DOROTHY MAKES A CONFESSION
“TRAPPED the swabs!” cried Job Seal, rubbing his big hands with
undisguised delight, although he seemed disappointed that we had not
allowed him to come face to face with Bennett. From the skipper’s
determined attitude I knew that murder would be done if the two men met,
therefore I took to myself some credit for having kept them apart, even
though they had passed within a yard of one another.
“Trapped the whole four of ’em!” he exclaimed, his great face lit by a
grin as he placed his hands to his sides. “Mr. Reilly,” he added, “I’ve
respect for you, sir. You’ve checkmated ’em entirely.”
“I’d thought it all over,” was the younger man’s reply. “And if any of
them fall down the well it isn’t our look-out. They had no right to
intrude here.”
“But can they get across by any means?” I queried, knowing well the
characters of the quartette.
“Impossible—absolutely impossible,” Reilly replied. “I can jump as far
as most men, but I couldn’t jump that. They have no ropes, or any means
by which to bridge the death-trap.”
I glanced at my watch. It was then a quarter past four. Morning broke,
bright and sunny, with a slight mist rising from the river, but still we
waited in that upstairs room for signs of the invaders returning.
Half an hour went by, and suddenly we heard noises below.
They were trying to raise the trap-door down which they had passed, but
we knew that all efforts to do so were useless, for, besides the stones
upon it, we had so wedged the crowbars across and into holes in the wall
that to push up the flap was utterly impossible.
From where we stood we could hear their voices mingled with the groans
of their united efforts.
“Stay there, you unutterable sons of dogs!” growled Job Seal, and
although those were not exactly the words he used, they were synonymous.
I stood listening, and could hear the low curses of the men whom we had
captured like rats in a run.
Together we went downstairs and out into the early sunshine. The bright
air refreshed us, although our thoughts were with those four men
consigned to a living tomb.
Presently we re-entered the house and descended to the cellar where they
had been at work. By the light of a candle which the skipper carried we
were surprised to see what an enormous hole they had made through the
foundations into the earth beyond. Indeed, they had taken out a great
piece of the wall, and through the rough arch had driven a tunnel two
yards high and some three yards long. It was there they had evidently
expected to discover the treasure, but, like ourselves, they had worked
in vain.
The strong-smelling earth excavated lay piled in the cellar up to the
roof, and the manner in which the work had been performed showed that at
least one of the party was used to such operations. But there was
nothing else there, save a few candle-ends.
It struck us all three as very remarkable why the intruders should have
gone straight to that spot and commenced their investigation there.
Evidently they were in possession of certain precise information of
which we were in utter ignorance, yet, holding them entrapped in that
long, subterranean passage without exit, we should now be enabled to
pursue further investigations in the direction they themselves had
indicated.
Seal, without coat or vest, spent an hour in tapping every part of the
wall, but was compelled to admit that he discovered no hollow place.
Therefore, recollecting the mention of the paces from the bottom of the
steps, we measured them in an opposite direction and began to attack the
wall.
Through the whole morning we all three worked in the semi-darkness, but
having cut out a great circular piece from the huge wall we only found
the soft, chalky earth beyond, and no sign whatever of the presence of
gold.
All was disappointing—utterly disheartening.
At noon we made ourselves presentable, and went over to the Plough for
lunch. While we were still seated at table the inn-keeper’s sister
entered and told me that Ben Knutton wished to speak with me, a request
to which I responded with alacrity.
Outside I found the bent old fellow awaiting me. The very fact that he
would not enter the inn told me that what he wished to say was in
secrecy.
“Mornin’, sir,” he exclaimed, in a low voice, touching his battered hat
respectfully. “Dolly’s sent me, sir, with a message to you.” And
fumbling in his trousers pocket he placed in my hand a crumpled letter.
We were standing behind a blank wall, with none to watch our movements;
therefore I tore open the missive eagerly and read the few
hastily-scribbled lines therein.
“_Dear Paul_,” she wrote, “_I am returning to London at once. If you
write, do not address the letter to the library at Kensington, but to me
at 120, Cornwall Road, Bayswater. Recollect the warning I gave you
yesterday. Mr. P. went out last night, but he has not returned.—Yours,
D. D._”
“Has Miss Drummond left Bringhurst?” I asked the old labourer.
“Yes, sir. I saw her off by the train for London. She’s not coming back,
she said.”
This surprised me. What, I wondered, could have occurred to take her
away so suddenly, especially after our exchange of vows on the previous
night? Re-reading the letter I found it cold and rather reserved,
scarcely the communication of a woman filled with passionate love, as I
believed her to be. She gave no reason for her sudden flight, although
she warned me again of impending danger. Evidently she did not know that
the four malefactors were entombed.
I returned to my companions, and became filled with a longing to go up
to London.
I think Job Seal had had almost enough of the Manor House. That skeleton
troubled his superstitious mind, therefore he was the first to hail my
suggestion with approval. He had to see his owners, he said, and wanted
to run down and see how the _Thrush_ was progressing in dry dock.
Reilly, however, seemed rather loth to leave the place before he had
ascertained the fate of the invaders. He prided himself upon his
ingenuity, and he certainly was a smart fellow, and never at a loss to
wriggle out of a difficulty.
We locked up the place carefully, and although neither Reilly nor myself
took any luggage, the skipper insisted upon taking his bed. He could
sleep on no other, he declared. That night I slept in my own rooms at
Chelsea, and next morning about eleven I met Reilly by appointment at
Notting Hill Gate Station and took him with me to Cornwall Road, in
order to introduce him to my well-beloved. I really don’t know what
induced me to do this, save that I felt that the interests of all three
of us were in common, and a man is always eager and proud to introduce
to his friends the woman he loves.
When we were ushered by the maid into Dorothy’s small, neatly-arranged
sitting-room on the second floor, she rose from a little writing-table
to greet us with a cry of surprise. She wore a black skirt and clean
cotton blouse, which gave her countenance a bright, fresh appearance. As
her eyes met mine her cheeks flushed with pleasure, but at Reilly she
glanced inquiringly, as though she considered him an intruder.
At once I introduced him, and they were instantly friends.
The arrangement of the room betrayed the hand of a refined and tasteful
woman. The furniture was of the type found in every Bayswater
lodging-house, but by the judicious addition of a few art covers,
Liberty cushions, and knick-knacks, the general aspect was changed into
one of good taste and perfect harmony.
“Really, Dr. Pickering, this is indeed a pleasant surprise! I had no
idea you were coming to town,” she exclaimed, placing chairs for both of
us.
I briefly explained that, finding our search in the Manor House
fruitless, we had relinquished our investigations for a few days. I also
told her that my companion was my assistant, and that we had been at
work together.
“But I’ve heard that you had another friend with you—a man called Seal,
I think, a sea-captain,” she remarked.
“True. But who told you?”
“I heard Mr. Purvis talking of him with his friends. Mr. Bennett seems
especially antagonistic towards him.”
“And well he may be,” I answered. Then in a few brief words I told her
the story which the skipper had related to us. My words did not surprise
her in the least. She evidently knew Black Bennett too well.
Upon the mantelshelf in a heavy silver frame was a half-length cabinet
photograph of a clean-shaven and rather good-looking young man. My eyes
fell upon it once or twice, and I wondered who was the original. Perhaps
it was my natural jealousy which caused that sudden interest.
Presently, while we were talking, a rap came at the door, and the
servant called my love outside to hand her something from a tradesman.
The moment she had disappeared behind the screen placed across the door
Reilly bent to me and, in a quick whisper, said:—
“See that photo? That’s the man who was murdered at Kilburn! Ask her
about him. I’ll make an excuse to go.”
I looked again at the picture. He was not more than twenty, with
well-cut, refined features, a pair of merry eyes, and a well-formed
mouth that in some way bore a slight resemblance to hers.
When she re-entered Reilly rose and stretched out his hand, expressing
regret that he had an appointment in the City.
“I won’t take Dr. Pickering away from you, Miss Drummond,” he laughed
mischievously. “You are one of our rivals in this treasure-hunt, but
perhaps you both can arrange to combine forces—eh?”
She laughed in chorus, and although she pressed him to remain I saw that
at heart she was glad when he had taken leave of us. Every woman likes
to be alone with her lover.
“Well, Dorothy,” I said, as she came back again, smiling, to my side,
and allowed me to kiss her sweet lips, “and why have you fled from
Bringhurst like this? Tell me the whole truth.”
“By Mr. Purvis’ orders. After leaving you I returned to the farm, half
an hour before he got back. Then he told me I was to pack and return to
London by the morning train. I have not seen him since.”
“You are unaware of the reason he wished you to leave Bringhurst?”
“Quite. After I had gone to bed I heard Bennett’s voice, but they went
out together late, and I heard no more of them.”
“Bennett is not your friend?” I suggested, watching her the while.
Her eyes lit up in an instant.
“My friend!” she cried. “Bennett my friend! No, Paul, he is my worst and
most bitter enemy.”
“Tell me, Dorothy,” I asked, after a brief pause, during which I held
her soft, slim hand in mine, “who is that young man there—the
photograph in the silver frame?” And I pointed to it.
For a moment she did not reply. “That—that!” she gasped, her face
blanching as she caught her breath quickly, her lips trembling, her eyes
fixed upon me in abject fear. “A friend,” she laughed, falteringly.
“Only a friend—no one that you know.”
And her breast rose and fell quickly as she strove to conceal the storm
of conflicting emotions that arose within her.
“But I really think you ought to tell me who it is, dearest,” I said.
“Now that we are lovers, I surely have a right to know!”
“He is dead,” she cried. “Dead!”
And with trembling fingers she took up the frame and turned it with
reverence face towards the wall.
“It is the picture of a dead friend, Paul,” she added. “Need I tell you
more than that?” she asked, with an effort.
“What was his name?” I demanded in a low, serious voice.
“His name!” she cried in blank dismay. “No. Paul! I cannot tell you
that. I love you—I love you with every fibre of my being, but in this,”
she cried, clinging to me with trembling hands, “in this one small
matter I beg of you to let me keep my secret. Be generous, and if you
really love me let the dead rest.”
“He was your lover.” I blurted forth.
“Ah! no!” she cried. “You misjudge me! He was never my lover, although I
confess to you that I—I loved him.”
And she buried her face upon my shoulder, and sobbed as though her
overburdened heart would break.