THE LEATHER CASE
Her rescue had been so sudden, so unexpected, that it was difficult for
Barbara to realise that she was alone in the coach, that she need no
longer shrink away from a man she hated, that her ears were no more
assailed by threats and vile insinuations. The relief was so intense
that for a little while she revelled in her liberty, and cried a little
for very joy. Why did not the man who had delivered her come to the door
of the coach and talk to her? Not as he had done just now, calling her
Mistress Lanison and seeming not to hear when she had called him
Gilbert, but as he had spoken to her that other night in her prison in
Dorchester. She leaned forward to listen. Yes, he was on the road behind
her, she could hear the steady canter of his horse; why did he not ride
where she could see him? He must know that she would want him close
beside her. Did he know it? He wore the brown mask to-night, and, oh,
the difference it made! With that silken disguise, and with his coat
close fastened at the throat, she would never have recognised him in the
moonlight had she not known who he was. Involuntarily she shuddered a
little at the thought that he was indeed two men, so distinct that even
she, had she not known, would have failed to see her lover in the wearer
of the brown mask. Why did he not come to the window, come as himself,
without that hideous disguise which distressed her and brought so many
horrible fancies and fears into her mind? Should she call to him? She
was much tempted to do so, but surely he knew what was best for her
to-night. There might be other enemies upon the road, she was safer
perhaps in the charge of the brown mask than she would have been had he
ridden beside her as Gilbert Crosby.
The coach rolled steadily on through the night, now in the shadow of
dark woods, now across a stretch of common land where the misty
moonlight seemed to turn the landscape into a dream world, silent and
empty save for the sound of the grinding wheels and the steady beating
of the horses' hoofs. The long monotony of the sound became a lullaby to
the girl, tired in body and mind. Last night, and the night before, she
had slept little; now, with a sense of security, she closed her eyes,
only that she might think the more clearly. There were many things she
must think of. Gilbert Crosby would not easily let her go, this she
knew, and to-morrow, perhaps, she would have to answer his question,
would have to decide which way she would take. The lullaby of the
grinding wheels became softer, more musical; the corner of the coach
seemed to grow more comfortable; once she started slightly, for she
seemed to have stepped suddenly back into her prison in Dorchester, then
she smiled, knowing that she was free, that Lord Rosmore was bound and
helpless, that Gilbert Crosby was near her. The smile remained upon her
lips, but she did not move again. She was asleep. Even the jolting upon
the rougher by-road along which the coach was driven presently did not
rouse her. She did not see the dawn creeping out of the east, she was
not conscious that the highwayman came to the window and looked at her,
that he stopped the coach for a moment, nor did she feel the touch of
gentle hands as he folded her cloak more closely about her lest the
chill breath of the morning air should hurt her.
The dawn came slowly, very slowly, to the man bound securely to the tree
by the roadside. When the sound of the wheels had died away, Lord Rosmore
struggled to free himself, but the post-boy had done his work too well.
Every knot was securely fastened and out of reach. Once or twice he
shouted for help, and the only answer was an echo from the woods. Unless
a chance traveller came along the road he could not get released until
the day broke. It was wasting strength to shout, and he wanted all his
strength to help him through the strain of the night. All his will was
bent on not allowing his cramped position to so weaken him that
to-morrow he would be unable to pursue his enemy. Crosby had outwitted
him for the moment, but to-morrow the game might be in his hands again,
and he must retain his strength to play it. Many a man would have lost
consciousness during the night, but Lord Rosmore's determined spirit and
fierce lust for revenge helped him. He would not allow his limbs to grow
stiff, the cords gave a little, and every few minutes he twisted himself
into a slightly different position. He would not close his weary eyes,
but set his brain to work out a scheme for Crosby's downfall. The coach
would certainly make for the coast presently. Some delay there must be
before reaching it, and further delay before a vessel could be found to
carry the fugitives into safety. Crosby could not possibly be prepared
for what had happened, and time must be wasted in making up his mind how
to use to the best advantage the trick in the game which had fallen to
him. Galloping Hermit, the highwayman, must be cautious how he went, and
caution meant delay at every turn. He would not easily escape.
So the dawn found Lord Rosmore with aching limbs but with a clear brain,
and he looked about him, as far as he was able, wondering from which
direction help would most likely come. On the ground, at a little
distance from him, lay a heavy coat, just as Barbara had thrown it from
the coach last night, and a growling oath came from Rosmore's dry lips.
He wished with all his heart that he had delivered her into Judge
Jeffreys' hands in Dorchester. She would have been just such a delicate
morsel as the loathsome brute would have gloated over. How easily, too,
he might have had Crosby hanged in chains. He had been a fool to let
love influence him. Then his eyes turned slowly to the ground
immediately in front of him. The turf was cut and trampled where the
highwayman had been, by the impatient hoofs of his pawing horse, and
there lay in the very centre of the trampled patch a leather case. It
must have fallen from Crosby's pocket last night. Had the highwayman
unwittingly left behind him a clue that would be his ruin?
The thought excited the helpless man, and he began to listen for coming
succour, and once or twice he shouted, but it was only a feeble sound,
for his throat was parched, and his tongue had swollen in his mouth.
Chance came to his aid at last; a dog bounding from the woods not far
distant saw him, and racing to the tree tore round and round it, barking
furiously, bringing a man out into the open to see what so excited the
animal. The woodman hastened forward.
"Eh, master, but what's been adoing?"
"Highwayman--last night," said Rosmore feebly. Now that help was at hand
his strength seemed to dwindle to nothing.
The man cut the cords so vigorously that Rosmore stumbled forwards and
fell. For an instant he was powerless to move, and then with an effort
he crawled a few inches until his hand touched the leather case.
"The coat," he muttered. "The pocket--a flask."
The liquid revived him, and he drew himself painfully into a sitting
posture.
"'Galloping Hermit'--the brown mask--last night," he said.
"The brown mask!" exclaimed the man in a low tone, looking round as if
he expected to see the famous highwayman. "Your horse gone too."
"It was a coach. I want a horse. Where can I get one?"
"Lor', master, you couldn't get into the saddle."
"Where can I get one?" Rosmore repeated, speaking like a man who was
breathless from long running.
"There's the village over yonder, two miles away."
"Lend me your arm. So," and Rosmore drew himself to his feet. "Earn a
guinea or two and help me to the village."
"Can you walk at all?" asked the man.
"The stiffness will go by degrees. Slowly to begin with, that's it. Two
miles, eh? It will be the longest two miles I've ever walked, but it's
early. They won't escape easily. By gad! they shall suffer!"
"Who?"
"Both of them, the man and the woman."
"The woman!"
"Curse you, you nearly let me fall," said Rosmore. "Don't talk. I can't
talk."
At a little tavern in the village Lord Rosmore ate and drank, and while
he did so he carefully examined the contents of the leather case. There
was a key and several papers closely written upon. Rosmore's eyes
brightened as he read, and the papers trembled in his hand with
excitement. All his thoughts were thrust into one channel, one idea and
purpose took possession of him. Soon after noon he painfully mounted a
horse which the landlord had procured for him and rode slowly away. He
was in no fit condition to take a long journey, so it was fortunate that
he had time to spare and could go quietly. He thought no more of Barbara
Lanison or Gilbert Crosby, he might follow them to-morrow; but to-day,
to-night, he had other work to do, and he laughed softly to himself as
he felt the leather case secure in his pocket. Some tricks in the game
he had lost, but the winning trick was his.
It was dark when he reached the woods which lay on the opposite bank of
the stream below Aylingford. He tethered his horse to a tree and went on
foot towards one of the bridges which led to the terrace, and there he
waited, leaning against the stone wall, looking at the house. Lights
shone from a few of the windows, but the Abbey did not look as if it
were full of guests. There was, perhaps, the more need to exercise
caution. The balmy air of the night might tempt visitors on to the
terrace if the play did not prove exciting, and if the talk became stale
and wearisome. So Rosmore waited. He did not intend to enter the house,
and a little delay was of no consequence. Only one man besides himself
could know the secret which the leather case held, and that other man
was far away from Aylingford.
Most of the windows in the Abbey were dark when Rosmore crossed the
bridge to the terrace and walked lightly towards the ruins, careful to
let the shadows hide him as much as possible. Entering the ruins, he
drew the case from his pocket and took out the key. By Martin's tower he
stood for a moment to listen, but no sound came to startle him, and he
fitted the key into the lock. The door opened easily, and Rosmore
entered, closing it again and locking it on the inside. Gently as he did
it, the sound echoed weirdly up the winding stairs. The door at the top,
and that of Martin's room, hung broken on their hinges. Nothing had been
done to them since the night they were forced open in the attempt to
capture Gilbert Crosby; nor did it appear that Martin had occupied his
room since then. The piece of candle was still upon the shelf, fastened
to it with its own grease, and Lord Rosmore lit it. Then he drew the
papers from the case, and turned to one portion of the writing. He had
already studied it carefully, but he read it once again, and, bending
down to the hearth, felt eagerly along the coping which surrounded it.
His fingers touched a slight projection, which he pressed inwards and
downwards. It moved a little, but some few moments elapsed before he
succeeded in making the exact motion necessary, when the front portion
of the hearth was depressed and slid back silently.--Taking the piece of
candle in his hand, Rosmore stepped into the opening and went cautiously
down the narrow twisting stairs, without attempting to shut the secret
entrance. The instructions contained in the leather case were exact,
even to a rough calculation of the value of the treasure hidden below
the Abbey ruins. Rosmore came at last to a wide chamber, bare wall on
one side, but on the other three sides were a series of arches, some of
them framing recesses merely which were not uniform in depth, some of
them forming entrances into other rooms. The corner arch at the further
end was the one mentioned in the papers, and Rosmore went slowly across
the stone floor, the feeble light of the candle casting weird shadows
about him. For the first time the eeriness of the place forced itself
upon him. These stone walls must have sheltered many a secret besides
the one he had come to solve. Unholy deeds might well have happened
here, and into his memory came crowding many a legend he had heard of
Aylingford Abbey. Phantoms of the past might yet haunt these dark
places, and to the man breaking into this silence alone ghosts were easy
to believe in. Phantoms of the present might be there, too, for to-day
vice was the ruling spirit of the Abbey, and there were those who
declared that evil might take shape and in an appointed hour deal out
punishment to its votaries.
Rosmore found an effort necessary to retain his courage as he went
towards the opposite corner. The light, held above his head, fell
quivering into the recess there, and touched a great oak coffer,
massively made, and heavily bound with iron. It was exactly as the
papers said, and therein lay the treasure, gold and jewels--the wealth
of the Indies, as the writing called it. He stood for a moment looking
at the recess, and then, as he took a hasty step forward, he started,
and a sharp hiss of indrawn breath came from his lips. A sudden sound
had struck upon his ear, a grating noise, then silence, then light
footsteps. In a moment Rosmore had blown out the candle, his one idea
being to hide himself; fear caught him, the darkness was so great. Who
was it? What was it coming towards him with those stealthy steps? Nearer
they came, and from one of the arches a faint glimmer of light, as
though the old walls were growing luminous, and a man carrying a lantern
entered the chamber and stood there, raising the lantern above his head.
It was Sir John Lanison. A little sigh of relief escaped from Rosmore.
He had only flesh and blood to deal with, a man full of foolish
superstition. He, too, must have come seeking treasure, but which way
had he come, and how had he found the courage to embark on such an
adventure? Must two participate in this treasure after all! No, however
great it might be, Rosmore wanted it all. He would not share it with any
man. A word growled in the darkness would terrify the superstitious Sir
John; he would flee as though ten thousand devils were at his heels, or
perchance the sudden terror might kill him. The alternative did not
trouble Lord Rosmore, and he smiled as Sir John came slowly towards him,
holding the lantern close to the floor that he might not step into some
hole. As the light came close to his motionless figure, Rosmore uttered
a low cry, weird enough to startle the bravest man. It may have startled
Sir John, but he did not shriek out in fear nor turn to flee. He raised
the lantern sharply, and it hardly trembled in his hand.
"Rosmore!" he exclaimed.
Rosmore was so taken back by this strange courage that he did not answer
at once, and the two men stood with the raised lantern lighting both
their faces.
* * * * *
When Martin Fairley had left him down in the Nun's Room, Sir John had
been terrified. He had shouted for help to no purpose, and he was not
released until early on the following morning. How he came to be there
he did not explain. He went to his own room, and gave instructions that
he was not to be disturbed. Once alone, his mind became active, and he
shook himself free from his fear. Wealth was within his grasp. That
Martin had run away and left him did not shake his belief. Martin was a
madman, not responsible for his actions from one moment to another, but
in his trance he had seen this treasure, therefore it was there, Sir
John argued. More, the entrance to it lay behind the Nun's hard couch;
only a stone slab blocked the entrance. Greed took the place of fear,
and it may be that Sir John was a little off his mental balance, and
forgot to think of fear. He was certainly cunning enough to make plans
and to carry them out secretly. He left his room unseen, and the Abbey
by a small door seldom used; and, having secured a pick and a length of
rope while the stable men were at their dinner, he went to the Nun's
Room. He would chance anyone coming into the ruins and hearing him at
work, and nobody did come. He fastened the rope round a piece of fallen
masonry which was firmly embedded in the ground and lowered himself. He
worked all the afternoon, and the stone slab was loose before he climbed
out of the Nun's Room again. Then he went back and mixed with his guests
for an hour or two, so that they might not grow anxious about him and
come to look for him. Escaping from them with an excuse that he could
not play to-night, and must retire early, he went again to the ruins and
resumed his work by the light of a lantern. He had succeeded in gaining
an entrance, the hidden treasure was a fact; his one idea was to get
possession of it, and, absorbed in this thought, other sensations were
dormant for the time being. He was so savage that anyone else should
know the secret that he forgot to be afraid. When the lantern showed him
who his rival was, there was no need to be afraid, for Lord Rosmore
would assume that they could be partners in this as they had been in
much else, and Sir John smiled, for he intended to free himself from
such a partnership. He had a pistol with him, and since Rosmore had
evidently come to the Abbey secretly, no one would be likely to look for
him there.
"There are evidently two ways to the treasure, Sir John?" said Rosmore
after a pause.
"And we have found them," was the answer. "It is lucky that no one else
forestalled us. The treasure first. We may count it, and tell each other
how we found it afterwards."
Lord Rosmore turned to the recess, and Sir John went eagerly forward
with the lantern. The exact position of the treasure he had not known,
but catching sight of the iron-bound box, he determined that no one
should share its contents with him. He set down the lantern.
"The key in the lock!" he exclaimed. "It was foolish to leave it in the
lock."
"Who would come to this infernal tomb?" said Rosmore.
"Two of us have come," said Sir John, as he turned the key and raised
the heavy lid.
A few crumpled pieces of paper, one or two torn pieces of cloth, an
empty canvas bag, half of a broken jewel case, and in one corner the
glitter of two or three links of a gold chain. This was all the great
chest contained!
"You forgot that bit of chain when you removed the treasure, Sir John,"
said Rosmore, pointing to it.
"Liar! Robber! Where is it?"
Rosmore laughed; perhaps he was unconscious that he did so.
The empty chest seemed to have paralysed his brain for a moment. He
could not think. He could not devise a scheme for forcing the truth from
his rival.
Sir John had only one idea--revenge. This man had robbed him. The
treasure was gone, but the thief was before him. With an oath he sprang
forward, there was a flash in Rosmore's face, and a report which echoed
back from every side sharply. The bullet missed its mark, chipping the
stone wall behind. Then the two men were locked together in a silent,
deadly struggle. Lord Rosmore was the stronger and the younger man, but
he had not recovered from the cramped position in which he had spent the
long hours of last night, and perhaps Sir John was mad and had something
of a madman's strength. Neither could throw the other off, nor gain the
advantage. Fingers found throats, and gripped and pressed inwards with
deadly meaning. Never a word was spoken. The lamp was overturned and
went out, each man holding to his adversary the tighter lest he should
escape in the darkness. Shuffling feet and gasping breaths, then a heavy
fall, then silence.
* * * * *
Daylight crept down into the Nun's Room and into Martin's room, with its
gaping hearth, but no one came out through the hole behind the Nun's
hard bed, nor climbed the narrow stairs into the tower room. The day
passed, and the night, and another dawn came. The door of the tower was
still locked on the inside, and the rope was still hanging into the
sunken room. That morning the rope was seen when the ruins were
searched, and presently two of the guests climbed down and entered the
underground chamber, carrying lanterns and walking carefully.
Sir John Lanison and Lord Rosmore were both dead. Both faces were
discoloured and told of a horrible struggle. It looked as if Rosmore had
succumbed first, for he lay on his back, his arms flung out. Sir John
was lying partly across his body; it seemed as though his fingers had
just relaxed their hold on Rosmore's throat.
Why this awful tragedy? One of the guests noticed the iron-bound chest,
and, looking in, saw the broken gold chain gleaming in the lantern
light.
"A treasure!" he exclaimed, holding it up. "All that is left of it!"
Then they looked at the dead men, so suggestive in their ghastly
attitude, and they thought they understood. Those old monks, thinking
perhaps that they would one day return to their old home, must certainly
have buried a treasure under the walls of Aylingford.