The next morning Mark went up to London.
“Of course, Mr. Thorndyke,” the chief at Bow Street said, “your father's
suspicions as to the man's identity may or may not be justified; that,
however, makes no difference to us. Here is a highwayman who has been
wounded, and would certainly be a valuable capture: I will set my men to
work at once; if he is in London they will get news of him before many
days. My men in any case would do their duty, but your father's offer
will certainly stimulate their energy. Where are you stopping?”
“At the Bull, in Holborn.”
“Very well; I will be sure to let you know as soon as we get any clew to
the man's identity.”
Mark remained in London a week, and at the end of that time he received
a note from Bow Street saying that the superintendent wished to see him.
“I am sorry that I have no news for you, Mr. Thorndyke,” the officer
said, when he called upon him. “Every place where such a man would be
likely to be in hiding has been searched, and no clew whatever has been
obtained. We shall now circulate notices of the reward throughout the
country. If the man was at all severely hit, we may assume that he must
be somewhere in the neighborhood of London, whereas, if the wound was
a slight one, he might be able to go a long distance, and may be now
in York, for aught we know. However, now that the search in London has
terminated, I can really see no use in your staying here any longer; we
will let you know directly we have any news.”
Three months later John Thorndyke received a letter from the Detective
Office asking him to call the next time he came up to town, as although
no news had been obtained that would lead to the man's immediate
arrest, news had at any rate been obtained showing that he was alive. It
happened that Mark was intending to go up on the following day, and his
father asked him to call for him at Bow Street.
“Well, Mr. Thorndyke, we have heard about your man, and that after we
had quite abandoned the search. I had come to the conclusion that the
wound you gave him had been a fatal one, and that he had been quietly
buried by some of the people with whom he was connected. The discovery
was, as half these discoveries generally are, the result of accident.
Last week a gentleman entered the Bank and asked for change in gold for
a fifty pound note. The cashier, looking at the number, found that it
was one of those that had been stolen from a passenger by one of the
south coaches several months ago. The gentleman was at once taken into
a private office, and questioned as to how he had obtained the note.
The account that he gave was that he was a surgeon in practice at
Southampton. A gentleman had arrived there on a date which we found to
be the day after that on which you were stopped; he was well dressed,
and had the air of a gentleman; he had come down by coach, and was
evidently very ill. He told the surgeon that he had been engaged in a
duel, that the pistols had been discharged simultaneously, and that he
had killed his man, but had himself been severely wounded. He said that
the person whom he had killed had influential connections, and that it
would be necessary for him to remain in seclusion for a time, and he
asked him to take charge of his case, as he had ample means of paying
him handsomely. The surgeon examined the wound, and found it to be
indeed a serious one, and, as he thought, probably fatal. However,
having no doubt as to the truth of the story, he had taken the gentleman
in, and he remained under his charge until a week before he came up to
town.
“For the first month he had been dangerously ill, but he completely
recovered. The surgeon had no reason whatever for doubting his patient
being a gentleman; he was fashionably dressed, and had evidently changed
his clothes after the duel, as there were no bloodstains upon them. He
was, however, glad when he left, as his conversation did not please him
from its cynical tone. The Bank sent to us directly the man presented
the note, which he stated had been given to him in part payment for his
medical services and the board and lodging of the patient; the total
amount had been 75 pounds, and the balance was paid in gold. As he
was able to give several good references, and was identified by three
gentlemen, he was, of course, released. I have no doubt whatever that
the fellow he attended was your man. The surgeon said, whoever he was,
he must have been a man of iron resolution to have made such a journey
in the state he was.
“No doubt he must have ridden straight to the place he used as his
headquarters, where he had his wound roughly bandaged, changed his
clothes, and had ridden in the morning to some point that the coach
passed on its way to Southampton. Of course we obtained a minute
description from the surgeon of the man's appearance. We found that
the people at the coach office had no remembrance of there being anyone
answering to that description among the persons who traveled by the
coach, but of course that would not go for much, for over three months
have elapsed.
“When the coachman who had driven the down coach that day came up to
town, we saw him, and he remembered perfectly that on or about that day
he had picked up a passenger at Kingston--a gentleman who was in very
weak health. There were only three inside passengers besides himself,
and he had to be assisted into the coach. The way bill, on being turned
up, showed that an inside passenger had been taken up at Kingston. I
have already sent down men to make inquiries at every village in the
district between Reigate and Kingston, and I trust that we shall lay
hands on him, especially now we have got an accurate description of him,
while before we were working in the dark in that respect.”
“What is the description, sir? My father is much interested on that
point, for, as I believe I told you, he has a strong suspicion that
the fellow is the man who was transported more than eight years ago to
Australia, and who made his escape from the prison there.”
“Yes, I know. At first it appeared to me very improbable, but I am bound
to say the description tallies very closely with that given of him. The
surgeon took him to be nearly thirty; but after what he has gone through
he may well look three or four years older than he is. He had light
hair, rather small gray eyes, and a face that would have been good
looking had it not been for its supercilious and sneering expression.”
“I can remember him,” Mark said; “and that answers very closely to him.
I should say that it is certainly Bastow, and my father made no mistake
when he asserted that he recognized his voice.”
The officer added a note to the description in his register: “Strongly
suspected of being Arthur Bastow, transported for connivance with
highwaymen; was leader of a mutiny in convict jail of Sydney two years
and a half ago. Made his escape.”
“There is no doubt,” he went on, “that he is a desperate character. No
doubt he is the man who has been concerned in most of these robberies in
the southern suburbs. We must get hold of him if we can, and once we
do so there will be an end of his travels, for the mutiny in prison and
escape is a hanging business, putting aside the affairs since he
got back. Well, sir, I hope he will give you and your father no more
trouble.”
“I am sure I hope so,” Mark said. “I suppose that the fellow who was
shot was one of the men who escaped with him from the convict prison.”
“That is likely enough. Two would get home as easily as one, and the
fact that they were both strangers here would account for the difficulty
our men have had in their search for him. You see, we have had nothing
whatever to go on. You must not be too sanguine about our catching the
man in a short time: he is evidently a clever fellow, and I think it
likely that once he got back he lost no time in getting away from this
part of the country, and we are more likely to find him in the west or
north than we are of laying hands on him here. We will send descriptions
all over the country, and as soon as I hear of a series of crimes
anywhere, I will send off two of my best men to help the local
constables.”
On his return home Mark told his father what he had done.
“I thought that I could not have been mistaken, Mark; we have got that
rascal on our hands again. I hope now that they have got a description
of him to go by, they will not be long before they catch him; but
the way he escaped after being badly wounded shows that he is full of
resources, and he may give them some trouble yet, if I am not mistaken.
At any rate, I will have a talk with the Reigate constable, and tell him
that there is very little doubt that the man who attacked us was Arthur
Bastow, who has, as we have heard, escaped from Botany Bay, and that he
had best tell his men to keep a sharp lookout for him, for that, owing
to his animosity against us for his former capture and conviction, it
is likely enough that sooner or later he will be in this neighborhood
again. After his determined attempt at my life when pretending to rob
us, I shall certainly not feel comfortable until I know that he is under
lock and key.”
“I wish, Guardy, you would give up this magistrate's business,”
Millicent said at dinner. “I am sure that it is worrying you, and I
can't see why you should go on with it.”
“It does not worry me, as a rule, Millicent; indeed, I like the duty.
Besides, every landowner of standing ought to take his share in public
work. There are only two of the magistrates younger than I am, and
whatever you may think of me, I feel myself capable of doing what work
there is to do. When Mark gets a few years older I shall resign, and let
him take my place on the bench. I own, though, that I should be glad if
these highway robberies could be suppressed. Poaching and the ordinary
offenses of drunkenness and assaults are disposed of without any
trouble; but this stopping of the coaches, accompanied occasionally by
the shooting of the coachman or guard, gives a great deal of trouble,
and the worst of it is that we are practically powerless to put such
crimes down. Nothing short of patrolling the roads in parties of three
or four between sunset and sunrise would put a stop to them, and the
funds at our disposal would not support such an expenditure.”
“It is a pity that you cannot get up a corps like the yeomanry, and call
it the Mounted Constabulary,” said Mark. “There are at least a dozen
fellows I know who would, like myself, be glad to join it, and I dare
say we could get a score of young farmers or farmers' sons.”
“It is not a bad idea, Mark, and I dare say that for a time the duty
would be zealously performed, but before very long you would tire of it.
A few wet nights or winter's cold, and you would cease to see the fun of
it, especially as you may be sure that the news that the roads are well
patrolled would soon come to the ears of these scoundrels, and they
would cease to work in the district.”
“Perhaps you are right, sir; but I think that a few of us would stick to
it.”
“Perhaps so, Mark, but I should be sorry to wager that the work would
be thoroughly done. The first county or hunt ball, or even dinner party,
more than half of them would be away. I don't say that you personally
might not for some considerable time persist in patrolling the roads,
for you have a sort of personal interest in the matter; but I would
wager that before two months have passed you would find you were the
only one who attended at the rendezvous regularly.”
A fortnight later the party were seated round the fire in the dusk.
Mr. Bastow was sitting next to the Squire, and was in unusually good
spirits. He had heard no word of what the Squire had discovered, nor
dreamed that his son was again in England, still less that he was
suspected of being one of the men who had endeavored to stop the Squire
and his son on their drive from London. Suddenly there was the crack of
a pistol outside, and a ball passed between him and the Squire. Without
a word, Mark Thorndyke rushed to the door, seized a pistol from his
riding coat, and, snatching up a heavy whip, dashed out into the garden.
He was just in time to see a figure running at full speed, and he set
off in pursuit. Good runner as he was, he gained but slightly at first,
but after a time he drew nearer to the fugitive. The latter was but
some sixty yards away when he leaped a hedge into a narrow lane. Mark
followed without hesitation, but as he leaped into the road he heard a
jeering laugh and the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs, and knew that the
man he was pursuing had gained his horse and made off. Disgusted at his
failure, he went slowly back to the house. The shutters had been put up.
“I have lost him, father. He ran well to begin with, but I was gaining
fast on him when he leaped into a narrow lane where he had left his
horse, and rode off before I could get up to him. I need hardly say that
there was no use attempting to follow on foot. He missed you all, did he
not?”
“Yes, Mark. It is not so easy to take an accurate aim when it is nearly
dark. The bullet passed between myself and Mr. Bastow, and has buried
itself in the mantelpiece.”
“Something ought to be done, Guardy,” Millicent Conyers said
indignantly. “It is shameful that people cannot sit in their own room
without the risk of being shot at. What can it mean? Surely no one can
have any enmity against you.”
“I hope not, my dear,” John Thorndyke said lightly. “Some of the fellows
we have sentenced may think that we were rather hard on them, but I
do not think that any of them would feel it sufficiently to attempt to
murder one; besides, Mark says that the fellow had a horse waiting
for him, and none of our poachers would be likely to be the owner of a
horse. It may be that the highwayman Mark shot at and wounded has come
down to give us a fright. It is no use worrying about it now; in future
we will have the shutters closed at sunset. It is hardly likely that
the thing will be attempted again, and Mark's chase must have shown the
fellow that the game is hardly worth the risk.”
“He might have shot you, Mark; you had no right to risk your life in
that sort of way,” the girl said to him, later, as they were seated
together in front of the fire, while the Squire was reading the Gazette
at the table, Mrs. Cunningham was working, and Mr. Bastow, who had been
greatly shaken by the event, had retired to bed.
“Do you think that he really meant to kill your father?”
“I should imagine he did; a man would hardly run the risk of being hung
merely for the pleasure of shooting. I would give a good deal if I had
caught him, or better still, if I had shot him,” said Mark. “However, I
will make it my business to hunt the fellow down. After this evening's
affair, we shall never feel comfortable until he is caught. I have
no doubt that he is the fellow we have been hunting for the last four
months. The people at Bow Street seem no good whatever; I will try if I
cannot succeed better.”
“Don't do anything rash, Mark,” said Millicent, in a low voice; “you
have no right to put yourself in danger.”
“But our lives are in danger now, Millicent--in much greater danger
than mine would be when looking out for him. But there seems no guarding
against attacks like this; I mean to hunt him down, if it takes me
a year. I have nothing special to do, and cannot employ my time more
usefully.”
When the ladies went up to bed the Squire said:
“Come into the library, Mark, and we will smoke a pipe, and have a talk
over this business.” He touched the bell. “Have you got a good fire in
the library, Ramoo?”
“Yes, sahib, very good.”
“Then take a bottle of number one bin of port there--and a couple of
glasses.”
When they were quietly seated, glasses filled, and the long pipes
alight, the Squire said: “I want to have a serious talk with you, Mark.
What I am going to say will surprise you a good deal. I had not intended
to tell you for another four years--that is to say, not until Millicent
came of age--but after that affair tonight, I feel that my life is
so uncertain that I ought not to delay letting you know the truth.
I suppose you agree with me that it was Bastow who shot at me this
evening?”
“I have not the least doubt about that, father.”
“I will not say that he shot at me,” the Squire said, “for he may have
shot at his father; the villain is quite capable of that. It was his
father who brought me upon him, and though I effected his capture eight
years ago I don't suppose he cares which of us he killed. However, the
point is not what he aimed at, but whether it was he, and that I take
there is no doubt about. He missed me this time, but his next shot may
be more successful, At any rate, I think that it is high time that I
told you the story.”
And, beginning with the arrival of Colonel Thorndyke at his place, he
repeated the conversation that he had had with him. Several times in
the early portion of his narrative he was interrupted by exclamations of
surprise from his son.
“Then Millicent is really my uncle's heiress!” exclaimed Mark, when he
heard the request the Colonel had made of the Squire.
“That is so, Mark. She does not know it herself, and it was my brother's
urgent wish that she should not know it until she came of age or until
she married. I fought against it to the utmost, but it was his dying
prayer, and I could not refuse it. My solicitor knows the facts of the
matter, and so does Mrs. Cunningham, who brought Millicent over from
India when she was only about a year old. I may say that I especially
urged that it would not be fair to you to be brought up to consider
yourself to be heir to the property, but he said:
“'Putting aside the estate, I have a considerable fortune. In the first
place, there are the accumulations of rent from the Reigate place. I
have never touched them, and they have been going on for twelve years.
In. the next place, the shaking of the pagoda tree has gone on merrily,
and we all made a comfortable pile. Then I always made a point of
carrying about with me two or three hundred pounds, and after the
sacking of some of the palaces I could pick up jewels and things from
the troops for a trifle, being able to pay money down. Even without
the rents here, I have some 50,000 pounds in money. I should think the
jewels would be worth at least as much more, irrespective of a diamond
bracelet which is, I fancy, worth more than the rest put together. It
was stolen from the arm of some idol.' He then explained how he got it,
and the manner in which he had placed it and the rest of his wealth in a
secure position.
“'Things stolen from a god are frightfully dangerous,' he said, 'for the
Brahmins or priests connected with the temples have been known to follow
them up for years, and in nine cases out of ten they get possession of
them again. Murder in such a case is meritorious, and I would not have
them in the house here, were they ten times the value they are. I know
that my clothes, my drawers, and everything belonging to me have been
gone through at night a score of times. Nothing has been stolen, but,
being a methodical man, I could generally see some displacement in the
things that told me they had been disturbed. They gave it up for a time,
but I haven't a shadow of a doubt that they have been watching me ever
since, and they may be watching me now, for anything I know. Now, half
of that fortune I have left by my will to your son; half to the girl. I
will tell you where the things are the last thing before I die.
“'Now, mind, you must be careful when you get them. When I am dead you
are almost certain to be watched. You don't know what these fellows are.
The things must remain where they are until your boy comes of age. Don't
let him keep those diamonds an hour in his possession; let him pass them
away privately to some man in whom he has implicit confidence, for
him to take them to a jeweler's; let him double and turn and disguise
himself so as to throw everyone that may be spying on him off his
track. If you can manage it, the best way would be to carry them over to
Amsterdam, and sell them there.'
“I confess it seemed absurd, but it is a matter about which he would
know a great deal more than I do, and he was convinced that not only
was he watched, but that he owed his life simply to the fact that the
fellows did not know where the diamonds were hidden, and that by killing
him they would have lost every chance of regaining them.
“So convinced was he of all this, that he would not tell me where he had
stowed them away; he seemed to think that the very walls would hear us,
and that these fellows might be hidden under the sofa, in a cupboard, or
up the chimney, for aught I know. He told me that he would tell me the
secret before he died; but death came so suddenly that he never had an
opportunity of doing so. He made a tremendous effort in his last moment,
but failed, and I shall never forget the anguish his face expressed when
he found himself powerless to speak; however, he pressed his snuffbox
into my hand with such a significant look that, being certain it
contained some clew to the mystery, and being unable to find a hidden
spring or a receptacle, I broke it open that night.
“It contained a false bottom, and here are what I found in it. I stowed
them away in a secret drawer in that old cabinet that stands by my
bedside. It is in the bottom pigeonhole on the right hand side. I bought
the cabinet at a sale, and found the spring of the secret drawer quite
accidentally. I shall put the things back tonight, and you will know
where to look for them. You press against the bottom and up against the
top simultaneously, and the back then falls forward. The opening behind
is very shallow, and will hold but two or three letters. But, however,
it sufficed for this;” and he handed Mark the coin and slip of paper.
“But what are these, father?”
“These are the clews by which we are to obtain the treasure.”
As Mark examined them carefully the Squire stood up with his back to the
fire, and looking round walked to the door and said: “I thought there
was a draught somewhere; either Ramoo did not shut the door when he went
out or it has come open again. It has done that once or twice before.
When I go into town tomorrow I will tell Tucker to send a man up to take
the lock off. Well, what do you make out of that?”
“I can make out nothing,” Mark replied. “No doubt the coin is something
to be given to whoever is in charge of the treasure, and Masulipatam may
be the place where it is hidden.”
“Yes, or it may be a password. It reminds one of the forty thieves
business. You go and knock at the door of a cave, a figure armed to the
teeth presents itself, you whisper in his ear 'Masulipatam,' he replies
'Madras,' or 'Calcutta,' or something of that sort, you take out the
coin and show it to him, he takes out from some hidden repository a
similar one, compares the two, and then leads you to an inner cave piled
up with jewels.”
Mark laughed.
“Well, it is no laughing matter, Mark,” the Squire went on seriously.
“The little comedy may not be played just as I have sketched it, but I
expect that it is something of the kind. That coin has to be shown, and
the word 'Masulipatam' spoken to the guardian, whoever he may be, of
your uncle's treasure. But who that guardian may be or how he is to be
found is a mystery. I myself have never tried to solve it. There was
nothing whatever to go upon. The things may be in England or, it may be,
anywhere in India. To me it looked an absolutely hopeless business to
set about. I did not see how even a first step was to be taken, and as I
had this estate and you and Millicent to look after, and was no longer
a young man, I put the matter aside altogether. You are young, you have
plenty of energy, and you have your life before you, and it is a matter
of the greatest interest to you.
“Possibly--very improbably, mind, still possibly--when Millicent comes
of age and learns who she is, Mrs. Cunningham may be able to help you.
I have no idea whether it is so. I have never spoken to her about this
treasure of George's, but it is just possible that while he was in
town before he came down to me he may have given her some instructions
concerning it. Of course he intended to give me full particulars, but he
could hardly have avoided seeing that, in the event of my death, perhaps
suddenly before the time came for seeking the treasure, the secret
would be lost altogether. Whether he has told her or his lawyer or not
I cannot say, but I have all along clung to the hope that he took some
such natural precaution. Unless that treasure is discovered, the only
thing that will come to you is the half of the accumulated rents of
this estate during the ten years between my father's death and George's;
these rents were paid to our solicitors, and by them invested.
“The rentals amount to about 2500 pounds a year, and of course there is
interest to be added, so that I suppose there is now some 25,000 pounds,
for I had out 2000 pounds when I came here, to set matters straight. I
had a great fight with the lawyers over it, but as I pointed out they
had failed altogether to see that the agent did his duty, and that
at least a couple of hundred a year ought to be expended in necessary
repairs, I had a right to at least that sum to carry out the work that
ought to be done from year to year. In addition to that sum I laid out
about 1000 pounds a year for the first three years I was here; so that
practically 5000 pounds was expended in rebuilding the village and
doing repairs on the homesteads; that, however, is not the point now.
Altogether, then, there is some 25,000 pounds to be divided between you
and Millicent when she becomes mistress of this property.
“According to the terms of my brother's will, I am still to remain here
until she marries; when she does so I shall, of course, go back to my
own little place; the income of that has been accumulating while I
have been here, my only expenses having been for clothes. I have taken
nothing out of this estate since I came here, and each year have paid
to the solicitors all balances remaining after discharging the household
expenses, these balances averaging 700 or 800 pounds a year. Of
course the income was absolutely left to me during the time I remained
ostensible owner, but I had no wish to make money out of a trust that
I assumed greatly against my will. That money is Millicent's; of course
the house had to be kept up in proper style whether I were here or not.
Had she at once come into possession, there must have been horses, and
carriages, and so on. I don't say that I have not had all the expenses
of our living saved; that I had no objection to; but I was determined at
least not to take a penny put of the estate beyond those expenses. You
see, Mark, you will have your 12,500 pounds anyhow, as soon as Millicent
comes of age--not a bad little sum--so that even if you never hear
anything more of this mysterious treasure you will not be penniless, or
in anyway dependent upon me. At my death, of course, you will come into
the Sussex place, with what savings there may be.”
“I am sure I have no reason to grumble, father,” Mark said heartily.
“Of course it came upon me at first as a surprise that Millicent was
the heiress here, and it flashed through my mind for the moment that the
best thing would be to take a commission in the army, or to follow my
uncle's example, and get a cadetship in the Company's service. I have
no doubt that I should have enjoyed life either way quite as much or
possibly more than if I had gone on a good many years as heir to these
estates, and afterwards as Squire. Of course, now I shall make it my
business to see if it is possible to obtain some sort of clew to this
treasure, and then follow it up; but the first thing to which I shall
give my mind will be to hunt down Bastow. We shall never feel safe here
as long as that fellow is alive, and that will be the first thing I
shall devote myself to. After that I shall see about the treasure.”
“As to that, Mark, I cannot impress upon you too strongly what your
uncle said. It may, of course, be a pure delusion on his part; but if
he is right, and some of these Hindoo fellows are still on the watch to
obtain that bracelet, you must use extraordinary precautions when you
get it into your hands; he advised me to take it across to Amsterdam,
and either get the stones recut or to sell them separately to different
diamond merchants there. He said that my life would not be worth an
hour's purchase as long as the stones were in my hands.”
“That rather looks, father, as if the things were somewhere in England;
had they been in India, you would have had them some months in your
hands before you could get them to Amsterdam.”
“I did not think of that before, Mark, and it is possible that you
are right; but I don't know; he might have thought that it would be
impossible for me to dispose of them at Madras or Calcutta, and may have
assumed that I should at once deposit them in a bank to be forwarded
with other treasure to England, or that I should get them packed away
in the treasure safe in the ship I came back by, and that I should not
really have them on my person till I landed in England, or until I
took them from the Bank. Still, I see that your supposition is the most
likely, and that they may all this time have been lying somewhere in
London until I should present myself with a gold coin and the word
'Masulipatam.'”
Suddenly Mark sprang to his feet, and pulled back the curtains across
a window, threw it up, and leaped into the garden, and there stood
listening for two or three minutes, with his pistol cocked in his hand.
He stepped for a moment into the room again.
“You had better put that light out, father or we may have another shot.”
“Did you hear anything, Mark?”
“I thought I did, father. I may have been mistaken, but I certainly
thought I heard a noise, and when I pulled the curtains aside the window
was not shut by three or four inches. I will have a look through the
shrubbery. That fellow may have come back again. Pull the curtains to
after me.”
“I will go with you, Mark.”
“I would rather you didn't, father; it would only make me nervous. I
shan't go into the shrubbery and give them a chance of getting first
shot. I shall hide up somewhere and listen. It is a still night, and if
there is anyone moving I am pretty sure to hear him.”
The Squire turned down the lamp, drew the curtains, and seated himself
by the fire. It was three quarters of an hour before Mark returned. He
shut the window, and fastened it carefully.
“I fancy you must have been mistaken, Mark.”
“I suppose that shot through the window has made me nervous. I certainly
did fancy I heard a noise there; it may have been a dead bough snapping,
or something of that sort; and of course, the window being partly open,
even though only three or four inches, any little noise would come in
more plainly than it otherwise would do. However, everything has been
perfectly quiet since I went out, and it is hardly likely indeed that
the fellow would have returned so soon after the hot chase I gave him.”
“It is very stupid--the window being left open,” the Squire said. “I
shall question Martha about it in the morning; it was her duty to see
that it was shut and fastened before drawing the curtains. Just at
present one can scarcely be too careful. I don't mean to deny that
whether there was a window open or not a burglar who wanted to get into
the house could do so, still there is no use in making their work more
easy for them. I know, as a rule, we are careless about such things;
there has not been a burglary in this part for years, and until lately
the front door has never been locked at night, and anyone could have
walked in who wanted to. Of course the servants don't know that there is
any reason for being more careful at present than usual.
“I was thinking the other day of having shutters put to all these
downstair rooms. Some of them have got them, and some have not; still,
even with shutters, burglars can always get in if they want to do so.
They have only to cut round the lock of a door or to make a hole in a
panel to give them room to put an arm through and draw back a bolt, and
the thing is done. I know that all the silver is locked up every night
in the safe, for Ramoo sees to that, and I have never known him neglect
anything under his charge. Well, Mark, I don't know that it is any use
sitting up longer, we have plenty of time to talk the matter over; it is
four years yet before Millicent comes of age, though, of course, there
is nothing to prevent your setting out in quest of the treasure as soon
as you like. Still, there is no hurry about it.”
“None whatever, father; but I don't mean to lose a day before I try to
get on the track of that villain Bastow.”