleness did this once noble and generous

nature descend. The Stirmingham estate seemed to be endowed with the

power of degrading every character that came into contact with it.

It was understood that Lady Lechester was to lay the first stone of

this grand mansion when they returned from the wedding trip. They were

to go to Italy, and make excursions in the Mediterranean in Marese’s

yacht _Gloire de Dijon_, the name of which he now altered to _Agnes_.

Marese’s life at this time was one long continued triumph. The only

danger that had threatened him was crushed; both Aymer and Violet were

in safe keeping.

Theodore was still at Stirmingham watching them; perhaps a sterner

keeper than Theodore might turn the key upon one or both ere long. He

set his teeth firmly with a frown as he thought of that possibility.

Marese was not the man to be threatened with impunity. At all events

they were quite safe for a good length of time—till long after his

marriage. The marriage once over and he feared nothing. No scandal

could seriously injure him after that. He should be secured with a

triple wall of brass—of wealth, power, position.

The property at Stirmingham was falling into his hands like an

over-ripe pear. Let the companies strive how they might, they could no

longer discover any pretext to delay its surrender. The American

claimants had vanished into the distance—that great dread had departed.

He had paid off in hard cash a large share of the claims the building

societies made upon him, for expenses they had incurred in improving

the property. He had obtained a rule that the remainder of the claims

should be discharged by instalments; and as now in a short time he

should enjoy almost unlimited credit, there would be no difficulty in

raising the necessary sums.

With other societies he had corresponded; with the Corporation he was

on the best of terms, having used his influence in Parliament already

to pass a private bill of theirs, and they had no legal power to

prevent his seizure of his rights. With the rest of his creditors he

was not only on good terms—he was pressed to borrow more. Literally he

felt himself, as he surveyed his monetary affairs, the richest man in

the world.

Another success came to him. He had delivered his maiden speech in the

House, and whether it really was clever or appropriate, or whether

people were predisposed in his favour, certain it was that it had

produced an impression. The papers were full of it; the reviewers

considered it an omen of an honourable parliamentary career. It was

quoted from one end of the kingdom to the other. His party begun to

cast an eye upon him. Here was that rare combination—a rich man with

talent. Could they not turn him to account?

Then came the announcement of the engagement with Lechester, and they

went a step further, and said something must be done. Something was

forthwith done. An office was offered to him—not a high office, nor

very remunerative, but still an office; and one only a degree beneath

that of a Minister. It was well understood that no man ever filled that

post without subsequently becoming a Minister. It was a kind of

political cadetship. Marese accepted the office, and wrote to Lady

Lechester, who saw in this a new proof of the career in store for her;

and he received in reply the warmest note he had hitherto had.

Lastly, he was about to marry into one of the oldest families in

England. This marriage was the sure and certain prelude to a coronet;

not that he would take it till he had exhausted his powers, and felt it

time to retire to the House of Lords. Yet it was this marriage that

alone caused any anxiety to Marese. He grew, for him, nervously anxious

as the time approached. It certainly was not affection for her

personally; it was the extraordinary good fortune which now smiled upon

him. Once a gamester—still largely gambling upon the Stock Exchange—he

had imbibed a little of the superstition of the race. Hard as he

was—cool, self-possessed, and equal to any emergency—there arose in his

mind a certain feverish eagerness to get it over; not sufficient to

curtail his rest, or cause him to exhibit any outward sign, or even to

diminish his glory in his success; but there was just this dash of

uncertain bitter in the cup that was rising to his lip. He dared not

hurry on the ceremony, knowing Lady Lechester’s temperament too well:

he must await the arrival of the date that she herself had fixed.

There was some little difficulty at The Towers as to where the marriage

should take place. The church at Bury Wick was the natural resort,

easiest of access, and nearest; but Agnes, even in her pride and

self-will, could not altogether make up her mind to be married in that

church. The memory of the wedding-party so strangely and fearfully

interrupted there, had not yet died away. It would seem like a bad omen

to be married there.

Barnham was so far, and the vicar a Low Churchman, and not to her

taste. Marese suggested Stirmingham: but no, that would not do. My lady

would be married from her own ancestral Towers; and finally hit upon

the plan of resuscitating the ancient family chapel at The Towers, and

having the ceremony performed in it. This could be done by a special

licence: which, of course, was no obstacle. It was true that she

disliked and even hated The Towers; but the pride of family and long

descent overcame that feeling. She would be married in the old chapel.

Accordingly, workmen were sent for, and the sound of hammer and plane

resounded through the place. The chapel, disused ever since the

Lechesters left the Church of Rome—about a century ago—was completely

renovated, cleaned, painted, gilded, and adorned in every possible

manner.

Time flew, and Agnes’ pen was busy in marking the list of names of

those who were eligible to receive an invitation to the marriage. The

dresses were ordered. Agnes was very hard to please—even a simple

village maiden likes to exercise her choice for that once in her life.

Judge, then, of the difficulty of pleasing the mistress of The Towers,

soon to be the richest lady in the world. Nothing was good enough: the

orders were countermanded day after day, and nothing but the enormous

sums that were to be expended could have reconciled the tradesmen to

her incessant caprices.

Yet through all this loud sound of preparation, through all this silk

and satin, through everything that could be devised to make the heart

content, there penetrated a trouble. Agnes would at times retire to her

private room, and remain secluded for hours. After these solitary fits

her step was slower, and her countenance pale and melancholy, till she

gradually recovered herself. She had broken off her habit of visiting

the Kickwell Pot. It had been a great trial to her to do so; but she

had at last firmly made up her mind, and had conquered the singular

fascination which drew her thither. She had decided upon the earthly

career: she would close her eyes to the immortal one. But the memory of

the spirit was not so easily effaced: she mused on its shape, its

graceful, swaying elegance of motion, the glow in its wonderful eyes,

and felt at times the thrill of its electric touch. It required immense

strength of mind to resist the temptation to converse once more with

her phantom-lover.

Who that had for a moment contemplated the proud and happy position of

Lady Lechester, the observed of all observers, would have credited that

such a hankering, such an extraordinary belief, still possessed her

mind?

Time flew, and there remained but one brief week till the marriage day.

Marese was to come to The Towers on the morrow, and stay till the day

previous to the ceremony when he was, in obedience to the old

etiquette, to sleep at Barnham. For one day only would she be alone at

The Towers. Marese came; the hours flew; some little warmth infused

itself even into their cold intercourse. Just before dinner he left The

Towers for Barnham. After dark, Lady Agnes went out alone, wrapped in

her plaid shawl, and made her way to “The Pot.”

The morrow was her wedding-day, yet the old fascination had

conquered—she could not resist it. Once more, for the last time, she

would look upon the face of that glorious being, and beg his

forgiveness. It was May now—beautiful May. The beech trees were covered

with foliage, the air was soft and warm, and there was a delicate odour

at times of the hawthorn blossom borne upon the gentle breeze. Only in

places there was a low white mist, a dew hanging like a light cloud a

few feet above the earth. A thin column of such a mist hung over the

mouth of “The Pot,” spectral, ghost-like. There had been heavy rains

previously, and the river was swollen and turbid. Its roar came up in a

sullen hoarse murmur through the narrow tunnel. Over the steep down or

cliff there shone one lucent planet—the evening star.

Agnes stole out from among the fern and beech trees, and stood beside

the great decaying oak trunk, leaning lightly against it. Before her

but two steps was the mouth of “The Pot,” and over it hovered the thin

mist.

The old, old fascination fell upon her, the same half unconsciousness

of all surrounding things. The star grew dim, the roar of the river

receded to an immense distance, and then arose the spirit. What

intercourse they had cannot be told: whether she half yielded to the

desire to soar above this earthly ball, and stepped forward to his

embrace—whether she eagerly implored for pardon for her weakness,

dazzled by worldly glory.

The dog Dando had followed her unchidden. He alone of all that had

pertained to Aymer and Violet, Agnes had retained. He knew the old path

so well. He crouched so still at the foot of the great oak trunk. So

quietly, so heedlessly, taking no heed of the figure, the shadow that

stole onward in the dark beneath the beech trees—stole forward from

trunk to trunk, from bunch of fern to hawthorn bush.

A grey shadow in the form of a man—a crouching, stealthy, gliding

approach—yet the dog Dando made no sign. And Agnes stood with arms

extended almost over the mouth of “The Pot.” And the grey shadow

reached the hollow oak trunk.

In the left hand of this shadow was a _tin whistle_.

Chapter Ten.

After a while, Aymer awoke from the stupor into which the drug that had

been administered to him had thrown his senses. His awakening was more

painful than the first effects of the poison. His head felt as heavy as

lead, and there was a dull pain across his brow. A languid helplessness

seemed to possess his limbs, he could not walk across the room, and

with difficulty stretched out his hand to the bell-rope. Then all the

designs upon the wall-papering got mixed up before his eyes in a

fantastic dance, which made him giddy, till he was obliged to shut

them. His consciousness had as yet barely sufficiently returned for him

to notice that he was in a different apartment to any he had hitherto

occupied at the asylum. He must have had partial returns to

consciousness previously, for he found himself sitting in a large

armchair, half clad, and wearing a dressing-gown. A second pull at the

bell-rope brought footsteps outside the door, which sounded heavy upon

the boards, evidently uncarpeted. Then a key turned in the lock

outside, at the sound of that Aymer opened his eyes quickly, and a

strong-looking man, whom he had never seen before, peered in.

“Where is Mr Theodore?” said Aymer. “Is Miss Waldron come? Tell them I

am better. Ask her to see me. What has been the matter with me?”

“You’ve had one of your fits, sir,” replied the man, very civilly, but

in an indifferent tone.

“My fits! I never have fits. Why do you stand in the doorway? Why was

the door locked?”

“All right sir—don’t excite yourself. There, you see you can’t stand.

It’s your head, sir, your head.”

“Send me a doctor instantly,” said Aymer.

“A doctor? He’s been to see you three or four times.”

“Three or four times! How long have I been ill, then?”

“Oh, five days, I think. Let’s see, you were brought over here on the

Tuesday I remember—yes, five days.”

“Brought over here? What do you mean? Who the deuce _are_ you?” said

Aymer, for the first time growing suspicious, and standing up by dint

of effort.

“Do sit still, sir, and keep calm, or you’ll have another fit. My

name’s Davidson; I’m a warder; and I’ll take good care of you, sir, if

you’ll only keep quiet.”

The truth flashed into Aymer’s mind in an instant.

“Do you mean to say I am in the madhouse?” he asked, quietly.

“Well, no, sir, not quite so bad as that. This is an asylum, sir.”

“How did I get here?”

“You were carried over in your fit.”

“And where’s Miss Waldron? Tell her to come to me at once.”

“There’s no Miss Waldron, sir; your head is not quite clear yet.”

“What! you don’t mean to say that _you_ believe me mad?”

“Well, your papers is all right, sir.”

Aymer lost his temper, as well he might.

“Mr Theodore must be mad,” he said. “Tell him to come at once; no, I’ll

go to him.”

With an effort he reached the door; but Davidson easily kept him back

with one hand, in his weak state.

“Now do keep quiet, sir—do sit down.”

“I tell you I’m the secretary,” said Aymer, his breath coming fast and

thick, for he began to feel that he was trapped.

“Ay, ay, sir; they all say that, or something like it. You see, we

likes to get people to come quiet, without any noise. One gent came

here thinking it was his family mansion, and he was a duke. If you’ll

sit down, sir, I’ll get you anything you want.”

Poor Aymer was obliged to totter to his chair.

“And where’s Violet—where’s Miss Waldron?” he said.

“There isn’t no such person, sir. ’Tis your head; you’ll be better

presently. I’ll look in again by-and-by.”

The door shut, the lock turned. Aymer knew that he was a prisoner. For

a few minutes he really was mad, frenzied with unusual passion and

indignation, to be trapped like an animal lured on by provender, and

for what purpose? Ah, for what purpose? Violet—it must be Violet—her

claim to the Stirmingham estate. He was trapped that he might not

follow up the clue. Where was she? Doubtless spirited away somewhere,

or perhaps expecting him at Belthrop, thinking he was coming to her.

They would be sure to keep them as far apart as possible. Theodore was

Marese Baskette’s cousin, his friend, his confidant; he saw it all—he

had been drugged, stupefied, made to utter every species of nonsense,

to appear literally mad. He looked round the room; it was to all

appearance an ordinary apartment, except that the door was strong, and

without panels to weaken it. He staggered to the window, he put it up;

there were no bars, no iron rods to prevent him getting out; but he

looked down—a drop of twenty feet—into a narrow, stone-paved courtyard.

A bitter thought entered his mind: they would rather like him to commit

suicide out of that window. Opposite, about ten feet distant, ran an

immensely high stone wall, crenelated on the top, and over that he

could catch a glimpse of the blue May sky. He understood now why the

corridor was evidently uncarpeted; if by any means he should get out at

the door, his steps would sound, and give the alarm at once. He sat

down and tried to think; either the excitement, or the natural strength

of his constitution was fast overcoming the poison. His head was

clearer, and he could see distinctly, but his limbs were still feeble.

What could he do?

At this moment the key again turned in the lock, and Davidson entered,

bearing a tray with an appetising dinner.

“How do I know these things are not drugged also?” said Aymer.

“Drugged, sir? That’s always their delusion. Them’s good victuals. I’ll

taste if you like.” And he did so.

While his head was turned, Aymer, weak as he was, made a rush at the

door. The warder turned and seized him, and led him back to his chair

like a child. Aymer, mad with passion, threatened him, and snatched at

a knife upon the table.

“Ay, ay; steady, sir,” said the warder, quite coolly; “that’s no use,

my waistcoat is padded on purpose. I’ve had him padded ever since Mr

Odo made a stab at me. Now, now, sir, do be quiet; you’re only a

hurting yourself. Eat your dinner and get stronger, and maybe then you

can have a wrestle with me.”

He glanced with a half smile at Aymer’s slight, panting figure, and

then at his own sturdy proportions, winked, and withdrew.

As his steps died away in the passage, Aymer started to his feet in

intense astonishment. He had heard his own name; he could not believe

his senses—was he really mad?

“Aymer Malet, Esq.”

The voice was low, but distinct. It might come from the doorway, the

window, the wall, the ceiling. He was startled, but replied—

“Yes; I am here.”

“Young man,” said the voice, very low, but quite audible, “take my

advice: control your temper. If you stab a warder they will have a

pretext to keep you here all your lifetime.”

“Ah,” said Aymer; “thank you, I understand. But who are you?—who _are_

you?”

“I am a young old man. Who are you?”

“I am a young man,” said Aymer, growing curious, and for the moment

forgetting his position. “My name you know—I can’t tell how. I come

from World’s End.”

“Ah!” said the voice, sadly; “I had hoped you were sane.”

“So I am.”

“Why then say you came from the world’s end?”

“I did not. I said from World’s End; it is a place near Bury Wick.”

“You are sane then so far. I know _that_ World’s End very well. I only

tried you. I overheard your name when you were carried in. Now, answer

me. Why are you here?”

“There, that is what I want to know.”

“If you do not know, you are not sane. Cannot you see the motive for

your confinement?”

“Certainly I can. It is easy to see that.”

And Aymer briefly related the circumstances.

“And where is your Violet?”

“Doubtless at Belthrop, or spirited away—perhaps abroad. Far enough

from me, at all events.”

“Not so: she is in this very place.”

“I don’t believe it. They would keep her away.”

“I am sure of it. What should you do if you got out?”

“I should go straight to Belthrop—or, stay, perhaps I should go to Mr

Broughton. He would protect me.”

“Broughton—ah! he is a lawyer. I see you are sane. I must have a look

at you. Turn your face towards the picture of the ‘Last Supper.’”

Wondering and yet curious, Aymer did as he was bid. On the wall above a

side-board was a large copy of Vinci’s “Last Supper.” In a few seconds

the voice came again; and soon he found it came from the picture.

“I see you. I have read you. You have talent, perhaps genius; but your

chin is weak. You know not how to fight men. You do not comprehend that

men are beasts, and that it is necessary to be always fighting them.

Still you are sane, you are young—eat, and get strong—you will do. Your

name is familiar to me. Who was your father?”

Aymer told him. The voice replied—“I knew him—a clever man, and, excuse

me, a fool. How came you to reside at World’s End?”

Aymer told him. “But who are you?” he said, eagerly. “Let me see you

also.”

“Very well. Look at the dog under the table in the picture. Now.”

Aymer saw a slender white finger suddenly protruded through the body of

the dog.

“But I only see your finger.”

“Well, that is me. Don’t you know that the hand is the man, and the

claw is the beast? You can see by my finger that I have a hand.”

It was evident that the stranger was proud of his white hand and

slender finger.

“Who on earth are you?” said Aymer, beginning to get excited. “If you

do not answer me I will pull the picture down.”

“If you do, you will ruin us both.”

“Well, tell me who you are.”

“I am a prisoner like yourself. My name is, or was, for I am dead now,

Fulk Lechester.”

“Fulk Lechester—Lady Agnes’ cousin! Ah! I have heard of you,” said

Aymer. “You were very clever, and you went—well, I mean—”

“Ha! ha! ha! I will convince you that I am as sane as yourself—saner;

for what a goose you were to be so easily trapped.”

“So I certainly was.”

“Would you like to get out? Of course. So should I. Let me see. First,

I have seen you—your physiognomy is good; next, I have read of your

book, for I see the papers; thirdly, I knew your father, at least I

knew all about his career; fourthly, you come from World’s End, and

that is my neighbourhood; fifthly, you are young; sixthly, you are in

love, which is a strong stimulus to exertion. Yes, you will do. Now eat

your dinner; you must get strong.”

“I will not touch it till I see you. I will tear the picture down.”

“Oh, rash, headstrong! Lift it up instead.”

Aymer tried. “I can’t,” he said.

“No, because I have fixed it. Now try.”

The picture lifted easily, and Aymer was face to face with the

stranger. He saw a little man, a head and a half shorter than himself,

elegantly made, and dressed in the fashion. His brow was very broad and

high, his eyes dark and large, deeply set; his lips perfect. He had a

small moustache but no beard or whiskers. His complexion was the worst

part of his appearance; it was almost yellow. Fulk smiled, and showed

good teeth.

“I am yellow, I know,” he said. “So would you be if you had not been

out of doors for two years. I look forty, I know; I am really just

thirty-three. Nipped in the bud. Ha! ha! However, there is no time to

waste—the warder will return. Eat your dinner. Let us shake hands.”

Aymer readily extended his hand. Suddenly he said—

“How do I know that this is not a new trap?”

Fulk smiled sadly. “A week ago you believed everybody,” he said; “now

you run to the other extreme. That is youth. I am young; but I am also

old. Trouble makes men old, thought perhaps still older. For seven

years I have done nothing but think.”

“For seven years!” echoed Aymer, in horror. “Have you been here seven

years?”

“Yes; I was then twenty-six, now I am thirty-three. Ah! I blossomed too

fast. It is a bad sign, friend Aymer, when life is all roses too early;

the frosts are sure to come.”

“True,” said Aymer, thinking of his wedding-day, so strangely, so

dreadfully interrupted.

“I was a Secretary of State at twenty-six. I had everything—money,

youth, power, a career, a loving wife. A few hours changed it.”

“May I ask, how?”

“Certainly; companions in misfortune have no secrets. My wife was

thrown from her horse; her beautiful neck was broken. I had no son. We

Lechesters are perhaps a little wild. Odo was certainly wild. Well,

grief made me eccentric. I threw up my career. I was young then, like

you. I resigned; I went down to Cornwall; I built a hut among the

rocks, and said I would live a hermit’s life. I did so. I began to feel

better. The sea soothed me; I learnt much from Nature. You see, I had

lived hitherto all my days with men. If I had stayed there, I should

have written something great. But there were men who had their eyes on

me. My property is large, you know; trustees or guardians do not get

pay direct; but there are indirect profits in managing estates. My wife

was dead; her friends did not trouble to protect me. Perhaps I did seem

eccentric. Hermits are out of date. For years it has been the custom to

put Lechesters in an asylum. I was put here; but not so easily as you.

I fought; it was no use. I might as well have been calm.”

“And you have been here all these years?”

“All these years, but not without trying to escape. I pretended to be

harmlessly mad—quite satisfied with my condition. I was allowed to

wander in the grounds. One day I got up a tree, and before they could

follow I was on the wall, I dropped over but broke my leg. Well, I

recovered, but I still limp a little; after a while, I went into the

grounds with a keeper. I tried cunning. I became harmlessly mad

again—my fancy was to fly kites. To one kite I attached a long letter

with an account of my imprisonment. I let it loose, and it fell in the

midst of Stirmingham. But it was no good—it made a stir—people came

here, and I answered their questions calmly. No good. They were

determined to see that I was mad. If I misspelt a single word in a

sentence, it was a proof that a highly-educated mind had partially

broken down. Like you, I got violent—I tried to despatch a warder and

get out. Ever since then I have been in this room.”

“Two years?”

“Two years. Hush—eat your dinner—Davidson comes.”

The picture fell into its place, and Aymer tried to eat the dinner,

which had grown cold.

Chapter Eleven.

After Davidson was gone with the tray, Aymer could hear him opening

other doors along the corridor, and waited till all was quiet.

“Fulk!”

“Aymer!”

The picture was lifted, and Fulk’s head appeared in the orifice.

“Remember,” he said, “your first object is to get strong; unless you

get strong, neither of us can escape. Therefore, eat and drink, and

above all, sleep. If you fidget yourself, you will waste away. The

sooner you get strong, the sooner you will get out and find your

Violet. Push your armchair up close under this picture, and speak low,

lest a warder should steal along on tiptoe. Take a book in your hand as

if reading.”

Aymer did as he was told. Fulk’s head receded. “It is difficult for me

to keep long in that position,” he said; “I am not tall enough. But we

can talk just as well.”

“How came that hole in the wall?” asked Aymer.

“How came your book published?” said Fulk. “By the same

process—patience and perseverance. No credit to me though. When a man

is confined for two years in one room, he is glad enough of something

to do.”

“Why did you make such a hole—how did you do it? It was very clever.”

“It was very easy. The poker did a part, the steel to sharpen the

dinner knife did another part!”

“But were they not afraid to leave such instruments in your room?”

“Not they. Theodore knows very well that I am not mad. He knows that I

have too much mind to attempt suicide. As to the warders, they are

strong, their clothes are impenetrable to an ordinary stab. Besides, I

feign to be harmless, and at last worn out.”

“There is no poker in my room,” said Aymer, “and they have taken the

knives away.”

“That is because, as yet, they do not know your temperament. They think

they know mine. So far as conveniences, and even luxuries, are

concerned, certainly Theodore does not treat me amiss. I have

everything I could have if I were free—papers, books—everything but

tools or liberty—but I can improvise tools.”

“How is it they do not discover this hole in the wall?”

“Simply because on your side it is hidden by the picture, and behind

the picture I have preserved the papering. On my side, it is hidden by

a mirror; when I open the aperture, I unscrew the mirror.”

“But how did you know there was a picture on this side?”

“A person who was confined as you are told me.”

“Was he sane then? What became of him?”

“Don’t ask me. He was sane. It was a terrible disappointment when he

went.”

“But did he not return to get you out?”

“You do not comprehend. He lies in the grave. It is my belief—but I

should alarm you.”

“They killed him?”

“Well, not so violent as that. He died—that is it—before our

arrangements were complete.”

“Then you have tried to escape with others?”

“Yes, three times, and three times accident has baulked it. For that

reason I wish you to get strong speedily, lest you should be removed to

another room—”

“Or the grave!”

“Let us talk on other subjects. You do not ask how the hole was made,

nor why. I will tell you. In the first place, it was made because I had

hopes of escaping through your room, which was then unoccupied, and the

door left open. That was vain, for it was afterwards occupied; then the

hole was enlarged to let me and one of your predecessors converse, and

to let him get into my room, as you will have to do.”

“Why?”

“Because your window is a French one; mine has a bar or upright up the

centre, which is an essential element of escape.”

“Go on—how did you make the hole?”

“With the steel and with the poker—grinding the bricks into dust, and

mingling the dust with the ashes of the fire, so that the warder

himself carried them away.”

“And why not escape this way?”

“Because, in the first place, the door of that room is kept locked;

secondly, because it opens also into the same corridor, and at the end

of that corridor is the guard-room, where there is always a warder.

Your bell rings in that room.”

“How did you learn all these things?”

“How did you learn all the little traits of human nature, which the

reviewers say you put in your book? By observation, of course. I had to

walk along that corridor to reach the grounds, when I was allowed to go

out.”

“But you could bore a hole into the corridor?”

“Yes, and the bits of broken plaster would tell the story—that would be

simple. Besides, to what end? Once I thought of boring _under_ the

corridor.”

“How do that?”

“By lifting up one of the planks of the floor here; there is a space

between the flooring and the ceiling, and that corridor has a kind of

tunnel along under it. What for? why the hot-water pipes, to warm the

cells, are carried along it—the cells of the violent, whose rooms have

no fire-grates—that is of no use, for the tunnel at one end comes to

the furnaces, where there is usually a man, neither could I get through

the heat. At the other there is the thick outer wall of stone, and just

beneath is Theodore’s own room—his ears are sharp. Useless, my friend.

This knowledge of the premises seems to you wonderful, simply because

you have been here so short a time. Why, I have never seen the outside

of this side of the building, except a partial glimpse when I was

brought, gagged and bound, in a closed carriage; yet look at this.”

He handed to Aymer a sheet of paper, on which was an elevation plan.

“I can’t see how you got at this,” said Aymer, beginning to have a high

opinion of the other’s ability.

“It was difficult; but patience and observation will accomplish all

things. I learnt much of the outline by the shadow on the ground. Here

is another plan, more minute; this is a ground plan.”

Aymer examined it.

“Why, you have got even the locks and bolts of the doors,” he said, in

admiration.

“Yes, I should have made a splendid burglar—what a career lost!”

“But,” said Aymer, “I see here ‘water-canal’ marked. I have seen that

canal; why, it runs just outside the high wall just across the

courtyard here.”

“Ay, and that is the awkward part of it. First, a narrow courtyard or

chasm to bridge; then a high wall to surmount; then a broad and deep

canal—especially broad here, for, as you will see on the plan, there is

a double width of water for the barges to turn round in. Finally, an

unknown maze of streets.”

“Not unknown,” said Aymer. “I can be of some use there;” and he told

Fulk of his residence in Stirmingham during the family council and the

election. He had a fair knowledge of the streets.

“That is extremely fortunate,” said Fulk. “You must trace out a plan

for me, in case we should get separated. So you were at the family

council—I read much of it in the papers which they allow me. By-the-by,

Marese Baskette is about to marry my cousin. I wonder she has escaped

the asylum so long—the common fate of us poor Lechesters. Tell me now

about your Violet’s claim.”

Aymer did so.

Fulk mused a little while.

“I begin to see daylight,” he said. “I see much that I did not

previously comprehend. If we only wait, and keep watching, everything

comes plain in time. Waldron—I knew the Waldrons well—very respectable

people, and well descended. Waldron is mentioned in Domesday—Waleran

Venator—i.e., Walron, the Huntsman. Jason Waldron—I wonder if I had

better tell you what I know?—he was murdered, and—but you will not rest

nor eat.”

“I shall certainly not eat or sleep unless you tell me.”

“Very well, but do keep calm; we shall be out all the sooner, unless

indeed some unforeseen circumstance stops it, as it has hitherto done.

_Ay di me_!”

“Do you know anything of Jason Waldron’s murder?” asked Aymer,

impatiently.

“I do; you have yourself told me. I had my suspicions—almost

certainty—before, but I could not see the motive; now I see the

motive—poor, miserable Odo!”

“Odo! what has Odo, to do with it? Do go on; I am wild.”

“Very well. Odo Lechester murdered your friend Jason Waldron!”

“But Odo Lechester is in a lunatic asylum, incurable.”

“Odo Lechester was in this very asylum, but he escaped nearly a year

ago. He escaped by permission.”

“I am in the dark—explain.”

“By permission, directed to destroy Jason Waldron. He had homicidal

tendencies, you know.”

“Homicidal tendencies!—escaped! Stay a minute, let me think. I remember

now. Oh! what a fool I have been. Why, I saw the description of him

posted up against the police station in Stirmingham, during the

election; it was partly destroyed—evidently an old bill. I see—I see.

But why should Odo Lechester kill Jason?”

“He was instructed to do so. Your dear friend Theodore, who so kindly

offered you a secretaryship at seven hundred and fifty pounds a year,

told him to do so.”

“Why—how—how could he—”

“Work on Odo’s mind? Easily enough. Poor Odo—he is a beast, born in the

shape of a man: it is not his fault—he is not responsible. Odo is a

tinker and a whistler; he is at home among the gipsies and the woods,

playing on his tin whistle, mending pots and kettles. His three great

passions are tinkering, dogs, and—liberty. Theodore simply assured him

that it was Waldron who was the cause of his confinement. Jason dead,

Odo would be for ever free. Shall I add one more word? If Jason’s

daughter were also dead, Odo would be still safer in his freedom.”

“Good God! he may be killing her now. Let me out—help me.”

“Silence! Be quiet. She is safe—your cries will ruin all. She is safe

in this very building.”

“Impossible—I can’t believe it; it is all a blind. I must go to

Belthrop; I must see Broughton. Good God, how weak I am!”

He fell exhausted back into his chair.

“How foolish of you!” said Fulk, gently. “But I can understand it. Now,

I will tell you how I learnt all this. It was very simple. When I found

that there was no escape through your room, I tried the other wall. I

removed the clock from the bracket, and bored a small hole. Frequently

I had to stop, because I heard voices. I found the next room to mine

was one of Theodore’s own private apartments: it is the sitting-room,

in fact. Beyond it is his laboratory. I should like to know what is in

that laboratory: if we escape, I _will_ know. He and Marese used to

meet here and converse. I heard them; I listened. I tell you I heard

things that would make your flesh creep. Are you better?”

“Yes; oh, that I was stronger! There is wine on the table. Do you think

I might drink it safely?”

“Certainly not; but you had better pretend that you have. Pour some

behind the grate; get rid of it somehow, or they will put the poison in

your food. Well, I heard things about a certain ship, the _Lucca_.”

“The _Lucca_—she was found a derelict.”

“Yes, I know; I could tell you how she became a derelict. But Odo.

Well, I heard them discuss that plan. He was to be instructed, and then

allowed to escape. He did escape. I only wish I was strong, and could

climb like him. What he did, you know. If he is still at large, I will

wager a hundred pounds I find him. I know his old haunts. But I could

not understand the object of—of—I see now. Waldron was the descendant

of Arthur Sibbold. Are you superstitious? No. Well, I am—a little. In

this case, now, does it not seem as if the blood of old Will Baskette,

shot at the cider barrel, had revenged itself from generation to

generation? Stirmingham was, as it were, founded with blood. Your poor

friend Jason was a descendant of the murderer Sibbold, who shot the

thief; and here is a Baskette continuing the vendetta.”

“For God’s sake, tell me how to escape.”

“I will. But is it not Fate? Look at the chain of

events—‘circumstances’ they are called now: the ancients called them

Fate, Sophocles called them Necessity. But you are eager about

escaping. Hush—they are coming!”

The picture dropped; Aymer looked down at his book. Davidson entered,

and asked him how he felt. He replied better, and asked if Miss Waldron

was in the asylum?

Davidson smiled. “Still on that, sir? I tell you honestly that no such

person is here.”

He looked Aymer in the face, and Aymer believed him. Davidson lit the

gas, left several newspapers and books, and retired. So soon as his

steps had died away, the picture was lifted again.

“I told you so,” said Aymer; “she is not here. He evidently spoke the

truth.”

“He did so—so far as he knew. But this is an immense building; and you

forget—you were not brought here at first—there is a residence, as they

call it, detached. Davidson’s duties never take him there, unless

specially sent for.”

“Well, well; let me escape, that is all.”

“You have looked out of window; you have seen the courtyard—the wall.

You know that beyond the wall is the canal: all that is plain in your

mind?”

“It is. First, we must get across the courtyard, then we must climb the

wall, then descend and swim the canal.”

“Ah,” said Fulk, “I cannot swim.”

“I can,” said Aymer; “I learnt in the sea.” He remembered his few

bright months of wandering before he had met Violet.

“I am glad of it, though I had provided for that. The bladders that

would have supported you, can carry our dry clothes to change.”

“The bladders—have you got some to float you?”

“I have; but, first of all, the courtyard and the wall. We must not

descend into the courtyard, because at one end there is a

window—Theodore’s window—and he is here now; at the other it opens on

the grounds, and warders are sometimes about. It is the wall we must

attack.”

“All we want now is a rope and a grapnel.”

“I have a rope and a grapnel. Where? In my bed. What rope? Bell-rope

partly, partly bed cording. How did I get it? By being mad. By picking

everything to pieces with my fingers, as mad people will. They humoured

me, and I secreted half the pieces while they carelessly removed the

other. I have a long, strong rope; long enough to go up the wall and

down the other side. I have also a grapnel.”

“That is fortunate. How did you make a grapnel?”

“I did not make it; the warder brought it to me. You wonder. But you

noticed the crenelated wall: that is the secret. My grapnel is simply a

very long, strong ruler, such as are used in keeping ledgers, and in

some mechanical drawing; I had it ostensibly for drawing. This ruler

must be tied across the rope; when the rope is flung over the wall, the

ruler will catch across the crenelation. There is the grapnel. The rope

at its lower end will be fastened to the upright pillar, or whatever

the technical name may be, which divides my window into two. There’s

the ladder.”

“And the swimming bladders?”

“I made them out of an old Macintosh, which I also tore up: I sewed

them together. Mad people have whims: one of mine was to mend my own

clothes; so I got needles and thread. They are also in my bed. They

have simply to be inflated with air; they have cords to fasten to the

body.”

“How clever! I should never have thought of such things. But why did

you not escape before I came? You had all the materials required.”

“True—all the means; but not the physical strength, nor the physical

courage. I could not do it without a companion to assist me. You forget

my leg was broken; it is still weak. You forget that I have been

confined without exercise for two years—enough to weaken any man; and I

was never strong. I used to envy Odo as he climbed trees, like the wild

man of the woods he is by nature. Besides, I wanted courage; don’t

despise me. I have moral courage, but I have no physical courage. I

jumped from the wall—yes; but under extreme excitement—this must be

done coolly; and I could not climb the rope. You must climb first, and

drag me up by sheer force.”

“I will do it somehow,” said Aymer. “But why not tie loops in the rope

for your feet and hands? Is it long enough?”

“Plenty; I never thought of that. Two heads are better than one. I will

do that this very night. How long do you think it will take you to

recover yourself?”

“I will try it to-morrow,” said Aymer.

“No; that is too soon. Say the night after. We must go as early in the

evening as is compatible with being unseen, so as to have the whole

night to escape in. Now sleep. I shall not say another word.”

He withdrew, and Aymer vainly tried to slumber. He could not sleep till

morning, and he did not wake till far into the day. His breakfast was

waiting for him. As he sat down to it with a better appetite, Fulk

spoke to him from the picture.

“You look better,” he said; “your long sleep has refreshed you. Shall

we try it to-night? I own I am afraid lest some trifle should delay

us.”

“To-night, certainly,” said Aymer. “I feel quite well now. It was

simply a heaviness—a drowsiness—a narcotic, perhaps. Let it be

to-night. I must go to Violet.”

“Ah, Violet!” sighed Fulk. “That was my poor wife’s name too. I shall

love your Violet. I will help you. I know more of the world than you

do.”

The day passed slowly. They conversed in low tones nearly all the time.

Aymer, led on by Fulk’s gentle ways, frankly told him all his

struggles, his disappointments, his hopes. Fulk was deeply interested.

At last he said—

“At ten we will do it, or perish. I have a mind,” he said, “to let you

go alone; you are stronger than I am. Very likely my nervousness or

weakness will spoil the whole enterprise; but you could do it

certainly.”

“I will not hear of such a thing,” said Aymer; “I will not attempt it

without you. Do you think I am a cur?”

The dusk fell gradually—so slowly that it tried Aymer’s patience

terribly. Davidson lit the gas, and left him the evening paper.

“Glad to see you getting better, sir,” he said, civilly.

He withdrew, and nothing now remained between them and the task except

the twilight. Aymer kept urging to commence. Fulk thought it was not

dark enough. At half-past nine a cloud came over the sky.

“_Now_,” said Fulk; “I have got the rope ready. Take the picture down,

and scramble through the hole. No; hand me your change of dress first.

There is the rope.”

Aymer had no difficulty in getting through, and at once picked up the

rope. At one end he found a heavy knob of coal fastened.

“That is to throw it up by,” said Fulk, “and to make the rope hang down

the other side. I hid it for that purpose.”

Fulk put the window open, shading the gas by the blind. Aymer coiled up

the rope on his left arm to let it run out easily; and was glad now of

the physical education he had unwillingly imbibed at old Martin

Brown’s. Many a time he had cast the cart-line over a tall waggon-load

of straw. He looked out, measured the height, and hurled the knob of

coal. It flew straight up into the air, carrying with it the destinies

of two men, like a shot from a mortar over a ship in distress. A moment

of suspense—it cleared the wall, the rope ran out quickly, till but a

few feet were left in Aymer’s hands. Fulk opened the other half of the

window; the rope was passed round the upright and secured. Next the

air-belt had to be fastened under Fulk’s chest and inflated. Aymer tied

his change of clothes and Fulk’s in the other air-belt, and adjusted

them to his back. These incumbrances gave him some little uneasiness.

He pulled at the rope—it was firm; the ruler had caught the

crenelations. Then arose the difficulty as to who should go first;

Aymer, with a lurking suspicion lest Fulk’s heart should fail,

compelled him to take the lead. He helped him at the window, and saw a

new danger. Their shadows were projected on the wall opposite; if any

one looked that way it would be seen in an instant that something was

going forward. Below on the right was a bow window, and from this bow

window a stream of light fell upon the rope. However it was too late to

hesitate.

Folk clung like a cat till he got his foot into the first loop, then he

went up fairly well. As soon as he was up, and Aymer could see his form

dimly astride of the wall, he followed. Halfway up, as he looked down,

he saw a man in the bow window approach and draw down the blind. If he

had looked out he must have seen the rope and Aymer, but he did not.

When the blinds were down the rope became invisible. With a beating

heart Aymer found himself at the top of the wall, astride, facing Fulk,

who pressed his hand.

“I feel all right now we have started,” he whispered; “I think I shall

manage it yet.”

There were no loops for the descent. Aymer, after one glance at the

city lights before him, slid down first, and let himself into the water

gently. He adjusted the load on his back on the float: then shook the

line as a signal to Fulk, who came halfway down well, but his nervous

excitement overcame him, and he rather fell than slid the remainder,

reaching the water with a splash. His head did not go under, but they

feared lest any one had heard it. In a few seconds, as all was quiet,

Aymer struck out, pushing the float in front and dragging Fulk behind.

He had no load to support, but simply to force his way through the

water. It was chilly, but not so cold as he had feared. It smelt

unpleasant—some chemical works discharged into it. Though a fairly good

swimmer, Aymer had a hard struggle to cross the broad canal, and more

than once paused to recover his strength. At last they landed on the

towing path, and without a moment’s delay got over a low wall into some

back garden and changed their clothes, wrapping the wet things round a

loose brick from the wall and dropping them in the water. They then

made haste along the towing path, Aymer leading, and emerged at a

bridge into a broad thoroughfare, gaslit but deserted.

“Come on,” whispered Aymer. “There is the station; we shall catch the

up 10:15 train to London.”

“Is that the station?” said Fulk. “Then here we part. Good-by.”

“Part? What do you mean?”

“I mean this: that I owe you my liberty—I shall repay you. I shall stay

here and watch for your Violet—I am sure she is here.”

It was useless arguing with him: Fulk was determined.

“I shall easily hide in this great city,” he said. “We shall be on the

watch in two places at once—you at Belthrop and World’s End, and I

here. Make haste. By-the-by, can you lend me a pound or two? I have no

money with me.”

Aymer insisted upon dividing the sixty-five pounds he had left. Then

they shook hands.

“Stay,” said Fulk, “our rendezvous?—Where shall we meet again?

Quick!—your train.”

“At The Place, World’s End,” said Aymer at a venture, and with one more

rapid handshake ran off. He caught his train, and by one in the morning

was in London.

Poor Fulk, wandering he hardly knew where on the look out for a quiet

inn, came suddenly into a crowded street, and amidst a number of

carriages evidently waiting. He looked up—it was some theatre or other.

There was a large poster announcing that the famous singer Mademoiselle

F—o would perform that evening in the Sternhold Hall, and as he read,

he heard a loud encore which reached even to the street.

“I remember her,” he thought. “I saw her at Vienna the year before I

was captured. They said she was this Marese Baskette’s mistress—a

splendid creature. I’ve half a mind—I haven’t heard a song for so

long—”

He hesitated. Prudence told him to go away; but talk of prudence to a

man who has just escaped into liberty! He walked in; the performance

was nearly over, but he paid and went into the pit. “After all,” he

tried to persuade himself, “there’s more safety in a crowd. When I go

out, I can take a cab and drive to an hotel and say I’ve lost my train

through the theatre; that will account for my having no luggage.”

As he struggled in among the crowd, he glanced up at the boxes; his

pushing caused a little movement, and people in the boxes looked down.

He caught an eye watching him—he turned pale. It was Theodore, who rose

at once and left his box. Poor Fulk gasped for breath; he pushed to get

out. The audience was annoyed at the movement and disturbance—some

gentlemen held him down—the notes of the singer’s voice floated over,

musically sweet. Poor Fulk!

Chapter Twelve.

Science, as illustrated by the printing press, the telegraph, the

railway, is a double-edged sword. At the same moment that it puts an

enormous power in the hands of the good man, it also offers an equal

advantage to the evil disposed.

Theodore Marese was a man of science; and he was a typical man of

science—hard, clear, bright, pitiless as the dissecting knife.

Unfortunately, he applied his knowledge and his undoubted ability to

the worst of uses. One pursuit to which he had devoted special effort,

and over which he had spent many thoughtful hours, was the problem how

to dispose of a dead human body. There was an old superstitious saying

that the earth will not hide blood—it will out. Theodore was of a

different opinion. Science had conquered everything: science could

conquer this. Yet it certainly was a difficult task. Did you ever

contemplate the difficulty? Suppose you slay your enemy—slay him

secretly, effectually: now, what next? Try to bury it: the loose earth

speaks for itself. Exhalations will rise. Quicklime it, and hasten its

decomposition: there will remain, perhaps, only a brass button, or some

coin left in the pocket. Throw it into the water: it will rise to the

surface. Burn it, and all the city will know from the odour. The more

you think over it, the more difficult it will appear. But Theodore had

found the solution.

In that laboratory of his which Fulk wished to explore, and which was a

harmless-looking room—without so much as a phial or a microscope in

view, there was at one corner, not very far from the fireplace, a long

upright cupboard, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Or, rather,

the cupboard rose about halfway, and a bookcase reached the remainder.

It was a shallow cupboard. There were no locks to the doors. Any one

could pull them open, and see a few trifles within—such trifles as

might be found in any bachelor’s room. The bookcase was also shallow,

but there was depth enough back for some rows of books. The books were

harmless enough—mostly medical works, just such works as any one can

purchase who cares to. Nothing certainly here to excite suspicion. Yet

behind that cupboard and bookcase was concealed the most deadly,

insidious, awful engine ever constructed by man—an engine about which

no secrecy exists either, and which living men have seen in operation;

which has been described in the papers; and which the legislature must

put down, or strictly regulate.

Upon removing one of the books, Theodore had merely to push aside a

small brass plate, which looked like part of a hinge, and there was a

keyhole; turn the key, and the whole cupboard swung bodily out into the

room. It was, in fact, a blind, placed in front of a narrow inner door,

which rose to the ceiling. When the door was open, there stood revealed

an iron box, not unlike an extremely long coffin, placed on end. There

was a keyhole—two key-holes—to this iron box. Open the first, and there

was a large cavity, tall enough for a man to sit on a bar which went

across it, without his head touching the iron roof. In this iron roof

there was an opening, not unlike a small grating. Put the key in the

second keyhole, above the first, and there was the apparatus, greatly

improved by Theodore, but in substance the same as used in other

places—the apparatus for absorbing the smell of the gases which arise

from a human body when consumed by heat. Every one knows that if the

smoke of a pipe be passed through water in a peculiar way, it loses its

pungency, and you can inhale it with more comfort: this is the hookah.

Everybody also knows that manufacturers in great towns are compelled to

consume their own smoke, and all have seen a lump of loaf sugar suck up

a spoonful of tea. A combination of these principles formed Theodore’s

deadly engine, which was nothing more or less than a private cremation

stove. The ordinary fire in the harmless-looking fireplace produced

sufficient heat, when a draught was caused by turning a winch with a

multiplying wheel placed at the lower part of the cupboard, just

beneath the cavity which was to receive the body. This body, made

thoroughly insensible and unconscious by being saturated with

chloroform or strong drugs—or, if you like, still more insensible with

a trifle of arsenic—had merely to be lifted into its iron coffin, the

door closed, the blast applied, and in a couple of hours or so there

would remain a little heap of ashes, and a little melted metal, brass

buttons, coins, and such like, things easily dropped into a canal, dust

easily mixed with the ashes under the grate. Now, where was all that

superstitious nonsense about the difficulty of getting rid of a dead

body?

Whether Theodore had ever used this awful engine was never known; but

it existed, and it may exist at this present hour in other equally

unsuspected places. What I say is, that the legislature should take

cremation in hand. If any one had been shut up in that iron box

alive—only stupefied for a few minutes with a drug, put in asleep; if

they had been awakened by the red-hot iron, of what use would their

screams have been—deadened by the confinement, deadened by thick walls?

“I am extremely sorry,” said Theodore Marese, meeting Violet at the

railway station, and handing her to a carriage; “I regret very much

that Mr Malet could not come. He has, in fact, gone upon a special

mission. A gentleman in the Isle of Man, who owed us a large sum, died

suddenly; his affairs are in confusion, and Mr Malet was obliged to

start this afternoon to see to our debt. I am the bearer of his

regrets. At all events, he will not be absent more than a week.”

Violet was naturally much disappointed, but after all, it was only a

week or ten days, and they treated her with great courtesy at the

residence at the asylum. A matron was always ready to afford her

companionship; no intrusion was made upon her privacy. Theodore

occasionally called upon her in the most respectful way. Books, papers,

anything she seemed to wish for came at once. The matron, a lady-like

person, took her into the town to do some shopping. Everything but a

letter from Aymer. However, that was easily explained—the sea-post was

always uncertain. Theodore took her over a great part of the asylum;

she was astonished at its size, and the number of its inmates. It

saddened her, and she still more longed for Aymer to return.

Why it was that she was not confined like Aymer was never wholly

explained, but there is some reason to think that Marese Baskette had a

faint idea of marrying her himself. He was, as we have seen, nervous

about his marriage with Lady Lechester: lest anything should happen to

prevent or delay it. This girl, Violet, he well knew, had a good claim

to the estate; suppose he married her? She was a second string to his

bow. As to the rumour of his being her father’s murderer, he would

trust to his own wit and handsome face to overcome that. He never

questioned his power to have her if he chose—but Lady Lechester first.

Theodore had therefore his instructions to treat her well, and give her

seeming liberty, and above all to keep her in good temper. Theodore did

as he was bid. This seems the natural solution of the problem. If she

had known that Aymer was so near!

It happened at this time that, on the seventh day after Violet’s

arrival, the famous singer, Mademoiselle F—o, of whom all the world was

talking, was to sing for one night only in the Sternhold Hall.

Theodore, finding that she was getting restless and thoughtful, seized

upon this opportunity to while away her gloom. He proposed that she

should accompany him to the theatre or hall, and Violet, who had never

heard an opera in her life, was naturally enough delighted to go. They

went, and as it chanced it was the very night that Aymer and poor Fulk

chose to make their escape. Thus it was that Theodore’s eye caught

sight of Fulk, the moment the commotion caused by his late entrance

attracted his attention. Violet was extremely pleased; the notes of the

music and song filled her with an exquisite enjoyment. She was very

beautiful, leaning over the front of her box, and scores of glasses

were directed at her. Had she known that at that very moment Aymer was

risking his life to escape!

The difficulty in this history-writing is to describe two or three

events at the same moment. The eye can only read one line at a time,

how then are you to bring two scenes at once before it? Some allowance

must be made for the infirmities of the pen. There were two scenes

proceeding at the moment that Theodore’s eye fell upon Fulk—three

scenes, if you reckon the opera on the stage. First, poor Fulk

shivering with terror, struggling to escape, the crowd round execrating

him, his mind in a whirl, reproaching himself with his folly, and the

tall figure of Theodore, who had come down from the box, pointing him

out to an attendant and pushing forward to seize him. On the stage, La

Sonnambula was uttering her sweetest trill; Marese Baskette’s mistress

in the full height of her glory, with hundreds upon hundreds of the

élite of that great city intent upon her every accent—hundreds upon

hundreds of well-dressed, fashionable, wealthy ladies and gentlemen,

most of whom knew her connection with Marese, the popular M.P., were

there. This very knowledge attracted them in shoals. This was scene

two.

The third scene was underneath. There in the darkness and gloom of the

cellars, amid the slimy pools of water, the hideous fungi, the

loathsome toads and creeping things, the grey sewer-rats were at work.

You have seen a ship launched—she stands firm as a rock till the last

wedge is knocked away, then glides into the water. Something of the

same kind was going on here beneath the feet of several hundred human

beings. These musty cellars and vaults under the Sternhold Hall, with

their awkward approach, had been let at last. A London firm had given a

small sum for them, and established a store of whisky casks. A dozen or

so of whisky casks had been rolled down, a name put upon the door, and

an advertisement in the newspaper. Nobody could do business with this

firm, their terms were too high. The whisky casks, in truth, contained

pure spring water. It was an excuse, however, for men in rough jackets,

who had evidently been at work, to go in and out of these vaults, and

to take with them saws and chisels, hammers, and other harmless tools.

The firm was, in fact, composed of a dozen or more of the sharpest

sewer-rats in Stirmingham. Their little game was so delightfully

simple—only a little gnawing to be done! When Theodore and Baskette

went down into this place, they found the floor supported by timber

pillars. Their idea was to blow it up. The sewer-rats were much

cleverer—their idea was to saw through the wooden pillars, and let the

roof or floor down, and with it many hundred shrieking, maimed, and

mutilated human beings. How simple great ideas appear when once they

are described! There is nothing novel in the idea either: the holy

Saint Dunstan tried it at Calne, and found it answer admirably.

Some say odd accidents have happened to grand stands at race meetings,

through iron bolts being inadvertently removed. When hundreds of

well-dressed, fashionable people, ladies and gentlemen, with gold rings

and diamonds, earrings and bracelets, watches, money, bank-notes, and

similar valuables about them, not to mention rich cloaks and perhaps

furs, were shrieking, struggling, groaning, maimed, mutilated, and

broken to pieces, with jagged ends and splinters of deal sticking into

their bodies, how nice and benevolent it would be to go in among and

assist them; to lift up the broken arm, and lighten it of the massive

gold bracelet; to pull the horrid splinter out of the leg, and extract

the well-filled purse; to alleviate the agony of the bruised shoulder

or the broken back, and remove the choice fur or necklace of diamonds!

Thoughtful of the sewer-rats to provide this banquet of Christian

charity!

The one difficulty had been to get the several hundred people there.

They had all in readiness for months, watching. They had it ready while

the family council sat, and had deliberated about knocking the last

wedge out at that time, but on reflection it was doubtful whether the

Americans had much coin about them. Finally, one shrewd sewer-rat hit

upon the idea of engaging Mademoiselle F—o to come down and sing. They

paid her one hundred pounds in advance, with travelling expenses to

come afterwards; and it would have been a good speculation in itself,

for they took three hundred and fifty pounds, including the boxes.

These boxes were a worry. They could not be let down, they were not

built on wooden pillars; however, it was easy to shut one of the

folding-doors at the entrance, and let the bolt drop into the

stone—easy to raise a cry of “Fire!”—easy to imagine the crush at the

door.

Easy also for me to enter into a catalogue of broken limbs, ribs,

fractures, contusions, gashes, etc, etc—I shall leave it to the

surgical imagination. But when hundreds of people, closely packed, are

suddenly precipitated eighteen feet, amid splintering planks and

crushing beams, it is probable that the hospitals will be full. This

was the third scene preparing underneath.

Just as Fulk felt Theodore close to him—just as F—o uttered her

sweetest trill—just as Violet was in the height of her enjoyment—the

grey rat gave his last nibble—the last wedge was knocked away; and the

floor went down. Poor Violet saw it all. She saw fourteen hundred hands

suddenly thrown up into the air; she heard one awful cry, she felt the

box tremble and vibrate, and the whole audience sank—sank as into one

great pit. She turned deadly pale; she clung with both hands to the

balustrade; but she did not faint. It was all too quick.

Fulk was in a stooping position, struggling to escape. That saved him.

He fell with his body across a joist, which with a few others had not

been sawn—some few had to be left to keep the floor apparently safe.

His arms flew out in front, his legs struggling behind; he was poised

on the centre of his body. At any other time one might have laughed. In

that terrible moment the instinctive love of life endowed him with

unusual strength. He knew not how he did it, but he got astride of the

joist; he worked himself along it; he reached one of the slender iron

columns or shafts which supported the boxes and gallery. He who

mistrusted his power to climb a rope, in that hour of horrors went up

that shaft with ease, assisted by the scroll-work on it. He got into

the very box where Violet sat, with straining eyes gazing into that

bottomless pit. Exhausted, he fell on his knees beside her. Exhausted,

he heard the cry of “Fire!”—heard the rush to the doors. He remained on

his knees, gazing, like her, down into the pit.

The cry that rose up—the shouts, the groans, the shrieks—will ring in

Fulk’s ears till his death. Violet never heard a sound; her whole

faculties were concentrated in her eyes. Heaps of human beings

striving, heaving; fragments of dresses, opera cloaks fluttering from

joists in mid-air; splinters with pieces of torn coats—Ah! I cannot

write it; and she dares not tell me. One dares not dwell on this scene.

One more word only. Fulk glanced at the stage: still the lights burnt

there; the painted scene was untouched; the singer, F—o, had fled by

the stage staircase.

It is odd, but the idea since came to me—she was the cheese; the hall,

the trap. The simile will hardly bear close investigation.

It was those few minutes that Fulk and Violet spent in motionless

horror that saved them. They thereby escaped the crush at the door;

that is to say, they escaped being in it; it was impossible to go out

without seeing it. Fulk recovered himself a little: his first instinct

was that of a gentleman—the lady beside him. He caught her arm, and

dragged her up from her seat; and she came with him unresistingly out

of the box into the corridor: he could feel her whole frame tremble.

Perhaps, reasoning after the event, they might as well have sat still;

but remember the awful cry of fire, the instinctive desire to escape,

and that Fulk was still fearful of being re-captured! They reached the

staircase—descended it to within a few feet of the passage. There they

saw a black mass, writhing, heaving: it was a mass of men and women who

had fallen, and been trodden down. It extended along the whole passage

to the open air. Then Violet fainted, and hung in his arms inert,

helpless. Poor girl! it was enough to unnerve the boldest man. Fulk

grasped her round the waist—he was short remember—he struggled with

her; got his feet on that awful floor of moving bodies; he stumbled,

and staggered towards the air, gasping for breath, dragging,

half-trailing her behind him. He cried for help—his arms failed him;

his poor, weak leg—the one that had been broken—slipped down into a

crevice between two fallen men, and strive how he would he could not

get it out. A mist swam before his eyes; but he did not let go—gallant

little Fulk!

Strong arms seized him. Cabmen, police, coachmen, grooms—idlers who had

rushed to the doors—seized him, and pulled him out, and set him on his

legs, and pushed the brandy flask between his teeth. And still Fulk

instinctively held tight to his burden.

“Where shall I drive you, sir?” said one cabman.

“To—I don’t know. Where is a good hotel?”

“The ‘Dragon,’ sir.”

“Help to lift her in.”

Fifteen minutes afterwards they were at the “Dragon.” Fortunate,

indeed; for all the city—the great city—was pouring in vast crowds to

that horrible doorway; and those who were extricated found it difficult

to get away.

Fulk and Violet were well cared for at the “Dragon,” as, indeed, they

would be after so terrible a catastrophe had brought out all the

sympathy there was latent in that city. Besides, they were

well-dressed, and Fulk was found to have money in his pocket-money, to

do them justice, not one farthing of which was touched while he and

Violet lay in adjoining rooms helpless—for they were helpless, utterly

exhausted for six whole days. When Fulk, conscious that he must be

stirring, did pull himself together and got out of bed, and into the

sitting apartment, the first thing he saw was a newspaper on the table,

the _Stirmingham Daily News_, which had come out with a deep line of

black round every page, and in which was a list of the dead and

wounded; the killed were very few in proportion to the injured. Fulk

looked for Theodore Marese; he found his name among the dead. Theodore

was gone to his account; he had been found on the floor of the vault

face downwards, quite dead. There was a deep wound in his forehead, and

it was thought that, in falling, his head had struck the iron-bound

edge of one of the supposed whisky casks.

Violet, when she heard that Fulk was up, came out of her room and held

out her hand. She was still dreadfully pale; but Fulk thought he had

never seen a more beautiful face. She thanked him with tears in her

eyes; and Fulk in vain tried to make her think that he had done

nothing. “I was up yesterday,” she said, “but I could not go till you

were better. Now, will you please take me back to the asylum?”

“The asylum?” said Fulk, in amazement.

“Yes; Mr Theodore will be anxious about me. I sent a message yesterday

to him, but I have had no reply.”

“Theodore Marese is dead,” said Fulk, quietly. “I trust you have had

nothing to do with him?”

“Dead!” Violet shuddered. “But I must go to the asylum; perhaps Aymer

has returned.”

“Aymer—what Aymer?”

An explanation followed, which will be readily understood. It was long

before Violet could believe him; till at last his reiterated

statements, and the little incidents he related, shook her incredulity.

Even then she was partially doubtful, till Fulk chanced to look at the

paper on the table. There was an advertisement in large type—“Escaped

from the Asylum, Fulk Lechester and Aymer Malet.” She could no longer

doubt.

“How miserably I have been deceived,” she said, and burst into tears.

Fulk was greatly shocked.

“You see now that I must hasten away,” he said. “Doubtless this great

catastrophe has occupied men’s minds, and interfered to prevent a

strict search; but now I have found you it is a folly to remain here.

My rendezvous with Aymer is at The Place, World’s End. We will go to

World’s End at once.”

“Aymer will be there?” said Violet, brightening a little.

“Yes, Aymer will be there,” said Fulk.

That evening they paid the bill—to the honour of the “Dragon,” it was a

very small one—and reached the station in a fly. The same train that

had taken Aymer to London took them also. They stayed that night at an

hotel, and next afternoon travelled down to the little station nearest

to World’s End. Another fly took them to the outskirts of Bury Wick

village; and from thence they walked to The Place. Violet’s heart sank;

it was dark, not a light in the window, not a sign of life; the doors

were fast. They broke a pane of glass, and Fulk opened the window, got

in, and unbolted one of the back doors. Fulk had taken the precaution

to bring with him a few provisions, and had also bought the local

paper—_The Barnham Chronicle_—and stuffed it in with the ham in the

basket, for he was anxious to read about his cousin Lady Agnes’

marriage. Violet made a fire, and got some tea: she had provided that.

Where was Aymer?

A strange night that at The Place. Fulk felt safer now he was out of

the city: but Violet had too vivid a memory of the past. In the very

house where so many happy hours had been passed she was alone with a

perfect stranger, or one who was a stranger but a little while before.

And Aymer?

“Where could Aymer be?” was the question she constantly asked.

Fulk said, “Aymer was doubtless at Belthrop, trying to find her.”

“But Hannah Bond knows I started for Stirmingham,” objected Violet. “If

Aymer should see her, and go back to Stirmingham. I must write to

her—or will you?”

“I will go and see her,” said Fulk; “certainly I will. But remember

that I am in hiding; it must be at night. Wait till to-morrow night.

Give Aymer that little time to come, then I will go.”

“Hannah must come and live here with me,” said Violet, musingly. “I

think I shall stay at The Place till—till—where is your newspaper?”

“I—I—burnt it,” said Fulk. “I burnt it helping you to light the fire.”

It was the truth, yet it was a lie. He had burnt it, that Violet might

not see something in it. Aymer was not at Belthrop. Aymer’s name was in

the paper.

“How shall I amuse you?” said Violet. “This is my home; I must amuse

you. I will play to you one of the airs that Aymer likes. Poor Aymer!”

she added, half to herself.

The gentle, melancholy music of Mendelssohn filled the room from the

long unused piano.

“Poor Aymer!” repeated Fulk to himself. Poor Aymer, indeed!

Chapter Thirteen.

At twelve o’clock of the night before his wedding-day, Marese Baskette

was galloping, fast as his best thorough-bred could carry him, from

Barnham town to The Towers. Barely had he settled himself at his hotel

to think over the coming day, than a message summoned him to return. It

was a splendid night—warm, still, the sky full of stars, and a faint

odour of the hawthorn blossom in the air. The thin mist that Lady

Lechester had seen had descended into the hollows, and as Marese rode

through it, it reached to his saddle-bow. The horse rushed on, hidden

in the cloud that covered the earth; the rider sat above it. Far behind

clattered the groom, who had fetched him in hot haste.

“Lady Lechester is lost!” Such was his brief message, and not all

Marese’s sharp questioning could elicit anything more, for the simple

reason that nothing more was known. About eight o’clock she had been

seen to leave the house, and the servants took no particular notice of

it, expecting her to return in a short time, as she usually did. As she

usually did I—this was the first time Marese had heard of the nocturnal

walks of his bride. It was a mystery to him: it angered him. A man of

plots and stratagems, he was always more or less suspicious of others.

An hour had passed, and Lady Lechester did not return. The guests—and

they were numerous that night at The Towers—asked for her; the

household still kept their mistress’s secret, but two ventured out to

seek her. They went to the well-known spot, they saw the oak trunk,

they heard the roar of the river—but Lady Lechester was not there. An

anxious consultation took place; butler, footmen, the upper servants

held a whispered discussion. At last the gamekeeper was sent for: if

Lady Lechester happened to see him, she would not be annoyed; if she

met any of the others, and fancied they had been watching her, it would

cost them their places. The guests were put off with various excuses.

Time passed: the gamekeeper reported the park clear, and not a trace of

Lady Agnes. The truth could no longer be concealed. The alarm and

excitement among the wedding guests may easily be imagined. All the

gentlemen at once put on their hats, and with lanterns and brandy

flasks proceeded to search the park in every direction. A man was

despatched post-haste on the swiftest horse for the bridegroom. One

gentleman rode with him to Barnham, woke up the police, and instructed

them to be on the alert, but, if possible, to keep matters quiet.

Especially they were to look out for the dog Dando, who was known to

have accompanied Lady Agnes, but had not returned.

Marese reached The Towers about one in the morning. During his ride he

had mastered his feelings; he had crushed down the superstitious

presentiment which warned him that all was in vain. He had not felt so

unusually nervous about this marriage for nothing. But he mastered

himself. One of his maxims was never to regret the past, but to apply

the mind with iron will to make the best of the present. He called the

servants, naturally taking the lead, and made them tell him all they

knew. Then for the first time Lady Agnes’ strange visits to “The Pot”

became known; and at once the gloomiest forebodings filled the minds of

the guests. She was drowned; she had fallen down “The Pot.” The idea

grew and grew, till it became the one belief. Marese himself could not

doubt it. It was a strange and solemn conclave they held, at that hour

of the night, in the hall at The Towers, Marese standing in the midst,

his face pale but composed, the guests crowding round him, the servants

coming up one by one to be examined. The great clock at The Towers

tolled two, and there stepped silently into the room a stranger,

plainly dressed, but remarkably upright, with an air of authority—the

Superintendent of police from Barnham. A silence followed his entrance.

He marked it, and said that he had brought drags to search the

river—was there a boat anywhere to be obtained?

There was no boat. The Ise ran so swift and was so shallow at ordinary

times, and lay so deep down between its banks, that no one cared to

keep a boat. The nearest known was a little punt four miles down the

river, where it enlarged into a small lake. A man was despatched to

borrow it, and pole it up the rapid stream; he could not reach “The

Pot,” work as hard as he might, under three hours. All the gentlemen

and not a few of the ladies, too excited to sit quietly within, went

with the Superintendent across the park to “The Pot,” and watched the

drags used. The Superintendent asked them to stand back a moment while

he examined the ground round the mouth of the funnel. He did so

carefully; the grass had left no mark of a footstep, there was not a

trace of a struggle, not a scrap of dress hanging to a twig, or a

broken ornament. Then the drags were dropped down the strange funnel

into the roaring water, and under the quiet stars the wedding guests

gathered in a circle, watching the police as they searched the cave in

vain. Neither drag nor pole could detect anything at the bottom; the

light of the strongest bull’s-eye failed to show any trace that a body

had fallen down that narrow crevice; no stones or earth recently

dislodged, not a particle of dress or shawl here either.

By this time the ladies were tired, and shivered in the early morning

breeze; they retired, but the gentlemen, greatly excited, stayed and

assisted to fish the river Ise downwards for miles. The body would

surely be carried with the current: but no, not a trace. The bright sun

of the glorious May morning found them still at the mournful task. This

was the wedding morning. The thrushes burst into song; the cuckoo flew

over with his merry cry; dewdrops glittered like gems upon the bushes,

and the lovely May bloom scented the breeze. A wedding morn indeed!—but

where was the bride? More than one glanced for a moment from the turbid

river up to the deep azure of the sky, and the natural thought that

followed need not be described. They met the punt at last—but it was

useless. The man who poled it up had kept a close look out; nothing had

floated by.

“We shall not find it,” said the Superintendent, “till the flood

subsides.”

Even yet there was one hope as they walked sadly back to The Towers:

the dog Dando—where was he? It was reasonable to think that if Lady

Lechester had fallen into the river, the dog would presently return to

The Towers. If he did not return, there was still hope that she had

wandered in some other direction, or had met with an accident—sprained

her ankle, or broken her leg in the woods, perhaps. This idea had

occurred to the Superintendent and to Marese long before, and the

gamekeeper, with eight or ten willing assistants, had been searching

the woods for hours. As they neared The Towers it was obvious from the

group of people talking excitedly before the entrance that something

had happened. A policeman came towards them, leading Dando in a leash.

He had but just arrived in a trap from Barnham town. Questions poured

out from a hundred lips; it was difficult to get an explanation, but it

was understood at last. The Superintendent on leaving Barnham had not

omitted to warn the men on their heats in the town to look out for a

dog—Lady Lechester’s well-known dog—merely as a forlorn hope, never

dreaming that Dando would wander thither. But a little after sunrise,

perhaps about six o’clock, the dog Dando walked up the high street of

Barnham behind a man wearing a grey suit, who knocked at the door of Mr

Broughton’s private residence. Before the knock was answered the man in

the grey suit was in custody, and the dog secured. The man in the grey

suit struggled violently—fought like a wild beast, which still further

prejudiced the police against him, and was with difficulty handcuffed,

manacled, and conveyed to the station-house on a stretcher. No one to

look at his slight figure would have thought him capable of such savage

battling. He asked perpetually for Mr Broughton, declared that he was

not mad—which was strange, as no one had accused him of that failing,

and refused to give his name—another trait that looked ill. When asked

if he had seen Lady Lechester he denied all knowledge of such a person.

The dog had followed him just as any other dog might. As to the road he

had come he was obstinately silent. The police had not waited to waste

further inquiries upon him, but hastened to The Towers with the news

for their chief.

His face fell immediately. “I fear,” he said, “that Lady Lechester is

indeed lost. The dog would never have left her unless. However, we have

now got a clue.”

Marese gave up all hope; yet with his old cool self-possession before

he started with the Superintendent for Barnham, he wrote out a telegram

and despatched it to Theodore, briefly acquainting him with what had

happened, and asking him to be especially agreeable _to that

person_—meaning Violet, whose value as a second string to the bow had

risen at once. This telegram was despatched to a dead man: Theodore had

been killed the night before in the Sternhold Hall, but in the

confusion and the difficulty of at once identifying bodies, no news had

been sent to Marese.

With the Superintendent, Marese went into the cell at the police

station, and saw Aymer Malet handcuffed and manacled. Poor Aymer,

indeed! His hair was rough over his forehead, his cheeks stained with

blood from a scratch received in the struggle, his whole look wild in

the extreme. He saw Marese Baskette, the murderer, the man who had

confined him. Is it to be wondered at that he grew excited? He said

nothing, but his face worked, and his teeth ground together. Marese

looked at him steadily, almost with a smile. In that moment, swift as

it passed, he debated upon his best course. Truth, or what he called

truth, was the safest, although it would save Aymer’s life.

“I know this man,” he said. “He is a lunatic; he has escaped from my

cousin’s asylum at Stirmingham. He is very dangerous: without a doubt,

this is the guilty party.”

Aymer denied it. All his efforts were to make people believe that he

was not mad. As yet he had no conception of the darker shadow hanging

over him: his one idea was, that he had been pursued and captured—that

he should be sent back to the asylum. Therefore he had refused to give

his name, or to describe the road by which he had come to Barnham. This

very mistake increased the suspicion against him of a knowledge of Lady

Lechester’s disappearance. It will now be understood why Fulk burnt the

paper that Violet might not read it, and why The Place was dark and

cheerless when they reached it. These events had happened just before

they arrived.

Marese never lost his presence of mind for a moment, not even when he

heard of Theodore’s awful death. Turn the mind to the present, was his

maxim: do the best with it you can. His one concern was the

disappearance of Violet: still he felt certain that he should be able

to trace her. At present, the one thing needful was to crush Aymer

Malet. He held that enemy now in the hollow of his hand: he should

“taste his finger,” as the Orientals say.

The magistrates on hearing the evidence at once made out a warrant, and

Aymer was remanded, while the search went on for the body, which still

eluded all search. Upon the third day, however, some important evidence

turned up, and it was thought best to take it in the presence of the

prisoner. Aymer was in consequence led into the large apartment used

for such purposes at the police station, still wearing the handcuffs,

for Marese had industriously spread the belief that he was a dangerous

lunatic. The general public were not admitted; but a few gentlemen were

present, and among these was Mr Broughton, who at once recognised

Aymer, rough as his present appearance wan, and came forward and spoke

to him. Aymer asked him to defend him, and Broughton, to his credit,

said he would. To his credit, for his interest in the Lechester estates

was large.

The magistrates seeing so respectable a solicitor as Mr Broughton

taking an interest in the prisoner, consulted, and to Marese’s intense

disgust offered to allow the prisoner half an hour to confer with his

attorney. In that brief period poor Aymer had to relate his confinement

and his escape. Broughton listened attentively; then he said—

“Your story is strange, almost incredible; still you are in a position

where nothing will do you much good but public opinion. My usual advice

would be to reserve your defence; my present advice to you is to tell

the Bench exactly what you have told me, only much more fully. There

are no reporters admitted; but I will see that your statement is

published. I believe you myself. If the public show any signs of

believing you, the prosecutors will withdraw. It is your only chance;

for, to be candid, the evidence is terribly against you.”

They returned to the justice-room. The first witness called was the

policeman who had detected Aymer and the dog in the street. He

described Aymer as walking very fast, and dodging from house to house

as if trying to escape notice. This was point Number 1 against him.

Then came the evidence as to his furious struggle with the police. One

constable could barely make himself understood; a blow straight from

the shoulder had knocked a tooth out, and his voice sounded hollow and

indistinct. Such a violent resistance obviously indicated a guilty

conscience. This was point Number 2 against him. Next it was stated,

and stated with perfect truth, that the prisoner had refused to give

his name, his place of residence, or any information about himself; and

that, finally, he had totally denied even so much as knowing that there

was such a person as Lady Lechester. He had tried to conceal his

identity in every way, and had deliberately told an untruth, for after

living so long at World’s End, how could he have failed to know Lady

Lechester? This was point Number 3. Then he gave a very vague,

unsatisfactory account of how the dog had followed him. He declared

that the dog was a strange dog to him—that he had never seen it before.

Now this must be also a wilful falsehood. Point Number 4. But the

darkest evidence of all was reserved to the last. There was brought

into the room an “iron-witted” ploughboy, with a shock head of light

hair, small eyes, heavy jowl, and low forehead—the very class of

witness most to be dreaded, for nothing on earth can make them

understand that it is possible for them to be mistaken.

The ploughboy, Andrew Hornblow by name, told his story

straightforwardly enough. He said that he had been to the “Shepherd’s

Bush” that fateful evening, after work; that he had a pint and a half

of ale, but was not any the worse for liquor. That at about half-past

seven, or a little earlier, he left the “Shepherd’s Bush” inn to return

to the farmhouse where he slept. He went across the fields and Downs,

and his path led him over a section of the park. As he passed a fir

copse he heard some one playing on a tin whistle in a most peculiar

way. He was curious: to see who it was, and got into the copse. The

moment his footsteps were heard the whistle stopped; but pushing aside

the boughs, he caught a glimpse of a tallish man, in a grey suit—a

dirty-grey suit—who seemed anxious to avoid observation, and plunged

into the dark recesses of the copse. He didn’t think much of it at the

time; but it so happened that the spot where he had seen the man was

within a hundred yards of “The Pot;” and talking of the disappearance

of Lady Lechester to his master, the fact had got to the knowledge of

the police. Had he seen that man since? Not till he had come into the

room; and he pointed at the prisoner, who indeed wore a grey suit,

somewhat travel-stained and frayed in places, as if from passage

through hedges or woods.

Mr Broughton cross-examined this witness at great length, and with his

accustomed shrewdness—but in vain, the ploughboy was certain the

prisoner was the man. All that could be got from him was, that he had

not distinctly seen the face of the man in the copse, but he was

tallish, and wore a dirty-grey suit. This established the fact that the

prisoner was near about the spot, where Lady Lechester had disappeared

somewhere within half an hour of that mysterious event.

Point Number 6 was still more convincing. Upon the prisoner being

searched, there was found upon him a tin whistle. The whistle was

produced, and was of a peculiar construction: when blown, it gave a

singular sound, more musical than the ordinary whistle. It was covered

with sketches—apparently engraved with a sharp tool—of dogs, some of

them very spirited and faithful outline representations. It was well

known that the prisoner was a good draughtsman. The only point that

remained to be established was the death of Lady Lechester. The body

had not been found.

Upon this evidence the police very properly asked for a remand till the

body was discovered.

Mr Broughton immediately applied for bail.

The Bench asked upon what grounds, and this gave Aymer an opportunity

to tell his tale. Remember, that all this time Marese Baskette was

sitting side by side with the magistrates, who naturally felt for his

position, and treated him with exceptional courtesy.

When Aymer began, Marese objected on the ground that the prisoner was a

lunatic escaped from Stirmingham Asylum, and that these wild

statements, if they got into print, would do him harm. The Bench

assured him that nothing the prisoner—whose wild appearance proved the

condition of his mind—could say would prejudice him in their

estimation, and as there were no reporters present nothing could get

abroad. It was better to let the prisoner tell his tale; he might

inadvertently disclose the fate of poor Lady Lechester. It was true

that the prisoner being a lunatic would escape the extreme penalty of

the law, but it was very desirable to learn all that could be known of

poor Lady Agnes. Marese had to be satisfied, and to listen while Aymer,

in clear, forcible language, told his story, hinting broadly at

Marese’s complicity in the death of Jason Waldron, and describing the

manner in which he had been trapped, and his escape. The Bench listened

with an incredulous air, as well they might. The man was evidently

mad—quite mad. Finally, Aymer came to his arrival at Belthrop late in

the afternoon of the day after he had got out of the asylum. Finding

Violet was not at Hannah Bond’s, and greatly alarmed, he was at a loss

what to do. To go back to Stirmingham was extremely dangerous for fear

of re-capture, and he hesitated for a while. At last, after partaking

of refreshment given to him by old Hannah, he had started for Barnham

with the intention of calling on Mr Broughton and taking his advice.

Halfway to Barnham it had occurred to him that perhaps Violet after all

was at The Towers, and he diverged from his course and approached the

mansion, as he supposed, about one in the morning. He saw a number of

people about and in commotion, and afraid of being recognised and

captured altered his mind again, and turned to go to Barnham across the

Downs. In doing so he admitted that he had passed near “The Pot,” but

not at the time stated by the ploughboy—half-past seven in the

evening—but half-past one in the morning. As he walked through the

grass he saw something glistening, and picked up the tin whistle found

upon him. He should not have taken the trouble to carry it away had it

not been for the curious figures on it, which, being a light night, he

could just distinguish. As he came up the side of the Downs, just as he

passed The Giant’s Ring—i.e., a circle of stones set on edge—some

ancient monument—he was overtaken by the dog Dando, who jumped and

fawned upon him with delight as an old friend, and followed him to

Barnham where he was captured by the police. He had resisted them

because he thought they were under orders to return him to the asylum.

The dog Dando limped a little, and he had noticed that his back showed

signs of a severe recent beating. Hannah Bond could prove that he did

not leave Belthrop till nearly or quite eight, and it was impossible

for him to get to “The Pot,” ten miles, in less than three hours,

across a rough country. His dress was dirty and torn because he had

walked quite twenty miles when arrested, and passed through several

coppices. Upon this Mr Broughton asked for bail, and offered himself in

any sum they might name. But the Bench could not get over the fact of

the asylum—the prisoner was a dangerous lunatic; even if his story was

true he was a lunatic. No; the prisoner was removed to his cell pending

the discovery of the body of Lady Lechester. All that Broughton could

do was to order his carriage and set out for Belthrop to find Hannah

Bond.

Poor Aymer. It was Violet he thought of still. But events press so

quickly, it is impossible to pause and analyse his emotion. The next

day about noon, Mr Broughton came into the cell with a grave look upon

his face, and carrying a large parcel in his hand. Aymer begged him to

tell him the truth at once. Mr Broughton told him that first the body

of Lady Lechester had been found. A more careful search by boat near

“The Pot” had discovered it. Instead of being carried down by the

current, an eddy at the cave had thrown it up against the course of the

stream a few yards, and lodged it behind a boulder. There were no marks

of violence: she had simply been drowned. Secondly, he had been to

Belthrop, and found Hannah Bond’s cottage shut up, the old lady gone,

and not a trace of her to be found, though he had searched the villages

for miles round. Thirdly, the book parcel in his hand had been to

London to Aymer’s address there, and had been returned to him, Aymer

having left instructions that his letters should be sent to Mr

Broughton. Upon removing the outer wrapper, there was the name and

address of Aymer Malet, Esq, written in the handwriting of the dead

Lady Lechester.

Chapter Fourteen.

Fulk had a difficult game to play. In the first place, his motions were

restricted by the dread of Marese’s emissaries: he could only go out at

night. He wished to preserve Violet from a knowledge of Aymer’s

misfortune, and yet to go to work himself to release his friend. The

first thing to do was to get Hannah Bond to The Place, for clearly

Violet could not remain there alone with him. Knowing the country well,

he had no difficulty on the night after their arrival—the very night

after the preliminary examination of Aymer Malet—in finding his way to

Belthrop. He explained the circumstances to Hannah, who at once packed

up a few things, and walked back with him over the Downs to The Place,

without awakening one of her neighbours. This was how Hannah Bond

disappeared.

Fulk’s knowledge of the circumstances under which Aymer had been

arrested was very meagre, but on the third day the _Barnham Chronicle_

came out, and Hannah got him a copy. In it was a full, almost verbatim,

account of the preliminary examination, furnished, in fact, by Mr

Broughton. Over this paper Fulk spent the greater part of the night

thinking. He shut himself up in a room at The Place on the pretence

that he had letters to write, and studied the report, line for line and

word for word. After an hour or two, his eye became irresistibly

attracted by a little paragraph in small type, evidently added at the

last moment before going to press. It was but a few lines, announcing

that the dog Dando had again disappeared from The Towers. He had been

chained up carefully as was supposed, but he had gone in the night.

This little paragraph fixed Fulk’s attention. He tried to follow the

dog’s motions. Why, when Lady Lechester fell down “The Pot,” did not

the dog return to The Towers? Why did he turn up at The Giant’s Ring,

with a limp in one leg, as if from a kick, and his back bearing marks

of a severe beating? How came that odd and peculiar whistle in the

grass—how came there to be two men in grey, one at half-past seven, the

other at half-past one? The ploughboy had heard a peculiar whistling.

By degrees the conviction forced itself into his mind that the other

than in grey—the half-past seven man—must have been no other than his

cousin Odo. All the facts answered to such a theory. A tallish man,

playing upon a tin whistle; the dog—the dog was of the very breed that

Odo had such a fancy for. The beating—doubtless the dog had been

attracted by Odo, but had refused to obey him, and had been kicked and

thrashed till he ran off, and crossed Aymer’s path. The Giant’s Ring

had actually been one of Odo’s favourite haunts before he was confined.

It was a wild and desolate spot. Fulk saw it all now clearly. Obviously

Odo was still lingering about, perhaps trying to find the whistle he

had dropped—obviously Odo had stolen the dog Dando from the The Towers

a second time. If he could find Dando, he could find Odo; and Odo

found, then Aymer’s release was a matter of time only. Fulk meditated,

and at last resolved upon his course—he would visit the haunts which he

knew Odo used to favour. But Odo was a strong and powerful man, endowed

with singular physical strength, Fulk was little, and by no means

strong. Art must conquer Nature. Fulk prepared a cord with a noose, the

use of which he had learnt years and years before in a trip to South

America. It was a lasso, in fact.

Then followed an anxious time. Violet grew more and more restless.

Although The Place was so retired, yet people began to know that it was

again inhabited. Fulk had heard of strangers being seen about, and he

at once guessed that Marese had his spies searching for Aymer Malet’s

companion in the escape. Every night he went out upon his strange

errand, hunting the wild man of the woods. Meantime, an inquest was

held upon poor Lady Lechester, and a verdict of murder returned against

Aymer Malet. Days and nights passed, and hunt and search how he would,

still Odo eluded him.

It was a warm, beautiful evening. The same lucent planet that had so

often shone upon Lady Lechester during her visit to the fatal “Pot,”

glittered in the western sky: but its beams were somewhat dimmed by the

new moon, whose crescent was on the point of disappearing below the

horizon. Fulk, pushing slowly and sadly through the woods and copses,

inhaled the fragrance of the pine tree. The rabbits scattered at his

approach; now and then a wood pigeon rose into the air, with a

tremendous clatter. In the open it was still light; under the trees a

dusky shadow brooded. At a distance, he could faintly hear the sound of

rushing water, and the fidgety chirping of the restless brook-sparrows

and sedge-warblers. Suddenly there rose a shrill, piping sound; and

Fulk started, and his heart for a moment stood still. He listened; then

came a strange weird music—if music it could be called—for in its

indescribable cadences it reminded him of the playing of the savages in

far-off shores, visited years ago. But he recognised it in an instant.

He had heard Odo play similar notes when they were boys. Gently,

gently, he crept through the brushwood, and holding a branch aside,

looked down from the bank upon the stream. It rushed along swiftly with

a murmuring sound, reflecting upon its surface the image of the bright

planet. The sedges and reeds rustled in the light breeze; and there was

Odo. Across the stream there was a fallen tree—the very tree Odo had

loved in his youth—and astride upon that tree sat the Beast-Man, his

feet nearly touching the water, playing upon a tin whistle. Before him

was the dog Dando, standing on his hind legs, and moving in grotesque

time to the music. Odo reproached the dog, and told him that he was an

unworthy son of his father, and could not dance half so well—had he

already forgotten his beating? But perhaps it was the fault of his

whistle. Ah, he had lost his best whistle—the one he had made with

selected tin, and ornamented with pictures of his dogs—among them

Dando’s father, who danced so much better. Then he muttered incoherent,

half-articulate sounds to the dog, sighed deeply, and began to play

again. Poor Odo!

Fulk hesitated. There was a large soul in his little body—he pitied the

poor fellow before him from the bottom of his heart. All that singular

being wanted was the open air, and freedom to play his tin whistle,

fondle his dogs, roam in the woods, and tinker up pots and kettles. Had

he been permitted to follow these inclinations, it was doubtful if he

would ever have committed crime; but civilisation would not permit it.

For a whole year he had been roaming from wood to wood, from wilderness

to wilderness, whistling, tinkering sometimes, always happy in simple

freedom. Probably he had destroyed Lady Agnes to obtain the dog, the

progenitor of which appeared to have been a favourite in old times. But

Fulk reflected that, while he hesitated, Aymer languished in the cell,

Violet was wearing her heart out, and his own liberty was endangered.

Moreover, there was a duty to society: such beings must not go wholly

at large, or no one would be safe.

The lasso hissed through the air, the noose dropped round Odo’s neck,

and was drawn tight in an instant. It had taken his neck and one

shoulder. He roared aloud with pain and anger, but the cord choked him.

His arms struck out, but he had nothing to grasp. He was dragged on

shore in a moment. He floundered—leapt up, and fell again, tearing at

the rope like a wild beast taken in the toils. With a swift, dexterous

turn of the hand, Fulk wound the cord about his arms and legs, much as

a spider might its web about a fly, till Odo lay panting on the sward,

helpless, but still hoarsely murmuring and grunting. Then Fulk loosened

the lasso round his neck, and proceeded to tie the limbs tighten,

finally binding him hard and fast to a tree. Odo’s frame quivered; and

Fulk, in the dim light, fancied that great tears gathered in his eyes.

After binding Odo, there was still a piece of the rope left: with this

Fulk secured the dog, which, frightened and astonished, had cowered on

the earth. Dando evidently had no affection for Odo: he had been wiled

away by gipsy arts only. Then, leading Dando, Fulk set off at a run,

tearing through wood and hedge, mounting the steep Downs, fast as his

strength could carry him, away for Barnham town.

At that very time, late into the night, Mr Broughton was conferring

with the prisoner in his cell. He had been sent for in haste, and went

quickly fearing lest Aymer should be ill. The parcel addressed to Aymer

Malet in Lady Lechester’s handwriting was a large antique Bible, which

Aymer recognised in a moment as having belonged to old Jenkins, the

gardener at The Place. He had seen it lying about, but had taken no

notice of it. It was in fact the very Bible Lady Agnes had purchased of

the gardener’s wife when left in destitution by her husband’s

imprisonment. Inside the Bible was a short formal note, dated the very

day in the evening of which Lady Agnes was drowned, stating that the

writer when she bought the book was unaware to whom it had belonged,

and therefore returned it to Aymer’s address—not knowing Violet’s—as

she desired to retain nothing of theirs. She added that she would

return the dog Dando if they would receive it, and tell her where to

send it. Aymer, having no occupation in his cell but melancholy

thoughts and anxious cares about Violet, naturally turned over the

leaves of the noble old book, and looking at it closer than before he

found at the end, upon one of the spare leaves, a curious inscription

which purported to be a copy from a tomb. It was in Latin, English, and

Greek—a strange, fantastic mixture—and when translated, read to the

effect that Arthur Sibbold Waldron, whilom of Wolf’s Glow, born

Sibbold, afterwards Sibbold Waldron, was married at Saint S— Church,

Middlesex, and was buried at Penge in Kent—with dates, and the usual

sentiments. The entry in the Bible simply added: “Copy of ye

inscription, now defaced. Mem. To have the same re-cut. B.W.” Here was

the clue Aymer had searched for in vain, thrown into his hands, by the

operation of those strange and mysterious circumstances over which no

one has any control. He sent for Mr Broughton; and so it was that when

Fulk found that gentleman it was in the cell. The surprise of Aymer,

and his pleasure at seeing Fulk, his still greater joy and relief when

Fulk in his first sentence announced that Violet was safe, can easily

be imagined. Mr Broughton had no sooner heard Fulk’s explanation than

he at once comprehended the importance of securing Odo. He and Fulk

with two assistants drove as near the wood as practicable, and after

much trouble safely lodged the unfortunate lunatic in the hands of the

police. Fulk remained with Broughton, who very considerately went in

his carriage in the morning over to The Place, and brought Violet and

Hannah Bond to his own private residence in Barnham.

At the inquiry that followed, the first step was the release of Aymer

on bail, on the testimony of Hannah Bond, that he had not left the

cottage at Belthrop till eight o’clock. The ploughboy, when shown Odo,

at once declared that this was the man he had seen—“A’ had such mortal

big ears—a’ minded that, now.” And Marese? His position became

extremely awkward. It was easy to declare that Aymer was a lunatic; but

when Fulk was produced—when the clever escape was related in exactly

the same manner by both—when Fulk added what he had overheard about the

murder of Jason Waldron, Marese could not but notice that the

magistrates and the Court looked coldly upon him. He claimed them both

as escaped lunatics. Said the Bench—

“We don’t see what right you have to them. The owner of the asylum is

dead. We will take it upon ourselves to say, that the lunatics, for

lunatics, have a remarkably sane way of talking.”

The result was, that Marese withdrew; the more he meddled with the

matter, the worse it became for him. To add to the evil complexion of

affairs, Odo confessed in his cell to the murder of Jason Waldron. He

strenuously denied having touched Lady Agnes; he declared that his sole

object was the dog. The dog was the descendant of an old favourite, and

he had once followed Miss Merton to Torquay to get it. But as he stole

round from behind the oak trunk to seize the dog, Lady Agnes saw him,

started, missed her footing, and fell down “The Pot.” He knew her—she

was his cousin, and he had no feeling against her. In all probability

this story was true, as no marks of violence were found on the body.

But he frankly confessed hitting Jason Waldron on the head with the

bill-hook; and stated exactly what Fulk had already said—that he was

told by Theodore Marese, if he killed that man, _and his daughter_

(Aymer shuddered), he should be always free. He had laid in wait for

the daughter; but she was out of his reach at The Towers.

Odo concluded with a cunning wink, and called Mr Broughton to come

near. He whispered to him that he should be the richest man in the

world if he would give him liberty. Broughton humoured the miserable

creature, and told the rest to leave the cell.

Then Odo disclosed his bribe. He said that years ago the gipsies with

whom he consorted had shown him a deed, to which they attached a

species of superstitious reverence, and asked him to read it, it being

in law characters, and in Latin. It was a deed conferring an entail

upon the estate at Wolfs Glow—“the very estate,” whispered Odo, “that

all the people are trying for.”

Odo ascertained that this deed had been stolen by Romy Baskette’s elder

brother—the man who, with his mother, left the Swamp when old Will

Baskette was shot—stolen with the intention of injuring the Sibbolds,

his father’s murderers. He had watched old Sibbold poring over this

deed, therefore thought it valuable, seized his opportunity, and stole

it. With the strangest, maddest mixture of shrewdness and lunacy, Odo

in his turn stole the deed from the gipsies who had preserved it, and

held it, to be used as a bribe in case he should be captured. He now

offered it to Broughton, if Broughton would only let him go free.

The lawyer must be forgiven if he told a falsehood, and promised. Odo

told him where the deed was hidden; and, as he had described, so they

found it. In that tree which had fallen across the stream where he had

used to sit astride and whistle, halfway across was a knot. This knot

with his tools he had cut out—excavated a cavity, and used the knot to

hide it; so that the closest inspection must have failed to find it.

They found the tree and the knot. They got the knot out; there was a

small tin box—Odo’s own workmanship—and in the box was the long-lost

deed.

Poor Odo of course never got his freedom; but there were friends who

saw that he was as well cared for as under the circumstances was

possible. Who could harbour revenge against such a creature? He was but

the instrument in the hands of others, and not truly guilty of poor

Jason’s death. That lay at the door of Marese and Theodore. Theodore

was dead. Morally speaking, Fulk slew Marese. He wrote a full account

of what he had overheard, and it was published in a great London paper.

The asylum was searched, and the holes in the wall found as described.

By this letter Fulk secured two objects: first his own liberty in

future—for popular opinion rose with irresistible violence in his

favour; secondly, he destroyed Marese. Yet it was not the murder of

Jason Waldron which did it; it was the _Lucca_. There were people who

had lost heavily over the _Lucca_, these people pursued Marese

Baskette, threatened him with criminal, civil, and every kind of

proceedings. He fled, escaping arrest by a few hours only, taking with

him five thousand pounds in gold. He is believed to have reached

California, but has not been heard of since. Whether the Nemesis of

these modern days—“circumstances over which we have no

control”—engulfed him in still deadlier ruin, was never known. His

fall, as it was, was great indeed.

By the death of Lady Agnes Lechester, Fulk succeeded to her estates,

which, added to those already his, made him one of the largest

landholders in the county. If he survives Odo, he will be a still more

wealthy man. He never left Aymer’s side till all was well.

Aymer and Violet were married in the autumn—married in the quietest

manner, and, aided pecuniarily by Fulk, left for the south of France,

there to try and efface the memory of the awful event that had

embittered the path of their love. Fulk joined them with a yacht two

months later on. They are very, very happy, but it is in a subdued and

quiet manner. It is hardly possible for them yet, even in the sunny

south, to feel so abundantly joyous as would be natural to their youth.

But as the time rolls on they will gradually supplant the old unhappy

memories with fresh and pleasant pictures.

The last letter from Fulk announced that the sea breezes and the fresh

air had begun to work wonders with his complexion, and that he hoped

ere long to throw off the horrid yellow produced by his confinement,

and resume his proper colour. That was natural in Fulk; the proverb

says that little men are often conceited. Yellow or rosy, or brown, he

will always be the dearest friend of Aymer and Violet.

And the great estate—the city of Stirmingham? To this very hour that

Gordian knot remains untied; to this very hour claimants every now and

then startle the world with extraordinary statements; and the companies

having nothing else to do, have fallen to loggerheads between

themselves, and spend their vast incomes in litigation. But aided by

Fulk’s money, and the influence his family connections possessed,

Violet did at last receive a portion of her rights; the chain of

evidence proving her descent from Arthur Sibbold was completed down to

the smallest link.

The Corporation of Stirmingham, after much law and talk, were finally

compelled to acknowledge her claim. By arbitration it was settled that

they were to pay her eight thousand pounds per annum for ten years, and

at the expiration of that period, ten thousand pounds per annum to

herself and heirs, in perpetual ground rent. The companies still hold

out, but it is only as to the amount they shall contribute in the same

way; and they will have to come to terms. Violet will thus receive a

large income without compromising her rights, which are specially

reserved. She has not forgotten poor Jenkins, whose Bible gave the clue

to the register of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage. The old man is at last

recompensed for his long-suffering—the imprisonment expired in due

time. He and his wife live in the old cottage at The Place, tending the

gardens as of yore, being made comfortable with an ample provision from

Violet.

Violet and Aymer once a year visit The Place and the tomb of poor

Jason. They have taken a mansion at Tunbridge Wells, but spend much

time in Aymer’s beloved Florence, with Fulk. They love the old house,

and yet they do not care to live where everything recalls such gloomy

memories as at The Place.

The End.