parsimonious builder who had neglected to put in this easy method of
transportation. Nevertheless, he climbed, and presently was ringing at
the polished bell of No. 135.
Mary had a daily servant, who was a charwoman in the morning, a
parlour-maid in the afternoon, and her own natural self after six, at
which hour she left for the night. This aged woman, with her dingy
white cap askew, opened the door and took the card in to her mistress,
leaving Mr. Gilder on the mat. She came back with an ingratiating
smile, and pointed to the room where Mary was to be found.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Gilder,” said Miss Wenner
conventionally. “I’m sure I never thought that you would be as good as
your word. Sit down, won’t you?”
She really was pretty, he observed; in her plain house dress she was
prettier than in a more elaborate attire. The flat, though small, was
well but not expensively furnished. It left him with the impression
that she had bought everything with her own money and he had rather a
nice feeling toward her in consequence. For Fabrian Gilder was a queer
mixture of Puritan and adventurer. Later, Mary had her flat to thank
for certain pleasant developments.
There was only one chair on which he could sit, and this he took.
“You’d like a cup of tea? I’m just going to have mine,” said Miss
Wenner. “I’ve been out all day shopping and everything.”
“Are you--er--working?” asked Gilder delicately.
“No, I’m not in business,” replied Miss Wenner, more correctly. Only
common people “work”: the gentility “go to business.”
She went out, disappearing into a mysterious cupboard, which had just
enough room for a tiny kitchen table and a gas stove, and he heard the
rattle of cup against saucer, the _plomp!_ of a gas ring being
lighted, and after a while she came back, a little flushed and
apologetic.
“Maids are so stupid, aren’t they?” she asked. “You can never trust
these common daily people. I had an awfully nice maid but she went
away and got married, the stupid child!”
She received very few visitors, she told him. Her “sewing woman” came
twice a week. She had a very dear friend--a girl, she hastened to
assure him--who spent Tuesday evenings with her and sometimes slept in
the flat. But a male visitor was the rarest of phenomena.
“You can’t be too careful,” said Miss Wenner primly. “A girl’s
character is her principal asset--don’t you agree Mr. Gilder?”
Mr. Gilder agreed.
“That is what I have always said about my work with Harry--excuse me,
I mean Lord Chelford, only we were such awfully good friends that I’ve
never dreamt of calling him anything but by his Christian name.”
“And did you call Richard Alford by his Christian name?” asked Mr.
Gilder, not without malice.
Her nose went up in the air.
“Him!” she said contemptuously. “I don’t take any more notice of him
than I do of any of the other upper servants! He’s educated and all
that--went to Eton and Harrow” (even Mr. Gilder winced at this) “but
you judge a man by his manners and not by his education. There’s no
doubt at all that Dick Alford has the manners of a pig!”
She said this with feeling and no little vehemence. Mr. Gilder, who
knew something of the circumstances, understood and almost
sympathized.
“I was going to say that down at Fossaway I often felt that it wasn’t
right to be in that big house with no lady there except the
housekeeper, who of course is a servant, and---- Oh! here you are,
Gladys!”
XXVIII
She rose as Gladys brought in the tea tray and laid it carefully on
the table. Gladys was sixty, toothless, and more or less chinless. She
wore most of her hair in a bun, which overflowed, drooping over her
neck in picturesque confusion. Gladys had the smile of one who enjoyed
the privilege of entertaining a visitor. She smiled at the girl,
smiled at Mr. Gilder, and smiled herself out of the room. Fabrian
Gilder thought he had never seen a more ghastly exhibition.
“You’re a good friend of Gwyn’s, aren’t you?” he asked, as he sipped
his tea.
She dropped her eyes in maidenly embarrassment.
“We are rather good friends, but no more. We may be something
closer--who knows? He has always behaved like a perfect gentleman and
treated me like a lady. I must say that for Arthur. But he’s a little
trying; don’t you find him so?” she asked, with a girlish naïveté
that was a little overdone.
“I have left him,” said Mr. Gilder briefly. “He and I disagreed over a
question of policy and I retired. In fact, we had a very bad row and
came to blows--I tell you this because you’ll probably learn the facts
from him sooner or later.”
Mary was shocked; and when Mary was shocked she covered her rather
generous mouth with her two small white hands.
“You don’t tell me!” she said in a hushed voice. “Blows! Is that it?”
She nodded her head to his lip.
“That’s it,” said Gilder shortly.
“Blows!” repeated Mary Wenner. “How perfectly disgusting and vulgar!”
“I wanted to talk to you about Arthur Gwyn,” Gilder broke in upon her
horrified wonder. “We’re not good friends, but that doesn’t mean I
bear him any malice. But, naturally, as we are parted, I don’t feel
called upon to protect him and stand between him and his dupes”--he
emphasized the last word--“as I have done in the past. You know him as
well as I do,” he went on, as she was about to speak. “You know his
vanity; you know how perfectly unreliable and insincere he is; you
know, too, that he’d get out of any promise he ever made, even if it
was in black and white.”
He was watching her narrowly all the time he spoke, and now he saw her
eyebrows arch.
“Indeed?” she said coldly. “I don’t know anything about the law, but I
can’t see how a gentleman, or a common man for the matter of that,
could get out of--what is the expression--legal obligations?”
“Then you don’t know Arthur Gwyn as well as I do,” he said. “But that
is beside the point. I haven’t come here to blackguard him or to make
him look smaller in your eyes. Not that I could,” he said,
anticipating her protest a little ambiguously. “But I believe in a
girl having a square deal, especially a working girl who may have
nobody in the world to look after her interests. And I tell you that
that fellow couldn’t go straight if he was fired from a gun. Now, what
about the Chelford treasure?”
At the words she sat bolt upright, and a look of blank astonishment
came to her face.
“Do you know?” she gasped.
“Of course I know! You’re going to help him find the gold, and in
return----” He paused.
That was exactly what he had come to find out. What obligation had
Arthur undertaken in return for the information she would give him?
And he was pretty sure of his ground. He knew the girl; had had some
dealings with her when she was with Chelford; and since he lived on
his knowledge of human beings, he had analyzed her with more or less
accuracy. He knew her vanity, her ambition; had heard something of her
summary discharge from Fossaway Manor. There was only one reward that
Arthur Gwyn could offer.
“He has promised to marry you,” he said, and he was not altogether
drawing a bow at a venture.
“Did he tell you that?” she said, with a little catch in her voice. “I
hope you don’t think, Mr. Gilder, that I’ve thrown myself at his head?
That I wouldn’t do for the best man in the world.” She looked at him
thoughtfully, and added: “Old or young. I trust Arthur as a gentleman
to fulfil any promise he has made. I am going to do something for him
that will make all the difference in the world----”
“When is he going to marry you? After the treasure is discovered, I
suppose?”
She nodded.
“He will have to marry me then,” she said.
“I realize that. You’re a girl that has to make her way in the world
without influence, and possibly without friends.” Mr. Gilder knew he
was on the right tack here. “He can offer you a position and you can
offer him money. After all, that is exactly what his sister is doing,
and nobody thinks any worse of her for that.”
“Exactly,” murmured Miss Wenner, who had never seen the matter in that
light before.
“The point I want to make is this,” he went on: “What bond has he
given you?”
“His word of honour,” said Miss Wenner dramatically.
“I daresay. But what valuable bond has he given you?”
“I’ll show you.”
She went into the next room, which was evidently her bedroom, and,
returning with her bag, placed it on her knee, opened the flap, and
took out, amongst other things, a slip of paper, which she passed
across to Mr. Gilder. He read it at a glance, noted the careful
emendation which Arthur had made, and passed it back.
“That is valueless,” he said, and her face fell. “What is to prevent
his going to Chelford and striking a bargain with him? Where do you
come in then? Besides, this is what is known in law as a promise under
duress--that is to say, under compulsion. If he is acting in the
interests of his client, he can plead that he had to make this promise
in order to secure information which you were illegally withholding.”
She stared at him.
“It’s not illegal to know and not to tell?”
He nodded.
“To know of the existence of hidden treasure and to withhold your
information is a crime in some countries, and I daresay it is in
England. But that’s beside the point. Where do you come in, Miss
Wenner?”
She bit her lip thoughtfully.
“I never saw it in that way,” she confessed. “What can I do, Mr.
Gilder?”
He felt inclined to offer the obvious solution, “Get him to marry you
first,” but changed his mind. Mary Wenner married would be a useless
ally.
At the back of his mind he was certain that this rather vulgar
girl--for he had a nice and finicking taste in the matter of
women--had discovered the Chelford millions. If he had not had this
belief he would not have made his call. He believed that by some
accident, or by reason of her close association with Harry Chelford,
she had unveiled the mystery of the lost gold; and his object now was
to discover how far his theory was justified by facts.
“Is there no way of making that agreement more binding, Mr. Gilder?”
she asked. “You’re a lawyer--couldn’t you draw up something he
wouldn’t wriggle out of? Naturally, I’m too much of a lady to want any
man to marry me, if he doesn’t want to marry me. If he just hinted as
much I should tell him to go--I should simply say, ‘Oh, very well, I’m
not at all anxious to marry, thank you very much.’ I think a girl who
throws herself at a man’s head is despicable, don’t you, Mr. Gilder?”
He did not answer this query.
“I could draw you up an agreement that would be legally binding, but I
doubt if even that would help you. Why trust him at all?” he asked
bluntly.
She dropped her eyes at this.
“Who--or rather whom--could I trust?” she asked, and took an invisible
crumb off her dress. “This is such an awful world, and men are so very
deceitful, Mr. Gilder. The young ones are the worst, of course, but
they haven’t experience. I do think that a man isn’t in the prime of
life till he’s about forty-five.” She waited. “Or fifty. He’s sort of
settled down and sowed his wild oats, and he doesn’t want to go out at
nights and all that. And I’ll admit that Arthur is flighty. I wouldn’t
tell it to anybody but you, but he tried to kiss me any number of
times, and he once said the most terrible thing to me at Fossaway
Manor. I said to him: ‘Arthur, you seem to forget that you’re speaking
to a lady,’ and he just curled up and died, if you understand me. I
don’t mean that he actually perished----”
“I understand what you mean,” said Gilder, and went on to make his
most startling revelation. “Now, listen, Miss Wenner. You’re a
sensible girl and I can talk to you as I could talk to very few
people.”
This _cliché_ of intensive flattery, which so seldom fails even when
employed upon intelligent people, produced in Miss Wenner the strained
attentiveness which was called for.
“Suppose I tell you,” said Fabrian Gilder darkly, “that Gwyn is
already trying to anticipate your discovery?”
“I beg your pardon?” Mary Wenner was not very strong on the more
flowery expressions of speech.
“Suppose he’s trying to get ahead of you--trying to find the gold
without your assistance?”
“He wouldn’t dare!” she gasped.
Mr. Gilder nodded very slowly, very deliberately.
“He has already tried,” he said. “Two nights ago I was watching him,
suspecting his plan. He went at three o’clock in the morning to the
ruins of Chelford Abbey, and he took with him a crowbar.…”
Whilst he was speaking, the red in her face deepened and the
wide-opened eyes grew brighter.
“The hound!” she breathed. “The twisting, double-faced monkey!”
It was not a ladylike expression, but for the moment she was superior
to shame.
“The dirty, thieving, twisting sneak! To the Abbey--with a crowbar!
I’ll take my oath on a Bible that I never breathed a word of where it
was hid--I mean hidden. Let him go with his crowbar--ha-ha!” She
laughed shrilly, but gave no other evidence of supreme amusement.
“I’ll crowbar him! Let him search and scrape and dig and see what he
can find.”
He tried to soothe her, but for the moment her soul was breaking in
tumultuous waves upon the muddy flats of Arthur’s duplicity.
“He has deceived me! I don’t mean in an unladylike way--I mean--you
know what I mean, Mr. Gilder? I trusted that man. I gave him all my
heart.” The sob came naturally, but it was largely due to intensified
annoyance. “I gave him all that a woman could give a man--information
I mean, Mr. Gilder. I don’t want you to get any wrong ideas about me,
because I’ve always behaved like a lady, and nobody can point their
fingers of scorn at me.”
She grew calm after a while.
“Who can you trust?” she asked bitterly. “Who--can--you--trust?”
“You can trust me.” Fabrian Gilder’s voice was very gentle, almost
pleading.
He was rather a good-looking man, she observed; his gray hair gave him
distinction.
“You wouldn’t want a legal document from me.…”
“Yes, I would,” she said obstinately. “I don’t trust men.”
“You shall have any document you wish. I will even go as far as
compromising myself hopelessly.”
She coughed.
“I don’t think I should go quite as far as that,” she said,
misunderstanding him.
“I mean that I would take the risk of detection without safeguarding
myself as Arthur Gwyn has done.”
She dabbed her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief.
“Of course, Mr. Gilder--I don’t know you very well, but I’m not going
to say that I don’t like you. I’ve always said to Agatha--my Tuesday
friend, as I call her--‘Mr. Gilder’s a perfect gentleman.’ In fact,
I’m--Mr. Gilder, what is your Christian name?”
“Fabrian,” he said.
She lingered tenderly over the word and smiled, a wistful sideways
smile.
“I should call you Fabe, I suppose? It’s a perfectly lovely name.… As
I was saying, I don’t want to throw myself at any man’s head.”
“Let us go down to-night.”
Her face changed.
“To the Abbey--to-night?”
He nodded.
“My car will get us down in an hour and a half, and we can wait till
it’s dark; and unless there’s a lot of digging to be done----”
“There is no digging,” she said. “But to-night?”
“Why not?” he demanded. “My cottage is less than a mile from the
Abbey. If the gold is there and reachable, we could get away with
enough to make us rich for life.”
She pondered this, and then:
“I know you’ll think it horrid of me, Mr. Gilder--Fabe--that does
sound familiar, doesn’t it?--but I would like something in black and
white.”
There and then Mr. Fabrian Gilder produced a document that was enough,
as he observed jocularly, to hang him, and, reading it, even Mary
Wenner, with her keen instinct for safeguards, was impressed. He wrote
the agreement with his own fountain pen, on paper which he provided,
and he had brought along that pen in his pocket with a view to such a
contingency. It was a new pen, filled with an ink that he had
purchased at a novelty store in Wardour Street, and which was
guaranteed to fade within six hours of writing.
Miss Wenner read it through, folded it, and put it into her bag, and
disappeared into her bedroom. She came back with the bag, but he
guessed that the agreement was disposed in some safe place.
“Now, Fabe, what time do you want to start?”
“At nine-thirty?” he suggested, and she nodded.
“And don’t trouble to bring a crowbar,” she said a little viciously,
as she remembered Arthur Gwyn’s rank treachery. “I’ll carry all the
tools we want in my bag.”
XXIX
The weather had changed that afternoon. Big black clouds had come up
from the west; a steady drizzle of rain had set in when Fabrian Gilder
brought his car to the rendezvous in Marylebone Road. He had pulled up
the hood, and, as a matter of precaution, he had cleared out every
portable thing from the tonneau. If there was gold he must find room
for it, and he made a careful calculation as to the weight he could
carry on each journey.
He was surprised at himself that he had accepted as a fact so readily
that there was gold to be taken. From the girl he learned for the
first time the extent of the treasure. He had inquired casually of his
garage man the amount of strain the back axle would stand. That was
unnecessary, for he had once driven four fairly heavy men a
considerable journey. Supposing they weighted 170 pounds, that would
be the equivalent of twenty bars of gold.
It was nearly ten before the girl appeared. She was wearing a long
raincoat and stepped into the seat by his side with a voluble apology.
“I nearly didn’t come,” she said. “I only just remembered after you’d
gone that awful Black Abbot.”
He was a little amused.
“You don’t believe in that kind of hokum, do you?” he asked, as the
car went swiftly down Baker Street.
“I don’t know.” She was dubious. “He did appear once or twice when I
was at the Manor, but we used to believe that these were villagers’
stories. According to the newspapers, they’ve seen more of him
lately--ugh!” She shivered.
He tapped his pocket significantly with his hand.
“I’ve got something here that’s mighty bad for abbots black or white!”
he said. “Don’t you worry, little girl.”
“No, Fabe,” she said meekly.
Very delicately he suggested that she might call him by the Christian
name his parents had given him. There was no diminutive, he explained,
and excused his correction by telling her that there was a possibility
that she might address him and he would not know to whom she was
speaking.
“I don’t believe in long engagements, do you?” She went off at a
tangent.
“No, I don’t. They should be short--and sweet!”
They both laughed together, and were in excellent humour by the time
they reached the deserted streets of Dorking.
“I only have one anxiety,” he told her. “Mr. Richard Alford has got a
habit of prowling round at odd hours. On a night like this he’ll
hardly leave his comfortable apartment.”
“Comfortable apartment!” she scoffed. “Why, he’s only got a tiny
little office, and his bedroom’s not much bigger than mine. I simply
detest the man. He gives himself more airs in a day than dear Harry
gives himself in ten years--you don’t mind me saying ‘dear Harry?’
You’re not jealous, are you?”
He assured her he was not at all jealous.
“I should have married Harry if it hadn’t been for him. Harry was
simply crazy about me, but Dick hated me--how that man hated me! Mind
you, I’ve always snubbed him when he got a little too fresh. I don’t
say that he was chasing me--I hate girls who think every man is after
them--but he was certainly very attentive once or twice. After lunch
or dinner he’d get up and open the door for me, and that’s a thing
that Harry never did. But of course I saw through it. It was all
deceit and artfulness.”
She chattered at rare intervals, except during the five miles of
driving rain that forced its way under the cover and lashed her face.
“It’s a horrible night,” she complained.
“On the contrary, it’s one of the best nights I could have chosen even
if I had the ordering of the weather,” said Mr. Gilder.
When they reached the secondary road that led to Chelfordbury he
proceeded with greater caution, extinguishing the flaming headlamps
and relying upon the two small lights that were placed on the front
mudguard. He knew the road so well that there was no danger of mishap;
his chief anxiety was that he should not, by the reflected rays of the
bigger headlights, be recognized.
A mile from Fossaway Manor he switched out the remaining two lights,
for he had a shrewd idea that this section of the road was visible
from Lord Chelford’s house. To the nervous girl riding at his side, it
seemed that they were in imminent danger every minute of colliding
with one of the telegraph posts which ran along the side of the road.
Happily she was not aware that the smaller lamps had been
extinguished.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I know every inch of this road; I’ve
driven up it a hundred times. My cottage lies just beyond Willow
House.”
The car, which had been moving silently and smoothly, began to slow as
it went up the hill that led to Fontwell Cutting. He switched off the
engine, and, jamming on the brakes, got out and opened the gate into
Red Farm field. Then, walking alongside the car, he released the
brakes and guided it to the place where Dick had found the machine a
few nights before.
“Here we are,” he said.
He took her arm; she was shivering, and when she spoke he heard the
chatter of her teeth.
“I wish I hadn’t come,” she said, started, and pointed into the dark.
“What is that over there?” she whispered fearfully.
“A pollard willow,” he said. “Really, there’s nothing to be afraid
of--Mary.”
“I don’t know about that,” she quavered. “Don’t let go of my arm, will
you? Have you got a pistol?”
He assured her that he had.
Through the little gate, which he knew was unlocked, up the steep and
slippery slope, and immediately ahead of them in the darkness were the
solemn ruins.
“I’d rather not show a light,” he said in a low voice. “That was how
Gwyn was discovered. Do you know your way?”
“If I can see the tower,” she suggested.
Stooping down to get an artificial skyline, he saw the bulk of the
ruined tower and guided her forward. Once she stumbled over a heap of
stones and would have screamed if his hand had not covered her mouth.
“For God’s sake, be careful!” he urged. “Now, how do we get to the
vault?”
“Wait.” She released his arm and went toward the wall of the tower. He
saw her once more, when she was groping her way round. Presently she
whispered: “Come along.”
He followed her and reaching out her hand she took his.
“There’s a step down,” she whispered.
They were going into the tower, although he did not remember having
seen any opening. He heard a rusty squeak.…
“It’s very narrow; you’ll have to squeeze through.”
The opening, he judged, was about a foot wide, and he had some trouble
to pass the obstacle.
“It’s a big corner stone,” she said, in a low voice. “It swings round
and opens like a door. It’s the way the old Abbot used to go out when
he carried on with Lady Chelford--you’ve heard that bit of scandal, I
suppose?”
The “bit of scandal” was some eight hundred years old and was news to
him.
“If you’ve got a lamp you can put it on.”
He pulled out his torch and turned the switch. They were in a tiny
stone chamber at the top of a circular flight of moss-grown stairs.
Above was a vaulted roof, which seemed to be cut out of one piece of
stone, as it might well be, for the interior measurements of the tower
could not have been much more than four by five. The thickness of the
walls he could judge; they had been built in the days when walls had
other functions than to support a roof.
“Come along.” She led the way, stepping gingerly on the slithery moss.
He counted twenty-five steps, and then they were in a large stone
chamber, so weatherworn that it seemed to be a natural cave. Walls and
roof had lost their symmetry, and only the square of it told him that
it was the work of man’s hands.
“Have you got the key?”
He nodded. Many years before, Gwyn & Gwyn had defended a famous
burglar and had secured his acquittal on a technical error in the
indictment. In reward he had presented to his lawyer a key which he
claimed would open any door, big or small. It was a curious
contrivance, consisting of a steel rod into the end of which strangely
shaped projections could be screwed. Arthur had given it to his head
clerk as a souvenir, having no interest in such matters himself, and
rather scandalized that the firm was engaged in so discreditable a
business as defending a burglar. This souvenir had now become an
instrument of providence.
“Here is the place.” She still spoke in a whisper, though it was
hardly likely they could be overheard.
In each corner of the room, facing them as they turned from the foot
of the stairs, was a small, narrow door, deeply recessed. They
reminded Mr. Gilder of the cell doors in Dartmoor, and there was a
further likeness in another respect. Near the top of the left-hand
door was a tiny iron grille, consisting of three rusted bars.
“Look!” she whispered.
He flashed the light of the lamp inside, where a deep, narrow cavern
showed, along two sides of which ran a stone bench, and on the bench
were innumerable cylinders of significant shape. He inspected the
nearest; there was a curious seal at one end.
Fabrian Gilder’s heart beat faster. The girl’s hand that held his arm
tightly was trembling.
“I’m so frightened,” she whimpered.
“What are you frightened about?”
“I’m so afraid of that awful Black Abbot.” She was on the verge of
hysterical breakdown. He must work quickly.
He was fitting one of the accessories to the rod, and he pushed it in
the big keyhole and turned. There was a grind and a click, but when he
pulled the door it was fast. Again he tried, fitting another steel
accessory, and on the third attempt the key turned with a horrible
squeak, and he pulled the door open.
As he did so, the girl gripped his arm frenziedly.
“Look! Oh, my God! Look!” she screamed, and he turned.
Standing at the foot of the stairs was a figure in black, his face
hidden under a long cowl. Two eyes they saw, gleaming feverishly upon
them. Terrible, menacing, the Black Abbot was coldly surveying them!
XXX
With an oath, Gilder whipped a pistol from his pocket, but in doing
so the beam of his lamp fell for a second. When he brought it up
again, pistol extended, the figure had vanished.
“Don’t go, don’t go!” she shrieked, gripping his arm. “Oh, Mr. Gilder!
Oh, Fabrian--don’t leave me!”
He thrust her aside and ran to the foot of the winding stairs and went
cautiously up. He heard the sobbing breath of the girl coming behind
him.
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me in the dark!” she sobbed.
Higher, higher, cautious, watchful, but no sign of a black habit. The
little room above was as they had left it; the tiny slit of a door was
open.
Brushing past him, the girl stumbled and staggered into the open air
and collapsed on to her knees.
“Take me away! Take me away!” she raved. “I wish I had never come!”
Gilder turned with a curse and swung the stone door close, then,
half-carrying, half-dragging her, beside himself with fury, in which
was mingled no little fear, he brought her to the road and to the car.
The rain was pouring down. He pushed back the hood of the car
savagely, so that the full force of the storm should beat upon her--he
dare not allow himself to be burdened with a fainting girl. He would
take her back to her flat and leave her--there would be plenty of time
for him to return and investigate those cylinders.
As for the Black Abbot… he breathed a little more quickly when he
thought of that terrifying appearance. Whoever it was--and that it was
human he did not doubt--would live to regret this night’s
interference.
By the time they reached Horsham, the girl, drenched to the skin, cold
and shivering, had got back a little of her balance. Her teeth were
chattering, but not with fear. She was inclined to be garrulous, but
he answered in monosyllables or not at all.
“I wonder I didn’t die,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything so
perfectly horribly ghastly! Did you see the way his eyes glared? They
looked as if they were alight, didn’t they, Fabe?”
“Fabrian,” he snapped.
“I never saw anything like it, not even in the pictures,” said Miss
Wenner. “Couldn’t we have the hood up, Fabe--Fabrian?”
He stopped the car with a jerk, pulled up the hood and fastened it.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m taking you home. We’ll make another attempt to-morrow night. By
the way, how did you get that stone corner piece to turn?”
“I can’t tell you that, Fabrian,” she said firmly and truly. “That’s
my only hold over you.”
“Don’t be stupid. You used a bodkin or something, didn’t you? I
noticed there was a space between two stones which looked to be
artificial.”
“A pair of scissors,” she said. “There’s an iron catch inside that
slit--I only found it by accident.”
He knew all he wanted to know now; could dispense with her for the
rest of the night, forever, as it happened. He declined her invitation
to come upstairs for a drink, and no sooner was she out of sight than
he was flying back into Sussex.
Halfway between Dorking and Leatherhead, his gasoline gave out, and he
had to wait on the charity of a passing motorist, and it was not a
night when traffic was very thick. At last he found a good Samaritan
who gave him enough to take the machine to the nearest filling
station, and at Dorking, with his tank replenished and a few extra
tins against emergency, he went on confidently.
Two o’clock showed on the illuminated dial of his watch when he backed
the car into the field and mounted the slope to the ruins. From here
onward he moved noiselessly, one step at a time, stopping every few
paces to listen. But there was no sign or sound of the cowled figure.
He found the corner of the tower, with his penknife pressed back the
catch, and, pulling at the rough stone, the edges of which crumbled in
his hand, he opened the door.
Stopping only to examine the upper chamber, he went slowly down the
stairs, his pistol in one hand, his lamp in the other. There was no
sign of the intruder, but----
The door of the treasure house was closed. He pulled, and it swung
open. Flashing his lamp into the long, narrow cell, he saw something
that sent the blood from his face. The “ingots” had disappeared, every
one of them! Neither the bench to the left nor right held a single
cylinder. Beads of perspiration were running down his face as he
turned, and it would have been death to any human spook who opposed
him, for his heart was bitter against whosoever it was had checked his
enterprise.
He made another inspection of the underground chamber. Unlike its
fellow, the second door in the opposite corner of the room was solid.
Neither peephole nor grating gave a view into the room it guarded. He
guessed that behind the nail-studded portal was a room similar to that
in which the cylinders had been stored. Trying his key on the lock, he
could produce no result. He put his shoulder to the oaken face but the
door did not budge by so much as a fraction of an inch.
Before this room the flooring consisted of a long slab of stone that
ran without a break to the centre of the apartment, and was the exact
width of the narrow doorway. Had this any significance? Kneeling, he
examined the stone carefully. It was different from the rest of the
paving. The broken stones that formed the floor of the room were worn
smooth by the passage of generations of men; this oblong strip was
rough-dressed, more like the underside of a paving stone than its
chiselled surface. He stamped on one end and felt it give ever so
slightly; stamped on the other end and had a like experience. In the
middle ran a staple, balancing the stone, and beneath there was a
hollow space. Some day or night he would come along and conduct a more
careful inspection.…
He came into the upper room to confront a more urgent problem. Just as
he was about to extinguish his lamp preparatory to passing through the
opening, he saw the stone move. Before he could spring forward it had
thudded into its place. From somewhere outside he heard an unearthly
chuckle of laughter.
Trapped! He pushed at the door, but it was inflexible. Inch by inch he
examined its surface. There must be an opening somewhere, he thought.
He remembered the story of the amorous Abbot and his clandestine
excursions. It was certain that a means existed for opening the door
from the inside.
He searched the wall; nothing appeared. And then it occurred to him to
send his light slowly along the floor, which was made up of broken
flagstones. One, smaller than the others, attracted his attention,
because it lay at a truer level than the rest, and he tugged at its
end, and, with great effort, pulled it up. Beneath he saw a great iron
ring, so rusted that it was almost razor-thin. With his handkerchief
he gripped it and pulled. It gave a little, and, as it did, he saw the
door move. Again he strained at the handle and slowly it came up;
although the door had moved only an inch he knew it was clear of the
invisible catch which held it. Running to the stone, he pressed with
all his might. It swung open and he came staggering out into the eerie
light of dawn.
The storm had passed; overhead, the stars were shining in the paling
sky. Far away to his left a wisp of smoke curled up from the twisted
chimneys of Fossaway Manor. Fabrian Gilder wiped his hot face and
strove to overcome the bitterness of his defeat. And then, at his
feet, he saw something and, stooping with a cry, picked it up. It was
one of the cylinders, heavy and laden, that had been dropped by those
who had cleared the vault. It was not heavy enough for gold. He knew
that at once. The cover was of lead. He tore away the seal, expecting
to find an opening, but the cylinder had been sealed at both ends. He
carried it quickly down the slope, and in the shelter of the cut road
he took out his knife and slit the thin lead end, and pulled out a
tightly rolled sheet of parchment. He opened it and stared. It was an
ancient missal, beautifully painted and, as a work of art, priceless,
but a poor substitute for thirty-five pounds weight of solid gold!
XXXI
And that was all the other cylinders contained, he thought, with a
gleam of satisfaction. Whoever had watched him--and he suspected
Arthur Gwyn naturally--had had the same disappointment.
It was in this room that the old monks had stored their ancient music.
There was a certain grim humour in the thought of how he had spent his
night and the reward for it.
He crossed the road, opened the gate, and went into the field where he
had left his car, and stood stock still, petrified with amazement. The
car had disappeared!
The tracks were plainly visible. They led through the cutting, along
the road toward Willow House. There was nothing to do but to tramp
after them. A mile beyond Arthur Gwyn’s residence was Ravensrill
Cottage, his own property, he thought with some satisfaction, and a
snug retreat where a man could get a hot bath in an hour and a
steaming cup of tea in a quarter. The prospect was cheering, for he
was wet through, weary and footsore.
The tracks passed the entrance of Willow House and continued on the
way to the cottage; and when at last he turned the bend of the road
that brought his little country home into view, he saw the car
standing before the door. There was no sign of any living creature. He
went round the house, searched the tiny plantation to the left, and
even descended to the banks of the stream, before he opened the door
of his cottage and went in.
He put the key in the lock and, to his surprise, on the pressure of
his hand, the door opened. The door which opened into his little
dining-room yielded to his pressure before he could turn the key. He
gazed, stricken dumb with amazement. A small fire was burning in the
grate, on which a kettle was steaming. An open teapot was on the
hearth, and somebody had broken open a tin of biscuits. He heard a
footstep in the next room and swung round to meet the intruder; and at
the sight of him, he dropped the point of his levelled Browning.
“Thomas!” he said, unable to believe his eyes. “What the devil are you
doing here?”
“Fired this morning,” said the ex-footman curtly.
“This morning? Why, it’s hardly daylight!”
Thomas nodded.
“Alford found me wandering about the house when I ought to have been
in bed and asleep,” he said, “and he hoofed me out.”
“But why?”
The man was uncomfortable.
“How do I know why?” he demanded. “That dog never liked me. I think he
suspected me of writing to you.”
Gilder knew that this story was a lie, designed to show him under an
obligation to this ex-servant. Thomas had been a useful correspondent
of his: all that went on at Fossaway Manor had been faithfully
recorded for his information.
“You are in trouble. What have you been doing?”
The man pursed his lips.
“Well…” he hesitated, “I may as well tell you the truth. Have you ever
heard of Monkey Puttler? Wait a minute, I’ll make the tea.”
He picked up the steaming kettle and filled the pot, and not till he
had put it back on the hob did he continue his narrative.
“Monkey Puttler’s a ‘busy.’ Every crook in London knows him, and I
know him as well as anybody because he got me three years for a job I
did at the Westinghouse Hotel.”
“Burglary?” asked the other, to whom this was news.
“An inside job,” said the other tersely. “You can call it burglary if
it gives you any pleasure. Anyway, Monkey caught me and pushed me over
the Alps for three long and weary ones. When I came out I got this
job. There were pickings to it, too. Chelford isn’t a man who counts
his change, and Alford doesn’t dare ask him what he’s done with his
money when he comes for more.”
“An ex-convict, eh?” Gilder was slightly shocked and regarded the man
from a new angle. “I didn’t know that or I should never have employed
you!”
“I had to kid a bit,” confessed Thomas, with a grin.
“You kidded me all right!” replied Gilder.
“Well, I didn’t exactly kid you,” said the other, amused. “But that
day when I went to your office and you started cross-examining me
about how things were at the Manor with Gwyn, I didn’t see why I
shouldn’t earn a few honest dollars.”
“Well? Go on about your friend Monkey--what is his name?”
“Puttler. He came yesterday.”
“To Chelford’s house?” asked Gilder in surprise.
“Yes,” nodded Thomas. “Alford pretended he is an accountant, but he’s
a busy all right; I knew him the moment I saw him, and, what’s worse,
he knew me. I’d come to Chelford’s service on a false character and I
knew my number was up as soon as I saw his ugly phiz. Sure enough,
last night Alford gave me notice, told me to clear out to-day. I’ll
catch that bird one of these days,” he said, with an ugly look in his
face.
“But why this morning?” asked Gilder.
“I was going to tell you,” said the other impatiently. “Chelford keeps
a cash box in his library; it’s in the second left-hand drawer, and
he’s generally got a wad of stuff there. He’s childish in the matter
of money. I knew if I could get my hooks into the stuff I could lift
enough to be happy, and leave enough behind so that Chelford couldn’t
swear whether I’d had it or not. I got into the library about four
this morning, and was going upstairs when Alford spotted me, told me
to go up and dress and clear, which I did--he’s got something on his
mind, that fellow, he never sleeps!”
“He caught you with the money?” asked Gilder in disgust.
“Not he--I shoved that out of the library window as soon as I got it.
I picked it up later.”
“What was Mr. Alford doing, wandering about the house at that hour?”
The man made a grimace.
“You never know when that bird is around,” he said. “He’s not human; I
tell you he doesn’t want sleep!”
Though Gilder was certain he was telling the truth, he was equally
sure that the man was concealing something. There seemed to him to be
gaps in his story, which he bridged readily enough. Wisely he decided
that it was not the moment to cross-examine him. On one point he made
up his mind. This man and he must part company, and soon.
“Why did you come here?”
“Thought you were in London,” said the other coolly. “I’ve been here
before to see you, and I didn’t think you’d mind my using your house
for a day or two--maybe a week or two,” he added, his eyes fixed on
the other’s face.
Gilder scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t know that it will do me much good if it’s known that you’re
an ex-convict.”
“They needn’t know, why should they?” said the other.
“Did you bring my car here?”
Thomas nodded.
“I was going over to Red Farm first; there’s a groom there who’s a
friend of mine. Then I saw your car and thought something had happened
to you. I waited for a time, and when you didn’t turn up I brought it
along.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“Nobody. It was nearly dark.”
What was the man concealing? The impression that Gilder had--and he
was a skilful reader of minds--was that Thomas was bursting with some
vital information. Once or twice it had been at the end of his tongue,
and he had inhibited the sensation.
“You can stay here if you like; I’m going to town. If I get a letter
from the local police saying you’re living in the house, I shall write
saying that you have no authority. You understand that I must protect
myself?”
“I can understand that, guv’nor.”
Again his lips moved to speak, and again he checked himself.
“What do you want to tell me?”
“It’s too big to tell. I am going to keep it. Maybe if you come down
later I’ll spin you a story that’s worth a million dollars.”
Thomas had once spent twelve months in a Canadian penitentiary, and it
was his favourite pose that he was an American crook.
“A million dollars--yep!”
XXXII
Gilder poured out the tea, helped himself to biscuits, and, his
hunger relieved, went into his room, and from a bureau took a complete
change of clothes. The water was too cold for a bath, and he had a rub
down with a rough towel as a substitute. He felt another man when
shaved and clean and warm. He came back to Thomas, who was smoking a
short briar pipe, peering into the fire.
“When you’ve decided to talk, you had better send me a wire--not from
Chelfordbury but from Horsham.”
He wrote his address on a page of his notebook, tore it out and gave
it to the man, then, cranking up his car, he went back through the
dull morning to London.
At ten o’clock he was roused from a heavy sleep to answer the
telephone. It was Mary Wenner, and he cursed her under his breath.
“Is that you, Fabe? I’ve been so worried about you all night, my dear.
You didn’t go back to that awful place?”
“I’ll come and see you this afternoon,” he interrupted. “Don’t talk on
the telephone: people can hear.”
“Fabe, dear”--there was a real note of anxiety in her voice--“you
didn’t go back and get any of that gold, did you? I know you’re
awfully brave, but I wouldn’t have you risk your life for the world.”
“No, I didn’t get any gold,” he said.
“Oh!” she replied, and in that “Oh!” was disappointment and annoyance.
“It wasn’t so bad for you, a man,” she said, with some asperity in her
tone. “Here I’ve been laying in bed all night thinking of you, and
worrying about you----”
“I will see you this afternoon,” he rasped, and hung up on her.
He had no intention of seeing her that afternoon or any other
afternoon, but in this matter his will was not the determining factor.
Soon after tea, when he was preparing to go out, she walked into his
dining-room unannounced. What she had told his servants, he shuddered
to think. She passed swiftly across to him, stooped and kissed him
chastely on the brow, and then seated herself by his side.
“Dear,” she said, and he closed his eyes patiently, “do you mind if I
do something that seems a teeny-weeny bit deceitful?”
“I don’t mind----” he began.
“But this is something which affects your honour, dear.” Her sober
eyes were fixed on his. “You must never think I’m not faithful to you
and all that sort of thing, but he’s written to me such a pleading
letter----”
“Who has written?” he asked, suddenly interested.
“Arthur. I’ve also had a letter from his sister; she wants me to go
down and spend the week-end with them, and of course I’d much rather
stay up here with you. But I feel I ought to have it out with Arthur
and let him know that my affections are no longer his. After all, even
if we didn’t get the fortune, I know that I’m dealing with a gentleman
who doesn’t want me for my money alone. And you’re not exactly a
pauper, are you, dear? I went and asked a young gentleman I know at
Stubbs’ Agency, and they told me that you were worth at least a
hundred thousand pounds.”
Gilder groaned.
“And I have your promise, in writing.”
“Yes, you’ve got everything, my dear Mary,” he said wearily.
“And, Fabe, dear, such a curious thing happened about that paper. When
I took it from under my pillow this morning what do you think? All the
writing had disappeared! You could have knocked me down with a
feather.”
He stirred uneasily in his chair.
“That is most extraordinary,” he found words to say.
“I was so upset about it that I took it to a gentleman friend of mine,
who’s in the conjuring business. You’ve probably seen him: he takes
rabbits out of paper bags, and he says that you must have used
invisible ink, and he showed me how to bring the writing back and make
it permanent.”
“And did you?” asked Gilder hollowly.
“Why, of course I did, dear. You just squeeze a lemon, rub it over the
paper and hold it in front of the fire.”
Gilder’s head reeled. All he could say was “Oh!” This was
awkward--very awkward; but it was a difficulty that might easily be
surmounted. At the worst he could buy her off for a thousand, and the
promise of marriage was contingent.… Still it was a very unpleasant
document to be produced even in a breach of promise case; for, strong
in the faith of the invisible quality of his ink, he had made an
agreement which was very damaging to himself.
“Are you going to stay with the Gwyns?”
“I think so, dear.” The hesitation was assumed, he knew; she had
already made up her mind. “I really think that I ought to go. Arthur,
of course, is a very old friend, and although he’s nothing to me, any
more than the dirt beneath my feet, and I should no more think of
throwing myself at his head than I should of flying to the moon--well,
I feel I ought to go.”
“Then, for heaven’s sake, go!” he said curtly, and she murmured her
thanks, and would have lingered on, but he accompanied her to the door
and opened it very pointedly.
He gathered that, whilst she held him to his promise, she had not
altogether lost hope of bringing Arthur Gwyn to heel.
She had hardly left the place before a telegraph boy arrived. Gilder
was expecting a wire from one of his bookmaking businesses, now in
process of liquidation, since their only client had passed from active
operations. The telegram was addressed from a village five miles from
Chelfordbury and ran:
Get down here as fast as you can. Big news for you.
It was signed “T.”
Would Thomas talk? And what had he to say?
XXXIII
The groom who brought Dick Alford’s horse to the door had a report
to make.
“That fellow was seen last night, sir.”
“Which fellow is this?” asked Dick, as he swung into the saddle.
“The Black Abbot, sir. Gill, the gamekeeper up at Long Meadow Cottage,
saw him at four o’clock this morning walking through the long meadow.
By the time Gill got his gun he’d vanished.”
“And what was the Black Abbot doing in the Long Meadow?” asked Dick
sardonically. “Picking buttercups?”
“It’s rather late for buttercups, sir,” said the unimaginative groom.
“But Gill says that if he’d had his gun he’d have taken a pot at him.”
“And there would have been an inquest, and the best Gill could hope
for would be a verdict of justifiable homicide. You can tell Gill from
me that the Black Abbot is to be tackled--by hand! A live ghost will
tell us a lot, but a dead ghost is practically useless as an
information bureau.”
He cantered through the home meadows, behind the house, and, avoiding
the Abbey ruins, rejoined the winding Ravensrill. Setting his horse at
a walk, he followed the bank of the stream, his mind so completely
occupied by the events of the past twenty-four hours that he would
have passed unnoticed the girl who was lying face downward on the
opposite bank.
It was a glorious morning, warm and sunny. The sky was an unblemished
blue, the world was bathed in yellow radiance. Overhead, a flight of
migratory birds were moving southward, and the faint chatter of them
came down to him.…
“Good-morning, Sir Galahad!”
He reined up his horse and looked round in bewilderment. Presently he
saw her.
“Good-morning, Guinevere!” he said, and, turning his horse’s head to
the stream, he came gingerly down the slope and sent the reluctant
horse into the water.
“Be careful!”
“There’s a ford here,” he said. “In fact,” as he emerged with his
horse’s girth dripping, “this is the original Chelford. Knights in
armour, and probably Britons in feathers and woad, have crossed
Ravensrill at this spot. What on earth are you doing?”
He slipped to the ground, dropping the reins, and allowed his mount to
forage at will. She was lying now at full length, but resting on her
elbows. Immediately beneath her face was a slab of rock in the centre
of which a hole some eighteen inches in diameter had been worn. When
he saw this he laughed softly.
“Leslie, what questions have you to ask the Wishing Well?”
Why it was called the Wishing Well he had never learnt--no water had
ever risen from that deep cavity which, by some freak of nature,
extended to unplumbed depths. Yet here, generations of country swains
had come to prostrate themselves and bellow into the cavity the burden
of their hearts’ desire. And tradition had it that the well answered
them clearly and intelligibly.
“I’m asking about me.” Her face was pink, probably from her unusual
posture.
“And what said the well?” he mocked.
She scrambled to her knees and pushed back the hair from her forehead.
“I’ll not tell you. Ask something!”
With a growl and a groan he stretched himself on the warm grass and,
hollowing his hands, roared into the crevice:
“What is going to happen to Leslie?”
They waited, and then the echo came back, queerly distorted yet
distinct.
“Marry her!”
They laughed together. It was the trick of some hollow place below
that through the ages had sent back the same reply to every question.
He got up to his feet.
“I wish you wouldn’t wander around without my escort,” he said
seriously, and she laughed.
Never had he seen her looking more beautiful than that morning. She
was a thing of air and sunlight, a baffling unreality that did not
belong to the sordid world in which he was living.
“I got up early and was bored, so I went walking, and then I thought
of the well and wondered whether it had learnt any new tricks.
Arthur’s very conscious of his eye and he won’t go out until his face
is normal. Poor Arthur!” She hesitated, looking at him. “You haven’t
found----” She did not finish the sentence.
“The gentleman who did the shooting? No, but we have a pretty shrewd
idea. By the way, I have fired Thomas. You remember that hang-dog
footman who was always near at hand when he shouldn’t have been?”
“What has he done?” she asked.
“Nothing particular. He is an ex-convict: Puttler recognized him as
soon as he arrived; and I found him at three o’clock this morning
coming out of the library and made him turn out his pockets. He had no
very considerable sum of money in his possession, but the chances are
that he had cached it. Poor old Harry is such a slacker in the matter
of keeping accounts that it will be almost impossible to secure a
conviction. Of course, Thomas swore the money we found--not a large
amount--was his, and as it meant a fuss in waking up Harry, who I am
perfectly sure could have given us no information, we allowed the
brute to get away with it.”
“Where is he now?”
“Thomas? I expect he caught the first train for London. I don’t
suppose he’ll be applying for a job in the neighbourhood, but to be on
the safe side you had better tell your brother.”
There was a moment of silence, then she asked:
“Did you find the rifle?”
He shook his head.
“It was an army rifle, but there isn’t such a thing at Fossaway Manor,
though there are plenty in the village. In fact, nearly a dozen of our
people working on the estate are Territorials. Puttler says that a
poacher’s gang was responsible.”
Dick was a poor liar, but Leslie suspected nothing and did not
question this theory. If she had, she might have pointed out that
poachers use shotguns and snares, and that the rifle as an instrument
for the destruction of game was about as valuable as a steam-hammer
for tacking down carpets.
They walked across the field toward Willow House, Dick leading his
horse.
“I want you to make me a promise, Leslie,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked, knowing before he spoke what it would be.
“I want you to promise me not to take these early morning walks, to
use your car and to keep to the roads.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Why? Surely there is no danger? You’re not afraid of the Black
Abbot?”
But he did not answer her smile.
“No,” he said. “I’m not afraid especially of the Black Abbot, but I’m
very much afraid of the something that is behind the Black Abbot.”
She knew that he did not wish to be questioned further, and changed
the subject. She had a visitor coming, she told him, and only when she
told him who it was, did his eyes twinkle.
“Good Lord! That lady? I suppose you realize you’re harbouring a
dangerous rival?”
“Don’t be horrid, Dick. The poor girl was very fond of Harry, and in
the letter she wrote to me she told me that she hoped I wouldn’t be
embarrassed by her coming----”
“She would say that,” said Dick grimly.
“--and that she had almost forgotten Harry’s stupid infatuation.”
Dick stopped to laugh.
“Can you beat that?” he asked, with tears in his eyes. “Jumping
snakes! ‘Harry’s stupid infatuation’! Well, I won’t be ungenerous.”
“Don’t,” she warned him. “I’m rather sorry for the girl.”
“Don’t,” he mimicked. “You need never be sorry for Mary. If you keep
her off the subject of me, you’ll have a very pleasant week-end. But
in the matter of Richard Alford she is a fanatic. I won’t tell you the
horrid things she says of me, because it would prejudice you against
her.”
“How do you know?” she challenged. “Quite a number of people say
horrid things about Richard Alford.”
“Not to you,” he said quietly, and she flushed and again changed the
subject.
“I don’t know why I’m up so early; I didn’t go to bed till two.”
“It was ten minutes past two when your light went out,” he said
promptly, and she stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“I happened to be passing your house.”
He was in such a hurry to explain that she was suspicious.
“The Black Abbot was about last night. Puttler and I did a little
ghost-hunting.”
“Did you see him?”
He shook his head.
“Nobody saw him except a terrified gamekeeper.”
Suddenly she turned to him with a little gasp of surprise.
“It _was_ you!” she accused.
“What was me?”
“I am sure I saw somebody at the lower end of the drive. You were
smoking a cigar: I could see the little red glow; and at first I
thought it was Harry, and this morning I found the end of the cigar
near the lodge gates--Richard Alford, do you ever sleep?”
“Frequently,” he said, with a smile, and put his arm round her
shoulder. “I’m being brotherly: take no alarm,” he mocked her.
“Leslie, dear, will you promise?”
“What?” she asked.
“Not to wander through the fields at odd hours. I don’t want to alarm
you--I feel a brute as it is--but there may be real danger for the
next day or two. Please don’t ask me what it is, because I can’t tell
you; I’m not so sure that I know.”
She turned this over in her mind for a long time.
“Has it to do with the Chelford treasure?” she asked, and, to her
surprise, he nodded.
XXXIV
In sight of her house he left her, and, remounting his horse,
cantered away. She watched him until a bend of the road hid him from
view, and then with a little sigh she walked slowly toward her home.
What was the mystery? She had never taken the Black Abbot very
seriously, believing that the apparition had its origin in a stupid
practical joke carried out by a villager with a histrionic bent. The
legend she knew; Dick had told her, and Harry, who kept alive all the
legends of the family, had described in detail the
eight-hundred-year-old murder. But how was the Black Abbot affecting
her? And what was the meaning of this close guard that Dick Alford was
keeping on her? She had no doubt that it was he who was watching the
house in the early hours of the morning.
In the night she had reached a momentous decision. It had been made
after long thought and heart-searching, and she would have given
everything to have had the courage to tell Dick that morning. But in
that bright, sunlit world she was averse to hurting him. But would he
be hurt? Her life’s future hung on that question.
She had been dimly conscious that a man was standing before the gate
of Willow House. She had seen him when she was some distance away, and
now, as she drew near, she had a feeling that he was waiting to speak
to her. He was tall and wearing an ill-fitting gray suit and a golf
cap; from his lips drooped a limp cigarette. He took his hands out of
his pockets as she came near and touched his cap, and then she
recognized the ill-favoured Thomas, the ex-footman.
“Good-morning, miss,” he said.
“Good-morning, Thomas.”
She viewed with more interest than she had done heretofore the lank,
awkwardly made man.
“I wonder if I can have a word with you, miss?”
She hesitated.
“I am afraid I can do nothing for you, Thomas,” she said. “Mr. Alford
tells me he has discharged you.”
He forced a grin.
“Mr. Alford never did like me, miss,” he said. “I’ve been falsely
accused, and I’m going to see my lawyer when I get to town. One
minute, miss,” he said hastily, as she was opening the gate. “I could
tell you something that would be worth a lot to you.”
Her gray eyes fixed him in a steady stare.
“You can tell me nothing that would be of the slightest value,
Thomas----” she began.
“Oh, couldn’t I!” His head went up and down in a succession of nods.
He was ludicrously like a nodding mandarin she had on her writing
table. “You don’t know what I know. I could tell you something, and I
could tell Mr. Gwyn something that nobody don’t know. People talk
about the Chelford treasure----”
“I don’t want to hear any more,” she said, and, turning, walked up the
drive.
For a moment he glared after her as though he contemplated following,
but thought better of it, and, lighting the cigarette which had gone
out, he slouched back to his borrowed home. And then an idea occurred
to him. Beyond the low wooden fence was a thick belt of laurels. If
one of his plans were carried out and he had to make a quick exit from
Chelfordbury, it might be worth while to reconnoitre this house. He
jumped over the fence and made a cautious progress through the
bushes.…
“Who’s that you were speaking to, Leslie?” Arthur Gwyn was lying in a
deck chair on the lawn, his eye covered with a piece of white lint.
“Thomas,” she said.
“The footman from Fossaway? What did he bring--a message?”
“No, he’s been discharged,” she said as she passed him. “Dick suspects
him of stealing, and he sent him about his business this morning.”
“Have you seen Dick, then?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes, I met him; he was riding over to see the miller.” She lingered
at the back of the chair.
“You always seem to be meeting that fellow,” he mused, with a frown.
“It is ‘Dick this’ and ‘Dick that.’ Do you think it’s wise, Leslie,
playing with fire and all that sort of thing? You never tell me you
meet Harry----”
“Harry never comes out of his library,” she said with a smile, “and
it’s difficult to miss Dick if you’re out of doors. Not that I’ve ever
tried to miss him.”
He took out his cigarette and looked at it thoughtfully, his lips
pursed.
“Dick’s a good fellow,” he said again, “and it is unnecessary for me
to remind you that he is a second son, and as poor as a church mouse.
Yes, Leslie, I’m going to insist on that poverty. After all, you’re
not marrying a pauper in Harry. And I tell you frankly that it is
necessary that you should marry a rich man!”
The truth was coming--she braced herself to meet it.
“Who will also take my fortune on trust,” she said quietly. “If I
married Dick, who is a business man, he might ask to see my bonds and
shares----”
A tense moment of silence, then:
“There are no bonds or shares!”
He had to set his teeth to make his confession. He could not see her
face; he dared not look round or meet her eyes.
“There are no bonds or shares?” she repeated slowly. “Then what I said
in the car was right? I am penniless!”
XXXV
The truth was out. Leslie stood rigidly behind her brother, looking
down on him.
“I am penniless!” she repeated.
He had to wet his dry lips before he could speak.
“I’ve been trying to work up courage to tell you this for a long
time,” he said. “I’m a coward--a cur! You have a few thousand pounds
that I couldn’t handle, but every other penny of your fortune I have
spent!” His voice was hoarse, scarcely recognizable. “You’ll have to
know this sooner or later; you might as well know it now. I don’t know
what you’ll think of me. I’d like to say that I didn’t care, but that
wouldn’t be the truth. I’ve gambled away a quarter of a million, and
I’m as near to bankruptcy and ruin as makes no difference.”
He pulled the lint bandage from his eye and got up and faced her. Save
for the discolouration of his cheek, he was white as chalk.
“I’d no intention of telling you,” he said in a low voice, “but you
piqued me into it, and I’m glad it’s over.”
Raising his eyes to hers, he did not see the look of condemnation he
expected. There was neither contempt nor consternation in her face.
The red lips were curved in a half-smile, and in her eyes was nothing
but kindliness and pity.
“Thank God!” she said in a low voice, and he could not understand her.
“This means, of course, that Chelford will have to take you without a
fortune,” he said.
She shook her head.
“I have already written to Harry, breaking off my engagement,” she
answered him. And then her arm slipped into his. “Let us go in to
breakfast,” she said. “This is one of the happiest days of my life.”
The letter came to Harry Alford, Earl of Chelford, with two or three
other personal letters; his main correspondence was with London
booksellers, for he was a restless collector of ancient tomes. He
looked at the letter, recognizing the handwriting, frowned, and turned
it over. Then, with some evidence of annoyance, he slit the flap.
Dear Harry:
I have thought for a long time that we have so little in common that a
marriage between us could not possibly lead to happiness for either of
us. I suppose the correct thing to do would be to send back my
engagement ring, but fortunately or unfortunately, you forgot to
present me with this token! I wish you every happiness, and I hope
that we shall still be good friends.
Harry read the letter, rubbed his forehead in perplexity, then, rising
from his chair, almost ran from the library. Dick was on the lawn,
playing with his dog, when his brother burst into the little study.
“I say, look at this! What do you think of it?”
Dick read the letter with a troubled face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry!” said Harry shrilly. “It’s disgraceful! I shall look a perfect
fool! Leslie’s treated me very badly indeed--but that reference to the
engagement ring is in shocking bad taste.”
“I thought you’d given her one,” said the patient Dick. “Didn’t you?”
“It is a barbarous and stupid practice. I never dreamt of giving her a
ring. Why should I? She had a ring, a beautiful one. You must have
seen it--a diamond that she always wears. What is the sense of it? The
reference is in very bad taste--shocking!”
And yet, in spite of his agitation and anger, Dick thought he detected
relief in his brother’s voice. But his vanity had been hurt, and that
is a sore place with many men of greater calibre than Lord Chelford.
“Without any warning.… She was here yesterday, but said not a word
about it!”
“You hardly gave her a chance,” said Dick. “You scarcely spoke to her,
and really, Harry, you took no trouble to entertain her. Be
reasonable.”
Harry fondled his chin and glared through the thick lenses of his
horn-rimmed spectacles.
“I suppose not,” he said, with sudden mildness. “But, really, I’m not
a marrying man. I want no more than my books and my mission. But I’m
going to look a fool over this business, Dick.” His anger was rising
again. “Everybody in the county knows we’re engaged, and they’ll come
prying around to discover what is wrong. We shall have those beastly
newspaper men sitting on the front step, and that is more than I can
endure!”
“Then let them come to me,” said Dick. “I’ll give them all the
explanation they need, and they’ll be sorry they asked. As for
newspaper men--I eat ’em alive!”
Still his brother was not wholly mollified.
“What made her do it? Do you think she’s found somebody else she likes
better?” He peered at Dick in his short-sighted way. “That would make
it even worse. I’m very annoyed with Arthur Gwyn. He threw this girl
at me----”
“Don’t let us talk about it,” said Dick sharply. “It isn’t a very
dignified attitude to take.”
His brother looked at the letter dubiously.
“What am I to do?”
“Write a charming letter, freeing her,” said Dick. “You can do no
less.”
“But do you think she’s got another man in her eye?” demanded Harry.
“She has probably a dozen,” said the other brutally. “Do as I tell
you, Harry.”
And Harry Chelford went grumbling back to the library.
So she had done it! Dick hardly knew whether to be elated or
depressed. A week ago he would have been the happiest man in England;
to-day… he shrugged his broad shoulders, pulled his pipe from his
pocket, and savagely stuffed tobacco into the bowl. This would mean a
break, for a time, at any rate, between the Gwyns and Harry, and there
arose an alarming thought. Suppose Harry transferred his legal
business to another firm? That would mean ruin for Arthur Gwyn. Dick
had so far been able to cover up the defalcations of Leslie Gwyn’s
brother, and in a few months he could have obliterated all trace
without hurt to the estate. But at this stage, if Harry insisted----
“His lordship would like to see you, sir.” The second footman had come
up unnoticed behind him.
Dick steeled himself for the interview and went in. His brother was
sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, his hair rumpled, and an
angry frown puckering the white skin of his forehead.
“Dick, I’m going to cut out these Gwyns,” he said. “I want you to ask
your lawyers to take over from Arthur, and tell them to be deuced
careful and check every item. That fellow handles my mother’s estate,
and roughly I think he must have nearly fifty thousand pounds in
securities. If there’s a penny missing, Dick, I’ll jail the fellow--I
will, by God! He’s made a fool of me before all the county, and if I
get half a chance I’m going to get back on him.”
Dick’s heart sank.
“What lawyers do you suggest?”
“Sampson & Howard. They’re good people and they’re not too friendly
with Arthur. Will you take that in hand, Dick?”
Dick Alford nodded. As soon as he could escape from his brother’s
presence, he went round to the garage and, taking out his car, drove
to Willow House. Arthur was still on the lawn, walking up and down,
and from his attitude of depression Dick gathered that something
unusual had happened. Possibly he had been told about the breaking off
of the engagement. But here he attributed the wrong cause.
“I want to see you, Gwyn.”
Arthur Gwyn started and turned at the sound of the voice.
“Hullo!” he said awkwardly. “Does Harry know?”
Dick nodded.
“And he’s very angry, I suppose?”
“He is rather furious. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. Where
is Leslie?”
“She’s in the house. Do you want her?”
“No,” said Dick quietly. “I want to talk with you. Come for a walk
with me.”
They strolled out of all possibility of earshot from the house, and
then:
“Harry has decided to take the legal management of the estate out of
your hands, Gwyn,” he said. “He spoke to me this morning of some funds
that you’re handling--about fifty thousand pounds’ worth of stock from
the late Lady Chelford’s estate. Is that money intact?”
Arthur did not answer.
“Is that money intact?” asked Dick again.
“No,” said the other huskily; “not a penny of it.”
Dick stared at the man in horror.
“You mean the money is lost?”
Arthur nodded.
“Yes, I was persuaded to put it into an oil-field in Texas. The shares
are not worth two cents a thousand.”
Dick groaned.
“Oh, you fool, you cussed fool!” he muttered. “Don’t you realize what
this means? I can’t cover you up now, not even for Leslie’s sake. You
madman!”
Arthur Gwyn passed his hand wearily over his eyes.
“What is the use of ragging me?” he asked plaintively. “I’ve been
expecting this trouble, and have lived under the shadow of it for
years. I’ll have to take my medicine.”
“And Leslie?” asked Dick sternly. “What of her? Has she to take your
medicine, too?”
The man’s pallid face was distorted painfully.
“Don’t talk about Leslie, for God’s sake!” he said. “That’s the worst
of it. I’m not scared of Dartmoor or bankruptcy or anything. Leslie’s
the only fear I have.”
“Can you raise the money?”
Arthur gave a harsh little laugh.
“Raise it? How do you think I can raise fifty thousand?”
“You have no friends?”
The lawyer’s lips curled.
“Not fifty thousand pounds’ worth,” he said curtly. “No, I’m afraid,
Alford, I’ve got to go through with it. I’ve been a blackguard, a
vain, stupid fool--I’ve asked for all that is coming to me and I shall
not squeal.”
Dick was silent, going over the problem that this horrible situation
presented. Arthur could go to prison and stay there for the rest of
his life, for all he cared… but Leslie: this would break her heart.
“There is one thing I want you to promise me----” he began, as he
foresaw one possible solution which might present itself to Arthur’s
mind.
The lawyer smiled and nodded.
“You can trust me,” he said. “I’ve got some sort of religion tucked
away inside my system. Self-destruction is not my idea of a
gentleman’s solution. I tell you I’ll stand up to anything that comes,
and I’m not going to blow my brains out and leave a coroner’s jury of
yokels and carpenters to discuss my private affairs and probe into my
iniquities. When will the transfer take place?”
“We’ve got a week yet,” said Dick. “I can hold it up for that long;
but once the papers are in the hands of the other lawyers, nothing can
save you.”
A week! Arthur Gwyn pinched his lower lip in meditation. Seven days.
So far as he was concerned, if he had seven years to make reparation
he could not see daylight.
“And get out of your mind that you’re going to find the Chelford
treasure,” said Dick, and the shock made the man jump.
“Why, how do you know----” he stammered.
“I know all about that. I tell you that you can cut it out. That isn’t
a solution. It’s only robbing Peter to pay Peter; for if there is any
gold--and heaven knows I doubt it--it belongs to Harry and must go to
Harry. What about Leslie’s fortune? Of course that is non-existent.
Does she know?”
“I told her this morning,” said the man, and now Dick understood his
depression. “She took it like a brick; in fact, she seemed almost
happy about it. And why, I can’t for the life of me understand. Women
are queer things.”
“I know one woman who is the most wonderful thing in the world,” said
Dick softly.
He did not wait to see Leslie, but left as hurriedly as he came, and
the man who had been lying at full length beneath the laurel bushes
waited till the two men had disappeared, and then crawled painfully
and carefully back to the road, mounted the wall, and stepped out for
the nearest telegraph office to send his news.
XXXVI
Mr. Gilder arrived at his cottage in the evening and found his
“tenant” sitting on the doorstep smoking a pipe. Fortunately, the
cottage was in the middle of a thin plantation of trees, and the river
at the back made an approach from that direction impossible.
Nevertheless, Mr. Gilder was alarmed at the lack of precaution the man
showed.
“If you’re going to stay here you’ve got to keep inside the house. I
tell you I don’t want people to know that you’re living here. Now,
what is the big news?”
“Come inside,” said Thomas, with a grin, and his host felt that the
invitation into his own house was a little superfluous.
Thomas was not a good story-teller, and it was with many “You see what
I mean’s” and at inordinate length that he unravelled his tangled
narrative.
“I’d been hanging round the house all the morning. I wanted to have a
talk with the young lady----”
“What about?” demanded the other.
“About a certain thing----”
“Now, see here, Thomas: you’re not to speak to Miss Gwyn--do you
understand? You’re not to approach her and you’re not to go anywhere
near the house.”
“Well, it’s not a bad thing that I was there this morning,” grinned
Thomas. “Because I heard something that will make you jump!”
It took half-an-hour for him to repeat, with more or less accuracy,
the conversation he had heard on the lawn. When he came to the vital
point, Mr. Gilder whistled.
Arthur Gwyn had managed the Chelford estate without his assistance,
and Gilder was as ignorant of the particulars of the property as if it
were in some other office.
“Fifty thousand, eh?” he mused. “Well, that’s more than Arthur Gwyn
will collect in a hurry.”
“That’s what he said himself,” said Thomas. “He said to Alford:
‘Friends? Well, I haven’t got fifty thousand pounds’ worth’--those
were his very words. He said, ‘I’ll go to Dartmoor, and that doesn’t
worry me. What worries me is Leslie.’”
“Did you hear when the transfer was to be completed--I mean, when the
stocks were to be handed over to the other lawyers?”
“In a week,” said Thomas. “Mr. Alford said, ‘I can hold it up for a
week but I can’t keep it any longer. And once those papers are in the
other bloke’s hands, your name is mud.’”
Fifty thousand pounds! Gilder paced up and down the narrow room, his
hands behind him.
“You say that the engagement with his lordship is broken off?”
“He didn’t say so,” said the man, “but that’s how I took it. He said
‘Was Harry very annoyed?’ That’s his lordship. And Alford said ‘Yes,
and he’s going to change his lawyers.’ And he said, ‘What about
Leslie’s fortune?’----”
“Call her Miss Gwyn, will you?” interrupted Gilder roughly.
“He didn’t say Miss Gwyn, he said ‘Leslie.’ But to oblige you I’ll say
Miss Gwyn,” said Thomas. “He said, ‘What about Miss Gwyn’s fortune? Is
that gone?’ And Gwyn said, ‘Yes, every penny.’”
This was no news to Gilder--Arthur had told him as much.
“And here, Mr. Gilder--the Black Abbot was around last night. I’ve got
an idea about him! His lordship’s scared to death of the Black Abbot.
Did you know that?”
“Don’t talk to me about the Black Abbot!” snapped the man. He wanted
to work this thing out, and the chatter of his guest disturbed him.
“You keep inside and out of sight. I think you’d better go to London
to-night. You’ve got money?”
“I’ve got a bit of money. I was a fool! There’s an old-fashioned diary
in that library that his lordship would give a couple of thousand
pounds to get back, and I had it in my hand! That is the thing I ought
to have pinched.”
“And if it was found on you, you’d have been in prison. As it was, you
had taken money and you got away with it.”
This point of view had not struck the ex-convict before.
“That’s true,” he agreed. “Lord! what a headpiece you’ve got, Mr.
Gilder! If I had your brains----”
But Mr. Gilder was not in a mood for flattery.
“I’ve got an idea,” Thomas went on, unconscious of the distraction he
was causing. “Let me go up to London to-night and come down
to-morrow.”
But Gilder did not hear him. Fifty thousand pounds! And for that price
he could buy--Leslie Gwyn! His pulse quickened at the thought. There
were no “ifs” or “buts.” She would gladly make that sacrifice for her
brother’s sake. This time he had them all in the hollow of his hand:
Leslie, Arthur Gwyn, and last, but not least in dislike, Dick Alford.
Mentally he reviewed his financial position. He had considerably more
than a hundred thousand pounds in gilt-edged securities, which were
easily realizable--or transferable. He had house property in the north
of London, and a fairly large fluid balance at the bank. And he was
fifty. There were fifteen years of life ahead of him--fifteen happy
years. How could he better use his money than in buying happiness? The
life companionship of that fragrant thing, and afterward a will
whereby she lost all interest in his property if she married
again--Mr. Gilder thought a long way ahead. And his marriage would be
a knife in the heart of the Second Son, for he guessed Dick Alford’s
secret.
He saw his way now; the plan was foolproof and invincible. Nothing
stood between him and the realization of what had once been a wild and
foolish hope.
“A week? You’re sure of that?”
Thomas nodded. His cunning eyes had not left Gilder’s face.
Unconscious of the curious scrutiny, Fabrian asked:
“Why do you think this news is interesting to me?”
The man grinned and closed his right eye in a significant wink.
“Didn’t you ask me to tell you how often the young lady went to
Fossaway Manor? Didn’t you tell me to write everything that happened
between her and his lordship?”
Gilder was silent.
It was not a comfortable thought that he had employed such a man as
this to watch the girl he loved.
“You’d better keep close here,” he said. “I don’t want you to be seen
by the villagers or by the people from Fossaway Manor. Does anybody
know you’re here?”
“No, sir. Not even Miss Gwyn: she never asked----”
Gilder interrupted him brusquely.
“If you’re going to town, go by night, and come back by night. I’m not
so sure that it won’t be a good idea to stay here after all.”
He got back to London late in the evening and spent the night in a
strict examination of his finances. He had dismissed from his mind all
thoughts of the Chelford treasure. Mary Wenner had certainly
justification for her confidence. He himself had been deceived when he
had looked through the grating and seen those cylinders neatly
arranged on the stone bench. Who had moved them--the Black Abbot?
There must be some explanation for him. But he had his own ideas on
the subject, and the moment had not yet arrived when he could test his
theory.
The next morning he spent in the City and at Somerset House, examining
the will of the late Lady Chelford. Her legacies were set forth in
detail, and the character of the shares and stocks with which Arthur
Gwyn had been entrusted were particularized, and John Henry Gwyn,
Arthur’s uncle, named as trustee. A search of the court files failed
to reveal any successor to Arthur’s uncle, and apparently no trustee
had been appointed, the stocks being left in Arthur’s care. He would
of course have authority to sell and reinvest, and there would be no
trouble if shares of a corresponding value were handed over to Harry
Chelford’s new solicitors.
* * *
Arthur Gwyn had spent a very busy day in the seclusion of his study.
His task was not a pleasant one: he was putting in order the chaos of
his affairs, and as the list of his liabilities grew, he himself
seemed to grow older.
He had interrupted his work only to lunch with his sister, and Leslie,
who thought that the cause of his distress was her vanished fortune,
did her best to cheer him. His first act had been to gather on paper
the remnants of her vanished quarter of a million, and the remnant was
pitiably small, amounting to less than two thousand pounds. He told
her this at lunch.
“But that’s really a much larger amount than I expected, Arthur,” she
smiled. “We shall be able to live for two years on that.”
It was in his mind to say that he would possibly be living for five
years on less, but he wanted to avert that news until it was
inevitable that she should know.
At five o’clock she was having tea in solitary state when the maid
brought her a card. She had not heard the arrival of the visitor’s
motor car, for the drawing-room was at the back of the house. She took
the card and read it.
“I don’t think I want to see this gentleman,” she said. “Will you ask
Mr. Gwyn----”
And then she remembered the struggle on the lawn and Arthur’s damaged
eye.
“Yes, I’ll see him,” she said. “Ask him to come in.”
Gilder was dressed as for an official visit. He carried a glossy silk
hat, an incongruous sight in the country, in his gloved hand; his
morning coat sported a large yellow rose; his patent shoes shone
violently. Before he came to Willow House he had called at his own
cottage to refresh his memory on one or two points, but the house was
empty. Thomas had evidently gone up to town, as he had said he would.
At first he was annoyed, but later he was glad that the man was not
there. After all, he knew enough, more than enough for the comfort of
Leslie Gwyn.
She met him with a distant little bow.
“I’m afraid you will not regard me as a welcome visitor, Miss Gwyn,”
he said; “but I have a little business to discuss with you, and I
should be grateful if you would give me a few minutes of your time.”
“Will you sit down, please?” she said coldly.
He was gazing at her with that queer, hungry look she had seen in his
face before.
“I understand your engagement with Lord Chelford is broken off?” And,
when she did not answer: “It was partly that which brought me here,
and partly something much more serious--something,” he said, with
distinct deliberation, “which affects you very closely, Miss Gwyn.”
He paused, expecting a reply, but received none. She sat bolt upright
in one of the deep chairs that abounded in the room, her hands folded
lightly on her lap, her gaze fixed on his.
“I was, as you probably know, for many years your brother’s right-hand
man. In consequence, I have a very intimate knowledge of his affairs;
and not only his affairs but the affairs of his clients. I know, for
example, that your large fortune is mythical.”
If he had expected to shock her he was disappointed. She nodded
slightly.
“I know that also, Mr. Gilder,” she said. “I hope you haven’t made
this long journey to tell me this?”
For a second he was staggered. He had expected his announcement to be
the first of two tremendous sensations; she saw the disappointment in
his face and could have smiled.
“There is another matter,” he said, recovering himself, “which does
not directly affect you. Your brother administered the estate of the
late Lady Chelford, in the sense that he had in his charge stocks and
bonds to the value of fifty-one thousand pounds. That is quite usual
in an old-fashioned lawyer’s business, but to-day of course the stocks
would be in the hands of the bank, and the dividends automatically
credited.”
Her heart nearly stopped beating. He saw the colour fade from her face
and was very sure of himself.
“My brother has--that money?” she said.
“He _had_ it.” He emphasized the word. “I understand that the present
Lord Chelford is changing his lawyers, and in a week’s time those
stocks are to be handed over to another firm.”
She was speechless, knowing that he was telling the truth,
understanding only too well just all that this narrative implied.
“Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money,” Gilder went on suavely; “a
very difficult sum to raise in a week. And in a week that money must
be in your brother’s hands.”
She raised her eyes, and, seeing the pain in them, he was almost sorry
for her.
“You mean--that the money--that Arthur hasn’t those stocks to
transfer?”
He nodded.
“Are you sure of this?”
“Absolutely sure.”
A long silence, when the ticking of the little French clock came so
loudly to their ears that instinctively both glanced at the
mantelpiece together.
“Why do you tell me all this?”
He cleared his voice.
“A few days ago I told you, rather uncouthly, I am afraid, that I
loved you,” he said. “You may not credit me with the--the affectionate
reverence I have for you--but I love you! There is nothing in the
world I would not do for you, no price that I would not pay.”
Her eyes did not waver; she seemed to be reading his very soul.
“Even to the extent of providing fifty thousand pounds in a week?” she
said in a low voice.
“Even to that extent,” he answered.
She rose slowly to her feet.
“Will you write down your address?”
So calm was her voice that she might have been discussing an ordinary
matter of business.
“I know where you live, but I have forgotten the name of the building
and the number.”
He wrote it down with an unsteady hand and left the paper where she
had placed it.
“I must know to-morrow,” he said, “yes or no.”
She dropped her head.
“You shall know to-morrow,” she said. “If I tell you I will marry you,
you can make the arrangement about the money--I will not fail you.”
Without another word, he walked to the door, turned, and favoured her
with a deep bow, and went out into the hall. She heard the whirr of
his car grow fainter and fainter. But still she did not move.
XXXVII
The door opened. It was Arthur.
“Was that Gilder who came?” he asked, and, when she nodded: “The
brute! Why didn’t you send for me?”
He saw her face, and, quickly:
“Is anything wrong, Leslie?”
“Yes,” she said, and marvelled herself at the evenness of her tone.
“He came about some money that was in your care--a part of the estate
of Lady Chelford.”
She saw from the quick change in his face that all that Gilder had
said was true; but then, she had never doubted that.
“Does Dick know?” she asked.
“Yes, he knows. I wonder what you think of me?” he asked huskily.
She shook her head.
“Does it matter, Arthur, what I think? What will happen if the money
isn’t found?”
“I’ve got a week yet,” he said. “How did he come to know?”
“Can you get the money?”
It was a useless question.
“Dick said he will do his best.”
“Nothing can be done with Harry, I suppose?” she asked. “No, that’s
too impossible to think about. What will happen when the truth comes
out?”
He drew a deep breath.
“I don’t know; imprisonment, I suppose. It’s horribly rough on you,
Leslie. I’ve said that before, but words mean very little, and I am at
the end of words.”
His voice broke for a second, but he caught hold of his weakness in
time, and, seeing the fight he was making, there came a look of
admiration to her eyes.
“You poor soul!” she said softly.
Another long pause.
“What did Gilder want--just to tell you that?”
“Partly that.”
“And to make you an offer?” There was just a hint of eagerness in his
tone; the drowning man was gripping hard on a straw. It made her heart
ache to think that, even at that moment, when he knew he deserved
nothing but her loathing, he could contemplate yet another sacrifice
upon her part without protest.
“He made me an offer--yes,” she said. “And I don’t know what I shall
do. I’m going to see Dick.”
“Is that necessary?” he asked anxiously.
She nodded.
“I’m going to see Dick,” she said. “I will ’phone him.”
She moved to the instrument and lifted the receiver from the hook,
when he caught her arm.
“I shouldn’t be guided--too much by Dick,” he said breathlessly.
“Gilder’s a brute, but you might be happier with him than with Harry.”
She shook off his arm and gave a number. The servant who replied told
her that Dick was out, that he had gone to London that afternoon, and
would not be back until late at night. She hung up the instrument,
went back to the drawing-room, and took up the paper on which Gilder
had written his address.
“You have six days, Arthur,” she said. “I have less than twenty-four
hours. I don’t know whose case is the worse, but I rather fancy it is
mine.”
He heard her go up to her room, and after a while followed and tried
the door. It was locked.
“Leslie!” he called anxiously, but she did not hear him.
With her face buried in the pillow, she was saying good-bye to Dick
Alford, and her heart was breaking.
XXXVIII
Passing down Wardour Street that afternoon, Dick Alford had seen a
familiar face. A man came out of a shop with a bundle under his arm,
and, recognizing the young man, turned on his tracks and walked
rapidly away. Dick grinned; there was no mistaking Thomas, and he
wondered what was the nature of his purchase.
He glanced at the window of the store and was puzzled; for Thomas did
not seem the kind of man who would indulge in the frivolities which
were exhibited behind the plate glass.
He was not in any very good spirits. He had made two calls, and on
each occasion had suffered a gentle rebuff. He was going now to see
his last hope. The big City bank was closed when he arrived, but a
porter admitted him to the presence of the old man who had been his
father’s best friend. The war had turned plain Mr. Jarvis, a country
banker of the ’eighties, into Lord Clanfield, the head of the greatest
banking corporation in Europe.
He gave Dick a hearty welcome, for the boy had been a favourite of
his.
“Sit ye down, Dick. What has brought you to this square mile of
trouble?”
Plainly and briefly Dick stated his business, and Lord Clanfield
frowned.
“Fifty thousand pounds, my dear boy! Do you want it for yourself?”
“No, I want it for a very dear friend of mine.” It required an effort
to describe Arthur in these flattering terms. “He has got into a
scrape.”
His lordship shook his head.
“It couldn’t be done, Dick. If it was for you, to get _you_ out of a
scrape--but then, you’re not the kind of lad who’d ever get into
one--I’d give it to you out of my own pocket.”
“You couldn’t lend it to me on my personal security?”
The banker smiled.
“Lending it to you, Dick, would be giving it to you! What chance have
you of repaying fifty thousand pounds? A second son! Harry is marrying
this year, and there will be an heir to the estate next year! No, no,
old boy, it would be impossible.”
Then, in his desperation, Dick Alford told the story, suppressing only
the names. The old man listened with a grave face.
“He has got to go through with it, Dick,” he said. “If you get him out
of this trouble he’ll probably get into worse. The poor little
girl--I’m sorry for her. Of course, you’re speaking about Gwyn? No,
no, you needn’t be afraid, I sha’n’t say a word. But I’ve had my
suspicions for a long time. Let him take his medicine, Dick, and do
what you can for the girl. Once that fellow is behind bars and the
whole wretched trouble is at an end, come to me for any money you
want--for the girl. I knew her father and her uncle, and the
great-uncle who left her a lot of money, which I suppose has gone up
in smoke with the rest, and I’m willing to go a long way to help her.
But you mustn’t pledge your credit, Dick, for that worthless man.”
Dick came away from the City, weary and sick at heart, too dispirited
even to interview the fourth man he had intended to see. His only hope
now was his brother, and he knew Harry’s obstinacy too well to expect
help from that quarter, which could not even be asked for except by
betraying as the borrower the man for whom he had conceived an
unreasoning hatred.
Monkey Puttler met him at the station and had a piece of news to
impart.
“That bird Thomas is still in the neighbourhood,” he said. “He’s been
living in Gilder’s cottage.”
“Indeed?” said Dick. He was really not concerned with Thomas or Gilder
or anything in the wide world except the heartbreak that awaited
Leslie Gwyn.
“Gilder’s been down to-day. Ascot’s all over, isn’t it? Anyway, he was
dressed like a doctor in new clothes--top hat and everything.”
“Where has he been?” asked Dick, with sudden interest.
“I don’t know. I guess he went to call on Mr. Gwyn. I saw his car
coming out of the drive, and he looked very pleased with himself. And
I’ve found the rifle.”
“Where did you find it?” asked Dick quickly.
“Up against the river. Someone must have thrown it in, but didn’t
throw hard enough. There were three or four cartridges still in the
magazine--a sporting Lee-Enfield. They’ve tried the knife and they’ve
tried the gun; I wonder what new one they’ll put out on us.”
“Have you seen Harry?”
“Saw him this afternoon,” said the cheerful Puttler. “He worked that
chesil gag on me, but I didn’t give him my views.”
In spite of his anxiety, Dick smiled.
“Have you any views on chesils?”
“Yes, sir,” said the other confidently. “He thinks chesil is an
instrument. He doesn’t seem to realize that in Elizabethan times
‘chesil’ meant ‘gravel’ or ‘shingle.’”
Dick stopped and stared at him.
“Is that so?” he asked.
“Ever heard of a place called Chelsea?” said the informative Mr.
Puttler. “Do you know what ‘Chelsea’ means? It means ‘Chesil Ey’ or
Shingle Island. Why, the word isn’t even obsolete; you’ll find it in
any dictionary. The new ‘chesil’ that is spoken of in the Diary is a
load of shingle he got from Brighthelmstone. That’s Brighton. Now, why
did the old bird want shingle? Obviously to put in some kind of
concrete or mortar.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t start on the treasure, or I shall go mad!”
groaned Dick. “At any rate, you don’t believe in its existence, thank
goodness!”
“I do,” said the surprising man emphatically. “I’m as sure that those
thousand bars of gold are in existence as I’m certain you and I are
walking up this road. Your brother’s got a book down that shows all
Queen Elizabeth’s private accounts; there’s the million she stole from
the Spanish ships that put into an English port when they were on
their way to Holland; there’s the money she got from Drake and the
other seagoing burglars; but there’s not a hint of the Chelford gold.”
“Then where is it?” asked Dick in exasperation.
“Ask me before I go,” replied the other cryptically.
XXXIX
A dozen letters were written and burnt in the fireplace of her
bedroom before Leslie composed the one that was eventually placed in
an envelope and addressed to “Fabrian Gilder, Esq., 35, Regency
Mansions, London.” She had written:
Dear Mr. Gilder:
I agree to your terms. The money or equivalent shares must be
deposited in the Horsham branch of the Southern & Midland Bank, in the
name of Leslie Gilder, so that I may have control of the account from
the moment I am married. I do not expect you to trust the word of one
of my family, and I presume that you will wish the marriage to take
place in the next few days. Will you please make arrangements for the
ceremony, and tell me when and where I am to meet you? I expect it to
be at a registrar’s office by special license. I can only say that,
although this marriage is not of my seeking, you may trust me to be a
loyal wife.
Very sincerely,
Leslie Gwyn.
The last post was collected by a motor-cyclist postman at ten o’clock
from a little wall box not a hundred yards from the house. There was
an earlier collection, but somehow she could not bring herself to post
the letter until the very last moment. Ten o’clock was an unusually
late hour for a country collection, but it was the last box on the
postman’s route and was an especially convenient arrangement, not only
for the inhabitants of Fossaway Manor, but for the tenant farmers who
wished to notify their daily consignments.
She saw Arthur at dinner after the letter was written, but beyond the
exchange of a few commonplaces they did not speak. He went back to his
study, carrying his coffee with him, and she was left alone to the
contemplation of the dark future. She wished she had seen Dick before
she wrote, but it was too late now. Gilder had asked her to give him
his answer that night, and she had promised.
What would Dick say? She screwed up her eyes tightly as though to hide
the vision of him, and her lips trembled.
“No weakness, Danton!” It was a favourite quotation of her childhood,
and had been the slogan at all moments when tears were near at hand.
She took the letter from her bag and looked at it. Stamped, addressed,
she had but to drop this into the little letter box, and thereafter
the angle of life was twisted to a new prospect: the bleakest,
dreariest prospect that any woman had faced.
And it had to be done. The hands of the clock moved slowly and
inexorably round. Nine o’clock--a quarter after--twenty minutes before
ten; she set her teeth and got up from the little table where she had
been trying in vain to concentrate her mind upon a game of patience,
went upstairs and put on her hat and coat, and, with the letter
tightly gripped in her hand, stole down across the hall, opened the
door, and went out.
It was very dark; she could scarcely see her way down the drive. Clear
of the overhanging trees, her eyes, grown accustomed to the darkness,
made out the road. She thought that she saw somebody on the road ahead
and heard footsteps, but she was nervous, she told herself.
Nevertheless, she stopped and listened. She heard nothing and went on.
A few minutes’ walk brought her to the pillar box, and here she
waited. A big spot of rain fell upon her hand; she heard the sough of
the wind through the trees; and then, far away, she saw a tiny star of
light and heard the faint clank of the postman’s cycle. She thrust the
letter into the box and turned to retrace her steps.
Then it occurred to her that the postman would pass her, and she did
not wish to see him. Which way should she go? Her heart and
inclinations beckoned to Fossaway Manor. Dick--she must see Dick. She
fought against the madness; the postman’s light grew brighter. Then
she ran down toward the cut road, through the gate and up the slope to
the Abbey. There she sat down to recover her breath, and presently she
saw the reflection of a lamp, heard the thunder of the postman’s
motor-cycle as it passed.
There went fate, on that dark road, noisily, bumpily. The red light
faded from sight, and she got up, walked leisurely past the Abbey
ruins, without one thought of ghosts or haunting spirits, and took the
lower and shorter path to the Manor.
She was halfway across the long meadow when she stopped. Fear was
clutching at her heart; she could feel the flesh creep on her neck,
and, turning, looked back. Somebody was following her. Consciously she
had heard no sound, but to her heart flashed a warning signal that set
it racing. She could see nobody. It must be her imagination, she told
herself; yet here, reason and instinct were at variance, and instinct
won. She _knew_ there was somebody immediately behind her, less than
twenty yards away.
She could intercept the long drive to Fossaway Manor before she could
reach the house. She decided to make the longer journey, and, turning
abruptly, walked with quick strides across the velvety grass-land in
the direction of the elms which flanked the drive. Once she looked
back, and thought she saw a moving shape. She quickened her steps,
broke into a gentle run. She must not allow blind panic to overcome
her, she told herself.