PART III

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, David Garcia

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

THE INN AT THE RED OAK

BY LATTA GRISWOLD

1917

[Illustration: "It's a treasure right enough!" cried Dan.]

CONTENTS

PART I

THE OLD MARQUIS

I THE MARQUIS ARRIVES AT THE INN

II THE LION'S EYE

III THE MARQUIS AT NIGHT

IV THE OAK PARLOUR

V THE WALK THROUGH THE WOODS

PART II

THE TORN SCRAP OF PAPER

VI THE HALF OF AN OLD SCRAP OF PAPER

VII A DISAPPEARANCE

VIII GREEN LIGHTS

IX RECOLLECTIONS OF A FRENCH EXILE

X MIDNIGHT VIGILS

PART III

THE SCHOONER IN THE COVE

XI THE SOUTHERN CROSS

XII TOM TURNS THE TABLES

XIII MADAME DE LA FONTAINE

XIV IN THE FOG

XV NANCY

XVI MADAME AT THE INN

XVII THE MARQUIS LEAVES THE INN

PART IV

THE ATTACK ON THE INN

XVIII THE AVENUE OF MAPLES

XIX THE ATTACK

XX THE OAK PARLOUR

XXI THE TREASURE

The Inn at the Red Oak

PART I

THE OLD MARQUIS

CHAPTER I

THE MARQUIS ARRIVES AT THE INN

By the end of the second decade of the last century Monday Port had

passed the height of prosperity as one of the principal depots for the

West Indian trade. The shipping was rapidly being transferred to New York

and Boston, and the old families of the Port, having made their fortunes,

in rum and tobacco as often as not, were either moving away to follow the

trade or had acquiesced in the changed conditions and were settling down

to enjoy the fruit of their labours. The harbour now was frequently

deserted, except for an occasional coastwise trader; the streets began to

wear that melancholy aspect of a town whose good days are more a memory

than a present reality; and the old stage roads to Coventry and Perth

Anhault were no longer the arteries of travel they once had been.

To the east of Monday Port, across Deal Great Water, an estuary of the

sea that expanded almost to the dignity of a lake, lay a pleasant rolling

wooded country known in Caesarea as Deal. It boasted no village, scarcely

a hamlet. Dr. Jeremiah Watson, a famous pedagogue and a graduate of

Kingsbridge, had started his modest establishment for "the education of

the sons of gentlemen" on Deal Hill; there were half-a-dozen prospering

farms, Squire Pembroke's Red Farm and Judge Meath's curiously lonely but

beautiful House on the Dunes among them; a little Episcopalian chapel on

the shores of the Strathsey river, a group of houses at the cross roads

north of Level's Woods, and the Inn at the Red Oak,--and that was all.

In its day this inn had been a famous hostelry, much more popular with

travellers than the ill-kept provincial hotels in Monday Port; but now

for a long time it had scarcely provided a livelihood for old Mrs. Frost,

widow of the famous Peter who for so many years had been its popular

host. No one knew when the house had been built; though there was an old

corner stone on which local antiquarians professed to decipher the

figures "1693," and that year was assigned by tradition as the date of

its foundation.

It was a long crazy building, with a great sloping roof, a wide porch

running its entire length, and attached to its sides and rear in all

sorts of unexpected ways and places were numerous out houses and offices.

Behind its high brick chimneys rose the thick growth of Lovel's Woods,

crowning the ridge that ran between Beaver Pond and the Strathsey river

to the sea. The house faced southwards, and from the cobbled court before

it meadow and woodland sloped to the beaches and the long line of sand

dunes that straggled out and lost themselves in Strathsey Neck. To the

east lay marshes and the dunes and beyond them the Strathsey, two miles

wide where its waters met those of the Atlantic; west lay the great

curve, known as the Second Beach, the blue surface of Deal Bay, and a

line of rocky shore, three miles in length, terminated by Rough Point,

near which began the out-lying houses of Monday Port.

The old hostelry took its name from a giant oak which grew at its

doorstep just to one side of the maple-lined driveway that led down to

the Port Road, a hundred yards or so beyond. This enormous tree spread

its branches over the entire width and half the length of the roof.

Ordinarily, of course, its foliage was as green as the leaves on the

maples of the avenue or on the neighbouring elms, and the name of the Inn

might have seemed to the summer or winter traveller an odd misnomer; but

in autumn when the frost came early and the great mass of green flushed

to a deep crimson it could not have been known more appropriately than as

the Inn at the Red Oak.

It was a solidly-built house, such as even in the early part of the

nineteenth century men were complaining they could no longer obtain;

built to weather centuries of biting southeasters, and--the legend

ran--to afford protection in its early days against Indians. At the time

of the Revolution it had been barricaded, pierced with portholes, and had

served, like innumerable other houses from Virginia to Massachusetts, as

Washington's headquarters. When Tom Pembroke knew it best, its old age

and decay had well set in.

Pembroke was the son of the neighbouring squire, whose house, known as

the Red Farm, lay In the little valley on the other side of the Woods at

the head of Beaver Pond. From the time he had been able to thread his way

across the woodland by its devious paths--Tom had been at the Inn almost

every day to play with Dan Frost, the landlord's son. They had played in

the stables, then stocked with a score of horses, where now there were

only two or three; in the great haymows of the old barn in the clearing

back of the Inn; in the ramshackle garret under that amazing roof; or,

best of all, in the abandoned bowling-alley, where they rolled

dilapidated balls at rickety ten-pins.

When Tom and Dan were eighteen--they were born within a day of each

other one bitter February--old Peter died, leaving the Inn to his wife.

Mrs. Frost pretended to carry on the business, but the actual task of

doing so soon devolved upon her son. And in this he was subjected to

little interference; for the poor lady, kindly inefficient soul that she

was, became almost helpless with rheumatism. But indeed it was rather on

the farm than to the Inn that more and more they depended for their

living. In the social hierarchy of Caesarea the Pembrokes held

themselves as vastly superior to the Frosts; but thanks to the

easy-going democratic customs of the young republic, more was made of

this by the women than the men.

The two boys loved each other devotedly, though love is doubtless the

last word they would have chosen to express their relation. Dan was tall,

dark, muscular; he had a well-shaped head on his square shoulders; strong

well-cut features; a face that the sun had deeply tanned and dark hair

that it had burnished with gold. Altogether he was a prepossessing lad,

though he looked several years older than he was, and he was commonly

treated by his neighbours with a consideration that his years did not

merit. Tom Pembroke was fairer; more attractive, perhaps, on first

acquaintance; certainly more boyish in appearance and behaviour. He was

quicker in his movements and in his mental processes; more aristocratic

in his bearing. His blue eyes were more intelligent than Dan's, but no

less frank and kindly. Young Frost admired his friend almost as much as

he cared for him; for Dan, deprived of schooling, had a reverence for

learning, of which Tom had got a smattering at Dr. Watson's establishment

for "the sons of gentlemen" on the nearby hill.

One stormy night in early January, the eve of Dan Frost's twenty-second

birthday, the two young men had their supper together at the Inn, and

afterwards sat for half-an-hour in the hot, stove-heated parlour until

Mrs. Frost began to nod over her knitting.

"Off with you, boys," she said at length; "you will be wanting to smoke

your dreadful pipes. Nancy will keep me company."

They took instant advantage of this permission and went into the deserted

bar, where they made a roaring fire on the great hearth, drew their

chairs near, filled their long clay pipes with Virginia tobacco, and fell

to talking.

"Think of it!" exclaimed young Frost, as he took a great whiff at his

pipe; "here we are--the middle of the winter--and not a guest in the

house. Why we used to have a dozen travellers round the bar here, and the

whole house bustling. I've known my father to serve a hundred and more

with rum on a night like this. Now we do a fine business if we serve as

many in a winter. Times have changed since we were boys."

"Aye," Tom agreed, "and it isn't so long ago, either. It seemed to me as

if the whole county used to be here on a Saturday night."

"I'm thinking," resumed Dan musingly, "of throwing up the business,

what's the use of pretending to keep an inn? If it wasn't for mother

and for Nancy, I'd clear out, boy; go off and hunt my fortune. As it is,

with what I make on the farm and lose on the house, I just pull through

the year."

"By gad," exclaimed Tom, "I'd go with you, Dan. I'm tired to my soul with

reading law in father's office. Why, you and I haven't been farther than

Coventry to the county fair, or to Perth Anhault to make a horse trade.

I'd like to see the world, go to London and Paris. I've wanted to go to

France ever since that queer Frenchman was here--remember?--and told us

those jolly tales about the Revolution and the great Napoleon. We were

hardly more than seven or eight then, I guess."

"I would like to go, hanged if I wouldn't," said Dan. "I'm getting more

and more discontented. But there's not much use crying for the moon, and

France might as well be the moon, for all of me." He relapsed then into a

brooding silence. It was hard for an inn-keeper to be cheerful in

midwinter with an empty house. Tom too was silent, dreaming vividly, if

vaguely, of the France he longed to see.

"Hark!" exclaimed Dan presently. "How it blows! There must be a big sea

outside to-night."

He strode to the window, pushed back the curtains of faded chintz, and

stared out into the darkness. The wind was howling in the trees and about

the eaves of the old inn, the harsh roar of the surf mingled with the

noise of the storm, and the sleet lashed the window-panes in fury.

"You will not be thinking of going home tonight, Tom?"

"Not I," Pembroke answered, for he was as much at home in Dan's enormous

chamber as he was in his own little room under the roof at the Red Farm.

As he turned from the window, the door into the parlour opened, and a

young girl quietly slipped in and seated herself in the chimney-corner.

"Hello, Nance," Dan exclaimed, as she entered; "come close, child; you

need to be near the fire on a night like this."

"Mother is asleep," the girl answered briefly, and then, resting her

chin upon her hands, she fixed her great dark eyes upon the glowing

logs. She was Dan's foster-sister, eighteen years of age, though she

looked hardly more than sixteen; a shy, slender, girl, lovely with a

wild, unusual charm. To Tom she had always been a silent elfin

creature, delightful as their playmate when a child, but now though

still so familiar, she seemed in an odd way, to grow more remote.

Apparently she liked to sit with them on these winter evenings in the

deserted bar, when Mrs. Frost had gone to bed; and to listen to their

conversation, though she took little part in it.

As Dan resumed his seat, he looked at her with evident concern, for she

was shivering as she sat so quietly by the fireside.

"Are you cold, Nance?" he asked.

"A little," she replied. "I was afraid in the parlour with Mother asleep,

and the wind and the waves roaring so horribly."

"Afraid?" exclaimed Tom, with an incredulous laugh. "I never knew you to

be really afraid of anything in the world, Nancy."

She turned her dark eyes upon him for the moment, with a sharp

inquisitive glance which caused him to flush unaccountably. An answering

crimson showed in her cheeks, and she turned back to the fire. The colour

fled almost as quickly as it had come, and left her pale, despite the

glow of firelight.

"I was afraid--to-night," she said, after a moment's silence.

Suddenly there came the sound of a tremendous knocking on the door which

opened from the bar into the outer porch, and all three started in

momentary alarm.

Dan jumped to his feet. "Who's that?" he cried.

Again came the vigorous knocking. He ran across the room, let down the

great oaken beam, and opened the door to the night and storm.

"Come in, travellers." A gust of wind and sleet rushed through the

opening and stung their faces. With the gust there seemed to blow in the

figure of a little old man wrapped in a great black coat, bouncing into

their midst as if he were an India rubber ball thrown by a gigantic hand.

Behind him strode in Manners, the liveryman of Monday Port.

"Here's a guest for you, Mr. Frost. I confess I did my best to keep him

in town till morning, but nothing 'd do; he must get to the Inn at the

Red Oak to-night. We had a hellish time getting here too, begging the

lady's pardon; but here we are."

Good-naturedly he had taken hold of his fare and, as he spoke, was

helping the stranger unwrap himself from the enveloping cloak.

"He's welcome," said Dan. "Here, sir, let me help you." He put out his

hand to steady the curious old gentleman, who, at last, gasping for

breath and blinking the sleet out of his eyes, had been unrolled by

Manners from the dripping cloak.

He was a strange figure of a man, they thought, as Dan led him to the

fire to thaw himself out. He was scarcely more than five and a half feet

in height, with tiny hands and feet almost out of proportion even to his

diminutive size. He was an old man, they would have said, though his

movements were quick and agile as if he were set up on springs. His face,

small, sharp-featured and weazened, was seamed with a thousand wrinkles.

His wig was awry, its powder, washed out by the melting sleet, was

dripping on his face in pasty streaks; and from beneath it had fallen

wisps of thin grey hair, which plastered themselves against his temples

and forehead. This last feature was also out of proportion to the rest of

his physiognomy, for it was of extraordinary height, and of a polished

smoothness, in strange contrast to his wrinkled cheeks. Beneath shone two

flashing black eyes, with the fire of youth in them, for all he seemed so

old. The lower part of his face was less distinctive. He had a small,

Suddenly there came the sound of a tremendous knocking on the door which

opened from the bar into the outer porch, and all three started in

momentary alarm.

Dan jumped to his feet. "Who's that?" he cried.

Again came the vigorous knocking. He ran across the room, let down the

great oaken beam, and opened the door to the night and storm.

"Come in, travellers." A gust of wind and sleet rushed through the

opening and stung their faces. With the gust there seemed to blow in the

figure of a little old man wrapped in a great black coat, bouncing into

their midst as if he were an India rubber ball thrown by a gigantic hand.

Behind him strode in Manners, the liveryman of Monday Port.

"Here's a guest for you, Mr. Frost. I confess I did my best to keep him

in town till morning, but nothing'd do; he must get to the Inn at the Red

Oak to-night. We had a hellish time getting here too, begging the lady's

pardon; but here we are."

Good-naturedly he had taken hold of his fare and, as he spoke, was

helping the stranger unwrap himself from the enveloping cloak.

"He's welcome," said Dan. "Here, sir, let me sharply-pointed nose; a

weak mouth, half-hidden by drooping white moustaches; and a small sharp

chin, accentuated by a white beard nattily trimmed to a point. He was

dressed entirely in black; a flowing coat of French cut, black small

clothes, black stockings and boots that reached to the calves of his

little legs. These boots were ornamented with great silver buckles, and

about his neck and wrists showed bedraggled bits of yellowed lace."

He stood before the fire, speechless still; standing first on one foot

then on the other; rubbing his hands the while as he held them to the

grateful warmth.

Nancy had in the meanwhile drawn a glass of rum, and now advancing

held it toward him a little gingerly. He took it eagerly and drained

it at a gulp.

"_Merci, ma petite ange; merci, messieurs_" he exclaimed at last; and

then added in distinct, though somewhat strongly accented English, "I ask

your pardon. I forget you may not know my language. But now that this

good liquor has put new life in my poor old bones, I explain myself. I am

arrived, I infer, at the Inn at the Red Oak; and you, monsieur, though so

young, I take to be my host. I have your description, you perceive, from

the good postilion. You will do me the kindness to provide me with supper

and a bed?"

"Certainly, sir," said Dan. "It is late and we are unprepared, but we

will put you up somehow. You too, Manners, had best let me bunk you till

morning; you'll not be going back to the Port tonight? Nancy a fresh

bumper for Mr. Manners."

"Thankee, sir; I managed to get out with the gentleman yonder, and I

guess I'll manage to get back. But it's a rare night, masters. Just a

minute, sir, and I'll be getting his honour's bags.... Thank ye kindly,

Miss Nancy."

He drained the tumbler of raw spirit that Nancy held out. Then he opened

the door again and went out into the storm, returning almost at once with

the stranger's bags.

Dan turned to his sister. "Nancy dear, go stir up Susan and Deborah. We

must have a fire made in the south chamber and some hot supper got ready.

Tell Susan to rout out Jesse to help her. Say nothing to Mother; no need

to disturb her. And now, sir," he continued, turning again to the

stranger, "may I ask your name?"

The old gentleman ceased his springing seesaw for a moment, and fixed

his keen black eyes on the questioner.

"_Certainment, monsieur_--certainly, I should say," he replied in a high,

but not unpleasant, voice. "I am the Marquis de Boisdhyver, at your

service. I am to travel in the United States--oh! for a long time. I stay

here, if you are so good as to accommodate me, perhaps till you are weary

and wish me to go elsewhere. You have been greatly recommended to me by

my friend,--quiet, remote, secluded, an _auberge_--what you call it?--an

inn, well-suited to my habits, my tastes, my desire for rest. I am very

_fatigué_, monsieur."

"Yes," said Dan, with a grim smile, "we are remote and quiet and

secluded. You are welcome, sir, to what we have. Tom, see that Manners

has another drink before he goes, will you? and do the honours for our

guest, while Nance and I get things ready."

As he disappeared into the kitchen, following Nancy, the Marquis looking

after him with a comical expression of gratitude upon his face. Tom drew

another glass of rum, which Manners eagerly, if rashly, devoured. Then

the liveryman wrapped himself in his furs, bade them good-night, and

started out again into the storm for his drive back to Monday Port.

All this time the old gentleman stood warming his feet and hands at the

fire, watching his two companions with quickly-shifting eyes, or glancing

curiously over the great bar which the light of the fire and the few

candles but faintly illuminated.

Having barred the door, Tom turned back to the hearth. "It is a bad

night, sir."

"But yes," exclaimed the Marquis. "I think I perish. Oh! that dreary

tavern at your Monday Port. I think when I arrive there I prefer to

perish. But this, this is the old Inn at the Red Oak, is it not? And it

dates, yes,--from the year 1693? The old inn, eh, by the great tree?"

"Yes, certainly," Pembroke answered; "at least, that is the date that

some people claim is on the old cornerstone. You have been here before

then, sir?"

"I?" exclaimed Monsieur de Boisdhyver. "Oh, no! not I. I have heard from

my friend who was here some years ago."

"Oh, I see. And you have come far to-day?"

"From Coventry, monsieur--Monsieur--?"

"Pembroke," Tom replied, with a little start.

"Ah! yes, Monsieur Pembroke. A member of the household?"

"No--a friend."

"I make a mistake," quickly interposed the traveller, "Pardon. I am come

from Coventry, Monsieur Pembroke, in an everlasting an eternal stage, a

monster of a carriage, monsieur. It is only a few days since that I

arrive from France."

"Ah, France!" exclaimed Tom, recalling that only a little while before he

and Dan had been dreaming of that magic country. And here was a person

who actually lived in France, who had just come from there, who

extraordinarily chose to leave that delightful land for the Inn at the

Red Oak in mid-winter.

"France," he repeated; "all my life, sir, I have been longing to

go there."

"So?" said the Marquis, raising his white eyebrows with interest. "You

love _ma belle patrie_, eh? _Qui Sait_?--you will perhaps some day go

there. You have interests, friends in my country?"

"No, none," Tom answered. "I wish I had. You come from Paris, sir?"

"_Mais oui_."

For some time they chatted in such fashion, the Marquis answering Tom's

many questions with characteristic French politeness, but turning ever

and anon a pathetic glance toward the door through which Dan and Nancy

had disappeared. It was with undisguised satisfaction that he greeted

young Frost when he returned to announce that supper was ready.

"I famish!" the old gentleman exclaimed. "I have dined to-day on a

biscuit and a glass of water."

They found the kitchen table amply spread with food,--cold meats, hot

eggs and coffee, and a bottle of port. Monsieur de Boisdhyver ate

heartily and drank his wine with relish, gracefully toasting Nancy as he

did so. When his meal was finished, he begged with many excuses to be

shown to his bedroom; and indeed his fatigue was evident. Dan saw him to

the great south chamber, carrying a pair of lighted candles before. He

made sure that all had been done that sulky sleepy maids could be induced

to do, and then left him to make ready for the night.

Lights were extinguished in the parlour and the bar, the fires were

banked, and the two young men went up to Dan's own room. There on either

side of the warm hearth, had been drawn two great four-posted beds, and

it took the lads but a moment to tumble into them.

"It's queer," said Dan, as he pulled the comfort snugly about his

shoulders, calling to Tom across the way; "it's queer--the old chap

evidently means to stay awhile. What does a French marquis want in a

deserted hole like this, I'd like to know? But if he pays, why the longer

he stays the better."

"I hope he does," said Tom sleepily. "He has a reason, I fancy, for he

asked questions enough while you were out seeing to his supper. He seems

to know the place almost as well as if he had been here before, though he

said he hadn't. But, by gad, I wish you and I were snug in a little hotel

on the banks of the Seine to-night and not bothering our heads about a

doddering old marquis who hadn't sense enough to stay there."

"Wish we were," Dan replied. "Good-night," he called, realizing that his

friend was too sleepy to lie awake and discuss any longer their

unexpected guest.

"Good-night," murmured Tom, and promptly drifted away into dreams of the

wonderful land he had never seen. As for Dan he lay awake a long time,

wondering what could possibly have brought the old Marquis to the

deserted inn at such a time of the year and on such a night.

CHAPTER II

THE LIONS EYE

Toward daylight the storm blew itself out, the wind swung round to the

northwest, and the morning dawned clear and cold, with a sharp breeze

blowing and a bright sun shining upon a snow-clad, ice-crusted world and

a sparkling sapphire sea.

Dan had risen early and had set Jesse to clear a way across the court and

down the avenue to the road. The maids, astir by dawn, were no longer

sulky but bustled about at the preparation of an unusually good breakfast

in honour of the new guest.

Mrs. Frost, who habitually lay till nine or ten o'clock behind the

crimson curtains of her great bed, had caught wind of something out of

the ordinary, demanded Nancy's early assistance, and announced her

intention of breakfasting with the household.

She was fretful during the complicated process of her toilette and so

hurt the feelings of her foster-daughter, that when Dan came to take her

into the breakfast room, Nancy found an excuse for not accompanying them.

The Marquis was awaiting their appearance. He stood with his back-to the

fire, a spruce and carefully-dressed little figure, passing remarks upon

the weather with young Pembroke, who leaned his graceful length against

the mantelpiece.

The noble traveller was presented with due ceremony to Mrs. Frost, who

greeted him with old-world courtesy. She had had, indeed, considerably

more association with distinguished personages than had most of the dames

of the neighbouring farms who considered themselves her social superiors.

She welcomed Monsieur de Boisdhyver graciously, enquiring with interest

of his journey and with solicitude as to his rest during the night. She

received with satisfaction his rapturous compliments on the comforts that

had been provided him, on the beauty of the surrounding country upon

which he had looked from the windows of his chamber, and on her own

condescension in vouchsafing to breakfast with them. She was delighted

that he should find the Inn at the Red Oak so much to his taste that he

proposed to stay with them indefinitely.

They were soon seated at the breakfast-table and had addressed

themselves to the various good things that black Deborah had provided.

The native Johnny cakes, made of meal ground by their own windmill, the

Marquis professed to find particularly tempting.

Despite Mrs. Frost's questions, despite his own voluble replies, Monsieur

de Boisdhyver gave no hint, that there was any deeper reason for his

seeking exile at the Inn of the Red Oak than that he desired rest and

quiet and had been assured that he would find them there. And who had so

complimented their simple abode of hospitality?

"Ah, madame," he murmured, lifting his tiny hands, "so many!"

"But I fear, monsieur," replied his hostess, "that you, who are

accustomed to the luxuries of a splendid city like Paris, to so many

things of which we read, will find little to interest and amuse you in

our remote countryside."

"As for interest, madame," the Marquis protested, "there are the beauties

of nature, your so delightful household, my few books, my writing; and

for amusement, I have my violin;--I so love to play. You will not

mind?--perhaps, enjoy it?"

"Indeed yes," said Mrs. Frost. "Dan, too, is a fiddler after a fashion;

and as for Nancy, she has a passion for music, and dreams away many an

evening while my son plays his old tunes."

"Ah, yes," said the Marquis, "Mademoiselle Nancy, I have not the pleasure

to see her this morning?"

"No," replied Mrs. Frost, flushing a trifle at the recollection of why

Nancy was not present, "she is somewhat indisposed--a mere trifle. You

will see her later in the day. But, monsieur, you should have come to us

in the spring or the summer, for then the country is truly beautiful;

now, with these snow-bound roads, when not even the stagecoach passes, we

are indeed lonely and remote."

"It is that," insisted the Marquis, "which so charms me. When one is

old and when one has lived a life too occupied, it is this peace,

this quiet, this remoteness one desires. To walk a little, to sit by

your so marvellously warm fires, to look upon your beautiful country,

_cest bou_!"

He held her for a moment with his piercing little eyes, a faint smile

upon his lips, as though to say that it was impossible he should be

convinced that he had not found precisely what he was seeking, and

insisting, as it were, that his hostess take his words as the compliment

they were designed to be.

Before she had time to reply, he had turned to Dan. "What a fine harbour

you have, Monsieur Frost," he said, pointing through the window toward

the Cove, separated from the river and the sea by the great curve of

Strathsey Neck, its blue waters sparkling now in the light of the

morning sun.

"Yes," replied Dan, glancing out upon the well-known shoreline, "it is a

good harbour, though nothing, of course, to compare with a Port. But it's

seldom that we see a ship at anchor here, now."

"There is, however," inquired the Marquis with interest, "anchorage for a

vessel, a large vessel?"

"Yes, indeed," Tom interrupted, "in the old days when my father had his

ships plying between Havana and the Port, he would often have them anchor

in the Cove for convenience in lading them with corn from the farm."

"And they were large ships?"

"Full-rigged, sir; many of 'em, and drawing eight feet at least."

"_Eh bien_! And the old Inn, madame, it dates, your son tells me,

from 1693?"

"We think so, sir, though I have no positive knowledge of its existence

before 1750. My husband purchased the place in '94, and it had then been

a hostelry for some years, certainly from the middle of the century. But

we have made many additions. Danny dear, perhaps it will interest the

Marquis if you should take him over the house. We are proud of our old

inn, sir."

"And with reason, madame. If monsieur will, I shall be charmed."

"I will leave you then with my son. Give me your arm, Dan, to the

parlour. Unfortunately, Monsieur le Marquis, affliction has crippled me

and I spend the day in my chair in the blue parlour. I shall be so

pleased, if you will come and chat with me. Tommy, you will be staying to

dinner with us?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Frost, but I must get to the Port for the day. Mother

and Father are leaving by the afternoon stage, if it gets through. They

are going to spend the winter in Coventry. But I shall be back to-night

as I have promised Dan to spend that time with him."

"We shall be glad to have you, as you know."

Soon after Mrs. Frost had left the breakfast-room and Tom had started

forth with horse and sleigh, Dan returned. The Marquis promptly reminded

him of the suggestion that he should be taken over the Inn. It seemed to

Dan an uninteresting way to entertain his guest and the morning was a

busy one. However, he promised to be ready at eleven o'clock to show the

Marquis all there was in the old house.

As Dan went about the offices and stables, performing himself much of the

work that in prosperous times fell to grooms and hostlers, he found

himself thinking about his new guest. Dan knew enough of French history

to be aware there were frequent occasions in France when partisans of the

various factions, royalist, imperialist, or republican, found it best to

expatriate themselves. He knew that in times past many of the most

distinguished exiles had found asylum in America. But at the present, he

understood, King Louis Philippe, was reigning quietly at the Tuileries

and, moreover, the Marquis de Boisdhyver, mysterious as he was, did not

suggest the political adventurer of whom Dan as a boy had heard his

parents tell such extraordinary tales. In the few years immediately after

the final fall of the great Bonaparte there had been an influx of

imperialistic supporters in America, some of whom had even found their

way to Monday Port and Deal. One of these, Dan remembered, had stayed

for some months in '14 or '15 at the Inn at the Red Oak, and it was he

whom Tom had recalled the night before as having told them stories of his

adventurous exploits in the wars of the Little Corporal. But it was too

long after Napoleon's fall to connect his present guest with the imperial

exiles. He could imagine no ulterior reason for the Marquis's coming and

was inclined to put it down as the caprice of an old restless gentleman

who had a genuine mania for solitude. Of solitude, certainly, he was apt

to get his fill at the Inn at the Red Oak.

At eleven o'clock he returned to keep his appointment. He found the

Marquis established at a small table in the bar by an east window, from

which was obtained a view of the Cove, of the sand-dunes along the Neck,

and of the open sea beyond. A writing-desk was on the table, ink and

quills had been provided, a number of books and papers were strewn about,

and Monsieur de Boisdhyver was apparently busy with his correspondence.

"Enchanted" he exclaimed, as he pulled out a great gold watch. "Punctual.

I find another virtue, monsieur, in a character to which I have already

had so much reason to pay my compliments. I trust I do not trespass upon

your more important duties." As he spoke, he rapidly swept the papers

into the writing-desk, closed and locked it, and carefully placed the

tiny golden key into the pocket of his gayly-embroidered waistcoat.

"Not at all," Dan replied courteously, "I shall be glad to show you

about. But I fear you will find it cold and dismal, for the greater part

of the house is seldom used or even entered."

"I bring my cloak," said the Marquis. "Interest will give me warmth. What

I have already seen of the Inn at the Red Oak is so charming, that I

doubt not there is much more to delight one. I imagine, monsieur, how gay

must have been this place once."

He took his great cloak from the peg near the fire where it had been hung

the night before to dry wrapped himself snugly in it; and then, with a

little bow, preceded Dan into the cold and draughty corridor that opened

from the bar into the older part of the house.

This hallway extended fifty or sixty feet to the north wall of the main

part of the inn whence a large window at the turn of a flight of stairs

gave light. On the right, extending the same distance as the hall

itself, was a great room known as the Red Drawing-room, into which Dan

first showed the Marquis. This room had not been used since father's

death four or five years before, and for a long time previous to that

only on the rare occasions when a county gathering of some sort was held

at the inn. It had been furnished in good taste and style in colonial

days, but was now dilapidated and musty. The heavy red damask curtains

were drawn before the windows, and the room was dark and cheerless. Dan

admitted the dazzling light of the sun; but the Marquis only shivered and

seemed anxious to pass quickly on.

"You see, sir," observed the young landlord, "it is dismal enough."

"_Mais oui_--_mais oui_," exclaimed the Marquis.

At the foot of the stairway the corridor turned at right angles and ran

north. On either side opened a number of chambers in like conditions of

disrepair, which had been used as bedrooms in the palmy days of the

hostelry. This corridor ended at the bowling-alley, where as children Tom

and Dan had loved to play. Half-way to the entrance to the bowling-alley

a third hallway branched off to the right, leading to a similar set of

chambers. Into all these they entered, the Marquis examining each with

quick glances, dismissing them with the briefest interest and the most

obvious comment.

Dan saved the _piéce-de-resistance_ till last. This was a little room

entered from the second corridor just at the turn--the only room indeed,

as he truthfully said, that merited a visit.

"This," he explained, "we call the Oak Parlour. It is the only room on

this floor worth showing you. My father brought the wainscoting from an

old English country-house in Dorsetshire. My father's people were

Torries, sir, and kept up their connection with the old country."

It was a delightful room into which Dan now admitted the light of day,

drawing aside the heavy green curtains from the eastern windows. It was

wainscoted from floor to cornice in old black English oak, curiously and

elaborately carved, and divided into long narrow panels. The ceiling, of

similar materials and alike elaborately decorated, was supported by heavy

transverse beams that seemed solid and strong enough to support the roof

of a cathedral. On one side two windows opened upon the gallery and court

and looked out upon the Cove, on the other side stood a cabinet. It was

the most striking piece of furniture in the room, of enormous dimensions

and beautifully carved on the doors of the cupboards below and on the

top-pieces between the mirrors were lion's heads of almost life-size.

Opposite the heavy door, by which they had entered, was a large

fireplace, containing a pair of elaborately ornamented brass and irons.

There was not otherwise a great deal of furniture,--two or three tables,

some chairs, a deep window-seat, a writing-desk of French design; but

all, except this last, in keeping with the character of the room, and all

brought across the seas from the old Dorsetshire mansion, from which

Peter Frost had obtained the interior.

"_Charmant_!" exclaimed the Marquis. "You have a jewel, _mon ami_; a bit

of old England or of old France in the heart of America; a room one finds

not elsewhere in the States. It is a _creation superbe_."

With enthusiastic interest he moved about, touching each article of

furniture, examining with care the two of three old English landscapes

that had been let into panels on the west side of the room, pausing in

ecstacies before the great cabinet and standing before the fireplace as

if he were warming his hands at that generous hearth.

"Ah, Monsieur Frost, could I but write, read, dream here...!"

"I fear that would be impossible, sir," replied Dan. "It is difficult to

heat this portion of the house; and in fact, we never use it."

"_Hélas_!" exclaimed the Marquis, "those things which allure us in this

world are so often impossible. Perhaps in the spring, in the summer, when

there is no longer the necessity of the fire, you will permit me."

"It may be, monsieur," Dan replied, "that long before the summer comes

you will have left us."

"_Mais non_!" cried M. de Boisdhyver. "Every hour that I stay but proves

to me how long you will have to endure my company."

Somewhat ungraciously, it seemed, young Frost made no reply to this

pleasantry; for already he was impatient to be gone. Although the room

was intensely cold and uncomfortable, still his guest lingered, standing

before the massive cabinet, exclaiming upon the exquisiteness of the

workmanship, and every now and then running his dainty fingers along the

carving of its front. As Dan stood waiting for the Marquis to leave, he

chanced to glance through the window to the court without, and saw Jesse

starting out in the sleigh. As he had given him no such order he ran

quickly to the window, rapped vigourously and then, excusing himself to

the Marquis, hurried out to ask Jesse to explain his errand.

The Marquis de Boisdhyver stood for a moment, as Dan left him, motionless

in front of the cabinet. His face was bright with surprise and delight,

his eyes alert with interest and cunning. After a moment's hesitation he

stole cautiously to the window, and seeing Frost was engaged in

conversation with Jesse, he sprang back with quick steps to the cabinet.

He hastily ran the tips of his fingers along the beveled edges of the

wide shelf from end to end several times, each time the expression of

alertness deepening into one of disappointment. He stopped for a moment

and listened. All was quiet. Again with quick motions he felt beneath the

edges. Suddenly his eyes brightened and he breathed quickly; his

sensitive fingers had detected a slight unevenness in the smooth

woodwork. Again he paused and listened, and then pressed heavily until he

heard a slight click. He glanced up, as directly in front of him the eye

of one of the carved wooden lion's heads on the front of the board winked

and slowly raised, revealing a small aperture. With a look of

satisfaction, the Marquis thrust his fingers into the tiny opening and

drew forth a bit of tightly folded yellow paper; he glanced at it for an

instant and thrust it quickly into the pocket of his waistcoat. Then he

lowered the lid of the lion's eye. There was a slight click again; and he

turned, just as Dan reappeared in the doorway.

"Excuse my leaving you so abruptly," said Frost, "but I saw Jesse going

off with the sleigh, and as I had given him no orders, I wanted to know

where he was going. But it was all right. Are you ready, sir? I am afraid

if we stay much longer you will catch cold." This last remark was added

as the Marquis politely smothered a sneeze with his flimsy lace

handkerchief.

"_C'est bien_, monsieur. I fear I have taken a little cold. Perhaps it

would be just as well if we explore no further to-day."

"If you prefer, sir," answered Dan, holding the door open for his guest

to go out. Monsieur de Boisdhyver turned and surveyed the Oak Parlour

once more before he left it. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "this so charming

room--it is of a perfection! Dorsetshire, you say? ... To me it would

seem French." They walked back rapidly along the dark cold corridors to

the bar. All the way the Marquis, wrapped tightly in his great cloak,

kept the thumb of his left hand in his waistcoat pocket, pressing

securely against the paper he had taken from the old cabinet in the Oak

Parlour.

CHAPTER III

THE MARQUIS AT NIGHT

The household of the Inn at the Red Oak soon became accustomed to the

presence of their new member; indeed, he seemed to them during those

bleak winter months a most welcome addition. Except for an occasional

traveller who spent a night or a Sunday at the Inn, he was the only

guest. He was gregarious and talkative, and would frequently keep them

for an hour or so at table as he talked to them of his life in France,

and of his adventures in the exciting times through which his country had

passed during the last fifty years. He was the cadet, he told them, of a

noble family of the Vendée, the head of which, though long faithful to

the exiled Bourbons, had gone over to Napoleon upon the establishment of

the Empire. But as for himself--Marie-Anne-Timélon-Armand de

Boisdhyver--he still clung to the Imperial cause, and though now for many

years his age and infirmities had forced him to withdraw from any part in

intrigues aiming at the restoration of the Empire, his sympathies were

still keen.

When he talked in this strain, of his thrilling memories of the Terror

and of the extraordinary days when Bonaparte was Emperor, Dan and Tom

would listen to him by the hour. But Mrs. Frost preferred to hear the

Marquis's reminiscences of the _ancien régime_ and of the old court life

at Versailles. He had been a page, he said, to the unfortunate Marie

Antoinette; he would cross himself piously at the mention of the magic

name, and digress rapturously upon her beauty and grace, and bemoan, with

tears, her unhappy fate. She liked also to hear of the court of Napoleon

and of the life of the _faubourgs_ in the Paris of the day. On these

occasions the young men were apt to slip away and leave the Marquis alone

with Mrs. Frost and Nancy.

For Nancy Monsieur de Boisdhyver seemed to have a fascination. She would

listen absorbed to his voluble tales, her bright eyes fixed on his

fantastic countenance, her head usually resting upon her hand, and her

body bent forward in an attitude of eager attention. She rarely spoke

even to ask a question; indeed, her only words would be an occasional

exclamation of interest, or the briefest reply.

During the day their noble guest would potter about the house or, when

the weather was fine, stroll down to the shore, where he would walk up

and down the strip of sandy beach in the lee of the wind hour after hour.

Now and then he wandered out upon the dunes that stretched along the

Neck; and once, Dan afterwards learned, he paid a call upon old Mrs.

Meath who lived by herself in the lonely farmhouse on Strathsey Neck,

that was known as the House of the Dunes.

After supper they were wont to gather in Mrs. Frost's parlour or in the

old bar before the great hearth on which a splendid fire always blazed;

and when the Marquis had had his special cup of black coffee, he would

get out his violin and play to them the long evening through. He played

well, with the skill of a master of the art, and with feeling. He seemed

at such times to forget himself and his surroundings; his bright eyes

would grow soft, a dreamy look would steal into them, and a happy little

smile play about the corners of his thin pale lips. Obligingly he gave

Dan lessons, and often the young man would accompany him, in the songs

his mother had known and loved in her youth, when old Peter had come

wooing with fiddle in hand.

But best of all were the evenings when the Marquis chose to improvise.

Plaintive, tender melodies for the most part; prolonged trembling,

faintly-expiring airs; and sometimes harsh, strident notes that evoked

weird echoes from the bare wainscoted walls. Mrs. Frost would sit, tears

of sadness and of pleasure in her eyes, the kindly homely features of her

face moving with interest and delight. Nancy was usually by the table,

her sharp little chin propped up on the palms of her hands, never taking

her fascinated gaze from the musician. Sometimes Tom would look at her

and wonder of what she could be thinking. For certainly her spirit seemed

to be far away wandering in a world of dreams and of strange

inexpressible emotions. For Tom the music stirred delicate thoughts

bright dreams of beauty and of love; the vivid intangible dreams of

awakening youth. He had not had much experience with emotion; the story

of his love affairs contained no more dramatic moments than the stealing

of occasional kisses from the glowing cheeks of Maria Stonywell, the

beauty of the Tinterton road, as he had walked back to the old farm with

her on moonlight evenings.

They would all be sorry when Monsieur pleaded weariness and bade them

good-night. Sometimes his music so moved the old Frenchman that the tears

would gather in his faded blue eyes and steal down his powdered cheeks;

and then, like as not, he was apt to break off suddenly, drop violin and

bow upon his knees, and exclaim, "_Ah! la musique! mon Dieu, mon Dieu!

elle me rappelle ma jeunesse. Et maintenant--et maintenant_!" And then,

brushing away the tears he would rise, make them a courtly bow, and hurry

out of the room.

Dan alone did not fall under his spell. He and Tom would often talk of

their strange guest after they were gone to bed in the great chamber over

the dining-room.

"I don't know what it is," Dan said one night, "but I am sorry he ever

came to the Inn; I wish he would go away."

"How absurd, old boy!" protested Tom. "He has saved our lives this

frightful winter. I never knew your mother to be so cheerful and

contented; Nancy seems to adore him, and you yourself are making the most

of his fiddle lessons."

"I know," Dan replied, "all that is true, but it is only half the truth.

Mother's cheerfulness is costing me a pretty penny, for I can't keep her

from ordering the most expensive things,--wines, and the like,--that we

can't afford. Maybe Nance adores him, as you say,--she is such a strange

wild child; but I have never known her to be so unlike herself. We used

to have good times together--Nance and I. But this winter I see nothing

of her at all." For the moment Dan forgot his complaint in the tender

thought of his foster-sister. "It probably is absurd," he added

presently, "but I don't like it; I don't like him, Tom! He plays the

fiddle well, I admit but he is so queer and shifty, nosing about, looking

this way and that, never meeting your eyes. It's just as though he were

waiting, biding his time, for--I don't know what."

"Nonsense, Dan; you're not an old woman."

"It may be, Tom, but I feel so anyway. The place hasn't seemed the same

to me since that Frenchman came. I wish he would go away; and apparently

he means to stay on forever."

"I think you would miss him, if he were to go," insisted Pembroke, "for

my part I'm glad he is here. To tell the truth, Dan, he's been the life

of the house."

"He has fascinated you as he has fascinated Mother and Nance," Dan

replied. "But it stands to reason, boy, that he can't be quite all

right. What does he want poking about in a deserted old hole like Deal?"

"What he has said a thousand times; just what he so beautifully

gets--quiet and seclusion."

"Perhaps you are right and I am wrong; but all the same I shall be glad

to see the last of him."

The night was one of bright moonlight at the end of February. The bedroom

windows were open to the cold clear air. Tom was not sleepy, and he lay

for a long time recalling the dreams and emotions that had so stirred him

earlier in the evening, as he had listened to the Marquis's playing. He

kept whistling softly to himself such bars of the music as he could

remember. Dan's chamber faced west, and Tom's bed was so placed that he

could look out, without raising his head from the pillow, over the court

in the rear of the Inn and into the misty depths of Lovel's Woods beyond

the offices and stables.

As he lay half-consciously musing--it must have been near midnight--his

attention was suddenly riveted upon the court below. It seemed to him

that he heard footsteps. He was instantly wide awake, and jumped from the

bed to the window, whence he peered from behind the curtain into the

courtyard. Close to the wall of the Inn, directly beneath the window, a

shadow flitted on the moonlight-flooded pavement, and he could hear the

crumbling of the snow. Cautiously he thrust his head out of the window.

Moving rapidly along near to the house, was a little figure wrapped in a

dark cloak, which looked to Tom for all the world like the Marquis de

Boisdhyver.

For the moment he had the impulse to call to him by name, but the

conversation he had so recently had with Dan flashed into his mind, and

he decided to keep still and watch. The figure moved rapidly along the

west wall of the Inn almost the entire length of the building, until it

arrived at the entrance of the bowling-alley which abutted from the old

northern wing. Reaching this it paused for a moment, glancing about; then

inserted a key, fumbled for a moment with the latch, opened the door, and

disappeared within.

Tom was perplexed. He could not be sure that it was the Marquis; but

whether it were or not, he knew that there was no reason for any one

entering the old portion of the Inn at midnight. His first thought was to

go down alone and investigate; his second was to waken Dan.

He lowered the window gently, drew the curtains across it, and

bending over his friend, shook him gently by the shoulder. "Dan, Dan,

I say; wake up!"

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Dan with a start of alarm, as he sat

up in bed.

"Nothing, nothing; don't make a noise. I happened to be awake, and

hearing footsteps under the window, I got up and looked out. I saw some

one moving along close to the wall until he got to the bowling alley. He

opened the door and disappeared."

"The door's locked," exclaimed Dan. "Who was it?"

"He had a key, whoever he was then. To tell the truth, Dan, it looked

like the Marquis; though I couldn't swear to him. I certainly saw

some one."

"You have not been asleep and dreaming, have you?" asked his friend,

rubbing his eyes.

"I should say not. I'm going down to investigate; thought you'd like to

come along."

"So I shall," said Dan, jumping out of bed and beginning to dress. "If

you really have seen any one, I'll wager you are right in thinking it's

the old marquis. That is just the sort of thing I have imagined him

being up to. What he wants though in the old part of the house is more

than I can think. He has pestered me to get back there ever since I

showed him over the place the day he arrived. Are you ready? Bring a

candle, and some matches. Ill just take my gun along on general

principles. I don't care how soon we get rid of the Marquis de

Boisdhyver, but I shouldn't exactly like to shoot him out with a load of

buckshot in his hide."

Tom stood waiting with his boots in hand. Dan went to his bureau and took

out his father's old pistol, that had done duty in the West India trade

years ago, when pirates were not romantic memories but genuine menaces.

"Sh!" whispered Dan as he opened the door. "Let's blow out the candle.

It's moonlight, and we will be safer without it. Be careful as you go

down stairs not to wake Mother and Nancy."

Tom blew out the candle and slipped the end into his pocket, as he

tiptoed after Dan down the stairs. At every step the old boards seemed to

creak as though in pain. As they paused breathless half-way down on the

landing, they heard no sound save the loud ticking of the clock in the

hall below and the gentle whispering of the breeze without. The moon

gave light enough had they needed it, but each of them could have found

his way through every nook and corner of the Inn in darkness as well as

in broad day-light. They crept down the short flight from the landing,

paused and listened at the doors of Mrs. Frost's and Nancy's chambers,

and then slipped noiselessly into the bar where the logs still glowed on

the hearth.

"Shall we," asked Tom in a low tone, "go down the corridor or

around outside?"

"Best outside," Dan whispered. "If we go down the corridor we are like to

frighten him if he is the Marquis, or get a bullet in our gizzards if he

is not. Should he be inside, he'll have a light and we can find just

where he is. I have a notion that it's the Marquis and that he'll be in

the Oak Parlour. We'd better creep along the porch."

Very softly he unlocked the door, and stepped outside. Tom was close

behind him. They crept stealthily along next the wall well within the

shadow of the roof, pausing at every window to peer through the

cracks of the shutters. But all were dark. As they turned the corner

of the porch at the end of the main portion of the inn from which

the north wing extended, Dan suddenly put his hand back and stopped

Tom. "Wait," he breathed, "there's a light in the Oak Parlour. Stay

here, while I peek in."

With gun in hand he crept up to the nearest window of the Oak Parlour.

The heavy shutters were closed, but between the crack made by the warping

of the wood, he could distinguish a streak of golden light. He waited a

moment; and, then at the risk of alarming the intruder within, carefully

tried the shutter. To his great satisfaction it yielded and swung slowly,

almost noiselessly, back upon its hinges; the inside curtains were drawn;

but a slight gap had been left. Peering in through this, Dan found he

could get a view of a small section of the interior,--the end of the

great Dorsetshire cabinet on the farther side of the room and a part of

the wall. Before the cabinet, bending over its shelf, stood the familiar

form of the Marquis de Boisdhyver, apparently absorbed in a minute

examination of the carving. But Dan's attention was quickly diverted from

the figure of the old Frenchman, for by his side, also engaged in a

similar examination of the cabinet, stood Nancy. For a moment he watched

them with intent interest, but as he could not discover what so absorbed

them he slipped back to Tom, who was waiting at the turn of the porch.

"It's the Marquis," he whispered in his friend's ear.

"What is he up to?"

"I don't know. Apparently he is examining the old cabinet. But, Tom,

Nancy is with him and as absorbed in the thing as he is. Look!" he

exclaimed suddenly. "They've blown out the light."

As he spoke, he pointed to the window, now dark. "Come," he said, making

an instant decision, "let's hide ourselves in the hall and see if they

come back."

"But Nancy--?"

"No time for talk now. Come along."

They ran back along the porch, slipped into the bar, and thence into the

hall. Dan motioned to Tom to conceal himself in a closet beneath the

stairway, and he himself slipped behind the clock. Hardly were they

safely hidden thus, than they heard a fumble at the latch of the door

into the bar. Then the door was pushed open, and the Marquis stepped

cautiously in the hall. He paused for a moment, listening intently. Then

he held open the door a little wider; and another figure, quite enveloped

by a long black coat, entered after him. They silently crossed the hall

to the door of Nancy's chamber. This the Marquis opened; then bowed low,

as his companion passed within. They were so close to him that Dan could

have reached out his hand and touched them. As Nancy entered her room,

Dan distinctly heard Monsieur de Boisdhyver whisper, "More success next

time, mademoiselle!"

There was no reply.

The Marquis turned, stole softly up the stairs, and in a moment Dan heard

the click of the latch as he closed his door. He slipped out from his

hiding place, and whispered to Tom.

In a few moments they were back again in their bedroom.

"Heavens! man, what do you make of it?" asked Tom.

"Make of it!" exclaimed Dan, "I don't know what to make of it. It's

incomprehensible. What the devil is that old rascal after, and how has he

bewitched Nance?"

"Perhaps," suggested Tom, more for Nancy's sake than because he believed

what he was saying, "it is simply that he is curious, and knowing that

you don't want him in the old part of the Inn, he has persuaded Nancy to

take him there at night."

"Nonsense! that couldn't possibly account for such secrecy and caution.

No, Tom, he has some deviltry on foot, and we must find out what it is."

"That should be simple enough. Ask Nance."

"Ah!" exclaimed his friend, "you don't know Nance as well as I. You may

be sure he has sworn her to secrecy, and Nance would never betray a

promise whether she had been wise in making it or not."

"Then go to the old man himself and demand an explanation."

"He'd lie ..."

"Turn him out."

"I could do that, of course. But I think I would rather find out what he

is up to. It has something to do with the old cabinet in the Oak Parlour.

I'll find out the mystery of that if I have to hack the thing into a

thousand pieces. What I hate, is Nance's being mixed up in it."

"We can watch again."

"Yes; we'll do that. In the meanwhile, I am going to investigate that old

ark myself. There's something about, something concealed in it, that he

wants to get. When I took him in there the day after he came, he

couldn't keep his eyes off it. If you can get Nance out of the way

tomorrow afternoon, I'll send the Marquis off with Jesse for that

long-talked-of visit to Mondy Port; and I'll give Jesse instructions not

to get him back before dark. And while they are away, I'll investigate

the Oak Parlour myself. Can you get Nance off?"

"I might ask her to go and look over the Red Farm with me. She might like

the walk through the woods. I could easily manage to be away for three or

four hours."

"Good! You may think it odd, Tom, that I should seem to distrust Nance. I

don't distrust her, but there has always been a mystery about her. Mother

knows a good deal more than she has even been willing to tell to me, or

even to Nance, I guess. I know nothing except that she is of French

extraction, and I have sometimes wondered since she has been so often

with the old Marquis this winter, if he didn't know something about her.

It flashed over me to-night as I saw them in that deserted room. Whatever

is a-foot, I am going to get at the bottom of it. We will watch again

to-morrow night. I heard him whisper as he left Nance, 'More success next

time!' This sort of thing may have been going on for a month."

They undressed again, and Dan put his gun away in his bureau. "We may

have use for that yet, Tommy," he said. "It would do me good, after what

I have seen to-night, to put a bit of lead into the Marquis de Boisdhyver

as a memento of his so delightful sojourn at _L'Auberge au Chene Rouge_."

CHAPTER IV

THE OAK PARLOUR

The two young men felt self-conscious and ill-at-ease the next morning at

the breakfast table, but apparently their embarrassment was neither

shared nor observed. Mrs. Frost had kept her room, but Nancy and the

Marquis were in their accustomed places; the old gentleman, chattering

away in a fashion that demanded few answers and no attention; Nancy,

speaking only to ask necessary questions as to their wants at table and

meeting the occasional glances of Dan and Tom without suspicion. Tom

could scarcely realize in that bright morning light, that only seven or

eight hours earlier he and his friend had spied upon their companions

prowling about in the abandoned wing of the inn.

Monsieur de Boisdhyver assented readily enough when Dan proposed that

Jesse should take him that day to Monday Port. He was curious to see the

old town, he said, having heard much of it from his friend; much also

from his celebrated compatriot, the Marquis de Lafayette.

Tom took occasion during the discussion to ask Nancy if she would walk

across the woods with him after dinner, that he might pay a visit to the

Red Farm and see that all was going well in the absence of his parents.

He felt that the tones of his voice were charged with unwonted

significance; but Nancy accepted the invitation with a simple expression

of pleasure. When Mrs. Frost was informed of the plans for the day, she

came near thwarting Dan's carefully laid schemes. She had counted upon

Jesse to do her bidding and had, she declared, arranged that Nancy should

help her put together the silken patches of the quilt upon which she was

perennially engaged. Her foster-daughter's glance of displeasure at this

was tinder to the old lady's temper, and Dan entered most opportunely.

"So!" she was exclaiming, "I am always the one to be sacrificed when it

is a question of some one's else pleasure."

"Mother, Mother," Dan protested good-naturedly, as he bent over to kiss

her good-morning, "aren't you ever willing to spend a day alone with me?"

"Danny dear," cried the old lady, as she began to smile again, "you know

I'm always willing. Of course, if Tom wants Nancy to go, the quilt can

wait; it has waited long enough, in all conscience. There, my dear," she

added, turning to the girl, "order an early dinner, and since you are

going to the Red Farm, you might as well come back by the dunes and

enquire for old Mrs. Meath. We have neglected that poor woman shamefully

this winter."

"Yes, Mother,--if we have time."

"Take the time, my dear," added Mrs. Frost sharply.

"Yes, Mother."

The Marquis started off with Jesse at eleven o'clock, as eager for the

excursion as a boy; and by half-past twelve Nancy and Tom had set out

across the woods for the Red Farm. Dan was impatient for them to be gone.

As soon as he saw them disappear in the woods back of the Inn, he made

excuses to his mother, and hurried to the north wing. He found the door

of the bowling alley securely locked, which convinced him that either the

Marquis or Nancy had taken the key from the closet of his chamber. Having

satisfied himself, he went directly to the Oak Parlour.

It was cold and dark there. He opened the shutters and drew back the

curtains, letting in the cheerful midday sun, which revealed all the

antique, sombre beauty of the room, of the soft landscapes and the

exquisite carving of the Dorsetshire cabinet. But Dan was in no mood to

appreciate the old-world beauty of the Oak Parlour. In that cabinet he

felt sure there was something concealed which would reveal the mystery of

the Marquis's stay at the inn and possibly the nature of his influence

over Nancy. Whatever had been the object of the Marquis's search, it had

not been found: his parting words to Nancy the night before showed that.

Dan took a long look at the cabinet first, estimating the possibility of

its containing secret drawers. Hidden compartments in old cabinets,

secret chambers in old houses, subterranean passageways leading to

dungeons in romantic castles, had been the material of many a tale that

Dan and Tom had told each other as boys. For years their dearest

possession had been a forbidden copy of "_The Mysteries of Udolpho_"

which they read in the mow of the barn lying in the dusty hay. However

unusual, the situation was real; and he felt himself confronted by as

hard a problem as he had ever tried to solve in fiction. He knew

something about carpentry, so that his first step, after examining the

drawers and cupboards and finding them empty, was to take careful

measurements of the entire cabinet, particularly of the thicknesses of

its sides, back, and partitions. It proved a piece of furniture of

absolutely simple and straightforward construction. After long

examination and careful soundings he came to the conclusion that a secret

drawer was an impossibility.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him and he returned to the sitting-room.

"Mother," he said, "I have been looking over the old cabinet in the Oak

Parlour, thinking perhaps that I would have it brought into the

dining-room. I wonder, if by chance, there are any secret drawers in it.

"Secret drawers? What an idea!" exclaimed Mrs. Frost.

"You never knew of any did you?"

"No.... Stop, let me think. Upon my word, I think there was something of

the sort, but it has been so long ago I have almost forgotten."

"Try to remember, do!" urged Dan, striving to repress his excitement.

"It was not a secret drawer, but there were little hidden

cubby-holes--three or four of them. I remember, now, your father once

showed me how they opened. They were little places where the Roman

Catholics used to hide the pages of their mass-books and such like in the

days of persecution in England."

"Yes, yes," said Dan, "that makes it awfully interesting. Did father

ever find anything in them?"

"No, I think not; but, dear me, it was over thirty years ago we brought

that old cabinet from England,--long before you were born, Dan."

"Can you remember how to open the secret places? I have been looking it

over, but I can't see where they can be, much less how to get into them."

"There were four of them, I think; all in the carving on the front, in

the eyes of the lions it seems to me, and in the lion's mouth, or in the

leaves somewhere. One spring that opened them I recollect, was under the

ledge of the shelf, another at the back of the cabinet and,--but no, I

really can't remember where the others were."

Dan was impatient to try his luck at finding them, and hurried back to

the Oak Parlour. He ran his fingers many times under the ledge of the

shelf before he heard the click of a tiny spring, and, looking up, saw

the lion's eyelid wink and slowly open. With an exclamation of

satisfaction, he thrust his fingers into the tiny aperture, felt

carefully about, and was chagrined to find it empty. "More success next

time, _monsieur le marquis_!" he muttered.

At length he found the spring that released the eyelid on the carved lion

on the other side of the panel. He glanced into the little opening and,

to his delight, saw the end of a bit of paper tucked away there. He dug

it out with the blade of his pocket knife and unfolded it. It was yellow

and brittle with age, covered with writing in a fine clear hand. But he

was annoyed to discover, as he bent closely over to read it, that it was

written in French, still worse, part of the paper was missing, for one

side of it was ragged as if it had been torn in two.

Remembering with relief, that Pembroke had acquired a smattering of

French at Dr. Watson's school for the sons of gentlemen, he put the paper

carefully away in his pocket to wait for Tom's assistance in deciphering

it. Then he set to work to find the missing half.

He fumbled about at the back of the cabinet for a spring that would

release another secret cubby-hole, and was rewarded at last by an

unexpected click, and the seemingly solid jaws of the lion fell apart

about half-an-inch. But the little aperture which they revealed was

empty. Further experiment at last discovered the fourth hiding place, but

this also contained nothing.

It occurred to him then that the Marquis had already discovered the other

half of the paper, and like himself was searching for a missing portion.

As he stood thinking over the problem, he suddenly noticed that the room

was in deep shadow, and realized that the sun had set over the ridge of

Lovel's Woods. The Marquis would soon be returning. Carefully closing the

four openings in the carving he pushed the old cabinet back against the

wall, closed the shutters and drew the curtains. Then with a last glance

to see that all was as he found it, he went out and closed the door the

precious bit of paper in his inside pocket.

He went directly to Mrs. Frost's parlour. "Mother," he said, "please

don't tell anyone that I have been in the north wing today. I have good

reasons which I will explain to you before long. Now, I shall be deeply

offended if you give the slightest hint."

"Gracious! Dan, what is all this mystery about?"

"You will never know, mother, unless you trust me absolutely. Mind! not

a word to Tom, Nancy or the Marquis."

"Very well, Danny. You know I am as safe with a secret as though it had

been breathed into the grave."

Dan did not quite share his mother's confidence in her own discretion,

but he knew he could count on her devotion to him to keep her silent even

where curiosity and the love of talk would render her indiscreet. He also

knew, and had often deplored it, that fond as she was of Nancy she was

not inclined to take the girl into her confidence.

Having said all he dared to his mother, Dan went to his room and

carefully locked up the mysterious paper. He returned to the first

floor just as the Marquis and Jesse drove up in the sleigh to the door

of the inn.

Monsieur de Boisdhyver was enthusiastic about all that he had seen--the

headquarters of General Washington, the house in which the Marquis de

Lafayette had slept, the old mill in the parade, the fort at the Narrows,

the shipping, the quaint old streets.... "But, O Monsieur Frost," he

exclaimed, "the weariness that is now so delightful! How soundly shall I

sleep to-night!"

Dan smiled grimly as he assured his guest of his sympathy for a good

night and a sound sleep; thinking to himself, however, that if the

Marquis walked, he would not walk unattended. He had no intention of

trusting too implicitly to that loudly proclaimed fatigue.

CHAPTER V

THE WALK THROUGH THE WOODS

While Dan Frost was hunting for the secret places of the old cabinet, Tom

and Nancy were picking their way across the snowcovered paths of Lovel's

Woods to the Red Farm. These woods were a striking feature in the

landscape of the open coast country around Deal. Rising somewhat

precipitously almost out of the sea, three ridges extended far back into

the country, with deep ravines between. They were thickly wooded, for the

most part with juniper and pine. In some places the descent to the

ravines was sheer and massed with rocks heaped there by a primeval

glacier; in other parts they dipped more gently to the little valleys,

which were threaded with many a path worn smooth by the dwellers on the

eastern shore. Nearly two miles might be saved in a walk from the Inn to

Squire Pembroke's Farm by going across the Woods rather than by the

encircling road.

As they were used to the frozen country Tom and Nancy preferred the

shorter if more difficult route. They had often found their way together

through the tangled thickets of the Woods or along the shores of the

Strathsey River, in season accompanied by dog and gun hunting fox and

rabbit or partridge and wild duck. In Tom's company Nancy seemed to

forget her shyness and would talk freely enough of her interests and her

doings. He had always been fond of her, though until lately she had

seemed to him hardly more than a child. This winter, as so frequently he

had watched her sitting in the firelight listening to the old Marquis's

playing and dreaming perhaps as he also dreamed, he realized that she was

growing up. A new beauty had come into her face and slender form, her

great dark eyes seemed to hold deeper interests, she was no longer in the

world of childhood. The mystery enveloping her origin, which for some

reason Mrs. Frost had never chosen to dispel, gave a certain piquancy to

the interest and affection Tom felt for her. In the imaginative tales he

had been fond of weaving for his own amusement, Nancy would frequently

figure, revealed at last as the child of noble parents, as a princess

doomed by some strange fate to exile. He thought of these things as from

time to time he glanced back at her, holding aside some branch that

crossed the path or giving her his hand to help her over a boulder in the

way. The red scarf about her neck, red cap on her dark hair, flashing in

and out of the tangled pathway against the background of the snow-clad

woods, gave a bright note of colour to the scene.

They were obliged for the most part to walk in single file until the last

ridge descended over a mass of rocks to the marshes along Beaver Pond.

Then having given her his hand to help her down, he kept hold of it as

they went along the free path to the open meadows. The feeling of Nancy's

cool little hand in his gave Tom an odd and conscious sense of pleasure.

"You have been uncommonly silent, Nance, even for you," he said at last.

"Oh, I'm always silent, Tom," she replied. "It is because I am stupid and

have nothing to say."

"Nonsense, my dear, you always have a lot to say to me. But you are

forever reading, thinking ... what's it all about?"

"Oh, I think, Tom, because I have little else to do; but my thoughts

aren't often worth the telling. In truth there is no one, not even you,

who particularly cares to hear them. Tom," she said, "I am restless and

discontented. Sometimes I wish I were far away from the Inn at the Red

Oak and Deal, from all that I know,--even from you and Dan."

Pembroke suddenly realized that he could not laugh at these

fancies, as he had so often done, and dismiss as if they were the

vagaries of a child.

"Why are you restless and discontented, Nancy?" he asked seriously.

"Aren't you ever?" she questioned for reply. "Don't you ever get weary

with the emptiness of it all, the everlasting round, the dullness? Don't

you ever want to get away from Deal, and know people and see things and

be somebody?"

"I do that, Nance. I mean to go as soon as I am a lawyer. I won't poke

about Deal long after that, nor Monday Port either. I mean to set up in

Coventry."

"Coventry!" exclaimed the girl with an accent of disdain. "That is just a

provincial town like the Port, only a little more important because it is

the capital of the state."

"Being the capital means a lot," protested Tom in defense of his

ambitions of which for the first time he felt ashamed. "Men are sent to

Congress from there. Nance, girl, ours is a wonderful country; we are

making a great nation."

"Some people may be. None of us are, Tom. I wonder at you more than I do

at Dan, for you have had more advantages. As for me, I am only a girl;

there's nothing for girls but to sit and sew, and prepare meals for men

to eat, and wait until some one comes and chooses to marry them. Then

they go off and do the same thing some place else."

"But what have you to complain of, Nancy? you have the kindest brother, a

good mother, a comfortable home...."

"The kindest brother, yes. But you know Mrs. Frost is not my mother. She

doesn't care for me and I can't care for her as if she were. I have never

loved any one but Dan."

"You can't help loving Dan," said Tom, thinking of his good friend.

"But then, little girl, you love me too." And he pressed the hand in

his warmly.

Nancy quickly withdrew her hand. "I am not a little girl. I have been

grown up in lots of ways ever so long."

"But you love me?"

"I like you. Oh, Tom, the life we all lead is so futile. If I weren't a

girl, I should go away."

They had reached the stile by now that led into the meadow which sloped

down from the clump of poplars a hundred rods or so above, in the midst

of which the Red Farmhouse stood. Instead of helping his companion over

the steps in the wall, Tom stopped and stood with his back to them.

"Let's stay here a minute, Nance, and have it out."

"Have what out?" she asked a trifle sharply.

"You haven't any queer wild plan in your head to go away, have you?"

"I don't know--sometimes I think I have. I dare say there are things

somewhere a girl could find to do."

"But Mrs. Frost--?"

"Oh, Mother would not miss me long--she'd have Dan."

"But Dan would miss you."

"Yes, Dan might. I couldn't go, if Dan really needed me here. I think

sometimes he doesn't. But, Tom, if you were in my position, if you didn't

know who your parents were, if all your life you had been living on the

charity of others--good and kind as they are, wonderful even as Dan has

always been--you couldn't be happy. I'm not happy."

"But, Nance, what has come over you?"

"No--nothing in particular; I have often felt this way."

"But, dear, I couldn't let you go. I'd mind a lot, Nance."

She looked at him with a sudden smile of incredulity. "You, Tommy?"

"You can't go--you musn't go," Tom repeated, as he drew nearer to her.

Suddenly he reached out and seized her hands. "Don't you realize it?--I

love you, Nance; I've always loved you!" He drew her close to him. She

did not resist nor did she yield, but still with her eyes she questioned

him. "Kiss me, Nancy," he whispered. She let him press his lips to hers

but without responding to the pressure, as though she still were

wondering of the meaning of this sudden unforeseen passion. But at last,

caught up in its intensity, she gave him back his kisses. He took her

face then between his hands and looked into it with a gaze that in itself

was a caress. "Oh my sweetheart!" he said softly.

Slowly she disengaged herself. "Tom, Tom," she said, "this is

foolishness. We musn't do this."

"Why not?" demanded Pembroke. "I tell you I love you!"

"No--not that way, not that way. I didn't mean that. Why, you foolish

boy, haven't we kissed each other hundreds of times before?"

"No, Nancy, not like that--not like this," he added, as again he put his

arm around her and drew her face to his. And again she yielded. "Say

it--say it, Nance--you love me."

She drew back from him. "I think I must, Tom. I don't think I could let

you kiss me that way if I didn't. But now come ... Tom ... dear Tom ...

do come ... don't kiss me again."

"But say it," he insisted, "say you love me."

"Please help me over the stile."

He gave her his hand and she sprang lightly to the top of the steps. In a

second he was by her side, both of them balancing somewhat uncertainly on

the top of the stone wall. "I won't let you down till you say it."

"Please--".

"No--you love me?"

"Yes--there--I love you--now--".

"No, kiss me again."

"Tom--no." But the negative was weak and Pembroke took it so.

"Now," he said, as they began to cross the meadow, "we must tell Mrs.

Frost and Dan."

"Tell them what?"

"Why, that we are in love with each other, and that you are going to

marry me. What else?"

"No, no," exclaimed Nancy, "You must say nothing. I am not in love. I

don't mean to marry you."

"But why not? You are. You do."

"Are--do--?"

"In love--you do mean to marry me."

"No--Tom, listen--you know your father and mother would hate it. You have

at least two years before you can practice. We couldn't marry--we can't

marry. Oh, there are things I must do, before I can think of that."

"Not marry me? Good Lord, what does it mean when people are in love with

each other, what does it mean when a girl kisses a fellow like that?"

"I don't know! what it means--madness, I guess. Do you think I could

marry as I am, not knowing who I am?"

"Oh, what do I care who your parents were! We'll find out. I swear we

will. Good Lord, I love you, Nancy; I love you!"

"Please, please don't make me talk about it now."

"But soon--?"

"Yes, soon--only promise you'll say nothing to Dan or to Mother till we

have talked again. I must think; it is all so queer and unexpected; I

never dreamed that you cared for me except as a little girl."

"I didn't know I did. But come to think of it, Nance, it has been you as

much as Dan that has brought me to the Inn at the Red Oak. Why it was you

I wanted to walk and talk and play with."

"Please,--dear Tom--G--ive me time to think what it all means. Now be

careful, there's the farmer. You have a lot to do, and we have been

lingering too long. Mother wants us to go back by the dunes and enquire

for old Mrs. Meath; so we must hurry."

The sun had set before they started on the homeward journey in one of

the squire's sleighs. As they turned the bend at the beach and started

across the dune road close to the sea, a great yellow moon rose over

Strathsey Neck.

Tom had been so preoccupied with his own emotions and the unexpected and

absorbing relation in which he found himself with Nancy, that he had

altogether forgotten why he had asked her to go off with him that

afternoon. As they skimmed along over the snow-packed road across the

sands, Tom spied another sleigh on the Port road, the occupants of which

he recognized as Jesse and the Marquis. Suddenly the memory of the night

before flashed over him. He pointed with his whip in their direction.

"There's the old Marquis coming back from Monday Port," he said.

Nancy looked without comment, but Tom thought the colour deepened in

her cheeks.

"See here, Nance," he exclaimed impulsively; "has the Marquis anything to

do with the mood you were in this afternoon? Has he said anything to make

you discontented?"

He was sure that now she paled.

"What makes you ask?"

"Oh--a number of things. I've seen you with him more or less; felt he had

some influence over you."--Tom was blundering now and knew it.--

She looked at him coldly. "I have been with the Marquis very little save

when others have been about. He has no influence over me. I don't care to

discuss such queer ideas."

"Oh, all right ... I dare say I'm mistaken ... I only thought..."

He hesitated... "If you care for me, I don't mind what you think of

the Marquis."

"Remember, Tom--you promised to say nothing until I gave you leave.

You're not fair..."

"But you do love me?"

Nancy was silent.

"There is nothing between you and the old Frenchman--no mystery?"

There was no reply. Nancy sat with compressed lips and drawn brows,

gazing fixedly at the distant House on the Dunes at the end of their

road. For a long while they drove on in silence.

At the House on the Dunes they chatted for a while with old Mrs. Meath,

who lived there alone with a maid-of-all-work. She was a source of much

anxiety to Mrs. Frost, who sent several times each week to learn if all

was going well. But Mrs. Meath was a Quaker and apparently never gave a

thought to loneliness or fear.

"They will never guess," she said to Nancy and Tom as they sat in the

tiled kitchen talking with her, "what I am going to do."

"Not going to leave the House on the Dunes, Mrs. Meath?"

"Deary me! no; but I am going to take a boarder."

"Really?--you are setting up to rival the Inn, eh?" said Tom.

"No", Tommy, nothing of the sort. But I am offered good pay for my front

room, and as Jane Frost is always nagging me about living here alone, I

thought I'd take her."

"And who pray is your new boarder?" asked Nancy.

"That is the funny part of it," replied Mrs. Meath, "I know nothing but

her name--Mrs. Fountain. Everything has been arranged by a lawyer man

from Coventry, and she is coming in a few days. Tell thy mother, Nancy

dear, that she need worry about me no longer."

"I will, Mrs. Meath. I think it is a splendid idea, and I hope you will

like the lady. Mother will be so glad that you have some one with you."

Soon they were on their way across the dunes and marshes to Tinterton

road and home. Dan was preoccupied, not with the news that was so

exciting to Mrs. Meath, but with the recollection of his conversation

with Nancy as they had driven toward the house. Despite her implicit

denial he knew there was a secret between the Marquis de Boisdhyver and

herself. He could not imagine what it might be, and it was evident

that she did not mean to tell him at present. But his anxieties on this

or kindred subjects were not relieved by his companion during the

remainder of the drive. Moreover his attempts to speak again of his

newly discovered passion were received coldly--so coldly indeed that he

had no heart for pleading for such proofs as she had given him earlier

in the afternoon that she shared his emotion. So despite the splendid

moon, the bright cold night, the merry jangle of the sleigh bells, the

drive back was not the unmixed joy Tom had promised himself; and he

felt his role of a declared and practically-accepted lover anything but

a satisfactory one.

Finally they reached the Inn and entered the bar where they found the

Marquis sitting alone before a cheerful fire. All of Tom's suspicious

jealousies returned with fresh force, for Nancy rapidly crossed the room,

spoke a few words to the old gentleman in an inaudible tone of voice, and

passed quickly on to her own apartments.

PART II

THE TORN SCRAP OF PAPER

CHAPTER VI

THE HALF OF AN OLD PAPER

That evening Mrs. Frost made a particular request for music. Poor Dan,

impatient to be alone with Tom and show him the torn scrap of paper that

he had found that afternoon was forced to bring out his fiddle and

accompany the Marquis. Tom, for first part, was more concerned with his

own relations with Nancy than with the mysterious possibilities of the

previous night. The poignant notes of the violin set his pulses to

beating in tune with the throbbing of the music and transported him again

into the realms of youthful dreams. They were quaint plaintive songs of

old France that the Marquis chose to play that evening, folk tunes of the

Vendée, love songs of olden time.

From where he sat in the shadow Tom got a full view of Nancy seated on

the oaken setlle near the fire. Her brows were drawn a little in deep

thought, her lips for the most part compressed, though ever and anon

relaxing at some gentler thought. Her hands were clasped, her head was

bent a little, but her body was held straight and tense. Her eyes, dark

and lustrous in the light of the flaming logs, always fixed upon the

musician, not once wandering in his direction.

What was the influence, the fascination that strange old Frenchman seemed

to exert? It seemed to Tom impossible that there could be a secret which

she felt necessary to hide from them, her lifelong friends. But apart

from what he knew had taken place the night before as he looked back over

the past month, he was conscious that there had been a change in Nancy, a

change that mystified him. It was the danger in this change, he told

himself, that had awakened in him the knowledge of his love.

But then as he looked across at her so lovely, in the firelight, he felt

again the thrill as when first he had taken her hand that afternoon. In

that moment all the dreams, the vague longings of his boyhood had found

their reality.

Suddenly, while he was thinking thus, the Marquis laid his violin upon

his knees. "Ah, _ma jeunnesse_!" he exclaimed in a dramatic whisper, "_et

maintenant_--_et maintenant_!"

For a moment no one spoke or stirred. They looked at him curiously as

they always did when he brought his playing to an end in such fashion.

Then he rose. "_Bon soir, madame; bon soir, messieurs; bon soir,

mademoiselle_"

Tom saw his little faded blue eyes meet Nancy's with a look of swift

significance. Then he bowed with a flourish that included them all.

"A thousand thanks, Monsieur le Marquis," murmured Mrs. Frost, "how much

pleasure you give us!"

They all rose then, as the Marquis smiled his appreciation and withdrew.

"Give me your arm, Dan," the old lady said. "It must be past my bedtime.

Come, Nancy."

"Yes, mother." The girl rose wearily, stopping a moment at the

mantelpiece to snuff the candles there. Tom seized his opportunity, and

was by her side. She started, as she realized him near her.

"Nance, Nance, I must have a word with you," he exclaimed in a tense

whisper, "don't go!"

"Nance, come," called Mrs. Frost from the hall.

"Yes, Mother, I am coming ... I must go, Tom. Don't delay me. You know

how Mother is ..."

"What difference will it make if you wait a moment? Good Lord! Nance, I

have been trying all evening to get a word with you, and you have not so

much as given me a glance. Don't go--please don't go! Oh, Nancy dear,--I

love you so!"

He seized her hands and kissed them passionately. "Nance, Nance ...

please ..." His arms were about her.

"Tom, you make it so hard ... Remember, you promised me ... No word

of love until I can think, until I have time to know ... Please, Tom,

let me go."

"I can't let you go. Oh sweetheart dear."

"Tom, we musn't--Dan, Mother! ..."

Unheeding her protest, he put his arms around her. An instant he felt

her yield, then quickly thrusting him aside, she ran from the room,

leaving him standing alone there, trembling with excitement, chagrin,

happiness, alarm.

In a moment his friend returned and Tom pulled himself together. "Come

on," said Dan, "I have a lot to tell you."

"Did you find anything this afternoon?" exclaimed Pembroke.

"Sh! for heaven's sake be careful. Don't talk here. Let's go upstairs."

A few minutes later they were closeted in Dan's chamber. The curtains

were tightly drawn and a heavy quilt was hung over the door. Good Lord!

thought Tom, could it be possible that these precautions in part at least

were taken against Nancy. The world seemed to have turned upside down for

him in the last twenty-four hours.

"Aren't we going to keep watch to-night?" he asked.

"Yes, but later. They are just getting to bed--or pretending to. Look

here, this may throw light on the mystery. I found this paper in a secret

cubby-hole in the old cabinet in the Oak Parlour. Draw a chair up to the

table so that you can see."

"The cabinet," he continued, as he took the paper out of his strong-box

and began to unfold it, "was brought from some old manor house in

England. It has four little secret cubby-holes, opened by hidden springs,

that Mother says were probably used by the Roman Catholics to hide pages

of their mass-books during the days of persecution. She remembered

fortunately a little about them. They were all empty but one, and in that

I found this torn scrap of paper."

He handed the yellowed bit of writing to Tom, who flattened it out on the

table before him.

"Why it's written in French," Pembroke exclaimed, as he bent over to

examine it.

"Yes, I know it is," said Dan. "I can't make head or tail of it. Besides

it seems to be only a part of a note or letter. I could hardly wait to

give you a chance at it. You can make something of it, can't you?"

"I don't know--I guess I can. It's hard to read the handwriting. The

thing's torn in two--haven't you the rest of it?"

"No, I tell you; that's all I could find; that's all, I am sure, that can

be in the cabinet now. My theory is that the old marquis has somehow come

across the other half and is still looking for this. God only knows who

hid it there.

"How the deuce could the Marquis know about it. Ah! look--it's signed

somebody, something _de Boisdhyver_--'_ançois_--that's short for

François, I guess. Evidently 't wasn't the Marquis himself. Wonder what

it means?"

For goodness' sake, try to read it."

"Wait. Get that old French dictionary out of the bookcase downstairs,

will you? I'll see if I can translate."

Dan crept softly out, leaving Tom bent over the paper. Again he smoothed

it out carefully on the table, bringing the two candles nearer, and tried

to puzzle out the faint fine handwriting.

"I can make out some of it," he remarked to Dan, when his friend returned

with the dictionary. "Let me have that thing; there are a few words I

don't know at all, but I'll write out as good a translation as I can."

While Tom was busy with the dictionary, Dan placed writing materials to

his hand, and sat down to wait as patiently as he could. His curiosity

was intensified by Pembroke's occasional exclamations and the absorption

with which he bent over the task.

"There!" Tom exclaimed after half-an-hour's labour, "that's the

best I can do with it. You see the original note was evidently torn

into two or three strips and we have only got the righthand one, so we

don't get a single complete sentence--, but what we have is mighty

suggestive. Listen--This is what it says: Make great efforts ... gap ...

glorious, I am about to leave' ... gap ... 'to offer my' ... gap ...

'that I should not return' ... gap ... 'directions' ... gap ... 'this

paper which I tear' ... gap ... 'the explanation' ... something

missing ... 'to discover' ... that's the end of a sentence. The next one

begins, 'This treasure' ... than another gap ... 'jewels and money' ...

'secret chamber' ... 'one can enter' ... something gone here ... 'by the

_salon de chene_'--that's the Oak Parlour, I suppose ... something

missing again ... 'by a spring' ... 'hand of the lady in the picture' ...

'chimney on the north side of the' ... 'side a panel which reveals' ...

'one will find the directions' ... more missing ... 'of the treasure in a

golden chest' ... That's the end of it. And, as I said before it is

signed,--'ançois de Boisdhyver.' There, you can read it. That's the best

I can make of it."

Dan bent over his friend's translation. "Whoever wrote it was

about to leave here to offer something to somebody, and if he did

not return, apparently he is giving directions, in this paper, which

he tears in to two or three parts, how to discover--a treasure?--jewels

and money, I guess,--that he is about to hide or has hidden in a secret

chamber, which is entered in some way from the Oak Parlour--? ... pushes

a spring,--Something to do with the hand of the lady in the picture,

near the chimney on the north side of the room ... then a panel which

reveals ...where? ... the directions will be found, for getting the

treasure, in a golden chest in the secret chamber? How's that for a

version? I reckon the other half doesn't tell as much ...'ançois de

Boisdhyver!--That can't be the Marquis, for none of his names end

'ançois; do they? Let's see, what are they?--Marie, Anne, Timélon,

Armand ... Tom,"--and Dan faced his friend excitedly,--"that old devil is

after treasure! Who the deuce is 'ançois de Boisdhyver, and how did he

come to leave money in the Oak Parlour? Hanged if I believe there's any

secret chamber! By gad, man, if I didn't hurt when I pinch myself, I'd

think I was asleep and dreaming. What do you make of it?"

"Pretty much what you do. Somebody sometime,--a good many years ago,

concealed some valuables here in the Inn. It must be some one who is

connected with our marquis, for the last names are the same. These are

directions, or half the directions, for finding it. The Marquis knows

enough about it to have been hunting for this paper. Who the devil is

the Marquis?"

"The Lord knows. But how does Nance come in?"

"Blamed if I can see; wish I could! This accounts for the Marquis's

mysterious investigations, anyway. Probably he's no right to the paper.

Maybe he isn't a Boisdhyver at all. I'll be damned if I can understand

how he has got Nance to league with him."

"And now what the deuce are we going to do about it?" asked Dan.

"Hunt for the treasure ourselves, eh?"

"Well, why not? but to do that we've got to get rid of the Marquis. He'll

be suspicious if we begin to poke about the north wing. Hanged if I

wouldn't like to have it all out with him!"

"Yes, but we'd better think and talk it over before we decide to do

anything. We can watch them. We'll watch to-night any way, and plan

something definite to-morrow."

"I tell you one thing, Tom, I am going to make Mother tell me all she

knows about Nancy. Perhaps she is mixed up in some way with all this. But

it's time to keep watch now. We'll put out the candles and I'll watch for

the first two hours. If you go to sleep, I'll wake you up to take the

next turn. How about it?"

"Hang sleep!" Tom replied.

"All right, but we must blow out the light. Lucky it's clear. Let's

whisper after this."

Tom threw himself on the bed, while Dan sat near the window and kept his

eyes fixed on the door of the bowling-alley. They talked for some time in

low tones, but eventually Tom fell asleep. Dan waked him at twelve for

his vigil, and he in turn was wakened at two. During the third watch they

both succumbed to weariness.

Tow awoke with a start about four, and sprang to the window. The moon was

sinking low in the western sky, but its light still flooded the deserted

courtyard beneath. He heard the patter of a horse's hoofs on the road

beyond and the crunching of the snow beneath the runners of a sleigh.

Well, he thought, as he rubbed his eyes, it was too near morning for

anything to happen, so he turned in and was soon asleep, as though no

difficult problems were puzzling his mind and heart and no mysteries were

being enacted around him.

CHAPTER VII

A DISAPPEARANCE

When Dan came downstairs in the morning Mrs. Frost called him to the door

of her bedroom. "What on earth is the matter with Nancy?" she exclaimed;

"I have been waiting for her the past hour. No one has been near me since

Deborah came in to lay the fire. Call the girl Danny; I want to get up."

"All right, mother. She has probably overslept; she had a long walk

yesterday."

"But that is no excuse for sleeping till this time of day. Tell her

to hurry."

"It is only seven, mother."

"Yes, Danny, dear, but I mean to breakfast with you all this morning if I

ever succeed in getting dressed."

Dan crossed the hall and knocked at Nancy's door. There was no response.

He knocked again, then opened the door and looked within. Nancy was not

there, and her bed had not been slept in.

He went back to his mother. "Nancy is not in her room," he said. "She

has probably gone out for a walk. I'll go and look for her."

He went to the kitchens to enquire of the maids, but they had not seen

their young mistress since the night before.

"Spec she's taken dem dogs a walkin'," said black Deborah unconcernedly.

"Miss Nance she like de early morn' 'fore de sun come up."

Dan went out to the stables. The setters came rushing out, bounding and

barking joyously about him.

"Have you seen Miss Nancy this morning, Jess?" he asked.

"No, Mister Dan, ain't seen her this mornin'. Be n't she in the house?"

"She doesn't seem to be. Take a look down the road, and call after her,

will you? Down, Boy; down, Girl!" he cried to the dogs.

Dan began to be thoroughly alarmed. If Nancy had gone out, the dogs would

certainly have followed her. She must be within!

He went back into the house, and searched room after room, but no trace

of her was to be found. He returned at last to his mother's chamber.

"I can't find Nancy," he said. "She must have gone off somewhere."

"Gone off! why, she must have left very early then. I have been awake

these two hours--since daylight--; I would have heard every sound."

"Well, she isn't about now, Mother. She will be back by breakfast time, I

don't doubt. Just stay abed this morning, I will send her to you as soon

as she comes."

"I shall have to, I suppose. Really, Dan, it is extraordinary how

neglectful of me that child can sometimes be. She knew--"

"Mother, don't find fault with her. She is devoted to you, and you know

it."

"I daresay she is. Of course she is, and I am devoted to her. Where would

she be, I wonder, if it hadn't been for me? Good heavens! Dan, can

anything have happened to her?"

"No, no--of course not,--nothing."

"Search the house, boy; she may be lying some place in a faint. She isn't

strong--I have always been worried--"

"Don't get excited, Mother. We will wait until breakfast time. If she

doesn't turn up then, you may be sure I shall find her."

He looked at his watch. It was already nearly eight o'clock, so he

decided to say nothing to Pembroke until after breakfast. He found the

Marquis and Tom chatting before the fire in the bar.

"Shall we have breakfast?" said Dan. "Mother will not be in this

morning."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Marquis, as they took their seats at table, "that is

a disappointment. And shall we not wait for Mademoiselle Nancy?"

"My sister has stepped out, monsieur; she may be late. Shall I give you

some coffee?"

"If you please--. We have another of these so beautiful days, eh? This so

glorious weather, these moonlight nights, this snow--_C'est merveilleux_.

Last night I sat myself for a long time in my window. Ah _la nuit_--the

moon past its full, say you not?--the sea superbly dark, superbly blue,

the wonderful white country! As I sat there, messieurs, a sight too

beautiful greeted my eyes. A ship, with three great sails, appeared out

on the sea and sailed as a bird up the river to our little cove, _Voila,

mes amis_"--he waved his hand toward the eastern windows--"She is

anchored at our feet."

The two young men looked in the direction in which the marquis pointed,

and to their astonishment they saw, riding securely at her moorings in

the cove, a large sailing vessel. She was a three-masted schooner of

perhaps fifteen hundred tons, a larger ship than they had seen at anchor

in the Strathsey for many a year.

"By all that's good!" exclaimed Tom, "that is exactly the sort of ship my

father used to have in the West Indie trade, a dozen or fifteen years

ago. What is she? I wonder; and why is she anchored here instead of in

the Port?"

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders. "That I can tell you not, my friend;

but I am happy that she is anchored there for the hours of beauty she

has already given to me. On this strange coast of yours one so rarely

sees a sail."

"No, they go too far to the south... But what is she?" asked Dan. "We

must find out." He went to the cupboard, and got out his marine glass and

took a long look at the stranger.

"What do you make her out?" asked Tom.

"There are men on deck, some swabbing out the roundhouse. One of them is

lolling at the wheel. She flies the British flag."

"Do you, perhaps, make out the name?" asked the Marquis.

"I don't know--yes," Dan replied, twisting the lens to suit his eyes

better and spelling out the letters, "S,O,U,T,H,E,R,N,C,R--the

_Southern Cross_. By Jingo, Tom, we'll have to go down to the beach and

have a look at her."

Tom took the glasses; turning them over presently to the Marquis. "She is

a good fine boat, eh?" exclaimed M. de Boisdhyver, as he applied his eye

to the end of the glass.

"She certainly is," said Dan.

They sat down at length and resumed their breakfast. The ship had

diverted Tom's attention for the moment from the fact that Nancy had

not appeared.

"Where is Nance, Dan?" he asked at length, striving to conceal his

impatience.

"I don't know," Dan replied. "I think she has gone over to see Mrs. Meath

and stayed for breakfast."

"Madame Meath--?" enquired the Marquis.

"At the House on the Dunes," Dan answered, a trifle sharply.

"A long walk for Mademoiselle on a cold morning," commented Monsieur

Boisdhyver, as he sipped his coffee.

In a few moments Dan rose. "Going to the Port to-day, Tom?"

"Not till later, any way; I am going down to the beach to have a look at

that ship."

"Wait a little, and I'll go with you," He turned to the door and motioned

Tom to follow him.

Outside he took his friend's arm and drew him close. "Tom, something's

up; Nancy's not here."

"Nancy's not here;" exclaimed Pembroke. "What do you mean? Where is she?"

"To tell the truth, I don't know where she is; her bed has not been slept

in. I thought at first she had gone for a walk with the dogs as she does

sometimes, but Boy and Girl are both in the barn. It's half-past eight

now, and she ought to be back,"

"Good Lord! man, have you searched the house?"

"I've been over it from garret to cellar."

"And you can't find her?"

"Not a sign of her."

"Have you been through the north wing?"

"Yes, all over it. I have been in every room in the house, boy. Nance

isn't there. You heard nothing in the night, did you?"

"Nothing."

"When did you go to sleep?"

"Perhaps about half-past three. Come to think of it, I awoke at four

with a start, for I heard a sleigh on the Port Road. After that I

went to bed."

"The sleigh hadn't been at the Inn?"

"It couldn't have been--I'd have heard of it if it had; you see it woke

me up just going along the road."

"I don't suppose we need worry. But it is queer--none of the servants

have seen her since last night."

"My God, what can have happened to her?" cried Tom.

"Sh, boy! We have nothing to go on, but I wager that old French devil

knows more than he will tell."

"Then, we'll choke it out of him."

"No, no, don't be a fool! She may be back any minute. I'll get the sleigh

and go over to the House on the Dunes. In the meanwhile don't show that

you are anxious! I'll be back inside of an hour, and we can have a look

at the ship. If Nance isn't with Mrs. Meath, why I am sure I'll find her

here. Let's not worry till we have to."

Tom assented to this proposition somewhat unwillingly. Despite his

friend's reassuring words, he did not feel that Nancy would be found at

the House on the Dunes or that she would immediately return. He

remembered her telling him of her desire to go away. He remembered how

strangely she had received the declaration of his love, and he feared

almost as much that she had fled from him, as that the Marquis, weird and

evil as he began to think him, had any hand in her disappearance.

After Dan's departure in the sleigh, Tom wandered about restlessly. When

half an hour passed and Frost did not return, he went out to look down

the road and see if he were coming. The white open country was still and

empty, and the only sign of life was the great three-masted ship riding

at anchor in the cove, with seamen lolling about her deck.

As Tom stood under the Red Oak, the Marquis stepped out of the front

door. He was wrapped in his great coat, about to take his morning walk up

and down the gallery.

"Why so pensive, Monsieur Pembroke? Is it that you are moved by the

beauty of the scene--, the land so white, the sea so blue, and the

_Southern Cross_ shining as it were in a northern sky!"

Tom grunted a scarcely civil reply, and turning away to avoid further

conversation, strolled down the avenue of maples toward the road.

Monsieur de Boisdhyver raised his eyebrows slightly, and began his walk.

By and by, still more impatient, Pembroke walked back toward the house.

If Dan did not return soon, he determined he would go after him. As he

came up to the gallery again the Marquis paused and spoke to him. "And

Mademoiselle, she has not returned?" he asked.

"No!" Pembroke replied sharply. "She has gone to the House on the Dunes

and her brother has driven over to fetch her."

"Ah! pardon," exclaimed Monsieur de Boisdhyver; "I did not know... But it

is cold for me, Monsieur Pembroke; I seek the fire."

Tom did not reply. The Marquis went inside, and presently Tom could see

him standing at the window, the marine glass in his hands, sweeping the

countryside.

Pembroke passed an anxious morning. Ten o'clock came; half-past; eleven

struck. Nancy had not appeared, or was there a sign of Dan. Unable to be

patient longer, he set out on the Port Road to meet his friend.

CHAPTER VIII

GREEN LIGHTS

The smoke was curling from the chimneys of the House on the Dunes as Dan

drove up the long marsh road from the beach. He had half convinced

himself that Nancy would be there, and he hoped that she herself would

answer his knock. When at length the door was opened it was not by Nancy

nor by Mrs. Meath, but by a stranger whom he had never seen before.

"Yes?" a pleasant voice questioned, but giving an accent to the

monosyllable that made Dan think instantly of France.

He found himself facing a charming woman, her bright blue eyes looking

into his with a smile that instantly attracted him. She was well-dressed,

with a different air from the women he knew. And she was undeniably

pretty--of that Dan was convinced, and the conviction overwhelmed him

with shyness. He stood awkward and ill-at-ease; for the moment forgetting

his errand. "I suppose," he stammered, "--I beg your pardon--but I

suppose you are Mrs. Heath's new boarder,--Mrs. Fountain?"

"Yes," replied the strange lady with an amused smile, "that is what I

imagine that I am called. My name is Madame de La Fontaine. And you--?"

"I?--Oh, yes--of course--I am Dan Frost from the Inn over yonder. I came

to see Mrs. Meath to ask if my sister Nancy is here."

"Alas!" replied Madame de La Fontaine, "poor Mrs. Meath she this morning

is quite unwell. She is in her room, so that I am afraid you cannot see

her. But, I may tell you, there is no one else here, just myself and my

servants."

"You have not seen or heard anything then of my sister, Nancy Frost?"

repeated Dan.

"Nancy Frost?--your sister?--No, monsieur. I am arrived only last night

and have seen no one."

"I had hoped my sister would be here. I am sorry about Mrs. Meath;

perhaps I can be of some service. If you should need me at any time, I

can almost always be found at the Inn at the Red Oak."

"The Inn at the Red Oak?" repeated Madame de La Fontaine, "and is

that near by?"

"It is about a mile and a half by the road," Frost replied, "but you can

see it plainly from the doorstep here."

The foreign lady stepped out in the crisp February air. "Can you point it

out to me? I may need your assistance some time."

"You see the woods and the oak at the edge of them," said Dan, pointing

across the Dunes. "That great tree is the Red Oak, the rambling old

building beneath it is the Inn."

"Ah! one can see quite plainly from one house to the other, is it not

so?"

"Quite," Dan replied.

"Thank you, monsieur. I trust there will be no need for assistance. But

it makes one glad to know where are neighbours, especially--" she added,

"while poor Mrs. Meath is ill."

As she spoke she turned to the door with the air of dismissing him, but

on second thoughts she faced him again. "I wonder, Mr. Frost, will you do

me a favour?"

"I shall be delighted," Dan exclaimed.

"My luggage arrived last night," said Madame de La Fontaine, "upon the

ship that is at anchor in the bay. They are to bring my boxes ashore. But

before that I desire to give directions to the captain at the beach, and

I cannot well do so by my servant. Will you be kind enough to walk with

me and show me the way?"

Dan forgot about Nancy in his eagerness to assure this unusually

attractive lady that he was at her disposal. She disappeared within, and

he heard her give some quick, sharp directions in French to a maid. Then

in a moment she reappeared on the little porch, bonneted and wrapped for

a walk in the cold.

As they set out across the Dunes, she kept up a rapid fire of questions

that might have seemed inquisitive to one more accustomed to the world

than Dan. He found himself in the course of that quarter of an hour

talking quite freely with the charming stranger.

"No, I did not make the journey from France in the _Southern Cross_," she

replied to one of his interrogations, "that would have been

uncomfortable, I fear. But she brings over my boxes. She is arrived

somewhat sooner than I was promised."

"Do you expect to signal her from the beach?"

"But yes."

"How will they know who you are?"

"Oh, they have instructions. You must think all this curious!" she

commented with a smile. "You must think me an odd person."

The possible oddness of Madame de La Fontaine made less impression upon

Dan than did her charm. He was conversing easily with a very lovely

woman, and all else was forgotten in that agreeable sensation.

As they emerged from the Dunes upon the little beach of the Cove, Dan

observed on the deck of the _Southern Cross_ a sailor watching them

through a glass. Madame de La Fontaine drew her handkerchief from beneath

her cloak and waved it toward the ship.

"This is the signal," she explained, "that they were instructed to look

out for. If I am not mistaken Captain Bonhomme will come to the shore for

my directions. You speak French, monsieur?"

"Not at all," Dan replied.

"Ah!" sighed the lady, "you lose a great deal."

"I might have learned some this winter," said Dan; "for we have had a

French gentleman as our guest at the Inn."

"Indeed! And who, may I ask, is your French gentleman?"

"His name is the Marquis de Boisdhyver. Do you, by any chance, know him?"

"The Marquis de Boisdhyver?" repeated Madame de La Fontaine. "I know the

name certainly; it is an old family with us, monsieur. But I do not

recall that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting any one who bore

it... But see! they are lowering the boat."

They were now at the edge of the surf. Madame de La Fontaine again waved

a hand in the direction of the clipper. Dan saw a small boat alongside

her, into which several sailors and an officer, as it seemed, were

clambering over the rail. They pushed off, and began to row vigorously

for the shore.

The French lady stood watching them intently. Within a few moments the

little boat was beached, the officer sprang out, advanced to Madame de La

Fontaine, and saluted. She exchanged sentences with him in French of

which Dan understood nothing. Then the seaman touched his cap, got into

his small boat, and gave orders to push off.

"He understands no English," remarked Madame de La Fontaine. "I gave

directions about my boxes. We may return now, monsieur; or doubtless I am

able to find my way back alone."

"Oh no," exclaimed Dan gallantly, "I will go with you."

The lady smiled graciously. As they walked back across the Dunes, she

kept up a lively conversation, no longer asking him questions, nor, he

observed, giving him the opportunity to ask any.

At the door of the House on the Dunes she dismissed him finally. "I am

but too grateful, Monsieur, for your kindness. I hope that we shall meet

again while I dwell in your beautiful country. In the meantime, I trust

you will find your sister."

Dan flushed, how could he have forgotten Nancy! Taking the hand that his

new acquaintance offered, he hurried away. He met Tom on the Port Road

about half a mile from the Inn and was truly worried to find that Nancy

had not returned; he explained briefly his own delay in his expedition

with the strange lady to the beach.

"It is certainly odd, though perhaps not so odd as stupid, that they

should have anchored in the Cove just to disembark one woman's boxes. It

would have been much simpler to go to the Port, as every well-bred

skipper does, and had the French woman's stuff carted out. At any rate,

we'll go down this afternoon and have a look at her."

By the time they reached the Inn it was noon, and still there was no word

of Nancy. The dinner was a silent one, as the Marquis tactfully did not

disturb his companions' preoccupation, and Mrs. Frost, who was unusually

nervous, did not appear.

After the meal the two young men started for the beach. At Tom's

suggestion they got a little dory from the boathouse and rowed out to the

clipper. The wind had shifted to the southeast, but still there was not

enough of a sea to give them any trouble; and in a few minutes they were

under the bows of _The Southern Cross_. Dan hailed a seaman who was

leaning over the gunwale and watching them with idle curiosity. If the

man replied in French, it was in a variety of that tongue that Tom's

limited attainments did not understand, and, annoyed by the

incomprehensible replies, he asked for "le captaine". At

length,--possibly attracted by the altercation at the bows,--the

authoritative-looking person who had come ashore in the morning in

response to Madame de La Fontaine's signal, now appeared at the gunwale

and glanced below at the two young men in the dory. His expression

betrayed no sign that he recognized Frost. Indeed he vouchsafed no

syllable of reply to the questions Dan asked in English or to those that

Tom ventured to phrase in Dr. Watson's French.

He was not, they thought, an attractive person; his countenance was

swarthy, his eyes were black his hair was black, his heavy jaw was

shadowed by an enormous black mustachio. A kerchief of brilliant red tied

about his throat gave him the appearance of the matador in a Spanish

bullfight rather than the officer of an English merchantman. He glanced

at the dory occasionally, shook his head silently in response to the

requests to go aboard, and at length when that did not serve to put an

end to them, he shrugged his shoulders and disappeared. The seaman

continued to lean over the gunwale and spat nonchalantly as though that

were the measure of their appreciation of this unasked-for visit.

"I move we skip up the rope," said Tom, "and explain ourselves at close

quarters."

"Thanks, no," replied Dan. "Either of those two amiable gentlemen

looks capable and willing of pitching us overboard. The water is too

cold for bathing."

"Very well," said Tom, "I will yield to your sober judgment for the

moment; but I propose to see the inside of that ship sooner or later

unless she weighs anchor in the hour and sails away. But we ought to be

getting to town to make enquiries about Nancy. For Heavens' sake, Dan,

where do you suppose she can be?"

They rowed back to the beach, stowed the dory in the boathouse, and set

out in the sleigh for Monday Port. Diligent enquiry there, in likely and

unlikely places, proved fruitless. It was nightfall when they returned

to the Inn.

They were greeted by the Marquis in the bar. "Mademoiselle Nancy, she has

not been found?"

"No," said Dan. "I take it from your question that she has not come home

yet either."

"She is not come, no. Perhaps she stays at the House on the Dunes?"

"I do not know," Dan answered tartly. "I expect her every moment, but it

is idle to conceal from you, Monsieur, that we are much concerned as to

her absence."

The Marquis grew sympathetic,--optimistically sympathetic. Tom clutched

at his re-assuring words, but Dan was even more irritated by the silence

that Monsieur de Boisdhyver had maintained throughout the day.

Directly after supper Dan went into his mother's parlour, leaving the

others to their own devices. The Marquis settled himself near the fire

and was soon absorbed in reading an old folio; Tom wandered restlessly

about, now up and down the long bar, now in the corridors, now on the

gallery and in the court without.

The night, after the bright day, had set in raw and cold; a damp breeze

blew from the southwest, and gave promise both of wind and rain. From his

position under the Red Oak, Tom could see the red and green lights of

_The Southern Cross_ at her moorings in the Cove below, and across the

Neck the lighted windows of the House on the Dunes. Over all else the

night had cast its black damp mantle.

As he stood watching, deeply anxious for the welfare of the girl he

loved, he noticed a new light appear in one of the upper windows of the

House on the Dunes--not yellow as is the light of candles, but green like

the light on the port side of the clipper in the Cove. Had he not seen

the lights from the other windows he could have thought it was another

ship on the ocean side of the Neck.

He looked for a long time at the tiny spark in the distance, wondering

what whim had induced Mrs. Meath to shade her candles with so deep a

green. As he strolled back toward the Inn, he glanced through the windows

of the bar where the Marquis still read by the fireside. Suddenly the

old gentleman, as Tom curiously watched him, laid his book down on the

table and rose from his chair. He looked about the room and then advanced

to the window. Tom instinctively slipped behind the trunk of the great

oak. Monsieur de Boisdhyver stood for several moments peering into the

darkness. Then he turned away and crossed the room to the door into the

front hall. It flashed through Tom's mind that possibly the Marquis had

started on another of his mysterious tours. He ran down again into the

court far enough from the house to command a view of the entire facade,

and watched curiously, particularly the north wing. All was dark, save

for the lights below.

Suddenly he saw the flicker of a candle in one of the windows, not of the

north wing, but of the south. A moment's glance, and he made sure that it

was the room occupied as a sleeping apartment by Monsieur de Boisdhyver.

The Marquis was standing by the window, with his face pressed close to

the pane, peering out into the night. He still held the candle in his

hand. To Dan's surprise, he placed it carefully on the broad window-sill,

and drew down the dark shade to within a foot of the sill, blotting out

all save a narrow band of light. Then the Marquis disappeared for several

moments into the interior of the room. Dan was about to turn back into

the house, when again Monsieur de Boisdhyver came to the window. He did

not raise the shade, but inserted between the windowpane and the candle a

strip of dark green paper. It was translucent and had the effect of

sending a beam of green light southward, across the meadows and the

dunes, to meet--Tom suddenly realized--the rays of the green light from

the House on the Dunes.

Was it a signal being exchanged, and between whom? The coincidence of

green lights from the Inn and the House on the Dunes, at the same moment,

was too marked to be without significance. To what end was the Marquis de

Boisdhyver exchanging mysterious signals with some one in that lonely

farmhouse, and what did they mean?

Tom repressed his agitation and remained for some time watching the two

green lights that glowed toward one another over the dark landscape.

Suddenly the light in the House on the Dunes was extinguished; then,

momentarily it shone again, but quickly went out and left the great sweep

of dunes in darkness. Two minutes later the same thing took place in the

window of the south chamber of the Inn. The light flashed and was gone,

flashed again and shone no more.

Tom went in, by a rear entrance, to the bar. The Marquis was seated by a

table, absorbed in reading. He started as Tom entered. "Still no word of

Mademoiselle?" he piped.

"Still no word, monsieur," Pembroke answered laconically. He also

seated himself in the candle light and took up the last issue of the

_Port News_.

"Do you know what has become of Dan?" Pembroke asked presently.

"Monsieur Frost he has been closeted with madame his mother for the past

half-hour. You have no further plans for seeking Mademoiselle? For

myself, I grow alarmed."

"I know nothing but what you know, monsieur. Nancy has not returned.

There has been no word of her. We shall have to wait." With tremendous

effort to conceal his agitation and annoyance, Tom resumed his reading.

Monsieur de Boisdhyver glanced at him for a moment with a little air of

interrogation, then shrugged his shoulders slightly and turned again to

his French paper.

CHAPTER IX

MRS. FROST'S RECOLLECTIONS OF A FRENCH EXILE

After the long day of fruitless search and enquiry for the vanished

Nancy, supper being over and Tom having gone outside, Dan joined his

mother in the blue parlour.

Mrs. Frost was weary with waiting and anxiety, but as Dan threw himself

on a couch near her chair, she watched him patiently.

"There is no clue, Dan?" she ventured at last.

"No clue, mother, not the slightest. Nancy seems to have vanished as

completely as if she had dissolved into air. As you know, the house has

been thoroughly searched; the servants carefully questioned; and

enquiries have been made at every conceivable place in Monday Port. I

have been to the House on the Dunes, and to the farmhouses on every road

round about. No one has seen or heard of her. She has taken French leave,

but for what reason I can't imagine."

"Nancy has not been happy for some time, Dan," said Mrs. Frost.

"No, I have fancied that she was not. But why? Do you suppose she has

left us deliberately? or--". He paused uncertain whether or not to give

voice to his suspicions.

"Or what?" asked his mother.

"Or she has been forced away against her will."

"Against her will!" the old lady exclaimed. "Who could have forced her?

and for what reason? Do you think she may have been kidnapped?"

"Either kidnapped or decoyed away."

"But who could have designs upon Nancy? It is more reasonable to suppose

that she left of her own accord. I confess that would not altogether

surprise me."

"I don't know, mother, but I have my fears and suspicions. There may be

some one who has a deep interest in Nancy, who for reasons of his own,

which I don't yet understand, may wish to control her movements. I wish

you would tell me all you know of Nancy's origin. You have never told

me;--you have never told her, I fancy,--who she really is and how you

came to adopt her as your own child. I have never been curious to know,

in fact I have not wanted to know, for she has always been to me

precisely what a sister of my own blood would be. But now, it may help

me to understand certain strange things that have happened in the last

few days."

For a moment Mrs. Frost was silent. "No, I have never spoken to you or

to Nancy of her early history, Dan; simply because, to all intent she

has been our own. I have always wished that she should feel absolutely

one with us; and I think she always has, until this winter. But of late

I have noticed her discontent, her growing restlessness, and I have

sometimes wondered if she could be brooding over the mystery of her

early years. But she has never asked me a direct question; and I have

kept silent."

"I think now, mother," Dan replied, "it is your duty to tell me all

you know."

"I have no reason, my dear, to keep anything from you. I should have told

you years ago, if you had asked me. There is not much to tell. You may

remember when you were a boy about six or seven years old, a French exile

came to the Inn, a military gentleman, who had left France in consequence

of the fall of the great Napoleon."

"Yes, I remember him distinctly," said Dan. "He used to tell stories to

Tom and me of his adventures in the wars. Tom was speaking of him only

the other day."

"Well," continued Mrs. Frost, "this gentleman called himself General

Pointelle. I learned afterwards it was not his real name. Who he actually

was, I have not the slightest idea. He brought with him a little girl two

years old, a sweet little black-eyed girl, to whom I, having lost your

only sister at about that age, took a great fancy. The General also had

two servants with him, a valet, and a maid. The maid, a pretty young

thing, took care of the child. They arrived in mid-summer, on a

merchantman that plied between Marseilles and Monday Port. I do not know

why General Pointelle came to this part of the country, or why he chose

to stay at the Inn; at any rate he came, and he engaged for an indefinite

period the best suite of apartments in the old north wing. He had the Oak

Parlour--"

"The Oak Parlour!" exclaimed Dan.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Frost, "that was part of the suite reserved usually

for our most distinguished guests. The general used that for a

sitting-room and the adjoining chamber as a bed-room. The maid and child

occupied connecting rooms across the hall. The valet, I believe, was in

some other part of the house. General Pointelle proved himself a

fascinating guest, and his little daughter Eloise was a favourite with

all the household. The maid, pretty as she certainly was and apparently

above her station, I somehow never trusted. I have always believed that

the relations between the general and herself were not what they should

have been. But Frenchmen look at such things differently, I am told; and

it was not to our interests to be over-curious.

"They had been with us about two months when one fine morning we awoke to

find that General Pointelle, his valet, and the charming Marie had

disappeared, and little Eloise was crying alone in her big room. You have

probably guessed the child was Nancy."

"Yes," Dan agreed, "but do you mean that the father actually

abandoned her?"

"Practically. He left a note for me and a little bag of gold amounting to

two thousand dollars to be used for the child. If you will hand me that

old secretary there, I will show you the letter."

Dan placed the old-fashioned writing-desk on the table beside her, and

waited anxiously while she fumbled in her pocket for the key. She

unlocked the desk, and after searching a few moments amongst innumerable

papers, drew out an old letter. This she unfolded carefully and handed

to Dan. It was written in English, in a fine running hand. He read it

attentively.

"_The Inn at the Red Oak, Deal_:

"14 October, '814.

"Madame:

"Political circumstances over which I have no control, patriotic

considerations which I cannot withstand, demand my immediate return to

France. In the conditions into which I am about to be plunged the care of

my dear little daughter becomes an impossibility. Inhuman as it must seem

to you, lacking in all sense of Christian duty as it must appear to you,

I entrust, without the formality of consulting you, my beautiful little

Eloise to your humane and tender care. With this letter I deposit with

you the sum of two thousand dollars in gold, which will go a little way

at least to compensate you for the burden I thus unceremoniously, but of

necessity, thrust upon you. I appeal to and confide in the goodness of

your heart, of which already I have such abundant testimony, that will

take pity upon the misfortune of a helpless infant and an equally

helpless parent. May you be a mother to the motherless, and may the

Heavenly Father bless you for what you shall do.

"I embark, madame, upon a dangerous and uncertain mission. Should that

mission prove successful and restore the fortunes of my house, I will

return and claim my daughter. Should fate overwhelm me with disaster, I

must beg that you will continue to regard her and love her as your own.

The issue will have been decided within five years. Permit me to add but

one thing more,--in the event that I fall in the cause I have embraced, I

have made arrangements whereby communications shall be established with

you, madame, that will redound to your own good fortune and that of the

little Eloise.

"All effort to thwart my plans or to establish my identity in the

meantime, will, I must warn you, be fruitless.

"Adieu, madame: accept the assurance of my gratitude for all that you

have already done to sweeten exile and of my earnest prayer for the

blessing of God upon your great good heart.

"I remain, madame, for the present, but always, under whatever name,

"Your grateful and sincere servant,

"GASTON POINTELLE,"

As Dan, with gathering brows, concluded the reading of this

extraordinary letter, Mrs. Frost resumed her story.

"We always imagined that the general and his companions had sailed in a

French vessel that lay at that time in the Passage and left that morning

at dawn. There was nothing to do but adopt little Eloise Pointelle for my

own. I changed her name, at your father's suggestion, to Nancy Frost;

knowing that Pointelle was not the general's real name. For five years we

looked to see our guest return; and afterwards for years, we hoped to

receive some communication that would prove, as he promised, of advantage

to Nancy and ourselves. But from the night General Pointelle left our

house to this day, I have not heard one word to show that he still

existed or, indeed, that he ever had existed. We brought Nancy up as our

own daughter, though, never concealing from her the fact that she was not

of our blood. Indeed, Dan, I have loved her dearly."

"Certainly, you have always treated her with the greatest kindness. But

this is quite extraordinary, Mother. I think it will throw light on

Nancy's present disappearance."

"Do you think the father is alive, Dan? that he has communicated

with her?"

"Not that, mother; I am really in the dark. But I believe that the

Marquis de Boisdhyver has some connection with your General Pointelle,

and that his stay with us this winter has something to do with Nancy."

In response to Mrs. Frost's questions, he told of the meetings of Nancy

and the marquis, but decided to say nothing about the paper that he had

found in the Oak Parlour.

"I want you to be careful, Mother, to give no hint to the Marquis that we

suspect him in any way. Tom and I are trying to solve the mystery, and

secrecy is of the greatest importance. It is a more complicated business

than we imagined. I must go now and find Tom. May I keep this letter?"

"Yes, but keep it under lock and key. I have guarded it for sixteen

years; and it is the only evidence I possess of Nancy's origin."

Dan returned to the bar, where he found the Marquis and Tom still reading

their papers.

"Ah!" exclaimed Monsieur de Boisdhyver, "I trust, Monsieur Frost, you

bring us the good news at last of the return of Mademoiselle."

"Unfortunately, I do not, monsieur," Dan replied. "Our efforts to find

out what has become of her have been entirely unsuccessful. I am very

anxious, as you may imagine."

"And to what mishap do you attribute Mademoiselle's so unceremonious

departure?"

"I do not attribute it to any mishap," replied Dan. "I think that my

sister has gone off on a visit to some friends, and that her messages to

us have been miscarried. I feel certain that to-morrow we will be

completely reassured."

"Ah! I hope so with all my heart," exclaimed the Marquis fervently. "It

is a matter of deep distress to me--monsieur. But if--to-morrow passes

and still you do not hear--?"

"God knows, sir. We must do everything to find her."

"We shall find her," cried Tom, as he sprang to his feet, unable longer

to repress his anxiety or his irritation. "And if we do not find her safe

and well, woe to the man who has harmed her."

"Bravo!" cried the Marquis. "Permit me to adopt those words to express

my own sentiments. I applaud this determination, monsieur, _de tout

mon coeur_."

Tom glared at the little old man with an expression of illconcealed rage.

He was about to blurt out some angry reply, when a warning gesture from

Dan checked him. Without speaking, he flung himself out of the room.

"Poor Tom!" said Dan quickly, to cover Pembroke's attitude toward the

Marquis, "this takes him especially hard. He is in love with Nancy."

"_Eh bien_! I sympathize with his good taste. It is that that accounts

for his vigour of his expressions, so much more _emphatique_ than our

good host."

"More emphatic, perhaps," said Dan, "though I do not feel less strongly."

The Marquis made a little bow, as he rose to retire. "If, chance,

monsieur could require my assistance--"

"Thank you," said Dan quickly. "In that case, sir, I shall be only too

happy to call upon you." He rose also, and courteously held the candle

till the Marquis had reached the top of the stairs.

Tom waited his friend impatiently in their common chamber. And when at

last, having closed the house for the night, Dan joined him, he told at

once of the signals which he supposed had been exchanged between the

Marquis at the Inn and someone at the House on the Dunes. In return Dan

repeated what he had learned about Nancy from Mrs. Frost.

"There is no doubt in my mind," said Dan, "that the Marquis knows all

about Nancy's disappearance and where she is, and further I believe that

Nancy's disappearance is part of a plot with the Marquis here, Madame de

la Fontaine at the House on the Dunes, and that schooner riding at anchor

in the Cove. I have a plan, Tom."

"Go ahead for heaven's sake. If we don't do something, I'll go in and

choke the truth out of that old reprobate. He applauds my sentiments, eh!

Good God! If he knew them!"

"Yes, yes," said Dan. "But the time for choking has not come. You nearly

gave yourself away to-night, you will ruin our plans, and involve Nancy

in some harm. She is probably in that old villain's power. Now listen to

me. The first thing to do is to discover Nancy's whereabouts. The second

is to get at the bottom of the Marquis's plot and the secret of the torn

scrap of paper. We will find the clew to both, I think, if we can

discover the meaning of the signals between the Marquis and the lady in

the House on the Dunes."

"Right!" cried Tom. "But how?"

"One of us must stay at the Inn and watch the Marquis to-night, and the

other investigate the House on the Dunes. I have already been there and

made the acquaintance of the lady, so I had better do that, and you stay

here. Do you agree?"

"Yes, of course; though I envy you the chance to be out and doing."

"You will be doing something here. I want you to hide yourself in the

hallway near the Marquis's door and watch all night--till dawn anyway.

He cannot get out of his room without coming into the hall, and we must

know what he does to-night. If the Marquis can spend a sleepless night,

we can afford to do so. I don't know what I can do at the House on the

Dunes but I shall take the pistol, and you can keep my gun. To-morrow I

will get more arms, for I shouldn't be surprised if we needed them. Is

everything clear?"

"Perfectly," said Tom. "I'll watch as soon as you are off."

"Good-night, old boy, good luck."

"Good-night," and Dan slipped out of the room and down the dark stairs.

CHAPTER X

MIDNIGHT VIGILS

As soon as Dan had gone Tom blew out his light and slipped into

the hallway.

This portion of the Inn was simple in design. A long corridor ran through

the middle of the house to meet a similar passage at the southern end

extending at right angles to the main hall. The South Chamber, occupied

by the Marquis de Boisdhyver, opened into the southwest passage, but the

door was well beyond the juncture of the two corridors. It was Pembroke's

intention to conceal himself in the bedroom next the Marquis's chamber,

from the door of which he could look down the entire length of the main

hall, and by stepping outside get a view of the branch hallway into which

the door of this room and that of the Marquis actually opened. A further

advantage was that the windows of this room, like those of the South

Chamber, looked out upon the Dunes and the Cove.

As Tom stepped from his chamber, the house seemed utterly deserted; save

for the roaring of the wind without and an occasional creak or crack in

the time-worn boards, there were no sounds.

The night was not a dark one, although the wind was rising and rain was

threatening; for a full moon lurked behind the thick veil of cloud and

something of its weird weak light relieved the darkness even of the great

corridor of the Inn.

Tom stole softly down the hallway and gained the room next the Marquis's.

He took his position in a great chair, which he drew near the open door,

and laid his gun on the floor near at hand. No one could enter the hall

without his seeing him. Every few moments he would tiptoe to the doorway,

thrust his head into the corridor, and listen intently for any sound in

the South Chamber.

It was a lonely and unpleasant vigil. The night was wild, the storm was

rising, the old Inn was moaning as though in distress; and, despite his

natural courage, fantastic terrors and dangers thrust themselves upon his

excited imagination. He would much have preferred, he felt, to be out in

the open as Dan was, even facing real dangers and greater difficulties.

Deeper than by these imaginary fears of the night, he was racked with

anxiety to know what had become of the girl he loved. Had she been

decoyed away by the evil genius of the place; was she in danger? Had she

disappeared of her own free will; and didn't she really love him?

He was not in the least sleepy; but after a while the vigil began to tell

upon his nerves. He found it almost impossible to sit still and wait,

perhaps in vain. He made innumerable trips across the room to the windows

to look out into the bleak night. The landscape was blotted out. Not a

light showed from the House on the Dunes; only the two lamps on the

schooner at anchor in the Cove gleamed across the night. Eleven o'clock,

twelve o'clock struck solemnly from the old clock on the stairs.

Once as he was looking out of the window, it seemed to him that the green

light on the _Southern Cross_ was moving. But it was impossible that she

should weigh anchor in the teeth of the rising storm. He was mistaken.

Nay, he was sure. But it was rising, slowly, steadily, as though drawn by

an invisible hand, to about the height of the masthead. There at last it

stopped, and swung to the wind, to and fro, to and fro; high above its

red companion, high above the deck.

And then, suddenly, as if to answer this mysterious manoeuvre, the green

light, that earlier in the evening had glowed from a north window of the

House on the Dunes, now flashed from an east window of the old farmhouse;

flashed, then gleamed steadily. The light on the _Southern Cross_ was

lowered slowly, then raised again. The light in the House on the Dunes

vanished; soon flashed again and then vanished once more. Slowly the

light in the schooner descended to its normal position. A moment later

the green light appeared on the north side of the House on the Dunes,

where it had been earlier, and shone there steadily.

Was it a signal to the Marquis de Boisdhyver? Tom tiptoed to the

partition between his room and the South Chamber, and put his ear to the

wall to listen. Not a sound reached him. He turned to the door to go into

the corridor, and stood suddenly motionless. For there, advancing ever so

cautiously down the hall, carrying a lighted candle in his hand, was the

old Marquis. He was clad in night dress and cap, with a gayly-coloured

dressing-gown worn over the white shirt. Slowly, silently, pausing every

instant to listen; he stole on, gun in hand, and Tom followed him as

cautiously and as quietly. Instead of turning to the right at the

partition that divides the north and south wings of the Inn and going

down stairs, the Marquis turned to the left, into the short hall that led

directly to the great chamber occupied by Tom and Dan.

By the time Pembroke in pursuit had reached the turn and dared to peep

around the corner of the wall, the Marquis was at the door of Dan's room.

He stood there, ear bent close to the panel, intently listening.

Tom waited breathless. Not satisfied, Monsieur de Boisdhyver turned about

and went into an adjoining chamber, the door of which stood open.

Pembroke was about to advance, when the Marquis emerged again into the

corridor, having left his lighted candle in the empty room. This

manoeuvre, whatever advantage it had for the Marquis, was fortunate for

Pembroke, for it left the end of the little hall, where he stood

watching, in deep shadow. He could now step boldly from behind the

concealing wall without fear of immediate detection.

Again the Marquis stood and listened at the door of Dan's room, then

cautiously turned the knob. The door yielded and opened an inch or so.

Monsieur de Boisdhyver put his ear to the crack. Dissatisfied with the

absolute silence that must have met him, he pushed open the door a little

further and thrust his head inside. In a moment he disappeared within.

Tom realized that the Marquis would soon discover the fact that the

room was empty. He looked about quickly for a place of concealment that

would command a view of all the halls. Fortunately the partition that

divided the long corridor between the north and south wings was hung

with heavy curtains. Deciding instantly, Pembroke slipped behind them,

and ruthlessly slit an opening in the thick green stuff, through which

he could peek out. He was just in time, as the Marquis came out of

their bedroom and softly closed the door. He stood irresolute; then,

with even greater caution, re-entered the room in which he had left his

candle. To Tom's chagrin, the candle was suddenly extinguished and the

Inn left in darkness.

For some moments, there was absolute silence. Then Tom could hear

faintly,--or feel rather than hear--the Marquis cautiously finding his

way back. Luckily, the old Frenchman was groping his way next the other

wall. Pembroke slipped from behind the curtains and stole softly in

pursuit. As he reached the south end of the corridor, he heard the latch

of the Marquis's door click softly. Alarmed by discovering that they were

not in bed, thought Tom, he had abandoned whatever purpose he had in mind

for his midnight prowl.

After waiting a little and hearing no more, Tom went again to the window.

The rain had begun now and the wind was blowing a gale. Suddenly Pembroke

discerned a light shining from the window next the very one from which he

was peering into the darkness,--the steady glow of a deep red light.

"Another signal!" he murmured; then waited to see if it would be answered

by the House on the Dunes. Perhaps fifteen minutes passed, and then,

suddenly, there gleamed through the rain and dark, a tiny bit of red

flame, just where the House on the Dunes must be. A little later the red

lamp on the _Southern Cross_ performed a fantastic ascension to what

Pembroke took to be the masthead.

The red light in the neighbouring window was extinguished. Almost

instantly the red spark on the Dunes disappeared, and in a few moments

the schooner's lamp began its descent. Simultaneously they glowed again

and the ship's light danced upward; then the two red lights on shore

vanished and the lamp on the _Southern Cross_ sank to its proper place

and stayed there.

Of one thing Tom was sure: The Marquis, the lady at the House on the

Dunes, and the skipper of the schooner in the Cove, were in collusion. Of

another thing he felt almost equally certain: the red light was a signal

of danger, and the message of danger flashed across the night was the

fact that he and Dan were not safe asleep in bed.

For a long time he watched, keen with excitement; listened patiently;

started at every sound. But nothing more unusual did he hear that night

than the roar of the wind, the dash of the brawling southeaster against

the panes, and the groans of the old house, shaken by the storm. Toward

morning he crept back to bed and fell instantly into a deep and

dreamless sleep.

While Tom was thus watching and sleeping a somewhat different experience

had fallen to the lot of Dan Frost. He had no definite plan in making a

midnight visit to the vicinity of the House on the Dunes, but he hoped to

discover some clue to the surrounding mysteries. From time to time during

the day he had taken his field glasses to one of the upper rooms of the

Inn, and scanned the countryside but nothing unusual seemed astir in the

white world without. The _Southern Cross_ had lain on the surface of the

little cove all day, swaying with wind and tide, no sign of activity upon

her decks. It was after ten when he started forth. The night was not

quite dark, for the full moon was shining somewhere behind the thick veil

of clouds. Earlier in the evening Dan had intended to go boldly to the

House itself and demand an interview with old Mrs. Meath; but he

reflected that he would probably be met with the excuse that Mrs. Meath

was ill, and he did not know how he could force himself in, particularly

past the barrier of Madame de la Fontaine's charming manner.

It was an unpleasant walk with the wind in his face, and it was nearly

eleven before he turned into the long dune road, which branched from the

Port Road near the Rocking Stone and led directly to the old farmhouse on

Strathsey Neck. To his chagrin it appeared that all lights had been

extinguished as if the inmates of the house had gone to bed.

The old farmhouse loomed before him, dark and forbidding. On either side

there were outhouses, and in the rear quite near the house a barn. There

was not a tree on the place; indeed, there was little vegetation upon the

entire Neck, save the grass of the middle meadows which in summer

furnished scant nourishment for the cattle and a flock of sheep. Now all

was bleak and covered with snow, and a freshening gale swept out of the

great maw of the Atlantic.

Keeping close to the fence, Frost began to make a complete circuit of

the farmhouse. As he turned a corner of the south end, or rear of the

house, he was relieved to see a light burning in the kitchen. He stole

cautiously to a position within the shadow of the barn from which he

could get a glimpse of the interior. In the kitchen standing before a

deal table, he saw a young woman--not Jane, Mrs. Heath's

maid-of-all-work, but a stranger,--with her hands deep in a bowl of

dough. Her back was toward him, but he guessed that she was Madame de la

Fontaine's maid, whom he had seen in the morning. The door into the

dining-room beyond stood open, and by craning his neck, Dan could see

that the room was lighter, but he could not discover whether or not it

were occupied. The shutters of the dining-room were so closely barred

and the curtains so tightly drawn that not a ray of light penetrated to

the outside.

The girl in the kitchen proceeded busily about her work. She was

evidently engaged, despite the lateness of the hour, in mixing bread.

Once while he waited patiently, to what end he hardly knew, Madame de la

Fontaine entered the kitchen. She was clad in black and held in her hands

what Dan took to be a ship's lamp. She stood for a moment in the doorway

and spoke to the servant maid. The girl stopped her work, and taking a

strip of paper, ignited it at a candle and lighted the lamp, which Madame

de la Fontaine held up for her. It glowed instantly with a deep green

flame, such as Tom had described as shining from a window of the House on

the Dunes in the early evening.

As soon as her lamp was lighted Madame de la Fontaine left the room.

Supposing that she was about to give a signal, Dan's heart leaped at the

prospect of some result to his eavesdropping, and he stole carefully

around to the front of the house. Presently from an upper window in the

east side of the house, not the north as he had expected, he saw the

green light sending forth its message across the Dunes--to whom? Probably

the signal could be seen from the Inn, but it more likely was intended

for the schooner in the Cove. Sure enough, as he watched, Dan saw the

phenomenon of the ascending lamp on the _Southern Cross_, which at that

identical moment Tom Pembroke was watching from his post of vantage in

one of the south windows of the Inn.

A little later the signal was removed from the east window of the

farmhouse and placed in a north window. Dan looked to see the answering

gleam from the Inn at the Red Oak. But none came. Crouched in a corner of

the fence, he waited perhaps for half-an-hour.

Suddenly a signal gleamed from the Inn, but this time it was not green as

he expected, but red. In a few moments a form appeared in the window of

the farmhouse, and a white hand, which he supposed was that of Madame de

la Fontaine, took hold of the lamp and reversed it, so that now it showed

red. The light in the Inn vanished, reappeared, vanished again. The same

thing happened to the light in the House on the Dunes. And looking

eastward, Dan saw the ship's red lamp perform its fantastic ascent and

descent. Soon all was left in darkness. Frost slipped back to his post

near the barn and looked again into the kitchen.

Madame de la Fontaine was standing in the doorway as before. The maid,

turning away from the table, came at that moment to the window, and

raised the sash, as though she were overheated. Presently, leaving the

window open, she turned to her mistress, and Dan could hear the sharp

staccato of her voice as she said something in what seemed to him her

barbarous French.

Impelled by curiosity, he crept closer to the house. He was within six

feet of the window, standing on the tip of his toes. Suddenly he felt

himself pinioned from behind; his arms were gripped as in a vise, a hand

grasped his throat and began to choke him, and a sharp knee was planted

with terrific force in the small of his back. He made a gurgling sound as

he went backward, but there was no opportunity for struggling. He

recovered from the shock to find himself stretched at full length in the

wet snow. Some one was sitting upon him, struggling to thrust a gag into

his mouth; some one else was binding his hands and feet.

He could just distinguish, in the sickly moonlight and the dim rays of

the candle from the kitchen, the faces of his assailants. One was the

murderous looking Frenchman, the skipper of the _Southern Cross_, the

other he took to be a common seaman.

Attracted by the scuffle, the French maid had thrust her head out of the

window and was addressing the combatants in vigorous French. Neither then

nor later did Madame de la Fontaine appear. When Frost was safely bound

and gagged, Captain Bonhomme arose, said a few words to his companion,

and disappeared into the farmhouse. Dan's guard searched him rapidly,

confiscated his revolver and knife, and then resumed his seat upon his

legs. Inside the kitchen Dan could hear the sounds of an animated French

dialogue, in which he imagined from time to time that he detected the

silvery tones of Madame de la Fontaine's voice. Perhaps fifteen minutes

elapsed. Captain Bonhomme came out of the house, strode to the spot where

Dan was lying, and addressed him in excellent English.

"Monsieur; for purposes which it is superfluous to explain, it is decided

to extend to you for a while the hospitality of my good ship the

_Southern Cross_--a hospitality, I may say, that your unceremonious

eavesdropping has thrust upon you. I will release your feet; and then,

monsieur, you follow my good Jean across the sands. If you are quiet, no

harm shall come to you. If you resist, _cher monsieur_, it will be of

painful duty that I entrust the contents of this revolver into--_mais

non! Vous comprenez, n'est-ce pas?--Bien_!"

He gave a sharp order to the seaman. The handkerchief about Dan's ankles

was untied, and he was roughly assisted to his feet.

"The snow is wet, eh! Yes, for the good wind is moist. Now, _Allons_!"

Jean led the way, and Dan, deciding that he had no choice in the matter,

followed obediently. The captain brought up the rear. As they went out

through the gate, Dan turned for a moment and looked back at the house.

He could see the French maid still at the kitchen window. At the same

moment Captain Bonhomme glanced back and ceremoniously raised his hat.

"_Bonsoir, mam'zelle_."

"_Bonsoir, monsieur_," was the sharp reply, and the window was lowered

with a bang.

They went on in silence across the Dunes to the beach. There, drawn up

above high water line, they found a skiff. The captain and Jean shoved

off, sprang in, and the little boat plunged into the combing waves. They

reached the _Southern Cross_ without misadventure. The captain blew a

call upon a boatswain's whistle. A rope was lowered and Jean made the

skiff fast to the ladder at the schooner's side. The captain took out

his revolver and held it in his hand, while Jean unloosed the cords that

bound Dan's wrists.

"Now up, _mon ami_."

For a moment Dan thought of risking a scuffle in the unsteady skiff, but

discretion proved the better part of valour, and he climbed obediently on

to the deck. The seaman stood close by till the captain and Jean had

clambered up after him. A few words in French to his men, then Captain

Bonhomme, beckoning to Dan to follow, led the way down the companion. He

opened the door of a little cabin amidships and bade Frost enter.

"You will find everything required for your comfort, monsieur," he said,

"and I trust you will make yourself at home, as you say; and enjoy a good

night and a sound sleep. We can discuss our affairs in the morning."

And with the words, he closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and

left Dan to his reflections.

PART III

THE SCHOONER IN THE COVE