That night I slept little, my mind being full of thoughts of the
evening's adventure. Before my eyes I had constantly that pale, tragic
face, just as, previously, visions of the countenance of the woman I had
seen in the prior's dim study in Florence seemed ever before me. Was it
by intuition that I knew that these two women were destined to influence
my life to a far greater degree than any woman had done before? I think
it must have been; for while I loved the one, I held the other in a
constant, indefinable terror. Why, I know not until this day--not even
now that I am sitting here calmly chronicling all that occurred to me in
those wild days of ardent love, reckless adventure, and impenetrable
mystery.
At noon Walter Wyman unexpectedly walked into my room with a cheery
greeting, and, throwing himself down upon the couch in the window that
looked over the sea, exclaimed, "Well, old chap, what does this
extraordinary book contain, after all?"
I took the transcript from the place where I had hidden it, and, seating
myself on the edge of the table, read it through to him.
"Oh, hang it!" he exclaimed excitedly, when I had finished, "then we
may, if we are persevering and careful, actually discover this great
treasure!"
"Exactly," I answered. "My suggestion is that we lose no time in making
preliminary observations at the two spots mentioned by the man who hid
it from his enemies."
"And supposing we found it, would it benefit us, having in view the law
of treasure-trove?" was Walters very practical inquiry.
"Not very much perhaps," I admitted. "But we should at least clear up a
mystery that has puzzled the world for ages--the actual existence of the
Borgia poison and its antidote, besides rescuing Lucrezia Borgia's
emeralds, and at the same time discovering the real motive of the
strange conspiracy surrounding the book."
"I quite agree with that," exclaimed my friend; "but does it not strike
you that we are considerably handicapped by that folio being missing--
the very page of all others most important for the success of our
search? Besides, this man Selby has, in all probability, read the
chronicle, and therefore knows just as much, and probably more, than we
do."
"That I grant you," I said. "But, nevertheless, I somehow feel that we
ought to search both at Crowland, which is within easy reach of this
place, and at Threave, in Scotland." And I explained how I had written
to my old friend Fred Fenwicke, asking that we might both be allowed to
come up and visit him.
"You certainly haven't let the grass grow under your feet, old fellow--
you never do," he said, taking a cigarette from the box I handed to him
and lighting it. "I think with you that we ought to try Threave, seeing
that the plan is evidently of the spot. But we are unable to do
anything till the sixth of September, when we ought to be there at three
o'clock in the afternoon, according to the directions given."
"We have still three weeks, then," I remarked. "In that case we might
go over to Crowland first and look around there. In all probability the
other plan is meant to indicate where the treasure of the abbey is
concealed."
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, taking the transcript from my hand. "This list
of things, the silver altar, gold chalices, and boxes of gems are
sufficient to make one's mouth water--aren't they?"
"Yes," I laughed. "We ought, if we act in a circumspect manner and
arouse no attention on the part of the villagers, to be able to make a
secret search. The one thing to avoid is public interest. The instant
anybody suspects what we are after, the whole affair will get into the
papers, and not only will our chance of success be gone, but our
enemies, whoever they are, will know that The Closed Book is again in
our possession."
"I quite follow you, Allan," he said with sudden seriousness. "We'll go
to Crowland tonight, if you are agreeable, and set carefully to work in
order to see if the plan tallies with any landmark now existing. It's a
pity the old chap who wrote the record didn't label it, as he did the
other."
"He may have wanted to give the plan but hold back the secret from
anyone who casually opened the book," I suggested. "You see, the volume
has evidently been preserved for centuries in the library of the Certosa
Monastery at Florence--the house in which the monk Godfrey Lovel died--
and, being written in early English, could not, of course, be translated
by the Italian monks."
"I wonder how many people have died through handling those poisoned
pages?" my friend observed. The deadliness of that secret Borgia venom
appealed to him as it has appealed to the world through ages.
"Ah!" I said, "it is impossible to tell."
But my mind was on other things, and as soon as the opportunity offered
I related to Walter my strange rencontre with Lady Judith Gordon.
"What?" he cried, jumping up from the couch; "you've actually seen her
and spoken to her?"
"Certainly. She is charming, and I admit, my dear Walter, that I've
fallen most desperately in love with her."
"Love! You actually love her?" he demanded.
"Indeed I do. She is the perfect incarnation of what a good, sweet
woman should be. Is there any reason why I should not admire her?"
"None that I know of," he returned; "but I'm afraid of these people and
their connection with this mysterious affair. Remember, all we know
about them is that they have led very peculiar lives for years. But
time will show whether you are wise. Certainly these people appear to
have found the secret just as we have--the secret of the existence of a
valuable treasure."