"I do not know," Jeanne said. "I will tell you presently."

The man stared at her and passed on. Jeanne had spoken the truth. She

had no idea where she was going. Her one idea was to get away from

every one whom she knew, or who had known her, as the Princess' ward

and a great heiress. She sat in a corner of the bus, and she watched

the stream of people pass by. Even there she shrank from any face or

figure which seemed to her familiar. She almost forgot that she, too,

had been a victim of her stepmother's deception. She remembered only

that she had been the principal figure in it, and that to the whole

world she must seem an object for derision and contempt. It was not her

fault that she had played a false part in life. But nevertheless she

had played it, and it was not likely that many would believe her

innocent. The thought of appealing to the Duke, or to Andrew de la

Borne, for help, made her cheeks burn with shame. In any ordinary

trouble she would have gone to them. This, however, was something too

humiliating, too impossible. She felt that it was a blow which she

could ask no one to share.

The omnibus rolled on eastwards and reached Liverpool Street. A sudden

overwhelming impulse decided Jeanne as to her destination. She

remembered that peculiar sense of freedom, that first escape from her

cramped surroundings, which had come to her walking upon the marshes of

Salthouse. She would go there again, if it was only for a day or two;

find rooms somewhere in the village, and write to Monsieur Laplanche

from there. Visitors she knew were not uncommon in the little seaside

village, and she would easily be able to keep out of the way of Cecil,

if he were still there. The idea seemed to her like an inspiration. She

went up to the ticket-office and asked for a ticket for Salthouse. The

man stared at her.

"Never heard of the place, miss," he said. "It's not on our line."

"It is near Wells on the east coast," she said. "Now I think of it, I

remember one has to drive from Wells. Can I have a ticket to there?"

He glanced at the clock.

"The train goes in ten minutes, miss," he said.

Jeanne travelled first, because she had never thought of travelling any

other way. She sat in the corner of an empty carriage, looking steadily

out of the window, and seeing nothing but the fragments of her little

life. Now that she was detached from it, she seemed to realize how

little real pleasure she had found in the life which the Princess had

insisted upon dragging her into. She remembered how every man whom she

had met addressed her with the same EMPRESSEMENT, how their eyes seemed

to have followed her about almost covetously, how the girls had openly

envied her, how the court of the men had been so monotonous and so

unreal. She drew a little breath, almost of relief. When she was used

to the idea she might even be glad that this great fortune had taken to

itself wings and flitted away. She was no longer the heiress of untold

wealth. She was simply a girl, standing on the threshold of life, and

looking forward to the happiness which at that age seems almost a

natural heritage.

The sense of freedom grew on her next morning, as she walked once more

upon the marshes, listened to the larks, now in full song, and felt the

touch of the salt wind upon her cheeks. She had found rooms very

easily, and no one had seemed to treat her coming as anything but a

matter of course. One old fisherman of whom she asked questions, told

her many queer stories about the Red Hall and its occupants.

"As restless young men as them two as is there now," he admitted, "Mr.

Cecil and his friend, I never did see. Fust one of them one day goes to

London, back he comes on the next day, and away goes the other. Why

they don't go both together the Lord only knows, but that is so for a

fact, miss, and you can take it from me. Every week of God's year, one

of them goes to London, and directly he comes back the other goes."

"And Mr. Andrew de la Borne?" she asked. "Has he gone back there yet?"

"He have not," the man answered, "but I doubt he'll be back again one

day 'fore long. Sure he need be. They're beginning to talk about the

shuttered windows at the Red Hall."

The girl turned and looked toward the house, bleak and desolate-looking

enough now that the few encircling trees were shorn of their leaves.

"I shouldn't care to live there all the year round," she remarked.

"I've heerd others say the same thing," he answered, "and yet in

Salthouse village we're moderate well satisfied with life. It's them as

have too much," he continued, "who rush about trying to make more. A

simple life and a simple lot is what's best in this world."

"Things were livelier up there," Jeanne remarked, seating herself on

the edge of his boat, "when the smugglers used to bring in their goods."

The old man smiled.

"Why that's so, lady," he admitted. "Lord! When I was a boy I mind some

great doings. One night there was a great fight. I mind it now. Fifteen

of the King's men were lying hidden close to the cove there, and it

looked for all the world as though the boats which were being rowed

ashore must fall right into their hands. They were watching from the

Hall, though, and the Squire's new alarm was set going. It were a cry

like a siren, rising and falling like. The boats heerd it and turned

back, but three of the Squire's men were set on, and a rare fight there

was that night. There was broken heads to be mended, and no mistake.

Mat Knowles here, the father of him who keeps the public now, he right

forgot to shut his inn, and there it was open two hours past the lawful

time, and all were drinking as though it were a great day of rejoicing,

instead of being one of sorrow for the De la Bornes. I mind you were

here a few weeks ago, miss. You know the two Mr. De la Bornes?"

"Yes!" Jeanne admitted. "I know them slightly."

"Mr. Andrew, he be one of the best," the man declared, "but Mr. Cecil

we none of us can understand, him nor his friends. What he is doing up

there now with this man what's staying with him, there's none can tell.

Maybe they gamble at cards, maybe they just sit and look at one

another, but 'tis a strange sort of life anyhow."

"I think it is a very interesting place to live in," Jeanne said. "What

became of the siren which warned the smugglers?"

"There's no one here as can tell that, miss," the man answered, "There

are them as have fancied on windy nights as they've heerd it, but fancy

it have been, in my opinion. Five and twenty years have gone since I've

heerd it mysen, and there's few 'as better ears."

"Mr. Andrew de la Borne is not here now, is he?" she asked.

The fisherman shook his head.

"Mr. Andrew," he said, "is mortal afraid of strangers and such like,

and there's photographers and newspaper men round in these parts just

now, by reason of the disappearance of this young lord that you heerd

tell on. Some say he was drowned, and I have heerd folk whisper about a

duel with the gentleman as is with Mr. Cecil now. Anyway, it was here

that he disappeared from, and though I've not seen it in print, I've

heerd as his brother is offering a reward of a thousand pounds to any

as might find him. It's a power of money that, miss."

"It is a great deal of money," Jeanne admitted. "I wonder if Lord

Ronald was worth it."

CHAPTER XI

The two men sat opposite to one another separated only by the small

round table upon which the dessert which had followed their dinner was

still standing. Even Forrest's imperturbable face showed signs of the

anxiety through which he had passed. The change in Cecil, however, was

far more noticeable. There were lines under his eyes and a flush upon

his cheeks, as though he had been drinking heavily. The details of his

toilette, usually so immaculate, were uncared for. He was carelessly

dressed, and his hair no longer shone with frequent brushings. He

looked like a person passing through the rapid stages of deterioration.

"Forrest," he said, "I cannot stand it any longer. This place is

sending me mad. I think that the best thing we can do is to chuck it."

"Do you?" Forrest answered drily. "That may be all very well for you, a

countryman, with enough to live on, and the whole world before you. As

for me, I couldn't face it. I have passed middle age, and my life runs

in certain grooves. It must run in them now until the end. I cannot

break away. I would not if I could. Existence would simply be

intolerable for me if that young fool were ever allowed to tell his

story."

"We cannot keep him for ever," Cecil answered gloomily. "We cannot play

the jailer here all our lives. Besides, there is always the danger of

being found out. There are two detectives in the place already, and I

am fairly certain that if they have been in the house while we have

been out--"

"There is nothing for them to discover here," Forrest answered. "I

should keep the doors open. Let them search if they want to."

"That is all very well," Cecil answered, "but if these fellows hang

about the place, sooner or later they will hear some of the stories

these villagers are only too anxious to tell."

Forrest nodded.

"There," he said, "I am not disinclined to agree with you. Hasn't it

ever struck you, De la Borne," he continued, after a moment's slight

hesitation, "that there is only one logical way out of this?"

"No!" Cecil answered eagerly. "What way? What do you mean?"

Forrest filled his glass to the brim with wine before he answered. Then

he passed the decanter back to Cecil.

"We are not children, you and I," he said. "Why should we let a boy

like Engleton play with us? Why do we not let him have the issue before

him in black and white? We say to him now--'Sign this paper, pledge

your word of honour, and you may go.' He declines. He declines because

the alternative of staying where he is is endurable. I propose that we

substitute another alternative. Drink your wine, De la Borne. This is a

chill house of yours, and one loses courage here. Drink your wine, and

think of what I have said."

Cecil set down his glass empty.

"Well," he said, "what other alternative do you propose?"

"Can't you see?" Forrest answered. "We cannot keep Engleton shut up for

ever. I grant you that that is impossible. But if he declines to behave

like a reasonable person, we can threaten him with an alternative which

I do not think he would have the courage to face."

"You mean?" Cecil gasped.

"I mean," Forrest answered, "what your grandfather would have told him,

or your great grandfather, in half a dozen words weeks ago. At full

tide there is sea enough to drown a dozen such as he within a few yards

of where he lies. Why should we keep him carefully and safe, knowing

that the moment he steps back into life you and I are doomed men?"

Cecil drew a little breath and lifted his hand to his forehead. He was

surprised to find it wet. All the time he was gazing at Forrest with

fascinated eyes.

"Look here," he said, in a hoarse whisper, "we mustn't talk like this.

Engleton will turn round in a day or two. People would think, if they

heard us, that we were planning a murder."

"In a woman's decalogue," Forrest said, "there is no sin save the sin

of being found out. Why not in ours? No one ever had such a chance of

getting rid of a dangerous enemy. The whole thing is in our hands. We

could never be found out, never even questioned. If, by one chance in a

thousand, his body is ever recovered, what more natural? Men have been

drowned before on the marshes here many a time."

"Go on!" Cecil said. "You have thought this out. Tell me exactly what

you propose."

"I propose," Forrest answered, "that we narrow the issues, and that we

put them before him in plain English, now--to-night--while the courage

is still with us. It must be silence or death. I tell you frankly how

it is with me. I would as soon press a pistol to my forehead and pull

the trigger as have this boy go back into the world and tell his story.

For you, too, it would be ruin."

Cecil sank back into his chair, and looked with wide-open but unseeing

eyes across the table, through the wall beyond. He saw his future

damned by that one unpardonable accusation. He saw himself sent out

into the world penniless, an outcast from all the things in life which

made existence tolerable. He knew very well that Andrew would never

forgive. There was no mercy to be hoped for from him. There was nothing

to be looked for anywhere save disaster, absolute and entire. He looked

across at Forrest, and something in his companion's face sent a cold

shiver through his veins.

"We might go and see what he says," he faltered. "I haven't been there

since the morning, have you?"

"No!" Forrest answered. "Solitude is good for him. Let us go now,

together."

Without another word they rose from the table. Cecil led the way into

the library, where he rang for a servant.

"Set out the card-table here," he ordered, "and bring in the whisky and

soda. After that we do not wish to be disturbed. You understand?"

"Certainly, sir," the man answered.

They waited until the things were brought. Afterwards they locked the

door. Cecil went to a drawer and took out a couple of electric torches,

one of which he handed to Forrest. Then he went to the wall, and after

a few minutes' groping, found the spring. The door swung open, and a

rush of unwholesome air streamed into the room. They made their way

silently along the passage until at last they reached the sunken

chamber. Cecil took a key from his pocket and opened the door.

* * * * *

Engleton was in evil straits, but there was no sign of yielding in his

face as he looked up. He was seated before a small table upon which a

common lamp was burning. His clothes hung about him loosely. His face

was haggard. A short, unbecoming beard disfigured his face. He wore no

collar or necktie, and his general appearance was altogether

dishevelled. Forrest looked at him critically.

"My dear Engleton!" he began.

"What the devil do you want with me at this time of night?" Engleton

interrupted. "Have you come down to see how I amuse myself during the

long evenings? Perhaps you would like to come and play cut-throat. I'll

play you for what stakes you like, and thank you for coming, if you'll

leave the door open and let me breathe a little better air."

"It is your own fault that you are here," Cecil de la Borne declared.

"It is all your cursed obstinacy. Listen! I tell you once more that

what you saw, or fancied you saw, was a mistake. Forget it. Give your

word of honour to forget it, never to allude to it at any time in your

life, and you can walk out of here a free man."

Engleton nodded.

"I have no doubt of it," he answered. "The worst of it is that nothing

in the world would induce me to forego the pleasure I promise myself,

before very long, too, of giving to the whole world the story of your

infamy. I am not tractable to-night. You had better go away, both of

you. I am more likely to fight."

Forrest sat down on the edge of a chest.

"Engleton," he said, "don't be a fool. It can do you no particular good

to ruin Cecil here and myself, just because you happen to be

suspicious. Let that drop. Tell us that you have decided to let it

drop, and the world can take you into its arms again."

"I refuse," Engleton answered. "I refuse once and for always. I tell

you that I have made up my mind to see you punished for this. How I get

out I don't care, but I shall get out, and when I do, you two will be

laid by the heels."

"We came here to-night," Forrest said slowly, "prepared to compromise

with you."

"There is no compromise," Engleton answered fiercely. "There is nothing

which you could offer which could repay me for the horror of the nights

you have left me to shiver here in this d--d vault. Don't flatter

yourself that I shall ever forget it. I stay on because I cannot

escape, but I would sooner stay here for ever than beg for mercy from

either of you."

"Upon my word," Forrest declared, "our friend is quite a hero."

"I am hero enough, at any rate," Engleton answered, "to refuse to

bargain with you. Get out, both of you, before I lose my temper."

Forrest came a little further into the room. The thunder of the sea

seemed almost above their heads. The little lamp on the table by

Engleton's side gave little more than a weird, unnatural light around

the circle in which he sat.

"That isn't quite all that we came to say," Forrest remarked coldly.

"To tell you the truth we have had enough of playing jailer."

"I can assure you," Engleton answered, "that I have had equally enough

of being your prisoner."

"We are agreed, then," Forrest continued smoothly. "You will probably

be relieved when I tell you that we have decided to end it."

Engleton rose to his feet.

"So much the better," he said. "You might keep me here till doomsday,

and the end would be the same."

"We do not propose," Forrest continued, "to keep you here till

doomsday, or anything like it. What we have come to say to you is

this--that if you still refuse to give your promise--I need not say

more than that--we are going to set you free."

"Do you mean that literally?" Engleton asked.

"Perhaps not altogether as you would wish to understand it," Forrest

admitted. "We shall give you a chance at high tide to swim for your

life."

Engleton shrunk a little back. After all, his nerves were a little

shattered.

"Out there?" he asked, pointing to the seaward end of the passage.

Forrest nodded.

"It will be a chance for you," he said.

Engleton looked at them for a moment, dumbfounded.

"It will be murder," he said slowly.

Forrest shrugged his shoulders.

"You may call it so if you like," he answered. "Personally, I should

not be inclined to agree with you. You will be alive when you go into

the sea. If you cannot swim, the fault is not ours."

"And when, may I ask," Engleton continued, "do you propose to put into

operation your amiable plan?"

"Just whensoever we please, you d--d obstinate young puppy!" Forrest

cried, suddenly losing his nerve. "Curse your silent tongue and your

venomous face! You think you can get the better of us, do you? Well,

you are mistaken. You'll tell no stories from amongst the seaweed."

Engleton nodded.

"I shall take particular good care," he said, "to avoid the seaweed."

"Enough," Forrest declared. "Listen! Here is the issue. We are tired of

negative things. To-night you sign the paper and give us your word of

honour to keep silent, or before morning, when the tide is full, you go

into the sea!"

"I warn you," Engleton said, "that I can swim."

"I will guarantee," Forrest answered suavely, "that by the time you

reach the water you will have forgotten how."

CHAPTER XII

The days that followed were strange ones for Jeanne. Every morning at

sunrise, or before, she would steal out of the little cottage where she

was staying, and make her way along the top of one of the high dyke

banks to the sea. Often she saw the sun rise from some lonely spot

amongst the sandbanks or the marshes, heard the awakening of the birds,

and saw the first glimpses of morning life steal into evidence upon the

grey chill wilderness. At such times she saw few people. The house

where she was staying was apart from the village, and near the head of

one of the creeks, and there were times when she would leave it and

return without having seen a single human being. She knew, from

cautious inquiries made from her landlady's daughter, that Cecil and

Major Forrest were still at the Red Hall, and for that reason during

the daytime she seldom left the cottage, sitting out in the

old-fashioned garden, or walking a little way in the fields at the

back. For the future she made no plans. She was quite content to feel

that for the present she had escaped from an intolerable situation.

The woman from whom Jeanne had taken the rooms, a Mrs. Caynsard, she

had seen only once or twice. She was waited upon most of the time by an

exceedingly diminutive maid servant, very shy at first, but very

talkative afterwards, in broad Norfolk dialect, when she had grown a

little accustomed to this very unusual lodger. Now and then Kate

Caynsard, the only daughter of the house, appeared, but for the most

time she was away, sailing a fishing boat or looking after the little

farm. To Jeanne she represented a type wholly strange, but altogether

interesting. She was little over twenty years of age, but she was

strong and finely built. She had the black hair and dark brown eyes,

which here and there amongst the villagers of the east coast remind one

of the immigration of worsted spinners and silk weavers from Flanders

and the North of France, many centuries ago. She was very handsome but

exceedingly shy. When Jeanne, as she had done more than once, tried to

talk to her, her abrupt replies gave little opening for conversation.

One morning, however, when Jeanne, having returned from a long tramp

across the sand dunes, was sitting in the little orchard at the back of

the house, she saw her landlady's daughter come slowly out to her from

the house. Jeanne put down her book.

"Good morning, Miss Caynsard!" she said.

"Good morning, miss!" the girl answered awkwardly. "You have had a long

walk!"

Jeanne nodded.

"I went so far," she said, "that I had to race the tide home, or I

should have had to wade through the home creek."

Kate nodded.

"The tide do come sometimes," she said, "at a most awful pace. I have

been out after whelks myself, and had to walk home with the sea all

round me, and nothing but a ribbon of dry land. One needs to know the

ways about on this wilderness."

"One learns them by watching," Jeanne remarked. "I suppose you have

lived here all your life."

"All my life," the girl answered, "and my father and grandfather before

me. 'Tis a queer country, but them as is born and bred here seldom

leaves it. Sometimes they try. They go to the next village inland, or

to some town, or to foreign parts, but sooner or later if they live

they come back."

Jeanne nodded sympathetically.

"It is a wonderful country," she said. "When I saw it first it seemed

to me that it was depressing. Now I love it!"

"And I," the girl remarked, with a sudden passion in her tone, "I hate

it!"

Jeanne looked at her, surprised.

"It sounds so strange to hear you say that," she remarked. "I should

have thought that any one who had lived here always would have loved

it. Every day I am here I seem to discover new beauties, a new effect

of colouring, a new undertone of the sea, or to hear the cry of some

new bird."

"It is beautiful sometimes," the girl answered. "I love it when the

creeks are full, and the April sun is shining, and the spring seems to

draw all manner of living things and colours from the marsh and the

pasturage lands. I love it when the sea changes its colour as the

clouds pass over the sun, and the wind blows from the west. The place

is well enough then. But there are times when it is nothing but a great

wilderness of mud, and the grey mists come blowing in, and one is cold

here, cold to the bone. Then I hate the place worse than ever."

"Have you ever tried to go away for a time?" Jeanne asked.

"I went once to London," the girl said, turning her head a little away.

"I should have stayed there, I think, if things had turned out as I had

expected, but they didn't, and my father died suddenly, so I came home

to take care of the farm."

Jeanne nodded sympathetically. She was beginning to wonder why this

girl had come out from the house with the obvious intention of speaking

to her. She stood by her side, not exactly awkward, but still not

wholly at her ease, her hands clasped behind her straight back, her

black eyebrows drawn together in a little uneasy frown. Her coarse

brown skirt was not long enough to conceal her wonderfully shaped

ankles. Sun and wind had done little more than slightly tan her clear

complexion. She had somehow the appearance of a girl of some other

nation. There was something stronger, more forceful, more brilliant

about her, than her position seemed to warrant.

"There is a question, miss," she said at last, abruptly, "I should like

to ask you. I should have asked you when you first came, if I had been

in when you came to look at the rooms."

"What is it?" Jeanne asked quietly.

"I've a good eye for faces," Kate said, "and I seldom forget one.

Weren't you the young lady who was staying up at the Red Hall a few

weeks ago?"

Jeanne nodded.

"Yes," she said, "I was staying there. It was because I liked the place

so much, and because I was so much happier here than in London, that I

came back."

There was a moment's silence. Jeanne looked up and found Kate's

magnificent eyes fixed steadfastly upon her face.

"Is it for no other reason, miss," she asked, "that you have come back?"

"For none other in the world," Jeanne answered. "I was unhappy in

London, and I wanted to get somewhere where I should be quite unknown.

That is why I came here."

"You didn't come back," Kate asked, "to see more of Mr. De la Borne,

then?"

The simple directness of the question seemed to rob it of its

impertinence. Jeanne laughed goodhumouredly.

"I can assure you that I did not," she answered. "To tell you the

truth, and I hope that you will be kind and remember that I do not wish

any one to know this, the reason why I only go out so early in the

morning or late at night is because I do not wish to see any one from

the Red Hall. I do not wish them to know that I am here."

"They do gossip in a small place like this most amazing," the girl said

slowly. "When you and the other lady came down from London to stay up

yonder, they did say that you were a great heiress, and that Mr. De la

Borne was counting on marrying you, and buying back all the lands that

have slipped away from the De la Bornes back to Burnham Market and

Wells township."

Jeanne shrugged her shoulders.

"I cannot help," she said, "what people say. Every one has spoken of me

always as being very rich, and a good many men have wanted to marry me

to spend my money. That is why I came down here, if you want to know,

Miss Caynsard. I came to escape from a man whom my stepmother was

determined that I should marry, and whom I hated."

The girl looked at her wonderingly.

"It is a strange manner of living," she said, "when a girl is not to

choose her own man."

"In any case," Jeanne said smiling, "if I had but one or two to choose

from in the world, I should never choose Mr. De la Borne."

The girl was gloomily silent. She was looking up towards the Red Hall,

her lips a little parted, her face dark, her brows lowering.

"'Tis a family," she said slowly, "that have come down well-nigh to

their last acre. They hold on to the Hall, but little else. Folk say

that for four hundred years or more the De la Bornes have heard the sea

thunder from within them walls. 'Tis, perhaps, as some writer has said

in a book I've found lately, that the old families of the country, when

once their menkind cease to be soldiers or fighters in the world, do

decay and become rotten. It is so with the De la Bornes, or rather with

one of them."

"Mr. Andrew," Jeanne remarked timidly.

"Mr. Andrew," the girl interrupted, "is a great gentleman, but he is

never one of those who would stop the rot in a decaying race. He is a

great strong man is Mr. Andrew, and deceit and littleness are things he

knows nothing of. I wish he were here to-day."

The girl's face wore a troubled expression. Jeanne began to suspect

that she had not as yet come to the real object of this interview.

"Why do you wish that Mr. Andrew were here?" Jeanne asked. "What could

he do for you that Mr. Cecil could not?"

A strange look filled the girl's eyes.

"I think," she said, "that I would not go to Mr. Cecil whatever might

betide, but there is a matter--"

She hesitated again. Jeanne looked at her thoughtfully.

"You have something on your mind, I think, Miss Caynsard," she said.

"Can I help you? Do you wish to tell me about it?"

The girl seemed to have made up her mind. She was standing quite close

to Jeanne now, and she spoke without hesitation.

"You remember the young lord," she said, "of whom there has been so

much in the papers lately? He was staying at the Red Hall when you

were, and is supposed to have left for London early one morning and

disappeared."

"Lord Ronald Engleton," Jeanne said. "Yes, I know all about that, of

course."

"Sometimes," Kate said slowly, "I have had strange thoughts about him.

Mr. Cecil and the other man, Major Forrest they call him, are still at

the Hall, and the servants say that they do little but drink and swear

at one another. I wonder sometimes why they are there, and why Mr.

Andrew stays away."

Jeanne leaned a little forward in her chair. Something in the other's

words had interested her.

"There is something," she said, "behind in your thoughts. What is it?"

The girl was silent for a moment.

"To-night," she said, "if you have the courage to come with me, I will

show you what I mean."

CHAPTER XIII

"I am afraid," Jeanne declared, "that I cannot go on. I have not the

eyes of a cat. I cannot see one step before me."

Her companion laughed softly as she turned round.

"I forgot," she said. "You are town bred. To us the darkness is

nothing. Do not be afraid. I know the way, every inch of it. Give me

your hand."

"But I cannot see at all," Jeanne declared. "How far is this place?"

"Less than a mile," Kate answered. "Trust to me. I will see that

nothing happens to you. Hold my hand tightly, like that. Now come."

Jeanne reluctantly trusted herself to her companion's guidance. They

made their way down the rough road which led from the home of the

Caynsards, half cottage, half farmhouse, to the lane at the bottom.

There was no moon, and though the wind was blowing hard, the sky seemed

everywhere covered with black clouds. When Kate opened the wooden gate

which led on to the marshes, Jeanne stopped short.

"I am not going any farther," she declared. "Even you, I am sure, could

not find your way on the marshes to-night. Didn't you hear what the

fisherman said, too, that it was a flood tide? Many of the paths are

under water. I will not go any farther, Kate. If there is anything you

have to tell me, say it now."

She felt a hand suddenly tighten upon her arm, a hand which was like a

vice.

"You must come with me," Kate said. "As to the other things, do not be

foolish. On these marshes I am like a cat in a dark room. I could feel

my way across every inch of them on the blackest night that ever was. I

know how high the tide is. I measured it but half an hour since by

Treadwell's pole. You come with me, miss. You'll not miss your way by a

foot. I promise you that."

Even then Jeanne was reluctant. They were on the top of the grass-grown

dyke now, and below she could dimly see the dark, swelling water

lapping against the gravel bottom.

"But you do not understand," she declared. "I do not even know where to

put my feet. I can see nothing, and the wind is enough to blow us over

the sides. Listen! Listen how it comes booming across the sand dunes.

It is not safe here. I tell you that I must go back."

Her companion only laughed a little wildly.

"There will be no going back to-night," she said. "You must come with

me. Set your feet down boldly. If you are afraid, take this."

She handed her a small electric torch.

"It's one of those new-fangled things for making light in the

darkness," she remarked. "It's no use to me, for if I could not see I

could feel. For us who live here, 'tis but an instinct to find our way,

in darkness or in light, across the land where we were born. But if you

are nervous, press the knob and you will see."

Jeanne took the torch with a little sigh of relief.

"Go on," she said. "I don't mind so much now I have this."

Nevertheless, as they moved along she found it sufficiently alarming.

The top of the bank was but a few feet wide. The west wind, which came

roaring down across the great open spaces, with nothing to check or

divide its strength, was sometimes strong enough to blow them off their

balance. On either side of the dyke was the water, black and silent.

Here and there the torch light showed them a fishing-smack or a

catboat, high and dry a few hours ago, now floating on the bosom of the

full tide. They came to a stile, and Jeanne's courage once more failed

her.

"I cannot climb over this," she said. "I shall fall directly I lift up

my feet."

Kate turned round with a little laugh of contempt. Jeanne felt herself

suddenly lifted in a pair of strong arms. Before she knew where she was

she was on the other side. Breathless she followed her guide, who came

to a full stop a few yards farther on.

"Turn on your light," Kate ordered. "Look down on the left. There

should be a punt there."

Jeanne turned on the torch. A great flat-bottomed boat, shapeless and

unwieldy, was just below. Kate stepped lightly down the steep bank, and

with one foot on the side of the punt, held out her hand to Jeanne.

"Come," she said. "Step carefully."

"But what are we going to do?" Jeanne asked. "You are not going in

that?"

"Why not?" Kate laughed. "It is a few strokes only. We are going to

cross to the ridges."

Jeanne followed her. Somehow or other she found it hard to disobey her

guide. None the less she was afraid. She stepped tremblingly down into

the punt, and sat upon the broad wet seat. Kate, without a moment's

hesitation, took up the great pole and began pushing her way across the

creek. The tide was almost at its height, but even then the current was

so strong that they went across almost sideways, and Jeanne heard her

companion's breath grow shorter and shorter, as with powerful strokes

she did her best to guide and propel the clumsy craft.

"We are going out toward the sea," Jeanne faltered. "It is getting

wider and wider."

She flashed her torch across the dark waters. They could not see the

bank which they had left or the ridges to which they were making.

"Don't be afraid," Kate answered. "After all, you know, we can only die

once, and life isn't worth making such a tremendous fuss over."

"I do not want to die," Jeanne objected, "and I do not like this at

all."

Kate laughed contemptuously.

"Sit still," she said, "and you are as safe as though you were in your

own armchair. No current that ever ran could upset this clumsy raft.

The only reason I am working so hard is that I do not want to be

carried down past the ridges. If we get too low down we shall have to

walk across the black mud."

Jeanne kept silence, listening only to the swirl of the water struck by

the pole, and to the quick breathing of her companion. Once she asked

whether she could not help.

"There is no need," Kate answered. "Shine your torch on the left. We

are nearly across."

Almost as she spoke they struck the sandy bottom. Jeanne fell into the

bottom of the boat. Kate, with a little laugh, sprang ashore and held

out her hand.

"Come," she said, "we have crossed the worst part now."

"Where are we going?" Jeanne asked, a little relieved as she felt her

feet land on the sodden turf.

"Towards the Hall," Kate answered. "Give me your hand, if you like, or

use your torch. The way is simple enough, but we must twist and turn

to-night. It has been a flood tide, and there are great pools left here

and there, pools that you have never seen before."

"But how do you know?" Jeanne asked, in amazement. "I can see nothing."

Her guide laughed contemptuously.

"I can see and I can feel," she said. "It is an instinct with me to

walk dry-footed here. To the right now--so."

"Stand still for a moment," Jeanne pleaded. "The wind takes my breath."

"You have too many clothes on," Kate said contemptuously. "One should

not wear skirts and petticoats and laces here."

"If you would leave my clothes alone and tell me where you are going,"

Jeanne declared, a little tartly, "it would be more reasonable."

The girl laughed. She thrust her arm through her companion's and drew

her on.

"Don't be angry," she said. "It is quite easy now to find our way.

There is room for us to walk like this. Can you hear what I say to you?"

"I can hear," Jeanne answered, raising her voice, "but it is getting

more difficult all the time. Is that the sea?"

"Yes!" Kate answered. "Can't you feel the spray on your cheeks? The

wind is blowing it high up above the beach. Let me go first again.

There is an inlet here. Be careful."

They came to a full stop before a dark arm of salt water. They skirted

the side and crossed round to the other side.

"Be careful, now," Kate said. "This way."

They turned inland. In a few minutes her guide stopped short.

"Turn on your torch," she said. "There ought to be a wall close here."

Jeanne did as she was bid, and gave a little stifled cry.

"Why, we are close to the Red Hall!" she said. Kate nodded.

"A little way farther up there is a gate," she said. "We are going in

there."

"You are not going to the house?" Jeanne asked, in terror.

"No," Kate answered, "I am not going there! Follow me, and don't talk

more than you can help. The wind is going down."

"But it is the middle of the night," Jeanne said. "No one will be

astir."

"One cannot tell," Kate answered slowly. "It is in my mind that there

have been strange doings here, and I know well that there is a man who

watches this place by day and by night. He has discovered nothing, but

it is because he has not known where to look."

"What do you mean?" Jeanne asked hoarsely.

"Wait!" her companion said.

They passed through the wooden gate. They were now in a little weedy

plantation of undersized trees. The ground was full of rabbit holes,

and Jeanne stumbled more than once.

"How much farther?" she asked. "We are getting toward the house."

"Not yet," Kate answered. "There are the gardens first, but we are not

going there. Wait a moment."

She felt for one of the trees, and passed her hand carefully round its

trunk. Then she took a few steps forward and stopped short.

"Wait!" she said.

She lay flat down upon the grass and was silent for several minutes.

Then she whispered to Jeanne.

"Don't turn on your torch," she said. "Lie down here by my side, put

your ear to the ground, and tell me whether you can hear anything."

Jeanne obeyed her breathlessly. At first she could hear nothing. Her

own heart was beating fast, and the boughs of the trees above them were

creaking and groaning in the wind. Presently, however, she gave a

little cry. From somewhere underground it seemed to her that she could

hear a faint hammering.

"What is it?" she asked.

Kate sat up.

"There is no animal," she said, "which makes a noise like that. It is

somewhere there underground. It seems to me that it is some one who is

trying to get out."

"Some one underground?" Jeanne repeated.

Kate leaned over and whispered in her ear.

"There is a passage underneath here," she said, "which goes from the

Hall to the cliffs, and a room, or rather a vault."

"I know," Jeanne declared suddenly. "Mr. De la Borne showed it to us.

It was the way the smugglers used to bring their goods up to the

cellars of the Red Hall."

"We are just above the room here," Kate said slowly, "and I fancy that

there is some one there."

A sudden light broke in upon Jeanne.

"You think that it is Lord Engleton!" she declared.

"Why not?" Kate answered. "Listen again, with your ear close to the

ground. Last night I was almost sure that I heard him call for help."

Jeanne did as she was told, and her face grew white as death.

Distinctly between the strokes she heard the sound of a man moaning!

CHAPTER XIV

Once more the two men sat over the remnants of their evening meal. This

time the deterioration in their own appearance seemed to have spread

itself to their surroundings. The table was ill-laid, there were no

flowers, an empty bottle of wine and several decanters remained where

they had been set. There was every indication that however little the

two might have eaten, they had been drinking heavily. Yet they were

both pale. Cecil's face even was ghastly, and the hand which played

nervously with the tablecloth shook all the time.

"Forrest," he said abruptly, "it is a mistake to clear out all the

servants like this. Not only have we had to eat a filthy dinner, but

it's enough to make people suspicious, eh? Don't you think so? Don't

you think afterwards that they may wonder why we did it?"

"No!" Forrest answered, with something that was almost like a snarl.

"No, I don't! Shut up, and don't be such an infernal young fool! We

couldn't have town servants spying and whispering about the place. I

caught that London butler of yours hanging around the library this

afternoon as though he were looking for something. They were a d--d

careless lot, anyhow, with no mistress or housekeeper to look after

them, and they're better gone. Who is there left exactly now?"

"There's a kitchen-maid, who cooked this wretched mess," Cecil

answered, "and another under her from the village, who seems half an

idiot. There is no one else except Pawles, a man who comes in from the

stables to do the rough work and pump the water up for the bath. We are

practically alone in the house."

"Thank Heaven it's our last night," Forrest answered.

"You really mean, then," Cecil asked, in a hoarse whisper, "to finish

this now?"

"I mean that we are going to," Forrest answered. "You know I'm half

afraid of you. Sometimes you're such a rotten coward. If ever I thought

you looked as though you were going back on me, I'd get even with you,

mind that."

"Don't talk like a fool!" Cecil answered. "What we do, we do together,

of course, only my nerves aren't strong, you know. I can't bear the

thought of the end of it."

"Whatever happens to him," Forrest said, "he's asking for it. He has an

easy chance to get back to his friends. It is brutal obstinacy if he

makes us end it differently. You're only a boy, but I've lived a good

many years, and I tell you that if you don't look out for yourself and

make yourself safe, there are always plenty of people, especially those

who call themselves your friends, who are ready and waiting to kick you

down into Hell. I am going to have something more to drink. Nothing

seems to make any difference to me to-night. I can't even get excited,

although we must have drunk a bottle of wine each. We'll have some

brandy. Here goes!"

He filled a wine-glass and passed the bottle to Cecil.

"You're about in the same state," he remarked, looking at him keenly.

"Why the devil is it that when one doesn't require it, wine will go to

the head too quickly, and when one wants to use it to borrow a little

courage and a little forgetfulness, the stuff goes down like water.

Drink, Cecil, a wine-glass of it. Drink it off, like this."

Forrest drained his wine-glass and set it down. Then he rose to his

feet. His cheeks were still colourless, but there was an added glitter

in his eyes.

"Come, young man," he said, "you have only to fancy that you are one of

your own ancestors. I fancy those dark-looking ruffians, who scowl down

on us from the walls there, would not have thought so much of flinging

an enemy into the sea. It is a wise man who wrote that

self-preservation was the first law of nature. Come, Cecil, remember

that. It is the first law of nature that we are obeying. Ring the bell

first, and see that there are no servants about the place."

Cecil obeyed, ringing the bell once or twice. No one came. They stepped

out into the hall. The emptiness of the house seemed almost apparent.

There was not a sound anywhere.

"The servants' wing is right over the stables, a long way off," Cecil

remarked. "They could never hear a bell there that rang from any of the

living-rooms."

Forrest nodded.

"So much the better," he said. "Come along to the library. I have

everything ready there."

They crossed the hall and entered the room to which Forrest pointed.

Their footsteps seemed to awake echoes upon the stone floor. The hall,

too, was all unlit save for the lamp which Forrest was carrying. Cecil

peered nervously about into the shadows.

"It's a ghostly house this of yours," Forrest said grumblingly, as they

closed the door behind them. "I shall be thankful to get back to my

rooms in town and walk down Piccadilly once more. What's that outside?"

"The wind," Cecil answered. "I thought it was going to be a rough

night."

The window had been left open at the top, and the roar of the wind

across the open places came into the room like muffled thunder. The

lamp which Forrest carried was blown out, and the two men were left in

darkness.

"Shut the window, for Heaven's sake, man!" Forrest ordered sharply.

"Here!"

He took an electric torch from his pocket, and both men drew a little

breath of relief as the light flashed out. Cecil climbed on to a chair

and closed the window. Forrest glanced at the clock.

"It's quite late enough," he said. "It should be high tide in a quarter

of an hour, and the sea in that little cove of yours is twenty feet

deep. Come along and work this door."

"Have you got everything?" Cecil asked nervously.

"I have the chloroform," Forrest answered, touching a small bottle in

his waistcoat pocket. "We don't need anything else. He hasn't the

strength of a rabbit, and you and I can carry him down the passage. If

he struggles there's no one to hear him."

Cecil pushed his way against the panels and opened the clumsy door.

They groped their way down the passage.

"Faugh!" Forrest exclaimed. "What smells! Cecil," he added, "I suppose

half the village know about this place, don't they?"

"They know that it has been here always," Cecil answered, "but they

most of them think that it is blocked up now. We did try to, Andrew and

I, but the masonry gave way. These lumps on the floor are the remains

of our work. Keep your torch down. You'll fall over them."

Forrest stopped short. Curiously enough, it was he now who seemed the

more terrified. The wind and the thunder of the sea together seemed to

reach them through the walls of earth in a strange monotonous roar,

sometimes shriller as the wind triumphed, sometimes deep and low so

that the very ground beneath their feet vibrated as the sea came

thundering up into the cove. Cecil, who was more used to such noises,

heard them unmoved.

"If my people had left me such a dog's hole as this," Forrest declared

viciously, "I'd have buried them in it and blown it up to the skies.

It's only fit for ghosts."

The very weakening of the other man seemed for the moment to give Cecil

added courage. He laughed hoarsely.

"There are worse things to fear," he muttered, "than this. Hold hard,

Forrest. Here is the door. I'll undo the padlock. You stand by in case

he makes a rush."

But there was no rush about Engleton. He was lying on his back,

stretched on a rough mattress at the farther end of the room, moaning

slightly. The two men exchanged quick glances.

"We are not going to have much trouble," Forrest muttered. "What a

beastly atmosphere! No wonder he's knocked up."

Cecil, however, looked about suspiciously.

"Don't you notice," he whispered, "that we can hear the wind much

plainer here than in the passage? I believe I can feel a current of

fresh air, too. I wonder if he's been trying to cut his way through to

the air-hole. It's only a few feet up."

He flashed his light upon the wall near where Engleton was lying. Then

he turned significantly to Forrest.

"See," he said, "he has cut steps in the wall and tried to make an

opening above. He must have guessed where the ventilating pipe was. I

wonder what he did it with."

They crossed the room. The man on the couch opened his eyes and looked

at them dully.

"So you've been improving the shining hour, eh?" Forrest remarked,

pointing to the rough steps. "We shall have to find what you did it

with. Hidden under the mattress, I suppose."

He stooped down, and Engleton flew at his throat with all the fury of a

wild cat. Forrest was taken aback for a moment, but the effort was only

a brief one. Engleton's strength seemed to pass away even before he had

concluded his attack. He sank back and collapsed upon the floor at a

touch.

"You brutes!" he muttered.

Cecil lifted the mattress. There was a large flat stone, sharp-edged

and coated with mud, lying underneath.

"I thought so," he whispered. "Jove, he's gone a long way with it,

too!" he muttered, looking upward. "Another foot or so and he would

have been outside. I wonder the place didn't collapse."

Engleton dragged himself a little way back. He remained upon the floor,

but there was support for his back now against the wall.

"Well," he said, "what is it this evening?"

"The end," Forrest answered shortly.

Engleton did not flinch. Of the three men, although his physical

condition was the worst, he seemed the most at his ease.

"The end," he remarked. "Well, I don't believe it. I don't believe you

have either of you the pluck to go through life with the fear of the

rope round your neck every minute. But if I am indeed a condemned man.

I ought to have my privileges. Give me a cigarette, one of you, for

God's sake."

Forrest took out his gold case and threw him a couple of cigarettes.

Then he struck a match and passed it over.

"Smoke, by all means," he said. "Listen! In five minutes we are going

to throw you from the seaward end of this place, down into the cove or

creek, or whatever they call it. It is high tide, and the sea there is

twenty feet deep. As for swimming, you evidently haven't the strength

of a cat, and there is no breathing man could swim against the current

far enough to reach any place where he could climb out. But to avoid

even that risk, we are going to give you a little chloroform first. It

will make things easier for you, and we shall not be distressed by your

shrieks."

"An amiable programme," Engleton muttered. "I am quite ready for it."

"Then I don't think we need waste words," Forrest said slowly. "You

have made up your mind, I suppose, that you do not care about life.

Remember that it is not we who are your executioners. You have an easy

choice."

"If you mean," Engleton said, "will I purchase my liberty by letting

you two blackguards off free, for this and for your dirty

card-sharping, I say no! I will take my chances of life to the last

second. Afterwards I shall know that I am revenged. Men don't go

happily through life with the little black devil sitting on their

shoulders."

"We'll take our risk," Forrest said thickly. "You have chosen, then?

This is your last chance."

"Absolutely!" Engleton answered.

Forrest took out the phial from his pocket and held his handkerchief on

the palm of his hand.

"Open the door, will you, Cecil," he said, "so that we can carry him

out."

Cecil opened it, and came slowly back to where Forrest was counting the

drops which fell from the bottle on to his handkerchief. Then he

suddenly came to a standstill. Forrest, too, paused in his task and

looked up. He gave a nervous start, and the bottle fell from his

fingers.

"What in God's name was that?" he asked.

It came to them faintly down the long passage, but it was nevertheless

alarming enough. The hoarse clanging of a bell, pulled by impetuous

fingers. Cecil and Forrest stared at one another for a moment with

dilated eyes.

"Can't you speak, you d----d young fool?" Forrest asked. "What bell is

that?"

"It is the front-door bell of the Red Hall," Cecil answered, in a voice

which he scarcely recognized as his own. "There it goes again."

They stood perfectly silent and listened to it, listened until its

echoes died away.

CHAPTER XV

For the fourth time the bell rang. The two men had now retraced their

steps. Cecil, who had been standing in the hall within a few feet of

the closed door, started away as though he had received some sort of

shock. Forrest, who was lurking back in the shadows, cursed him for a

timid fool.

"Open the door, man," he whispered. "Don't stand fumbling there.

Remember you are angry at being disturbed. Send them away, whoever they

are. Look sharp! They are going to ring again. Can't you hear that

beastly bell-wire quivering?"

Cecil set his teeth, turned the huge key, and pulled back the heavy

door. He gave a little gasp of astonishment. It was a woman who stood

there. He held out his electric torch and stepped back with a sharp

exclamation.

"Kate!" he cried. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour? What

do you mean by ringing the bell like that?"

The girl stepped into the hall.

"Close the door," she said. "The wind will blow the pictures off the

walls, and I can scarcely hear you speak."

Cecil obeyed at once.

"Light a lamp," she said. "It is not fair that you should have all the

light. I want to see your face too."

"But Kate," Cecil interrupted, "why did you come like this? Why did you

not--"

She interrupted.

"Never mind," she answered sternly. "Perhaps I did not come to see you

at all. Light the lamp. There is something I have to say to you."

Forrest stepped forward from the obscurity and struck a match. The girl

showed no signs of fear at his coming. As the lamp grew brighter she

looked at him steadfastly.

"So this is the reason we are waked up in the middle of the night,"

Forrest remarked, with a smile which somehow or other seemed to lose

its suggestiveness. "A little affair of this sort, eh, Mr. Cecil? Why

don't you teach the young lady a simpler way of summoning you than by

that infernal bell?"

Still Kate did not reply. She was standing with her back to the oak

table in the centre of the hall, and the men, who were both watching

her covertly, were conscious of a certain significance in her attitude.

Her black hair was tossed all over her face; from its tangled web her

eyes seemed to gleam with a steady inimical gaze. Her dress of dark red

stuff was splashed in places with the salt water, and her feet were

soaking. With her left hand she clasped the table; her right seemed

hidden in the folds of her skirt.

"What do you want, Kate?" Cecil asked at last. "What do you mean by

coming here like this? If you want to see me you know how, without

arousing the whole household at this time of night."

"You are not fool enough," Kate said calmly, "to imagine that I came

to-night to listen to your lies. I came to know whom it is that you are

keeping hidden away in the smugglers' room."

Neither man answered. They looked at one another, and Cecil's face grew

once more as pale as death.

"What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "What rubbish is this you are

talking, Kate?" he added, in a sharper tone. "There is no one there

that I know of."

"You lie," she answered calmly. "You lie, as you always do whenever it

answers your purpose. Only an hour ago I lay upon the turf in the

plantation there, and I heard a man moaning down in the store-room. Now

tell me the truth, Cecil de la Borne. I do not wish to bring any harm

upon you, although God knows you deserve it, but if you do not bring me

the man whom you have down there, and set him free before my eyes at

once, I'll bring half the village up to the mound there and dig him

out."

Forrest stepped forward. His manner was suave and his tone was smooth,

but there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes.

"This is rather absurd, Cecil," he said. "I do not know whom this young

lady is, but I feel sure that she will listen to reason. There is no

one down in the smugglers' store-room. If she heard anything, it was

probably the rabbits."

"Lies!" Kate answered calmly. "You are another of the breed; I can see

it in your face. I would not trust the word of either of you."

Forrest shrugged his shoulders. He glanced towards Cecil with a slight

uplifting of the eyebrows.

"Your friend, my dear Cecil," he remarked, "is like most of her sex, a

trifle unreasonable. However, since she says that she will believe no

evidence save the evidence of her eyes, show her the smugglers' room.

It would be a quaint excursion to take at this time of night, but I

will go with you for the sake of the proprieties," he added, with a

little laugh.

Cecil looked at him for a moment steadily, and then turned away. There

was fear now upon his face, a new fear. What was this thing which

Forrest could propose?

"She can come if she insists," he said slowly, "but the place has not

been opened for a long time. The air is bad. It really is not fit for

any human being."

The girl faced them both without shrinking.

"Perhaps you think that I should be afraid," she answered. "Perhaps you

think that when I am there it would be very easy to dispose of me, so

that I shall ask no more inconvenient questions. Never mind. I am not

afraid. I will go with you."

Cecil shrugged his shoulders as he led the way across the hall.

"There is nothing to fear," he said, "except the bad air and the ghosts

of smugglers, if you are superstitious enough to fear them. Only, when

you are perfectly satisfied, and you are convinced that your errand

here has been fruitless, perhaps I may have something to say."

The girl's lips parted. Curiously enough there was a note almost of

real merriment in the laugh which followed.

"I am not very brave, my dear Cecil," she said, "but I am not afraid of

you. I think that one does not fear the things that one understands too

well, and you I do understand too well, much too well."

They reached the empty gun-room. Cecil threw open the hidden door.

"Will you go first or last?" he said to the girl. "Choose your own

place."

The girl laughed.

"The door seemed to open easily," she remarked, "considering that it

has not been used for so long."

"Never mind about that," Cecil said sharply. "Are you coming with us?"

"I am coming," Kate answered composedly, "and I will walk last."

"As you please," Cecil answered. "Come, Forrest, you may as well see

this thing through with me."

As they stumbled along the narrow way, Cecil whispered in Forrest's ear.

"What are we going to do with her?"

"God knows!" Forrest answered. "Do you suppose that any one knows where

she is? Who is she?"

"One of the village girls," Cecil answered, "an old sweetheart of mine.

They are strange people, and have few friends. I doubt whether any one

knows that she is out to-night."

Forrest passed on.

"If we are going to put our necks into the halter," he muttered, "a

little extra trouble won't hurt us."

They paused before the door. The girl was looking at the padlock.

"A new padlock, I see," she remarked. "Listen!"

They all listened, and now there was no doubt about it. From inside the

room they could hear the sound of a man, half singing, half moaning.

"Are those rabbits?" the girl asked, leaning forward, so that her eyes

seemed to gleam like live coal through the darkness. "Cecil, you are

being made a fool of by this man. I don't wish you any harm. Do the

right thing now, and I'll stick by you. Let this man free, whoever he

is. Don't listen to what he tells you," she added, pointing toward

Forrest.

Cecil hesitated. Forrest, who was watching him closely, could not tell

whether that hesitation was genuine or only a feint.

"It was only a joke, this, Kate," he muttered. "It was a joke which we

have carried a little too far. Yes, you shall help me if you will. I

have had enough of it. Go inside and see for yourself who is there."

Cecil threw open the door and Kate stepped boldly inside. Forrest

entered last and remained near the threshold. Engleton started to his

feet when he saw a third person.

"We have brought you a visitor," Forrest cried out. "You have

complained of being lonely. You will not be lonely any longer."

Kate turned toward him.

"What do you mean?" she said. "We are going to leave here together,

that man and myself, within the next few minutes."

"You lie!" Forrest answered fiercely. "You have thrust yourself into a

matter which does not concern you, and you are going to take the

consequences."

"And what might they be?" Kate asked slowly.

"They rest with him," Forrest answered, pointing toward Engleton.

"There is a man there who was our friend until a few days ago. He dared

to accuse us of cheating at cards, and if we let him go he will ruin us

both. We are doing what any reasonable men must do. We are seeking to

preserve ourselves. We have kept him here a prisoner, but he could have

gained his freedom on any day by simply promising to hold his peace. He

has declined, and the time has come when we can leave him no more.

To-night, if he is obstinate, we are going to throw him into the sea."

"And what about me?" Kate asked.

"You are going with him," Forrest answered. "If he is obstinate fool

enough to chuck your life away and his, he must do it. Only he had

better remember this," he added, looking across at Engleton, "it will

mean two lives now, and not one."

Engleton rose to his feet slowly.

"Who is she?" he asked, pointing to the girl.

"I am Kate Caynsard, one of the village people here," she answered. "I

heard you working to-night from outside. You heard me shout back?"

He nodded.

"Yes!" he said. "I know."

"I will tell the truth," the girl continued. "I was fool enough once to

come here to meet that man"--she pointed to De la Borne--"that is all

over. But one night I was restless, and I came wandering through the

plantation here. It was then I saw from the other end that the place

had been altered, and it struck me to listen there where the air-shaft

is. I heard voices, and the next day they were all talking about the

disappearance of Lord Ronald Engleton. You, I suppose," she added, "are

Lord Ronald."

"I believe I was," he answered, with a little catch in his throat. "God

knows who I am now! I give it up, De la Borne. If you are going to send

the girl after me, I give it up. I'll sign anything you like. Only let

me out of the d--d place!"

A flash of triumph lit up Forrest's face, but it lasted only for a

second. Kate had suddenly turned upon them, and was standing with her

back to the wall. The hand which had been hidden in the folds of her

dress so long, was suddenly outstretched. There was a roar which rang

through the place like the rattle of artillery, the smell of gunpowder,

and a little cloud of smoke. Through it they could see her face; her

lips parted in a smile, the wild disorder of her hair, her sea-stained

gown, her splendid pose, all seemed to make her the central figure of

the little tableau.

"I have five more barrels," she said. "I fired that one to let you know

that I was in earnest. Now if you do not let us go free, and without

conditions, it will be you who will stay here instead of us, only you

will stay here for ever!"

CHAPTER XVI

The smoke cleared slowly away. Engleton had risen to his feet, the

light of a new hope blazing in his eyes. Forrest and Cecil de la Borne

stood close together near the door, which still stood ajar. The girl,

who stood with her back to the wall, saw their involuntary movement

towards it, and her voice rang out sharp and clear.

"If you try it on I shoot!" she exclaimed. "You know what that means,

Cecil. A pistol isn't a plaything with me."

Cecil looked no more toward the door. He came instead a little farther

into the room.

"My dear Kate," he said, "we are willing to admit, Forrest and I, that

we are beaten. You can do exactly what you like with us except leave us

here. Our little joke with Engleton is at an end. Perhaps we carried it

too far. If so, we must face the penalty. Take him away if you like.

Personally I do not find this place attractive."

Kate lowered her revolver and turned to Engleton.

"Come over to my side," she said. "We are going to leave this place."

Engleton staggered towards her. He had always been thin, but he seemed

to have lost more flesh in the last few days.

"For God's sake let's get out!" he said. "If I don't breathe some fresh

air soon, it will be the end of me."

"In any order you please," Cecil de la Borne said smiling. "The only

condition I make is that before you leave the place altogether, Kate, I

have a few minutes' conversation with you. You can hold your pistol to

my temple, if you like, while I talk, but there are a few things I must

say."

"Afterwards, then," she answered. "We are going first out of the place.

We shall turn seawards and wait for you. When you have come out, you

will hand us your electric torches and go on in front."

"You are quite a strategist," Forrest remarked grimly. "Do as she says,

Cecil. The sooner we are out of this, the better."

Kate passed her hand through Engleton's arm.

"Come along," she said. "Lean on me if you are not feeling well. Do not

be afraid. They will not dare to touch us."

Engleton laughed weakly, but with the remains of the contempt with

which he had always treated his jailers.

"Afraid of them!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "I fancy the boot has

been on the other leg. Who you are, my dear young lady, I do not know,

but upon my word you are the most welcome companion a man ever had."

The pair moved toward the doorway. Neither Forrest nor Cecil de la

Borne made any effort to prevent their passing out. Kate turned a

little to the right, and then stood with the revolver clasped in her

hand.

"Please come out now," she said. "You will give your electric torch to

him."

She indicated Engleton, who stretched out his hand. Cecil and Forrest

obeyed her command to the letter. Engleton held the torch, and they all

four made their way along the noisome passage. Forrest turned his head

once cautiously toward his companion's, but Cecil shook his head.

"Wait," he whispered softly.

The thunder of the sea grew less and less distinct. Before them shone a

faint glimmer of light. Soon they reached the three steps which led up

into the gun-room. Cecil and Forrest climbed up. Kate and Engleton

followed. Cecil carefully closed the door behind them.

"You see," he remarked, "we are reconciled to our defeat. Let us sit

down for a moment and talk."

"Open the window and give me some brandy," Engleton said.

Kate felt him suddenly grow heavy upon her arm.

"Bring a chair quick," she ordered. "He is going to faint."

She bent over him, alarmed at the sudden change in his face. Her

attention for one moment was relaxed. Then she felt her wrist seized in

a grip of iron. The revolver, which she was still holding, fell to the

ground, and Cecil calmly picked it up and thrust it into his pocket.

"You have played the game very well, Kate," he said. "Now I think it is

our turn."

She looked at him indignantly, but without any trace of fear.

"You brute!" she exclaimed. "Can't you see that he has fainted? Do you

want him to die here?"

"Not in the least," Cecil answered. "Here, Forrest, you take care of

this," he added, passing the revolver over to him. "I'll look after

Engleton."

He led him to an easy-chair close to the window. He opened it a few

inches, and a current of strong fresh air came sweeping in. Then he

poured some brandy into a glass and gave it to Kate.

"Let him sip this," he said. "Keep his head back. That's right. We will

call a truce for a few moments. I am going to talk with my friend."

He turned away, and Kate, with a sudden movement, sprang toward the

fireplace and pulled the bell. Cecil looked around and smiled

contemptuously.

"It is well thought of," he remarked, "but unfortunately there is not a

servant in the house. Go on ringing it, if you like. All that it can

awake are the echoes."

Kate dropped the rope and turned back towards Engleton. The colour was

coming slowly back to his cheeks. With an effort he kept from

altogether losing consciousness.

"I am not going to faint," he said in a low tone. "I will not. Tell me,

they have the pistol?"

"Yes," Kate answered, "but don't be afraid. I am not going back there

again, nor shall they take you."

He pressed her hand.

"You are a plucky girl," he muttered. "Stick to me now and I'll never

forget it. I've held out so long that I'm d--d if I let them off their

punishment now."

Cecil came slowly across the room.

"Feeling better, Engleton?" he asked.

Engleton turned his head.

"Yes," he answered, "I am well enough. What of it?"

"We'd better have an understanding," Cecil said.

"Have it, then, and be d----d to you!" Engleton answered. "You won't

get me alive down into that place again. If you are going to try, try."

"Come," Cecil said, "there is no need to talk like that. Why not pass

your word to treat this little matter as a joke? It's the simplest way.

Go up to your room, change your clothes and shave, have a drink with

us, and take the morning train to town. It's not worth while risking

your life for the sake of a little bit of revenge on us for having gone

too far. I admit that we were wrong in keeping you here. You terrified

us. Forrest has more enemies than friends and I am unknown in London.

If you went to the club with your story, people would believe it. We

shouldn't have a chance. That is why we were afraid to let you go back.

Forget the last few days and cry quits."

"I'll see you d----d first," Engleton answered.

Cecil's face changed a little.

"Well," he said, "I have made you a fair offer. If you refuse, I shall

leave it to my friend Forrest to deal with you. You may not find him so

easy, as I have been."

Kate stepped for a moment forward, and laid her hand on Cecil's

shoulder.

"Mr. De la Borne," she said, "we don't want to have anything to say to

your friend. We trust him less than you. Open the door and let us out."

"Where are you going to?" Cecil asked. "Engleton is not fit to walk

anywhere."

"I am going to take him back home with me," Kate answered. "Oh, I can

get him there all right. I am not afraid of that. He will have plenty

of strength to walk away from this place."

"It is impossible, my dear Kate," Cecil answered. "Take my advice.

Leave him to us. We will deal with him reasonably enough. Kate, listen."

He passed his arm through hers and drew her a little on one side.

"Kate," he said, "I'm afraid I haven't behaved exactly well to you. I

got up in London amongst a lot of people who seemed to look at things

so differently, and there were distractions, and I'm afraid that I

forgot some of my promises. But I have never forgotten you. Why do you

take the part of that miserable creature over there? He is just a young

simpleton, who, because he was half drunk, dared to accuse us of

cheating. We were obliged to keep him shut up until he took it back.

Leave him to us. He shall come to no harm. I give you my word, and I

will never forget it."

Kate looked at him a little curiously.

"Will you keep your promise?" she asked curiously.

Cecil hesitated, but only for a minute.

"Yes," he said, "I will even do that."

She withdrew her arm firmly, but without haste.

"Is that all you have to say?" she asked.

"I offer you my promise," he answered. "Isn't that worth something?"

"Something," she answered, "not much. I want no more to do with you,

Mr. Cecil de la Borne. Don't think you can make terms with me for you

can't. I only hope that you get punished for what you have done."

Cecil raised his hand as though about to strike her.

"You little cat!" he exclaimed. "We'll see the thing through, then. You

are prisoners here just as much as though you were in the vault."

Forrest, who had spoken very little, came suddenly forward.

"We have talked too much," he said, "and wasted too much time. Let us

have the issue before us in black and white. Engleton, are you well

enough to understand what I say?"

"Perfectly," Engleton answered. "Go on."

"Will you sign a retraction of your charges against us, and pledge your

word of honour never to repeat them, or to make any complaint, formal

or otherwise, as to your detention here."

"I'm d----d if I will!" Engleton answered.

"Consider what your refusal means first," Forrest said. "Open the

passage door, Cecil."

Cecil pushed it back, and a little breath of the noxious odour stole

into the room.

"You either make us that promise, Engleton," he said, "or as sure as

I'm standing here, we'll drag you both down that passage, right to the

end, and throw you into the sea."

"And hang for it afterwards," Engleton said, with a sneer.

"Not we," Forrest declared. "The currents down there are strange ones,

and it would be many weeks before your bodies were recovered. Your

character in London is pretty well known, and Kate here has been seen

often enough on her way up to the Hall. People will soon put two and

two together. There are a dozen places in the Spinney where one could

slip off into the sea. Besides we shall have a little evidence to

offer. Oh, there is nothing for us to fear, I can assure you. Now then.

I can see it's no use arguing with you any longer."

"One moment," Kate said. "What about the young lady I left outside?"

Cecil turned upon her swiftly.

"Don't tell lies, Kate," he said. "It's a poor sort of tale that."

"At any rate it's no lie," Kate answered. "When I came to your front

door, I left the young lady who was staying here only a few weeks ago,

Miss Le Mesurier you called her, sitting in the barn waiting."

Cecil laughed scornfully.

"Did she drop from the clouds?" he asked.

"She has been staying at the farm," Kate answered, "for days. I brought

her with me to-night because I thought that she might know something

about Lord Ronald's disappearance. She is there waiting. If I do not

return by daylight, she will go to the police."

"I think," Forrest remarked ironically, "that we will risk the young

lady outside. Your story, my dear, is ingenious, but scarcely

plausible. If you are ready, Cecil--"

The four of them were suddenly stupefied into a dead silence. Their

eyes were riveted upon the door which led to the underground passage.

Cecil's face was almost grotesque with the terrible writing of fear.

Distinctly they could all hear footsteps stumbling along the uneven

way. Forrest was first to recover the power of speech. He called out to

Cecil from the other end of the room.

"Shut the door! Shut it, I say!"

Cecil took a quick step forward. Before he could reach the door,

however, the girl had thrown her arms round his waist.

"You shall not close it," she cried.

"Who is it coming?" Cecil cried panting.

"God knows!" she answered. "They say the ghosts walk here."

He strove to loosen himself from her grasp, but he was powerless.

Nevertheless he got a little nearer to the door. Forrest came swiftly

across the room. Engleton struck at him with a chair, but the blow was

harmless.

"Stand aside, Cecil," Forrest said. "I'll close it."

"I'm hanged if you will," was the sudden reply.

Andrew de la Borne stepped out of the darkness and stood upright,

blinking and looking around in amazement.

CHAPTER XVII

Jeanne was sitting in the garden of the Caynsard farm. The excitement

of the last twenty-four hours had left her languid. For once she lay

and watched with idle, almost with indifferent eyes, the great stretch

of marshes riven with the incoming sea. She saw the fishing boats that

a few hours ago were dead inert things upon a bed of mud, come gliding

up the tortuous water-ways. On the horizon was the sea bank, with its

long line of poles, and the wires connecting the coastguard stations.

They stood like silent sentinels, clean and distinct against the empty

background. Jeanne sighed as she watched, and the thoughts came

crowding into her head. It was a restful country this, a country of

timeworn, mouldering grey churches, and of immemorial landmarks, a

country where everything seemed fixed and restful, everything except

the sea. A wave of self pity swept over her. After all she had lived a

very little time to know so much unhappiness. Worse than all, this

morning she was filled with apprehensions. She feared something. She

scarcely knew what, or from what direction it might come. The song of

the larks brought her no comfort. The familiar and beautiful places

upon which she looked pleased her no more. She was glad when Kate

Caynsard came out of the house and moved slowly towards her.

Kate, too, showed some of the signs of the recent excitement. There

were black lines under her wonderful eyes, and she walked hesitatingly,

without any of the firm splendid grace which made her movements a

delight to watch. Jeanne was afraid at first that she was going to turn

away, and called to her.

"Kate," she exclaimed, "I want you. Come here and talk to me."

Kate threw herself on to the ground by Jeanne's side.

"All the talking in the world," she murmured, "will not change the

things that happened last night. They will not even smooth away the

evil memories."

Jeanne was silent. There was a thought in her head which had been there

twisting and biting its way in her brain through the silent hours of

the night and again in her waking moments. She looked down towards her

companion stretched at her feet.

"Kate," she said, "how did Mr. Andrew get the message that brought him

to the Red Hall last night?"

"I sent it," Kate answered. "I sent him word that there were things

going on at the Red Hall which I could not understand. I told him that

I thought it would be well if he came."

"You knew his address?" Jeanne asked, a little coldly.

"Yes!" Kate answered.

"You have written him before, perhaps?" Jeanne asked.

"Yes!" the girl answered absently.

There was a short silence. Each of the two seemed occupied in her own

thoughts. When Jeanne spoke again her manner was changed. The other

girl noticed it, without being conscious of the reason.

"What has happened this morning, do you know?" Jeanne asked.

"They are all at the Red Hall still," Kate answered. "Major Forrest

tried to leave this morning, but Mr. Andrew would not let him. He will

not let either of them go away until Lord Ronald is well enough to say

what shall be done."

"I wonder," Jeanne said, "what would have happened if Mr. Andrew had

not arrived last night."

"God knows!" Kate answered. "He is a wily brute, the man Forrest. How

was it that you," she added, "found Mr. Andrew?"

"I waited on the mound in the plantation," Jeanne said, "with my ear to

the ground, and presently I heard a pistol shot and then a scuffle, and

afterwards silence. I was frightened, and I made my way to the road and

hurried along toward the village. Then I saw a cart and I stopped it,

and inside was Mr. Andrew, on his way from Wells. I told him something

of what was happening, and he put me in the cart and sent me back. Then

he went on to the Red Hall."

Kate nodded slowly.

"I am glad that I sent for him," she said. "I am afraid that last night

there would have been bloodshed if he had not come. When he was there

there was not one who dared speak or move any more, except as he

directed. He is very strong, and he was made, I think, to command men."

Jeanne's lips quivered for a moment. Her eyes were fixed upon the

distant figure, motionless now, upon the raised sandbanks. Kate had

turned her head toward the Red Hall, and was looking at one of the

windows there as though her eyes would pierce the distance.

"Tell me," Jeanne asked. "I have seen you once with Mr. De la Borne. He

is a great friend of yours?"

"He was," the girl at her feet whispered.

Jeanne found herself shaking. She stooped down.

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

Kate looked up from the ground. She raised herself a little. For a

moment her eyes flashed.

"I mean," she said, "that before you came he was more than a friend. It

was you who drove his thoughts of me away. You with your great fortune,

and your childish, foreign ways. Oh, I talk like a fool, I know!" she

said, springing up, "but I am not a fool. I do not hate you. I have

never tried to do you any harm. It is not your fault. It is what one

calls fate. Once," she cried, "we Caynsards lived along the coast there

in a house greater than the Red Hall, and our lands were richer.

Generation after generation of us have been pushed by fortune downwards

and downwards. The men lose lands and money, and the women disgrace

themselves, or creep into some corner to die with a broken heart. I

talk to you as one of the villagers here. I know very well that I speak

the dialect of the peasants, and that my words are ill-chosen. How can

I help it? We are all paupers, every one of us. That is why sometimes I

feel that I cannot breathe. That is why I do mad things, and people

believe that I am indeed out of my mind."

She sprang to her feet. Jeanne tried to detain her.

"Let me talk to you for a little time, Kate," she begged. "You are none

of the things you fancy, and I am very sure that Mr. De la Borne does

not care for me, or for my fortune. Stay just for a minute."

But Kate was already gone. Jeanne could see her speeding down to the

harbour, and a few minutes later gliding down the creek in her little

catboat.

The Count de Brensault was angry, and he had not sufficient dignity to

hide it. The Princess, in whose boudoir he was, regarded him from her

sofa as one might look at some strange animal.

"My dear Count," she said, "it is not reasonable that you should be

angry with me. Is it my fault that I am plagued with a stepdaughter of

so extraordinary a temperament? She will return directly, or we shall

find her. I am sure of it. The wedding can be arranged then as speedily

as you wish. I give her to you. I consent to your marriage. What could

woman do more?"

"That is all very well," the Count said, "all very well indeed, but I

do not understand how it is that a young lady could disappear from her

home like this, and that her guardian should know nothing about it.

Where could she have gone to? You say that she had very little money.

Why should she go? Who was unkind to her?"

"All that I did," the Princess answered, "was to tell her that she must

marry you."

The Count twirled his moustache.

"Is it likely," he demanded, "that that should drive her away from her

home? The idea of marriage, it may terrify these young misses at the

first thought, but in their hearts they are very, very glad. Ah!" he

added softly, "I have had some experience. I am not a boy."

The Princess looked at him. Whatever her thoughts may have been, her

face remained inscrutable.

"No!" the Count continued, drawing his chair a little nearer to the

Princess' couch, and leaning towards her, "I do not believe that it was

the fear of marriage which drove little Jeanne to disappear."

"Then what do you believe, my dear Count?" the Princess asked.

His eyes seemed to narrow.

"Perhaps," he said significantly, "you may have thought that with her

great fortune, and seeing me a little foolish for her, that you had not

driven quite a good enough bargain, eh?"

"You insulting beast!" the Princess remarked.

The Count grinned. He was in no way annoyed.

"Ah!" he said. "I am a man whom it is not easy to deceive. I have seen

very much of the world, and I know the ways of women. A woman who wants

money, my dear Princess, is very, very clever, and not too honest."

"Your experiences, Count," the Princess said, "may be interesting, but

I do not see how they concern me."

"But they might concern you," the Count said, "if I were to speak

plainly; if, for instance, I were to double that little amount we spoke

of."

"Do you mean to insinuate," the Princess remarked, "that I know where

Jeanne is now? That it is I who have put her out of the way for a

little time, in order to make a better bargain with you?"

The Count bowed his head.

"A very clever scheme," he declared, "a very clever scheme indeed."

The Princess drew a little breath. Then she looked at the Count and

suddenly laughed. After all, it was not worth while to be angry with

such a creature. Besides, if Jeanne should turn up, she might as well

have the extra money.

"You give me credit, I fear," she said, "for being a cleverer woman

than I am, but as a matter of curiosity, supposing I am able to hand

you over Jeanne very shortly, would you agree to double the little

amount we have spoken of?"

"I will double it," the Count declared solemnly. "You see when I wish

for a thing I am generous. I can only hope," he added, with a peculiar

smile, "Miss Jeanne may soon make her reappearance." There was a knock

at the door. The Princess looked up, frowning. Her maid put her head

cautiously in.

"I am sorry to disturb you, madam, against your orders," she said, "but

Miss Jeanne has just arrived."

CHAPTER XVIII

The Count opened his mouth. It was his way of expressing supreme

astonishment. The Princess sat bolt upright on her couch and gazed at

Jeanne with wide-open and dilated eyes. Curiously enough it was the

Count who first recovered himself.

"Is it a game, this?" he asked softly. "You press the button and the

little girl appears. That means that I increase the stakes and the

prize pops up."

The Princess rose to her feet. She crossed the room to meet Jeanne with

outstretched arms.

"Shut up, you fool!" she said to the Count in passing. "Jeanne my

child," she added, "is it really you?"

Jeanne accepted the proffered embrace, without enthusiasm. She

recognized the Count, however, with a little wave of colour.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I have come back. I am sorry I went away. It

was a mistake, a great mistake."

"You have driven us nearly wild with anxiety," the Princess declared.

"Where have you been to?"

"Yes!" the Count echoed, fixing his eyes upon her, "where have you been

to?"

Jeanne behaved with a composure which astonished them both. She calmly

unbuttoned her gloves and seated herself in the easy-chair.

"I have been to Salthouse," she said.

"What! back to the Red Hall?" the Princess exclaimed.

Jeanne shook her head.

"No!" she said, "I have been in rooms at a farmhouse there, Caynsard's

farm. I went away because I did not like the life here, and because my

stepmother," she continued, turning toward the Count, "seemed

determined that I should marry you. I thought that I would go away into

the country, somewhere where I could think quietly. I went to Salthouse

because it was the only place I knew."

"You are the maddest child!" the Princess exclaimed.

Jeanne smiled, a little wearily.

"If I have been mad," she said, "I have come to my senses again."

The Count leaned toward her eagerly.

"I trust," he said, "that that means that you are ready now to obey

your stepmother, and to make me very, very happy."

Jeanne looked at him deliberately.

"It depends," she said, "upon circumstances."

"Tell me what they are quickly," the Count declared. "I am impatient. I

cannot bear that you keep me waiting. Let me know of my happiness."

The Princess was suddenly uneasy. There was one weak point in her

schemes, a weakness of her own creating. Ever since she had told Jeanne

the truth about her lack of fortune, she had felt that it was a

mistake. Suppose she should be idiot enough to give the thing away! The

Princess felt her heart beat fast at the mere supposition. There was

something about Jeanne's delicate oval face, her straight mouth and

level eyebrows, which somehow suggested that gift which to the Princess

was so incomprehensible in her sex, the gift of honesty. Suppose Jeanne

were to tell the Count the truth!

"First of all, then," Jeanne said, "I must ask you whether my

stepmother has told the truth about myself and my fortune."

The Princess knew then that the game was up. She sank back upon the

sofa, and at that moment she would have declared that there was nothing

in the world more terrible than an ungrateful and inconsiderate child.

"The truth?" the Count remarked, a little puzzled. "I know only what

the world knows, that you are the daughter of Carl le Mesurier, and

that he left you the residue of one of the greatest fortunes in Europe."

Jeanne drew a letter from her pocket.

"The Princess," she remarked, "must have forgotten to tell you. This

great fortune that all the world has spoken of, and that seems to have

made me so famous, has been all the time something of a myth. It has

existed only in the imaginations of my kind friends. A few days ago my

stepmother here told me of this. I wrote at once to Monsieur Laplanche,

my trustee. She would not let me send the letter. When I was at

Salthouse, however, I wrote again, and this time I had a reply. It is

here. There is a statement," she continued, "which covers many pages,

and which shows exactly how my father's fortune was exaggerated, how

securities have dwindled, and how my stepmother's insisting upon a very

large allowance during my school-days, has eaten up so much of the

residue. There is left to me, it appears, a sum of fourteen thousand

pounds. That is a very small fortune, is it not?" she asked calmly.

The Count was gazing at her as one might gaze upon a tragedy.

"It is not a fortune!" he exclaimed. "It is not even a dot! It is

nothing at all, a year's income, a trifle."

"Nevertheless," Jeanne said calmly, "it is all that I possess. You

see," she continued, "I have come back to my stepmother to tell her

that if I am bound by law to do as she wishes until I am of age, I will

be dutiful and marry the man whom she chooses for me, but I wish to

tell you two things quite frankly. The first you have just heard. The

second is that I do not care for you in the least, that in fact I

rather dislike you."

The Princess buried her head in her hands. She was not anxious to look

at any one just then, or to be looked at. The Count rose to his feet.

There were drops of perspiration upon his forehead. He was distracted.

"Is this true, madam?" he asked of the Princess.

"It is true," she admitted.

He leaned towards her.

"What about my three thousand pounds?" he whispered. "Who will pay me

back that? It is cheating. That money has been gained by what you call

false pretences. There is punishment for that, eh?"

The Princess dabbed at her eyes with a little morsel of lace

handkerchief.

"One must live," she murmured. "It was not I who talked about Jeanne's

fortune. It was all the world who said how rich she was. Why should I

contradict them? I wanted a place once more in the only Society in

Europe which counts, English society. There was only one way and I took

it. So long as people believed Jeanne to be the heiress of a great

fortune, I was made welcome wherever I chose to go. That is the truth,

my dear Count."

"It is all very well," the Count answered, "but the money I have

advanced you?"

"You took your own risk," the Princess answered, coldly. "I was not to

know that you were expecting to repay yourself out of Jeanne's fortune.

It is not too late. You are not married to her."

"No," the Count said slowly, "I am not married to her."

The Princess watched him from the corners of her eyes. He was evidently

very much distracted. He walked up and down the room. Every now and

then he glanced at Jeanne. Jeanne was very pale, but she wore a hat

with a small green quill which he had once admired. Certainly she had

an air, she was distinguished. There was something vaguely provocative

about her, a charm which he could not help but feel. He stopped short

in the middle of his perambulations. It was the moment of his life. He

felt himself a hero.

"Madam," he said, addressing the Princess, "I have been badly treated.

There is no one who would not admit that. I have been deceived--a man

less kind than I might say robbed. No matter. I forget it all. I forget

my disappointment, I forget that this young lady whom you offer me for

a wife has a dot so pitifully small that it counts for nothing. I take

her. I accept her. Jeanne," he added, moving towards her, "you hear? It

is because I love you so very, very much."

Jeanne shrank back in her chair.

"You mean," she cried, "that you are willing to take me now that you

know everything, now that you know I have so little money? You mean

that you want to marry me still?"

The Count assented graciously. Never in the course of his whole life,

had he admired himself so much.

"I forget everything," he declared, with a little wave of the hand,

"except that I love you, and that you are the one woman in the world

whom I wish to make the Comtesse de Brensault. Mademoiselle permits me?"

He stooped and raised her cold hand to his lips. Jeanne looked at him

with the fascinated despair of some stricken animal. The Princess rose

to her feet. It was wonderful, this--a triumph beyond all thought.

"Jeanne, my child," she said, "you are the most fortunate girl I know,

to have inspired a devotion so great. Count," she added, "you are

wonderful. You deserve all the happiness which I am sure will come to

you."

The Count looked as though he were perfectly convinced of it. All the

same he whispered in her ear a moment later--

"You must pay me back that three thousand pounds!"

CHAPTER XIX

For the Princess it was a day full of excitements. The Count had only

just reluctantly withdrawn, and Jeanne had gone to her room under the

plea of fatigue, when Forrest was shown in. She started at the look in

his drawn face.

"Nigel," she exclaimed hastily, "is everything all right?"

He threw himself into a chair.

"Everything," he answered, "is all wrong. Everything is over."

The Princess saw then that he had aged during the last few days, that

this man whose care of himself had kept him comparatively youthful

looking, notwithstanding the daily routine of an unwholesome life, was

showing signs at last of breaking down. There were lines about his

eyes, little baggy places underneath. He dragged his feet across the

carpet as though he were tired. The Princess pushed up an easy-chair

and went herself to the sideboard.

"Give me a little brandy," he said, "or rather a good deal of brandy. I

need it."

The Princess felt her own hand shake. She brought him a tumbler and sat

down by his side.

"You had to kill him?" she asked, in a whisper. "Is it that?"

Forrest set down his glass--empty.

"No!" he answered. "We were going to, when a mad woman who lives there

got into the place and found us out. We had them safe, the two of them,

when the worst thing happened which could have befallen us. Andrew de

la Borne broke in upon us."

The Princess listened with set face.

"Go on," she said. "What happened?"

"The game was up so far as we were concerned," he answered. "Cecil

crumpled up before his brother, and gave the whole show away. There was

nothing left for me to do but to wait and hear what they had to say,

before I decided whether or no to make my graceful exit from the stage."

"Go on," she commanded. "What happened exactly?"

"We were kept there," he continued, "until this morning, waiting until

Engleton was well enough to make up his mind what to do. The end is

simple enough. Considering that but for that girl's intervention

Engleton would have been in the sea by now, and he knows it, I suppose

it might have been worse. I have signed a paper undertaking to leave

England within forty-eight hours, and never to show myself in this

country again. Further, I am not to play cards at any time with any

Englishman."

"Is that all?" the Princess asked.

"Yes!" Forrest answered. "I suppose you would say that they have let me

off lightly. I wish I could feel so. If ever a man was sick of those

dirty disreputable foreign places, where one holds on to life and

respectability only with the tips of one's fingernails, I am. I think I

shall chuck it, Ena. I am tired of those foreign crowds, suspicious,

semi-disreputable. There's something wrong with every one of them. Even

the few decent ones you know very well speak to you because you are in

a foreign country, and would cut you in Pall Mall."

"It isn't so bad as that," the Princess said calmly. "There are some of

the places worth living in. You must live a quieter life, spend less,

and find distractions. You used to be so fond of shooting and golf."

He laughed hardly.

"How am I to live," he demanded, "away from the card-tables? What do

you suppose my income is? A blank! It is worse than a blank, for I owe

bills which I shall never pay. How am I going to live from day to day

unless I go on the same infernal treadmill. I am an adventurer, I

know," he went on, "but what is one to do who has the tastes and

education of a gentleman, and not even money enough to buy a farm and

work with one's hands for a living?"

The Princess moved to the window and back again.

"I, too, Nigel," she said, "have had shocks. Jeanne has come back. She

has been at Salthouse all the time."

"It was probably she, then, who sent for De la Borne," Forrest said

wearily.

"Perhaps so," the Princess assented, "but listen to this. It will

surprise you. She came back and she told De Brensault in this room only

a short while ago that her supposed fortune was a myth. De Brensault

took it like a lamb. He wants to marry her still."

Forrest looked up in amazement.

"And will he?" he asked.

"Oh, I do not know!" the Princess answered. "Nigel, I am sick of life

myself. There are times when everything you have been trying for seems

not worth while, when even one's fundamental ideas come tottering down.

Just now I feel as though every stone in the foundation of what has

seemed to me to mean life, is rotten and insecure. I am tired of it.

Shall I tell you what I feel like doing?"

"Yes!" he answered.

"I have a little house in Silesia, where I am still a great lady,

half-a-dozen servants, perhaps, farms which bring in a trifle of money.

I think I will go and live there. I think I will get up in the mornings

as Jeanne does, and try to love my mountains, and go about amongst my

people, and try to spell life with different letters. Come with me,

Nigel. There is shooting and fishing there, and horses wild enough for

even you to find pleasure in riding. We have tried many things in life.

Let us make one last throw, and try the land of Arcady."

He looked at her, at first in amazement. Afterwards some change seemed

to come into his face, called there, perhaps, by what he saw in hers.

"Ena," he said, "you mean it?"

"Absolutely," she answered. "Fortunately we are both free, and we can

set our peasants an absolutely respectable example. You shall be farmer

and I will be housewife. Nigel, it is an inspiration."

He bent over her fingers.

"I wonder," he murmured, "if there is good enough left in me to make it

worth your while."

Late that afternoon another caller thundered at the door of the house

in Berkeley Square. The Duke of Westerham desired to see Miss Le

Mesurier. The butler was respectful but doubtful. Miss Le Mesurier had

just arrived from a journey and was lying down. The Duke, however, was

insistent. He waited twenty minutes in a small back morning-room and

presently Jeanne came in to him.

He held out his hands.

"Little girl," he said, "you know what you promised. I am afraid that

you have forgotten."

She smiled pitifully.

"No," she said, "I have not forgotten. I went away alone because I had

to go, because I wanted to be quite alone and quite quiet. Now I have

come home, and there is no one who can help me at all."

"Rubbish!" he answered. "There was never trouble in the world where a

friend couldn't help. What is it now?"

She shook her head.

"I cannot tell you," she said, "only I am going to marry the Count de

Brensault."

"I'm hanged if you are!" the Duke declared vigorously. "Look here, Miss

Jeanne. This is your stepmother's doing. I know all about it. Don't you

believe that in this country you are obliged to marry any one whom you

don't want to."

"But I do want to," Jeanne answered, "or rather I don't mind whom I do

marry, or whether I marry any one or no one."

The Duke was grave.

"I thought," he said, "that my friend Andrew had a chance."

Her face was suddenly burning.

"Mr. Andrew," she said, "does not want me; I mean that it is

impossible. Oh, if you please," she added, bursting into tears, "won't

you let me alone? I am going to marry the Count de Brensault. I have

quite made up my mind. Perhaps you have not heard that it is all a

mistake about my having a great fortune. The Count de Brensault is very

kind, and he is going to marry me although I have no money."

The Duke stared at her for several moments. Then he rang the bell.

"Will you tell your mistress," he said to the servant, "that the Duke

of Westerham would be exceedingly obliged if she would spare him five

minutes here and now."

The man bowed and withdrew. The Princess came almost at once.

"Madam," the Duke said, "I trust that you will forgive my sending for

you, but I am very much interested in the happiness of our little

friend Miss Jeanne here. She tells me that she is going to marry the

Count de Brensault, that she has lost her fortune and she is evidently

very unhappy. Will you forgive me if I ask you whether this marriage is

being forced upon her?"

The Princess hesitated.

"No," she said, "it is not that. Jeanne told him of her loss of

fortune. She told him, too, without any prompting from me, that she

would marry him if he still wished it. That is all that I know."

The Duke bowed. He moved a few steps across towards the Princess.

"Princess," he said, "will you make a friend? Will you let me take your

little girl to my sister's for say one week? You shall have her back

then, and you shall do as you will with her."

"Willingly," the Princess answered. "I am only anxious that she should

be happy."

The Duke marvelled then at the sincerity in her tone. Nevertheless, for

fear she should change her mind, he hurried Jeanne out of the house

into his brougham.

CHAPTER XX

"So this," the Duke said, "is your wonderful land."

"Is there anything like it in the world?" Jeanne asked as she stood

bareheaded on the grass-banked dyke with her face turned seaward.

Above their heads the larks were singing. To their right stretched the

marshes and pasture land, as yet untouched by the sea, glorious with

streaks of colour, fragrant with the perfume of wild lavender and

mosses. To their left, through the opening in the sandbanks, came

streaming the full tide, rushing up into the land, making silver

water-ways of muddy places, bringing with it all the salt and freshness

and joy of the sea. Over their heads the seagulls cried. Far away a

heron lifted its head from a tuft of weeds, and sent his strange call

travelling across the level distance.

"Oh, it is beautiful to be here again!" Jeanne said. "Even though it

hurts," she added, in a lower tone, "it is beautiful."

A little boat came darting down the shallows. Kate Caynsard stood up

and waved her hand. Jeanne waved back. A sudden flush of colour stained

her cheeks. Her first impulse seemed to be to turn away. She conquered

it, however, and beckoned to the girl, who ran her boat close to them.

"My last sail," the girl cried, as she stepped to land. "I am saying

good-bye to all these wonderful places, Miss Le Mesurier," she added.

"To-morrow we are going to sail for Canada."

Jeanne looked at her in amazement.

"You are going to Canada?" she asked.

The girl, too, was surprised.

"Have you not heard?" she said. "I thought, perhaps, that Mr. Andrew

might have told you. Cecil and I are sailing to-morrow, directly after

we are married. He has bought a farm out there."

Jeanne felt for a moment that the beautiful world was spinning round

her. She clutched at the Duke's arm.

"You are going to Canada with Cecil?" she exclaimed.

"Of course," Kate answered, a little shyly. "I thought, in fact I know

that I told you about him. Won't you wish me joy?" she added, holding

out her hand a little timidly.

Jeanne grasped it. To the girl's surprise Jeanne's eyes were full of

tears.

"Oh, I am so foolish!" she declared. "I have been so mad. I thought--

You said Mr. De la Borne."

"Hang it all!" the Duke exclaimed. "I believe you thought that she

meant our friend Andrew. Don't you know that all the world here half

the time calls Cecil, Mr. De la Borne, and Andrew, Mr. Andrew?"

Kate looked behind her, and touched the Duke on the sleeve.

"Wouldn't you like, sir," she asked, a little timidly, "to come for a

sail with me?"

The Duke saw what she saw, and notwithstanding his years and his

weight, he clambered into the little boat. Jeanne turned round and

walked slowly towards the man who came so swiftly along the dyke. It

was a dream! She felt that it must be a dream!

Andrew, with his gun over his shoulder, his rough tweed clothes

splashed with black mud, gazed at her as though she were an apparition.

Then he saw something in her face which told him so much that he forgot

the little catboat, barely out of sight, he forgot the little

red-roofed village barely a mile away, he forgot the lone figures of

the shrimpers, standing like sentinels far away in the salt pools. He

took Jeanne into his arms, and he felt her lips melt upon his.

"The Duke was right, then," he murmured a moment later, as he stood

back for a moment, his face transformed with the new thing that had

come into his life.

"Dear man!" Jeanne murmured.

They watched the boat gliding away in the distance.

"I believe," he declared, "that they went away on purpose."

She laughed as they scrambled down on to the marsh, and turned toward

the place where he had first met her.

"I believe they did," she answered.

End of Project Gutenberg's Jeanne of the Marshes, by E. Phillips Oppenheim