She took it, and graciously bowed her head to him in acknowledgment.

Then, after a slight, distinctly haughty nod to Sir Marmaduke and to

Editha, she turned and walked silently out of the room.

CHAPTER XXVIII

HUSBAND AND WIFE

Mistress Martha Lambert was a dignified old woman, on whose wrinkled

face stern virtues, sedulously practiced, had left their lasting

imprint. Among these virtues which she had thus somewhat ruthlessly

exercised throughout her long life, cleanliness and orderliness stood

out pre-eminently. They undoubtedly had brought some of the deepest

furrows round her eyes and mouth, as indeed they had done round those of

Adam Lambert, who having lived with her all his life, had had to suffer

from her passion of scrubbing and tidying more than anyone else.

But her cottage was resplendent: her chief virtues being apparent in

every nook and corner of the orderly little rooms which formed her home

and that of the two lads whom a dying friend had entrusted to her care.

The parlor below, with its highly polished bits of furniture, its

spotless wooden floor and whitewashed walls, was a miracle of

cleanliness. The table in the center was laid with a snowy white cloth,

on it the pewter candlesticks shone like antique silver. Two

straight-backed mahogany chairs were drawn cozily near to the hearth,

wherein burned a bright fire made up of ash logs. There was a quaint

circular mirror in a gilt frame over the hearth, a relic of former,

somewhat more prosperous times.

In one of the chairs lolled the mysterious lodger, whom a strange Fate

in a perverse mood seemed to have wafted to this isolated little cottage

on the outskirts of the loneliest village in Thanet.

Prince Amédé d'Orléans was puffing at that strange weed which of late

had taken such marked hold of most men, tending to idleness in them, for

it caused them to sit staring at the smoke which they drew from pipes

made of clay; surely the Lord had never intended such strange doings,

and Mistress Martha would willingly have protested against the

unpleasant odor thus created by her lodger when he was puffing away,

only that she stood somewhat in awe of his ill-humor and of his violent

language, especially when Adam himself was from home.

On these occasions--such, for instance, as the present one--she had,

perforce, to be content with additional efforts at cleanliness, and, as

she was convinced that so much smoke must be conducive to soot and dirt,

she plied her dusting-cloth with redoubled vigor and energy. Whilst the

prince lolled and pulled at his clay pipe, she busied herself all round

the tiny room, polishing the backs of the old elm chairs, and the brass

handles of the chest of drawers.

"How much longer are you going to fuss about, my good woman?" quoth

Prince Amédé d'Orléans impatiently after a while. "This shuffling round

me irritates my nerves."

Mistress Martha, however, suffered from deafness. She could see from the

quick, angry turn of the head that her lodger was addressing her, but

did not catch his words. She drew a little nearer, bending her ear to

him.

"Eh? ... what?" she queried in that high-pitched voice peculiar to the

deaf. "I am somewhat hard of hearing just now. I did not hear thee."

But he pushed her roughly aside with a jerk of his elbow.

"Go away!" he said impatiently. "Do not worry me!"

"Ah! the little pigs?" she rejoined blithely. "I thank thee ... they be

doing nicely, thank the Lord ... six of them and ... eh? what? ... I'm a

bit hard of hearing these times."

He had some difficulty in keeping up even a semblance of calm. The

placidity of the old Quakeress irritated him beyond endurance. He

dreaded the return of Adam Lambert from his work, and worse still, he

feared the arrival of Richard. Fortunately he had gathered from Martha

that the young man had come home early in the day in a state of high

nervous tension, bordering on acute fever. He had neither eaten nor

drunk, but after tidying his clothes and reassuring her as to his future

movements, he had sallied out into the woods and had not returned since

then.

Sir Marmaduke had quickly arrived at the conclusion that Richard Lambert

had seen and spoken to Lady Sue and had learned from her that she was

now irrevocably married to him, whom she always called her prince.

Doubtless, the young man was frenzied with grief, and in his weak state

of health after the terrible happenings of the past few weeks, would

mayhap, either go raving mad, or end his miserable existence over the

cliffs. Either eventuality would suit Sir Marmaduke admirably, and he

sighed with satisfaction at the thought that the knot between the

heiress and himself was indeed tied sufficiently firm now to ensure her

obedience to his will.

There was to be one more scene in the brief and cruel drama which he had

devised for the hoodwinking and final spoliation of a young and

inexperienced girl. She had earlier in the day been placed in possession

of all the negotiable part of her fortune. This, though by no means

representing the whole of her wealth, which also lay in landed estates,

was nevertheless of such magnitude that the thought of its possession

caused every fiber in Sir Marmaduke's body to thrill with the delight of

expectancy.

One more brief scene in the drama: the handing over of that vast

fortune, by the young girl-wife--blindly and obediently--to the man whom

she believed to be her husband. Once that scene enacted, the curtain

would fall on the love episode 'twixt a romantic and ignorant maid and

the most daring scoundrel that had ever committed crime to obtain a

fortune.

In anticipation of that last and magnificent _dénouement_, Sir Marmaduke

had once more donned the disguise of the exiled Orléans prince: the

elaborate clothes, the thick perruque, the black silk shade over the

left eye, which gave him such a sinister expression.

Now he was literally devoured with the burning desire to see Sue

arriving with that wallet in her hand, which contained securities and

grants to the value of £500,000. A brief interlude with her, a few words

of perfunctory affection, a few assurances of good faith, and he--as her

princely husband--would vanish from her ken forever.

He meant to go abroad immediately--this very night, if possible.

Prudence and caution could easily be thrown to the winds, once the

negotiable securities were actually in his hands. What he could convert

into money, he would do immediately, going to Amsterdam first, to

withdraw the sum standing at the bank there on deposit, and for which

anon, he would possess the receipt; after that the sale of the grant of

monopolies should be easy of accomplishment. Sir Marmaduke had boundless

faith in his own ability to carry through his own business. He might

stand to lose some of the money perhaps; prudence and caution might

necessitate the relinquishing of certain advantages, but even then he

would be rich and passing rich, and he knew that he ran but little risk

of detection. The girl was young, inexperienced and singularly

friendless: Sir Marmaduke felt convinced that none of the foreign

transactions could ever be directly traced to himself.

He would be prudent and Europe was wide, and he meant to leave English

grants and securities severely alone.

He had mused and pondered on his plans all day. The evening found him

half-exhausted with nerve-strain, febrile and almost sick with the agony

of waiting.

He had calculated that Sue would be free towards seven o'clock, as he

had given Editha strict injunctions to keep discreetly out of the way,

whilst at a previous meeting in the park, it had been arranged that the

young girl should come to the cottage with the money, on the evening of

her twenty-first birthday and there hand her fortune over to her

rightful lord.

Now Sir Marmaduke cursed himself and his folly for having made this

arrangement. He had not known--when he made it--that Richard would be

back at Acol then. Adam the smith, never came home before eight o'clock

and the old Quakeress herself would not have been much in the way.

Even now she had shuffled back into her kitchen, leaving her ill-humored

lodger to puff away at the malodorous weed as he chose. But Richard

might return at any moment, and then ...

Sir Marmaduke had never thought of that possible contingency. If

Richard Lambert came face to face with him, he would of a surety pierce

the disguise of the prince, and recognize the man who had so deeply

wronged poor, unsuspecting Lady Sue. If only a kindly Fate had kept the

young man away another twenty-four hours! or better still, if it led the

despairing lover's footsteps to the extremest edge of the cliffs!

Sir Marmaduke now paced the narrow room up and down in an agony of

impatience. Nine o'clock had struck long ago, but Sue had not yet come.

The wildest imaginings run riot in the schemer's brain: every hour, nay!

every minute spent within was fraught with danger. He sought his

broad-brimmed hat, determined now to meet Sue in the park, to sally

forth at risk of missing her, at risk of her arriving here at the

cottage when he was absent, and of her meeting Richard Lambert perhaps,

before the irrevocable deed of gift had been accomplished.

But the suspense was intolerable.

With a violent oath Sir Marmaduke pressed the hat over his head, and

strode to the door.

His hand was on the latch, when he heard a faint sound from without: a

girl's footsteps, timorous yet swift, along the narrow flagged path

which led down the tiny garden gate.

The next moment he had thrown open the door and Sue stood before him.

Anyone but a bold and unscrupulous schemer would have been struck by the

pathos of the solitary figure which now appeared in the tiny doorway.

The penetrating November drizzle had soaked through the dark cloak and

hood which now hung heavy and dank round the young girl's shoulders.

Framed by the hood, her face appeared preternaturally pale, her lips

were quivering and her eyes, large and dilated, had almost a hunted look

in them.

Oh! the pity and sadness of it all! For in her small and trembling hands

she was clutching with pathetic tenacity a small, brown wallet which

contained a fortune worthy of a princess.

She looked eagerly into her husband's face, dreading the scowl, the

outburst of anger or jealousy mayhap with which of late, alas! he had so

oft greeted her arrival. But as was his wont, he stood with his back to

the lighted room, and she could not read the expression of that one

cyclops-like eye, which to-night appeared more sinister than ever

beneath the thick perruque and broad-brimmed hat.

"I am sorry to be so late," she said timidly, "the evening repast at the

Court was interminable and Mistress de Chavasse full of gossip."

"Yes, yes, I know," he replied, "am I not used to seeing that your

social duties oft make you forget your husband?"

"You are unjust, Amédé," she rejoined.

She entered the little parlor and stood beside the table, making no

movement to divest herself of her dripping cloak, or to sit down, nor

indeed did her husband show the slightest inclination to ask her to do

either. He had closed the door behind her, and followed her to the

center of the room. Was it by accident or design that as he reached the

table he threw his broad-brimmed hat, down with such an unnecessary

flourish of the arm that he knocked over one of the heavy pewter

candlesticks, so that it rolled down upon the floor, causing the tallow

candle to sputter and die out with a weird and hissing sound?

Only one dim yellow light now illumined the room, it shone full into the

pallid face of the young wife standing some three paces from the table,

whilst Prince Amédé d'Orléans' face between her and the light, was once

more in deep shadow.

"You are unjust," she repeated firmly. "Have I not run the gravest

possible risks for your sake, and those without murmur or complaint, for

the past six months? Did I not compromise my reputation for you by

meeting you alone ... of nights? ..."

"I was laboring under the idea, my wench, that you were doing all that

because you cared for me," he retorted with almost brutal curtness, "and

because you had the desire to become the Princess d'Orléans; that desire

is now gratified and ..."

He had not really meant to be unkind. There was of a truth no object to

be gained by being brutal to her now. But that wallet, which she held so

tightly clutched, acted as an irritant to his nerves. Never of very

equable temperament and holding all women in lofty scorn, he chafed

against all parleyings with his wife, now that the goal of his ambition

was so close at hand.

She winced at the insult, and the tears which she fain would have hidden

from him, rose involuntarily to her eyes.

"Ah!" she sighed, "if you only knew how little I care for that title of

princess! ... Did you perchance think that I cared? ... Nay! how gladly

would I give up all thought of ever bearing that proud appellation, in

exchange for a few more happy illusions such as I possessed three months

ago."

"Illusions are all very well for a school-girl, my dear Suzanne," he

remarked with a cool shrug of his massive shoulders. "Reality should be

more attractive to you now...."

He looked her up and down, realizing perhaps for the first time that she

was exquisitely beautiful; beautiful always, but more so now in the

pathos of her helplessness. Somewhat perfunctorily, because in his

ignorance of women he thought that it would please her, and also because

vaguely something human and elemental had suddenly roused his pulses, he

relinquished his nonchalant attitude, and came a step nearer to her.

"You are very beautiful, my Suzanne," he said half-ironically, and with

marked emphasis on the possessive.

Again he drew nearer, not choosing to note the instinctive stiffening of

her figure, the shrinking look in her eyes. He caught her arm and drew

her to him, laughing a low mocking laugh as he did so, for she had

turned her face away from him.

"Come," he said lightly, "will you not kiss me, my beautiful Suzanne?

... my wife, my princess."

She was silent, impassive, indifferent so he thought, although the arm

which he held trembled within his grip.

He stretched out his other hand, and taking her chin between his

fingers, he forcibly turned her face towards him. Something in her face,

in her attitude, now roused a certain rough passion in him. Mayhap the

weary wailing during the day, the agonizing impatience, or the golden

argosy so near to port, had strung up his nerves to fever pitch.

Irritation against her impassiveness, in such glaring contrast to her

glowing ardor of but a few weeks ago, mingled with that essentially male

desire to subdue and to conquer that which is inclined to resist, sent

the blood coursing wildly through his veins.

"Ah!" he said with a sigh half of desire, half of satisfaction, as he

looked into her upturned face, "the chaste blush of the bride is vastly

becoming to you, my Suzanne! ... it acts as fuel to the flames of my

love ... since I can well remember the passionate kisses you gave me so

willingly awhile ago."

The thought of that happy past, gave her sudden strength. Catching him

unawares she wrenched herself free from his hold.

"This is a mockery, prince," she said with vehemence, and meeting his

half-mocking glance with one of scorn. "Do you think that I have been

blind these last few weeks? ... Your love for me hath changed, if indeed

it ever existed, whilst I ..."

"Whilst you, my beautiful Suzanne," he rejoined lightly, "are mine ...

irrevocably, irretrievably mine ... mine because I love you, and because

you are my wife ... and owe me that obedience which you vowed to Heaven

that you would give me.... That is so, is it not?"

There was a moment's silence in the tiny cottage parlor now, whilst

he--gauging the full value of his words, knowing by instinct that he had

struck the right cord in that vibrating girlish heart, watched the

subtle change in her face from defiance and wrath to submission and

appeal.

"Yes, Amédé," she murmured after a while, "I owe you obedience, honor

and love, and you need not fear that I will fail in either. But you,"

she added with pathetic anxiety, "you do care for me still? do you not?"

"Of course I care for you," he remarked, "I worship you.... There! ...

will that satisfy you? ... And now?" he added peremptorily, "have you

brought the money?"

The short interlude of passion was over. His eye had accidentally rested

for one second on the leather wallet, which she still held tightly

clutched, and all thoughts of her beauty, of his power or his desires,

had flown out to the winds.

"Yes," she replied meekly, "it is all here, in the wallet."

She laid it down upon the table, feeling neither anxiety nor remorse. He

was her husband and had a right to her fortune, as he had to her person

and to her thoughts and heart an he wished. Nor did she care about the

money, as to the value of which she was, of course, ignorant.

Her wealth, up to now, had only had a meaning for her, as part of some

noble scheme for the regeneration of mankind. Now she hoped vaguely, as

she put that wallet down on the table, then pushed it towards her

husband, that she was purchasing her freedom with her wealth.

Certainly she realized that his thoughts had very quickly been diverted

from her beauty to the contents of the wallet. The mocking laugh died

down on his lips, giving place to a sigh of deep satisfaction.

"You were very prudent, my dear Suzanne, to place this portion of your

wealth in my charge," he said as he slipped the bulky papers into the

lining of his doublet. "Of course it is all yours, and I--your

husband--am but the repository and guardian of your fortune. And now

methinks 'twere prudent for you to return to the Court. Sir Marmaduke de

Chavasse will be missing you...."

It did not seem to strike her as strange that he should dismiss her thus

abruptly, and make no attempt to explain what his future plans might

be, nor indeed what his intentions were with regard to herself.

The intensity of her disappointment, the utter loneliness and

helplessness of her position had caused a veritable numbing of her

faculties and of her spirit and for the moment she was perhaps primarily

conscious of a sense of relief at her dismissal.

Like her wedding in the dismal little church, this day of her birthday,

of her independence, of her handing over her fortune to her husband for

the glorious purposes of his selfless schemes had been so very, very

different to what she had pictured to herself in her girlish and

romantic dreams.

The sordidness of it all had ruthlessly struck her; for the first time

in her intercourse with this man, she doubted the genuineness of his

motives. With the passing of her fortune from her hands to his, the last

vestige of belief in him died down with appalling suddenness.

It could not have been because of the expression in his eyes, as he

fingered the wallet, for this she could not see, since his face was

still in shadow. It must have been just instinct--that, and the mockery

of his attempt to make love to her. Had he ever loved her, he could not

have mocked ... not now, that she was helpless and entirely at his

mercy.

Love once felt, is sacred to him who feels: mockery even of the ashes of

love is an impossible desecration, one beyond the power of any man.

Then, if he had never loved her, why had he pretended? Why have deceived

her with a semblance of passion?

And the icy whisper of reason blew into her mental ear, the ugly word:

"Money."

He opened the door for her, and without another word, she passed out

into the dark night. Only when she reached the tiny gate at the end of

the flagged path, did she realize that he was walking with her.

"I can find my way alone through the woods," she said coldly. "I came

alone."

"It was earlier then," he rejoined blandly, "and I prefer to see you

safely as far as the park."

And they walked on side by side in silence. Overhead the melancholy drip

of moisture falling from leaf to leaf, and from leaf to the ground, was

the only sound that accompanied their footsteps. Sue shivered beneath

her damp cloak; but she walked as far away from him as the width of the

woodland path allowed. He seemed absorbed in his own thoughts and not to

notice how she shrank from the slightest contact with him.

At the park gate he paused, having opened it for her to pass through.

"I must bid you good-night here, Suzanne," he said lightly, "there may

be footpads about and I must place your securities away under lock and

key. I may be absent a few days for that purpose.... London, you know,"

he added vaguely.

Then as she made no comment:

"I will arrange for our next meeting," he said, "anon, there will be no

necessity to keep our marriage a secret, but until I give you permission

to speak of it, 'twere better that you remained silent on that score."

She contrived to murmur:

"As you will."

And presently, as he made no movement towards her, she said:

"Good-night!"

This time he had not even desired to kiss her.

The next moment she had disappeared in the gloom. She fled as fast as

she dared in the inky blackness of this November night. She could have

run for miles, or for hours, away! away from all this sordidness, this

avarice, this deceit and cruelty! Away! away from him!!

How glad she was that darkness enveloped her, for now she felt horribly

ashamed. Instinct, too, is cruel at times! Instinct had been silent so

long during the most critical juncture of her own folly. Now it spoke

loudly, warningly; now that it was too late.

Ashamed of her own stupidity and blindness! her vanity mayhap had alone

led her to believe the passionate protestations of a liar.

A liar! a mean, cowardly schemer, but her husband for all that! She owed

him love, honor and obedience; if he commanded, she must obey; if he

called she must fain go to him.

Oh! please God! that she had succeeded in purchasing her freedom from

him by placing £500,000 in his hands.

Shame! shame that this should be! that she should have mistaken vile

schemes for love, that a liar's kisses should have polluted her soul!

that she should be the wife, the bondswoman of a cheat!

CHAPTER XXIX

GOOD-BYE

"Sue!"

The cry rang out in the night close to her, and arrested her fleeing

footsteps. She was close to the ha-ha, having run on blindly, madly,

guided by that unaccountable instinct which makes for the shelter of

home.

In a moment she had recognized the voice. In a moment she was beside her

friend. Her passionate mood passed away, leaving her calm and almost at

peace. Shame still caused her cheeks to burn, but the night was dark and

doubtless he would not see.

But she could feel that he was near her, therefore, there was no fear in

her. What had guided her footsteps hither she did not know. Of course he

had guessed that she had been to meet her husband.

There were no exclamations or protestations between them. She merely

said quite simply:

"I am glad that you came to say 'good-bye!'"

The park was open here. The nearest trees were some fifty paces away,

and in the ghostly darkness they could just perceive one another's

silhouettes. The mist enveloped them as with a shroud, the damp cold air

caused them to shiver as under the embrace of death.

"It is good-bye," he rejoined calmly.

"Mayhap that I shall go abroad soon," she said.

"With that man?"

The cry broke out from the bitterness of his heart, but a cold little

hand was placed restrainingly on his.

"When I go ... if I go," she murmured, "I shall do so with my

husband.... You see, my friend, do you not, that there is naught else to

say but 'good-bye'?"

"And you will be happy, Sue?" he asked.

"I hope so!" she sighed wistfully.

"You will always remember, will you not, my dear lady, that wherever you

may be, there is always someone in remote Thanet, who is ready at any

time to give his life for you?"

"Yes! I will remember," she said simply.

"And you must promise me," he insisted, "promise me now, Sue, that if

... which Heaven forbid ... you are in any trouble or sorrow, and I can

do aught for you, that you will let me know and send for me ... and I

will come."

"Yes, Richard, I promise.... Good-bye."

And she was gone. The mist, the gloom hid her completely from view. He

waited by the little bridge, for the night was still and he would have

heard if she called.

He heard her light footsteps on the gravel, then on the flagged walk.

Anon came the sound of the opening and shutting of a door. After that,

silence: the silence of a winter's night, when not a breath of wind

stirs the dead branches of the trees, when woodland and field and park

are wrapped in the shroud of the mist.

Richard Lambert turned back towards the village.

Sue--married to another man--had passed out of his life forever.

CHAPTER XXX

ALL BECAUSE OF THE TINDER-BOX

How oft it is in life that Fate, leading a traveler in easy gradients

upwards along a road of triumph, suddenly assumes a madcap mood and with

wanton hand throws a tiny obstacle in his way; an obstacle at times

infinitesimal, scarce visible on that way towards success, yet powerful

enough to trip the unwary traveler and bring him down to earth with

sudden and woeful vigor.

With Sir Marmaduke so far everything had prospered according to his

wish. He had inveigled the heiress into a marriage which bound her to

his will, yet left him personally free; she had placed her fortune

unreservedly and unconditionally in his hands, and had, so far as he

knew, not even suspected the treachery practiced upon her by her

guardian.

Not a soul had pierced his disguise, and the identity of Prince Amédé

d'Orléans was unknown even to his girl-wife.

With the disappearance of that mysterious personage, Sir Marmaduke

having realized Lady Sue's fortune, could resume life as an independent

gentleman, with this difference, that henceforth he would be passing

rich, able to gratify his ambition, to cut a figure in the world as he

chose.

Fortune which had been his idol all his life, now was indeed his slave.

He had it, he possessed it. It lay snug and safe in a leather wallet

inside the lining of his doublet.

Sue had gone out of his sight, desirous apparently of turning her back

on him forever. He was free and rich. The game had been risky, daring

beyond belief, yet he had won in the end. He could afford to laugh now

at all the dangers, the subterfuges, the machinations which had all gone

to the making of that tragic comedy in which he had been the principal

actor.

The last scene in the drama had been successfully enacted. The curtain

had been finally lowered; and Sir Marmaduke swore that there should be

no epilogue to the play.

Then it was that Fate--so well-named the wanton jade--shook herself from

out the torpor in which she had wandered for so long beside this Kentish

squire. A spirit of mischief seized upon her and whispered that she had

held this man quite long enough by the hand and that it would be far

more amusing now to see him measure his length on the ground.

And all that Fate did, in order to satisfy this spirit of mischief, was

to cause Sir Marmaduke to forget his tinder-box in the front parlor of

Mistress Martha Lambert's cottage.

A tinder-box is a small matter! an object of infinitesimal importance

when the broad light of day illumines the interior of houses or the

bosquets of a park, but it becomes an object of paramount importance,

when the night is pitch dark, and when it is necessary to effect an

exchange of clothing within the four walls of a pavilion.

Sir Marmaduke had walked to the park gates with his wife, not so much

because he was anxious for her safety, but chiefly because he meant to

retire within the pavilion, there to cast aside forever the costume and

appurtenances of Prince Amédé d'Orléans and to reassume the

sable-colored doublet and breeches of the Roundhead squire, which

proceeding he had for the past six months invariably accomplished in the

lonely little building on the outskirts of his own park.

As soon, therefore, as he realized that Sue had gone, he turned his

steps towards the pavilion. The night seemed additionally dark here

under the elms, and Sir Marmaduke searched in his pocket for his

tinder-box.

It was not there. He had left it at the cottage, and quickly recollected

seeing it lying on the table at the very moment that Sue pushed the

leather wallet towards him.

He had mounted the few stone steps which led up to the building, but

even whilst he groped for the latch with an impatient hand, he realized

how impossible it would be for him anon, to change his clothes, in the

dark; not only to undress and dress again, but to collect the belongings

of the Prince d'Orléans subsequently, for the purpose of destroying them

at an early opportunity.

Groping about in inky blackness might mean the forgetting of some

article of apparel, which, if found later on, might lead to suspicion or

even detection of the fraud. Sir Marmaduke dared not risk it.

Light he needed, and light he ought to have. The tinder-box had become

of paramount importance, and it was sheer wantonness on the part of Fate

that she should have allowed that little article to rest forgotten on

the table in Mistress Lambert's cottage.

Sir Marmaduke remained pondering--in the darkness and the mist--for a

while. His own doublet and breeches, shoes and stockings were in the

pavilion: would he ever be able to get at them without a light? No,

certainly not! nor could he venture to go home to the Court in his

present disguise, and leave his usual clothes in this remote building.

Prying, suspicious eyes--such as those of Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy,

for instance, might prove exceedingly uncomfortable and even dangerous.

On the other hand, would it not be ten thousand times more dangerous to

go back to the cottage now and risk meeting Richard Lambert face to

face?

And it was Richard whom Sir Marmaduke feared.

He had, therefore, almost decided to try his luck at dressing in the

dark, and was once more fumbling with the latch of the pavilion door,

when through the absolute silence of the air, there came to his ear

through the mist the sound of a young voice calling the name of "Sue!"

The voice was that of Richard Lambert.

The coast would be clear then. Richard had met Sue in the park: no

doubt he would hold her a few moments in conversation. The schemer cared

not what the two young people would or would not say to one another; all

that interested him now was the fact that Richard was not at the

cottage, and that, therefore, it would be safe to run back and fetch the

tinder-box.

All this was a part of Fate's mischievous prank. Sir Marmaduke was not

afraid of meeting the old Quakeress, nor yet the surly smith; Richard

being out of the way, he had no misgivings in his mind when he retraced

his steps towards the cottage.

It was close on eight o'clock then, in fact the tiny bell in Acol church

struck the hour even as Sir Marmaduke lifted the latch of the little

garden gate.

The old woman was in the parlor, busy as usual with her dusting-cloth.

Without heeding her, Sir Marmaduke strode up to the table and pushing

the crockery, which now littered it, aside, he searched for his

tinder-box.

It was not there. With an impatient oath, he turned to Mistress Martha,

and roughly demanded if she had seen it.

"Eh? ... What?" she queried, shuffling a little nearer to him, "I am

somewhat hard of hearing ... as thou knowest...."

"Have you seen my tinder-box?" he repeated with ever-growing irritation.

"Ah, yea, the fog!" she said blandly, "'tis damp too, of a truth, and

..."

"Hold your confounded tongue!" he shouted wrathfully, "and try and hear

me. My tinder-box...."

"Thy what? I am a bit ..."

"Curse you for an old fool," swore Sir Marmaduke, who by now was in a

towering passion.

With a violent gesture he pushed the old woman aside and turning on her

in an uncontrolled access of fury, with both arms upraised, he shouted:

"If you don't hear me now, I'll break every bone in your ugly body....

Where is my ..."

It had all happened in a very few seconds: his entrance, his search for

the missing box, the growing irritation in him which had caused him to

lose control of his temper. And now, even before the threatening words

were well out of his mouth, he suddenly felt a vigorous onslaught from

the rear, and his own throat clutched by strong and sinewy fingers.

"And I'll break every bone in thy accursed body!" shouted a hoarse voice

close to his ear, "if thou darest so much as lay a finger on the old

woman."

The struggle was violent and brief. Sir Marmaduke already felt himself

overmastered. Adam Lambert had taken him unawares. He was rough and very

powerful. Sir Marmaduke was no weakling, yet encumbered by his fantastic

clothes he was no match for the smith. Adam turned him about in his

nervy hands like a puppet.

Now he was in front and above him, glaring down at the man he hated with

eyes which would have searched the very depths of his enemy's soul.

"Thou damned foreigner!" he growled between clenched teeth, "thou

vermin! ... Thou toad! Thou ... on thy knees! ... on thy knees, I say

... beg her pardon for thy foul language ... now at once ... dost hear?

... ere I squeeze the breath out of thee...."

Sir Marmaduke felt his knees giving way under him, the smith's grasp on

his throat had in no way relaxed. Mistress Martha vainly tried to

interpose. She was all for peace, and knew that the Lord liked not a

fiery temper. But the look in Adam's face frightened her, and she had

always been in terror of the foreigner. Without thought, and imagining

that 'twas her presence which irritated the lodger, she beat a hasty

retreat to her room upstairs, even as Adam Lambert finally succeeded in

forcing Sir Marmaduke down on his knees, not ceasing to repeat the

while:

"Her pardon ... beg her pardon, my fine prince ... lick the dust in an

English cottage, thou foreign devil ... or, by God, I will kill thee!

..."

"Let me go!" gasped Sir Marmaduke, whom the icy fear of imminent

discovery gripped more effectually even than did the village

blacksmith's muscular fingers, "let me go ... damn you!"

"Not before I have made thee lick the dust," said Adam grimly, bringing

one huge palm down on the elaborate perruque, and forcing Sir

Marmaduke's head down, down towards the ground, "lick it ... lick it

... Prince of Orléans...."

He burst out laughing in the midst of his fury, at sight of this

disdainful gentleman, with the proud title, about to come in violent

contact with a cottage floor. But Sir Marmaduke struggled violently

still. He had been wiser no doubt, to take the humiliation quietly, to

lick the dust and to pacify the smith: but what man is there who would

submit to brute force without using his own to protect himself?

Then Fate at last worked her wanton will.

In the struggle the fantastic perruque and heavy mustache of Prince

Amédé d'Orléans remained in the smith's hand whilst it was the round

head and clean-shaven face of Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse which came in

contact with the floor.

In an instant, stricken at first dumb with surprise and horror, but

quickly recovering the power of speech, Adam Lambert murmured:

"You? ... You? ... Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse! ... Oh! my God! ..."

His grip on his enemy had, of course, relaxed. Sir Marmaduke was able to

struggle to his feet. Fate had dealt him a blow as unexpected as it was

violent. But he had not been the daring schemer that he was, if

throughout the past six months, the possibility of such a moment as this

had not lurked at the back of his mind.

The blow, therefore, did not find him quite unprepared. It had been

stunning but not absolutely crushing. Even whilst Adam Lambert was

staring with almost senseless amazement alternately at him and at the

bundle of false hair which he was still clutching, Sir Marmaduke had

struggled to his feet.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE ASSIGNATION

He had recovered his outward composure at any rate, and the next moment

was busy re-adjusting his doublet and bands before the mirror over the

hearth.

"Yes! my violent friend!" he said coolly, speaking over his shoulder,

"of a truth it is mine own self! Your landlord you see, to whom that

worthy woman upstairs owes this nice cottage which she has had rent free

for over ten years ... not the foreign vermin, you see," he added with a

pleasant laugh, "which maketh your actions of just now, somewhat

unpleasant to explain. Is that not so?"

"Nay! but by the Lord!" quoth Adam Lambert, still somewhat dazed,

vaguely frightened himself now at the magnitude, the importance of what

he had done, "meseems that 'tis thine actions, friend, which will be

unpleasant to explain. Thou didst not put on these play-actor's robes

for a good purpose, I'll warrant! ... I cannot guess what is thy game,

but methinks her young ladyship would wish to know something of its

rules ... or mayhap, my brother Richard who is no friend of thine,

forsooth."

Gradually his voice had become steadier, his manner more assured. A

glimmer of light on the Squire's strange doings had begun to penetrate

his simple, dull brain. Vaguely he guessed the purport of the disguise

and of the lies, and the mention of Lady Sue's name was not an arrow

shot thoughtlessly into the air. At the same time he had not perceived

the slightest quiver of fear or even of anxiety on Sir Marmaduke's face.

The latter had in the meanwhile put his crumpled toilet in order and now

turned with an urbane smile to his glowering antagonist.

"I will not deny, kind master," he said pleasantly, "that you might

cause me a vast amount of unpleasantness just now ... although of a

truth, I do not perceive that you would benefit yourself overmuch

thereby. On the contrary, you would vastly lose. Your worthy aunt,

Mistress Lambert, would lose a pleasant home, and you would never know

what you and your brother Richard have vainly striven to find out these

past ten years."

"What may that be, pray?" queried the smith sullenly.

"Who you both are," rejoined Sir Marmaduke blandly, as he calmly sat

down in one of the stiff-backed elm chairs beside the hearth, "and why

worthy Mistress Lambert never speaks to you of your parentage."

"Who we both are?" retorted Lambert with obvious bitterness, "two poor

castaways, who, but for the old woman would have been left to starve,

and who have tried, therefore, to be a bit grateful to her, and to earn

an honest livelihood. That is what we are, Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse;

and now prithee tell me, who the devil art thou?"

"You are overfond of swearing, worthy master," quoth Sir Marmaduke

lightly, "'tis sinful so I'm told, for one of your creed. But that is no

matter to me. You are, believe me, somewhat more interesting than you

imagine. Though I doubt if to a Quaker, being heir to title and vast

estates hath more than a fleeting interest."

But the smith had shrugged his broad shoulders and uttered an

exclamation of contempt.

"Title and vast estates?" he said with an ironical laugh. "Nay! Sir

Marmaduke de Chavasse, the bait is passing clumsy. An you wish me to

hold my tongue about you and your affairs, you'll have to be vastly

sharper than that."

"You mistake me, friend smith, I am not endeavoring to purchase your

silence. I hold certain information relating to your parentage. This I

would be willing to impart to a friend, yet loath to do so to an enemy.

A man doth not like to see his enemy in possession of fifteen thousand

pounds a year. Does he?"

And Sir Marmaduke appeared absorbed in the contemplation of his left

shoe, whilst Adam Lambert repeated stupidly and vaguely:

"Fifteen thousand pounds a year? I?"

"Even you, my friend."

This was said so simply, and with such conviction-carrying

certainty--that in spite of himself Lambert's sulkiness vanished. He

drew nearer to Sir Marmaduke, looked down on him silently for a second

or two, then muttered through his teeth:

"You have the proofs?"

"They will be at your service, my choleric friend," replied the other

suavely, "in exchange for your silence."

Adam Lambert drew a chair close to his whilom enemy, sat down opposite

to him, with elbows resting on his knee, his clenched fists supporting

his chin, and his eyes--anxious, eager, glowing, fixed resolutely on de

Chavasse.

"I'll hold my tongue, never fear," he said curtly. "Show me the proofs."

Sir Marmaduke gave a pleasant little laugh.

"Not so fast, my friend," he said, "I do not carry such important papers

about in my breeches' pocket."

And he rose from his chair, picked up the perruque and false mustache

which the other man had dropped upon the floor, and adjusting these on

his head and face he once more presented the appearance of the exiled

Orléans prince.

"But thou'lt show them to me to-night," insisted the smith roughly.

"How can I, mine impatient friend?" quoth de Chavasse lightly, "the hour

is late already."

"Nay! what matter the lateness of the hour? I am oft abroad at night,

early and late, and thou, methinks, hast oft had the midnight hour for

company. When and where wilt meet me?" added Lambert peremptorily, "I

must see those proofs to-night, before many hours are over, lest the

blood in my veins burn my body to ashes with impatience. When wilt meet

me? Eleven? ... Midnight? ... or the small hours of the morn?"

He spoke quickly, jerking out his words through closed teeth, his eyes

burning with inward fever, his fists closing and unclosing with rapid

febrile movements of the fingers.

The pent-up disappointment and rebellion of a whole lifetime against

Fate, was expressed in the man's attitude, the agonizing eagerness which

indeed seemed to be consuming him.

De Chavasse, on the other hand, had become singularly calm. The black

shade as usual hid one of his eyes, masking and distorting the

expression of his face; the false mustache, too, concealed the movements

of his lips, and the more his opponent's eyes tried to search the

schemer's face, the more inscrutable and bland did the latter become.

"Nay, my friend," he said at last, "I do not know that the thought of a

midnight excursion with you appeals to my sense of personal security. I

..."

But with a violent oath, Adam had jumped to his feet, and kicked the

chair away from under him so that it fell backwards with a loud clatter.

"Thou'lt meet me to-night," he said loudly and threateningly now,

"thou'lt meet me on the path near the cliffs of Epple Bay half an hour

before midnight, and if thou hast lied to me, I'll throw thee over and

Thanet then will be rid of thee ... but if thou dost not come, I'll to

my brother Richard even before the church clock of Acol hath sounded the

hour of midnight."

De Chavasse watched him silently for the space of three seconds,

realizing, of course, that he was completely in that man's power, and

also that the smith meant every word that he said. The discovery of the

monstrous fraud by Richard Lambert within the next few hours was a

contingency which he could not even contemplate without shuddering. He

certainly would much prefer to give up to this uncouth laborer the

proofs of his parentage which eventually might mean an earldom and a

fortune to a village blacksmith.

Sir Marmaduke had reflected on all this, of course, before broaching the

subject to Adam Lambert at all. Now he was prepared to go through with

the scheme to the end if need be. His uncle, the Earl of Northallerton,

might live another twenty years, whilst he himself--if pursued for

fraud, might have to spend those years in jail.

On the whole it was simpler to purchase the smith's silence ... this way

or another. Sir Marmaduke's reflections at this moment would have

delighted those evil spirits who are supposed to revel in the misdoings

of mankind.

The thought of the lonely path near the cliffs of Epple Bay tickled his

fancy in a manner for which perhaps at this moment he himself could not

have accounted. He certainly did not fear Adam Lambert and now said

decisively:

"Very well, my friend, an you wish it, I'll come."

"Half an hour before midnight," insisted Lambert, "on the cliffs at

Epple Bay."

"Half an hour before midnight: on the cliffs of Epple Bay," assented the

other.

He picked up his hat.

"Where art going?" queried the smith suspiciously.

"To change my clothing," replied Sir Marmaduke, who was fingering that

fateful tinder-box which alone had brought about the present crisis,

"and to fetch those proofs which you are so anxious to see."

"Thou'lt not fail me?"

"Surely not," quoth de Chavasse, as he finally went out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE PATH NEAR THE CLIFFS

The mist had not lifted. Over the sea it hung heavy and dank like a huge

sheet of gray thrown over things secret and unavowable. It was thickest

down in the bay lurking in the crevices of the chalk, in the great

caverns and mighty architecture carved by the patient toil of the

billows in the solid mass of the cliffs.

Up above it was slightly less dense: allowing distinct peeps of the

rough carpet of coarse grass, of the downtrodden path winding towards

Acol, of the edge of the cliff, abrupt, precipitous, with a drop of some

ninety feet into that gray pall of mist to the sands below.

And higher up still, above the mist itself, a deep blue sky dotted with

stars, and a full moon, pale and circled with luminous vapors. A gentle

breeze had risen about half an hour ago and was blowing the mist hither

and thither, striving to disperse it, but not yet succeeding in

mastering it, for it only shifted restlessly to and fro, like the giant

garments of titanic ghosts, revealing now a distant peep of sea, anon

the interior of a colonnaded cavern, abode of mysterious ghouls, or

again a nest of gulls in a deep crevice of the chalk: revealing and

hiding again:--a shroud dragged listlessly over monstrous dead things.

Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse had some difficulty in keeping to the footpath

which leads from the woods of Acol straight toward the cliffs. Unlike

Adam Lambert, his eyes were unaccustomed to pierce the moist pall which

hid the distance from his view.

Strangely enough he had not cast aside the fantastic accouterments of

the French prince, and though these must have been as singularly

uncomfortable, as they were inappropriate, for a midnight walk,

nevertheless, he still wore the heavy perruque, the dark mustache,

broad-brimmed hat, and black shade which were so characteristic of the

mysterious personage.

He had heard the church clock at Acol village strike half an hour after

eleven and knew that the smith would already be waiting for him.

The acrid smell of seaweed struck forcibly now upon his nostrils. The

grass beneath his feet had become more sparse and more coarse. The

moisture which clung to his face had a taste of salt in it. Obviously he

was quite close to the edge of the cliffs.

The next moment and without any warning a black outline appeared in the

moon-illumined density. It was Adam Lambert pacing up and down with the

impatience of an imprisoned beast of prey.

A second or two later the febrile hand of the smith had gripped Sir

Marmaduke's shoulder.

"You have brought those proofs?" he queried hoarsely.

His face was wet with the mist, and he had apparently oft wiped it with

his hand or sleeve, for great streaks of dirt marked his cheeks and

forehead, giving him a curious satanic expression, whilst his short lank

hair obviously roughed up by impatient fingers, bristled above his

square-built head like the coat of a shaggy dog.

In absolute contrast to him, Sir Marmaduke looked wonderfully calm and

tidy. In answer to the other man's eager look of inquiry, he made

pretense of fumbling in his pockets, as he said quietly:

"Yes! all of them!"

As if idly musing, he continued to walk along the path, whilst the smith

first stooped to pick up a small lantern which he had obviously brought

with him in order to examine the papers by its light, and then strode in

the wake of Sir Marmaduke.

The breeze was getting a bother hold on the mist, and was tossing it

about from sea to cliff and upwards with more persistence and more

vigor.

The pale, cold moon glistened visibly on the moist atmosphere, and far

below and far beyond weird streaks of shimmering silver edged the

surface of the sea. The breeze itself had scarcely stirred the water;

or,--the soft sound of tiny billows lapping the outstanding boulders was

wafted upwards as the tide drew in.

The two men had reached the edge of the cliff. With a slight laugh,

indicative of nervousness, Sir Marmaduke had quickly stepped back a

pace or two.

"I have brought the proofs," he said, as if wishing to conciliate a

dangerous enemy, "we need not stand so near the edge, need we?"

But Adam Lambert shrugged his shoulders in token of contempt at the

other's cowardice.

"I'll not harm thee," he said, "an thou hast not lied to me...."

He deposited his lantern by the side of a heap of white chalk, which

had, no doubt, been collected at some time or other by idle or childish

hands, and stood close to the edge of the cliff. Sir Marmaduke now took

his stand beside it, one foot placed higher than the other. Close to him

Adam in a frenzy of restlessness had thrown himself down on the heap;

below them a drop of ninety feet to the seaweed covered beach.

"Let me see the papers," quoth Adam impatiently.

"Gently, gently, kind sir," said de Chavasse lightly. "Did you think

that you could dictate your own terms quite so easily?"

"What dost thou mean?" queried the other.

"I mean that I am about to place in your hands the proof that you are

heir to a title and fifteen thousand pounds a year, but at the same time

I wish to assure myself that you will be pleasant over certain matters

which concern me."

"Have I not said that I would hold my tongue."

"Of a truth you did say so my friend, and therefore, I am convinced

that you will not refuse to give me a written promise to that effect."

"I cannot write," said Adam moodily.

"Oh! just your signature!" said de Chavasse pleasantly. "You can write

your name?"

"Not well."

"The initials A. and L. They would satisfy me,"

"Why dost thou want written promises," objected the smith, looking up

with sullen wrath at Sir Marmaduke. "Is not the word of an honest man

sufficient for thee?"

"Quite sufficient," rejoined de Chavasse blandly, "those initials are a

mere matter of form. You cannot object if your intentions are honest."

"I do not object. Hast brought ink or paper?"

"Yes, and the form to which you only need to affix your initials."

Sir Marmaduke now drew a packet of papers from the inner lining of his

doublet.

"These are the proofs of your parentage," he said lightly.

Then he took out another single sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded

it and handed it to Lambert. "Can you read it?" he asked.

He stooped and picked up the lantern, whilst handing the paper to Adam.

The smith took the document from him, and Sir Marmaduke held the lantern

so that he might read.

Adam Lambert was no scholar. The reading of printed matter was oft a

difficulty to him, written characters were a vast deal more trouble,

but suspicion lurked in the smith's mind, and though his very sinews

ached with the desire to handle the proofs, he would not put his

initials to any writing which he did not fully comprehend.

It was all done in a moment. Adam was absorbed in deciphering the

contents of the paper. De Chavasse held the lantern up with one hand,

but at such an angle that Lambert was obliged to step back in order to

get its full light.

Then with the other hand, the right, Sir Marmaduke drew a double-edged

Italian knife from his girdle, and with a rapid and vigorous gesture,

drove it straight between the smith's shoulder blades.

Adam uttered a groan:

"My God ... I am ..."

Then he staggered and fell.

Fell backwards down the edge of the cliff into the mist-enveloped abyss

below.

Sir Marmaduke had fallen on one knee and his trembling fingers clutched

at the thick short grass, sharp as the blade of a knife, to stop himself

from swooning--from falling backwards in the wake of Adam the smith.

A gust of wind wafted the mist upwards, covering him with its humid

embrace. But he remained quite still, crouching on his stomach now, his

hands clutching the grass for support, whilst great drops of

perspiration mingled with the moisture of the mist on his face.

Anon he raised his head a little and turned to look at the edge of the

cliff. On hands and knees, like a gigantic reptile, he crawled, then lay

flat on the ground, on the extreme edge, his eyes peering down into

those depths wherein floating vapors lolled and stirred, with subtle

movements like spirits in unrest.

As far as the murderer's eye could reach and could penetrate the density

of the fog, white crag succeeded white crag, with innumerable

projections which should have helped to toss a falling and inert mass as

easily as if it had been an air bubble.

Sir Marmaduke tried to penetrate the secrets which the gray and shifting

veil still hid from his view. Beside him lay the Italian knife, its

steely surface shimmering in the vaporous light, there where a dull and

ruddy stain had not dimmed its brilliant polish. The murderer gazed at

his tool and shuddered feebly. But he picked up the knife and

mechanically wiped it in the grass, before he restored it to his belt.

Then he gazed downwards again, straining his eyes to pierce the mist,

his ears to hear a sound.

But nothing came upwards from that mighty abyss save the now more

distinct lapping of the billows round the boulders, for the tide was

rapidly setting in.

Down the white sides of the cliff the projections seemed ready to afford

a foothold bearing somewhat toward the right, the descent was not so

abrupt as it was immediately in front. The chalk of a truth looked slimy

and green, and might cause the unwary to trip, but there was that to

see down below and that to do, which would make any danger of a fall

well worth the risking.

Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse slowly rose to his feet. His knees were still

shaking under him, and there was a nervous tremor in his jaw and in his

wrists which he tried vainly to conquer.

Nevertheless he managed to readjust his clothes, his perruque, his

broad-brimmed hat. The papers he slipped back into his pocket together

with the black silk shade and false mustache, then, with the lantern in

his left hand he took the first steps towards the perilous descent.

There was something down below that he must see, something that he

wished to do.

He walked sidewise at times, bent nearly double, looking like some

gigantic and unwieldy crab, as the feeble rays of the mist-hidden moon

caught his rounded back in its cloth doublet of a dull reddish hue. At

other times he was forced to sit, and to work his way downwards with his

hands and heels, tearing his clothes, bruising his elbows and his

shoulders against the projections of the titanic masonry. Lumps of chalk

detached themselves from beneath and around him and slipped down the

precipitous sides in advance of him, with a dull reverberating sound

which seemed to rouse the echoes of this silent night.

The descent seemed interminable. His flesh ached, his sinews creaked,

his senses reeled with the pain, the mind-agony, the horror of it all.

At last he caught a glimmer of the wet sand, less than ten feet below.

He had just landed on a bit of white tableland wantonly carved in the

naked cliff. The rough gradients which up to now had guided him in his

descent ceased abruptly. Behind him the cliff rose upwards, in front

and, to his right, and left a concave wall, straight down to the beach.

Exhausted and half-paralyzed, de Chavasse perforce had to throw himself

down these last ten feet, hardly pausing to think whether his head would

or would not come in violent contact with one of the chalk boulders

which stand out here and there in the flat sandy beach.

He threw down the lantern first, which was extinguished as it fell. Then

he took the final jump, and soon lay half-unconscious, numbed and aching

in every limb in the wet sand.

Anon he tried to move. His limbs were painful, his shoulders ached, and

he had some difficulty in struggling to his feet. An unusually large

boulder close by afforded a resting place. He reached it and sat down.

His head was still swimming but his limbs were apparently sound. He sat

quietly for a while, recouping his strength, gathering his wandering

senses. The lantern lay close to his feet, extinguished but not broken.

He groped for his tinder-box, and having found it, proceeded to relight

the tiny tallow dip. It was a difficult proceeding for the tinder was

damp, and the breeze, though very slight in this hollow portion of the

cliffs, nevertheless was an enemy to a trembling little flame.

But Sir Marmaduke noted with satisfaction that his nerves were already

under his control. He succeeded in relighting the lantern, which he

could not have done if his hands had been as unsteady as they were

awhile ago.

He rose once more to his feet, stamped them against the boulders,

stretched out his arms, giving his elbows and shoulders full play.

Mayhap he had spent a quarter of an hour thus resting since that final

jump, mayhap it had been an hour or two; he could not say for time had

ceased to be.

But the mist had penetrated to his very bones and he did not remember

ever having felt quite so cold.

Now he seized his lantern and began his search, trying to ascertain the

exact position of the portion of the cliff's edge where he and Lambert

the smith had been standing a while ago.

It was not a difficult matter, nor was the search a long one. Soon he

saw a huddled mass lying in the sand.

He went up to it and placed the lantern down upon a boulder.

Horror had entirely left him. The crisis of terror at his own fell deed

had been terrible but brief. His was not a nature to shrink from

unpleasant sights, nor at such times do men have cause to recoil from

contact with the dead.

In the murderer's heart there was no real remorse for the crime which

he had committed.

"Bah! why did the fool get in my way?" was the first mental comment

which he made when he caught sight of Lambert's body.

Then with a final shrug of the shoulders he dismissed pity, horror or

remorse, entirely from his thoughts.

What he now did was to raise the smith's body from the ground and to

strip it of its clothing. 'Twas a grim task, on which his chroniclers

have never cared to dwell. His purpose was fixed. He had planned and

thought it all out minutely, and he was surely not the man to flinch at

the execution of a project once he had conceived it.

The death of Adam Lambert should serve a double purpose: the silencing

of an avowed enemy and the wiping out of the personality of Prince Amédé

d'Orléans.

The latter was as important as the first. It would facilitate the

realizing of the fortune and, above all, clear the way for Sir

Marmaduke's future life.

Therefore, however gruesome the task, which was necessary in order to

attain that great goal, the schemer accomplished it, with set teeth and

an unwavering hand.

What he did do on that lonely fog-ridden beach and in the silence of

that dank and misty night, was to dress up the body of Adam Lambert, the

smith, in the fantastic clothing of Prince Amédé d'Orléans: the red

cloth doublet, the lace collars and cuffs, the bunches of ribbon at knee

and waist, and the black silk shade over the left eye. All he omitted

were the perruque and the false mustache.

Having accomplished this work, he himself donned the clothes of Adam

Lambert.

This part of his task being done, he had to rest for a while. 'Tis no

easy matter to undress and redress an inert mass.

The smith, dressed in the elaborate accouterments of the mysterious

French prince, now lay face upwards on the sand.

The tide was rapidly setting in. In less than half an hour it would

reach this portion of the beach.

Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse, however, had not yet accomplished all that he

meant to do. He knew that the sea-waves had a habit of returning that

which they took away. Therefore, his purpose was not fully accomplished

when he had dressed the dead smith in the clothes of the Orléans prince.

Else had he wished it, he could have consigned his victim to the tide.

But Adam--dead--had now to play a part in the grim comedy which Sir

Marmaduke de Chavasse had designed for his own safety, and the more

assured success of all his frauds and plans.

Therefore, after a brief rest, the murderer set to work again. A more

grim task yet! one from which of a truth more than one evil-doer would

recoil.

Not so this bold schemer, this mad worshiper of money and of self.

Everything! anything for the safety of Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse, for

the peaceful possession of £500,000.

Everything! Even the desecration of the dead!

The murderer was powerful, and there is a strength which madness gives.

Heavy boulders pushed by vigorous arms had to help in the monstrous

deed!

Heavy boulders thrown and rolled over the face of the dead, so as to

obliterate all identity!

Nay! had a sound now disturbed the silence of this awesome night, surely

it had been the laughter of demons aghast at such a deed!

The moon indeed hid her face, retreating once more behind the veils of

mist. The breeze itself was lulled and the fog gathered itself together

and wrapped the unavowable horrors of the night in a gray and ghoul-like

shroud.

Madness lurked in the eyes of the sacrilegious murderer. Madness which

helped him not only to carry his grim task to the end, but, having

accomplished it, to see that it was well done.

And his hand did not tremble, as he raised the lantern and looked down

on _that_ which had once been Adam Lambert, the smith.

Nay, had those laughing demons looked on it, they would have veiled

their faces in awe!

The gentle wavelets of the torpid tide were creeping round that thing in

red doublet and breeches, in high top boots, lace cuffs and collar.

Sir Marmaduke looked down calmly upon his work, and did not even shudder

with horror.

Madness had been upon him and had numbed his brain.

But the elemental instinct of self-preservation whispered to him that

his work was well done.

When the sea gave up the dead, only the clothes, the doublet, the

ribands, the lace, the black shade, mayhap, would reveal his identity,

as the mysterious French prince who for a brief while had lodged in a

cottage at Acol.

But the face was unrecognizable.

PART IV

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE DAY AFTER

The feeling which prevailed in Thanet with regard to the murder of the

mysterious foreigner on the sands of Epple Bay was chiefly one of sullen

resentment.

Here was a man who had come from goodness knows where, whose strange

wanderings and secret appearances in the neighborhood had oft roused the

anger of the village folk, just as his fantastic clothes, his silken

doublet and befrilled shirt had excited their scorn; here was a man, I

say, who came from nowhere, and now he chose--the yokels of the

neighborhood declared it that he chose--to make his exit from the world

in as weird a manner as he had effected his entrance into this remote

and law-abiding little island.

The farmhands and laborers who dwelt in the cottages dotted about around

St. Nicholas-at-Wade, Epple or Acol were really angry with the stranger

for allowing himself to be murdered on their shores. Thanet itself had

up to now enjoyed a fair reputation for orderliness and temperance, and

that one of her inhabitants should have been tempted to do away with

that interloping foreigner in such a violent manner was obviously the

fault of that foreigner himself.

The watches had found him on the sands at low tide. One of them walking

along the brow of the cliff had seen the dark object lying prone amongst

the boulders, a black mass in the midst of the whiteness of the chalk.

The whole thing was shocking, no doubt, gruesome in the extreme, but the

mystery which surrounded this strange death had roused ire rather than

horror.

Of course the news had traveled slowly from cottage to cottage, although

Petty Constable Pyot, who resided at St. Nicholas, had immediately

apprised Squire Boatfield and Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse of the awesome

discovery made by the watches on the sands of Epple Bay.

Squire Boatfield was major-general of the district and rode over from

Sarre directly he heard the news. The body in the meanwhile had been

placed under the shelter of one of the titanic caves which giant hands

have carved in the acclivities of the chalk. Squire Boatfield ordered it

to be removed. It was not fitting that birds of prey should be allowed

to peck at the dead, nor that some unusually high tide should once more

carry him out to sea, ere his murderer had been brought to justice.

Therefore, the foreigner with the high-sounding name was conveyed by the

watches at the squire's bidding to the cottage of the Lamberts over at

Acol, the only place in Thanet which he had ever called his home.

The old Quakeress, wrathful and sullen, had scarce understood what the

whole pother was about. She was hard of hearing, and Petty Constable

Pyot was at great pains to explain to her that by the major-general's

orders the body of the murdered man should be laid decently under

shelter, until such time as proper burial could be arranged for it.

Fortunately before the small cortège bearing the gruesome burden had

arrived at the cottage, young Richard Lambert had succeeded in making

the old woman understand what was expected of her.

Even then she flatly and obstinately refused to have the stranger

brought into her house.

"He was a heathen," she declared emphatically, "his soul hath mayhap

gone to hell. His thoughts were evil, and God had him not in His

keeping. 'Tis not fit that the mortal hulk of a damned soul should

pollute the saintliness of mine own abode."

Pyot thought that the old woman was raving, but Master Lambert very

peremptorily forbade him to interfere with her. The young man, though

quite calm, looked dangerous--so thought the petty constable--and

between them, the old Quakeress and the young student defied the

constables and the watches and barred the cottage to the entrance of the

dead.

Unfortunately, the smith was from home. Pyot thought that the latter had

been more reasonable, that he would have understood the weight of

authority, and also of seemliness, which was of equally grave

importance.

There was a good deal of parleying before it was finally decided to

place the body in the forge, which was a wooden lean-to, resting against

the north wall of the cottage. There was no direct access from the

cottage to the forge, and old Mistress Lambert seemed satisfied that the

foreigner should rest there, at any rate until the smith came home,

when, mayhap, he would decide otherwise.

At the instance of the petty constable she even brought out a sheet,

which smelt sweetly of lavender, and gave it to the watchmen, so that

they might decently cover up the dead; she also gave them three elm

chairs on which to lay him down.

Across those three chairs the body now lay, covered over with the

lavender-scented sheet, in the corner of the blacksmith's forge, over by

the furnace. A watchman stayed beside it, to ward off sacrilege: anyone

who desired could come, and could--if his nerves were strong

enough--view the body and state if, indeed, it was that of the foreigner

who all through last summer had haunted the woods and park of Acol.

Of a truth there was no doubt at all as to the identity of the dead. His

fantastic clothes were unmistakable. Many there were who had seen him

wandering in the woods of nights, and several could swear to the black

silk shade and the broad-brimmed hat which the watchmen had found--high

and dry--on a chalk boulder close to where the body lay.

Mistress Lambert had refused to look on the dead. 'Twas, of course, no

fit sight for females, and the constable had not insisted thereon: but

she knew the black silk shade again, and young Master Lambert had

caught sight of the murdered man's legs and feet, and had thereupon

recognized the breeches and the quaint boots with their overwide tops

filled with frills of lace.

Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy, too, though unwilling to see a corpse,

thought it his duty to help the law in investigating this mysterious

crime. He had oft seen the foreigner of nights in the park, and never

doubted for a moment that the body which lay across the elm chairs in

the smith's forge was indeed that of the stranger.

Squire Boatfield was now quite satisfied that the identity of the victim

was firmly established, and anon he did his best--being a humane man--to

obtain Christian burial for the stranger. After some demur, the parson

at Minster declared himself willing to do the pious deed.

Heathen or not, 'twas not for Christian folk to pass judgment on him who

no longer now could give an explanation of his own mysterious doings,

and had of a truth carried his secrets with him in silence to the grave.

Was it not strange that anyone should have risked the gallows for the

sake of putting out of the way a man who of a surety was not worth

powder or shot?

And the nerve and strength which the murderer had shown! ... displacing

great boulders with which to batter in his victim's face so that not

even his own kith and kin could recognize that now!

CHAPTER XXXIV

AFTERWARDS

Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse cursed the weather and cursed himself for

being a fool.

He had started from Acol Court on horseback, riding an old nag, for the

roads were heavy with mud, and the short cut through the woods quite

impassable.

The icy downpour beat against his face and lashed the poor mare's ears

and mane until she tossed her head about blindly and impatiently, scarce

heeding where she placed her feet. The rider's cloak was already soaked

through, and soon even his shirt clung dank and cold to his aching back;

the bridle was slippery with the wet, and his numbed fingers could

hardly feel its resistance as the mare went stumbling on her way.

Beside horse and rider, Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy and Master Courage

Toogood walked ankle-deep in mud--one on each side of the mare, and

lantern in hand, for the shades of evening would have drawn in ere the

return journey could be undertaken. The two men had taken off their

shoes and stockings and had slung them over their shoulders, for 'twas

better to walk barefoot than to feel the icy moisture soaking through

leather and worsted.

It was then close on two o'clock of an unusually bleak November

afternoon. The winds of Heaven, which of a truth do oft use the isle of

Thanet as a meeting place, wherein to discuss the mischief which they

severally intend to accomplish in sundry quarters later on, had been

exceptionally active this day. The southwesterly hurricane had brought,

a deluge of rain with it a couple of hours ago, then--satisfied with

this prowess--had handed the downpour over to his brother of the

northeast, who breathing on it with his icy breath, had soon converted

it into sleet: whereupon he turned his back on the mainland altogether,

and wandered out towards the ocean, determined to worry the deep-sea

fishermen who were out with their nets: but not before he had deputed

his brother of the northeast to marshal his army of snow-laden cloud on

the firmament.

This the northeast, was over-ready to do, and in answer to his whim a

leaden, inky pall now lay over Thanet, whilst the gale continued its

mighty, wanton frolic, lashing the sleet against the tiny window-panes

of the cottage, or sending it down the chimneys, upon the burning logs

below, causing them to splutter and to hiss ere they changed their glow

to black and smoking embers.

'Twere impossible to imagine a more discomforting atmosphere in which to

be abroad: yet Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse was trudging through the mire,

and getting wet to the skin, even when he might just as well be sitting

beside the fire in the withdrawing-room at the Court.

He was on his way to the smith's forge at Acol and had ordered his

serving-men to accompany him thither: and of a truth neither of them

were loath to go. They cared naught about the weather, and the

excitement which centered round the Quakeress's cottage at Acol more

than counterbalanced the discomfort of a tramp through the mud.

A rumor had reached the Court that the funeral of the murdered man

would, mayhap, take place this day, and Master Busy would not have

missed such an event for the world, not though the roads lay thick with

snow and the drifts rendered progress impossible to all save to the

keenest enthusiast. He for one was glad enough that his master had

seemed so unaccountably anxious for the company of his own serving men.

Sir Marmaduke had ever been overfond of wandering about the lonely woods

of Thanet alone.

But since that gruesome murder on the beach forty-eight hours ago and

more, both the quality and the yokels preferred to venture abroad in

company.

At the same time neither Master Busy nor young Courage Toogood could

imagine why Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse should endure such amazing

discomfort in order to attend the funeral of an obscure adventurer, who

of a truth was as naught to him.

Nor, if the truth were known, could Sir Marmaduke himself have accounted

for his presence here on this lonely road, and on one of the most

dismal, bleak and unpleasant afternoons that had ever been experienced

in Thanet of late.

He should at this moment have been on the other side of the North Sea.

The most elemental prudence should indeed have counseled an immediate

journey to Amsterdam and a prompt negotiation of all marketable

securities which Lady Sue Aldmarshe had placed in his hands.

Yet twice twenty-four hours had gone by since that awful night, when,

having finally relinquished his victim to the embrace of the tide, he

had picked his way up the chalk cliffs and through the terror-haunted

woods to his own room in Acol Court.

He should have left for abroad the next day, ere the news of the

discovery of a mysterious murder had reached the precincts of his own

park. But he had remained in England. Something seemed to have rooted

him to the spot, something to be holding him back whenever he was ready

to flee.

At first it had been a mere desire to know. On the morning following his

crime he made a vigorous effort to rally his scattered senses, to walk,

to move, and to breathe as if nothing had happened, as if nothing lay

out there on the sands of Epple, high and dry now, for the tide would

have gone out.

Whether he had slept or not since the moment when he had crept

stealthily into his own house, silently as the bird of prey when

returning to its nest--he could not have said. Undoubtedly he had

stripped off the dead man's clothes, the rough shirt and cord breeches

which had belonged to Lambert, the smith. Undoubtedly, too, he had made

a bundle of these things, hiding them in a dark recess at the bottom of

an old oak cupboard which stood in his room. With these clothes he had

placed the leather wallet which contained securities worth half a

million of solid money.

All this he had done, preparatory to destroying the clothes by fire, and

to converting the securities into money abroad. After that he had thrown

himself on the bed, without thought, without sensations save those of

bodily ache and of numbing fatigue.

Vaguely, as the morning roused him to consciousness, he realized that he

must leave for Dover as soon as may be and cross over to France by the

first packet available, or, better still, by boat specially chartered.

And yet, when anon he rose and dressed, he felt at once that he would

not go just yet; that he could not go until certain queries which had

formed in his brain had been answered by events.

How soon would the watches find the body? Having found it, what would

they do? Would the body be immediately identified by the clothes upon

it? or would doubt on that score arise in the minds of the neighboring

folk? Would the disappearance of Adam Lambert be known at once and

commented upon in connection with the crime?

Curiosity soon became an obsession; he wandered down into the hall where

the serving-wench was plying her duster. He searched her face,

wondering if she had heard the news.

The mist of the night had yielded to an icy drizzle, but Sir Marmaduke

could not remain within. His footsteps guided him in the direction of

Acol, on towards Epple Bay. On the path which leads to the edge of the

cliffs he met the watches who were tramping on towards the beach.

The men saluted him and went on their way, but he turned and fled as

quickly as he dared.

In the afternoon Master Busy brought the news down from Prospect Inn.

The body of the man who had called himself a French prince had been

found murdered and shockingly mutilated on the sands at Epple. Sir

Marmaduke was vastly interested. He, usually so reserved and ill-humored

with his servants, had kept Hymn-of-Praise in close converse for nigh

upon an hour, asking many questions about the crime, about the petty

constables' action in the matter and the comments made by the village

folk.

At the same time he gave strict injunctions to Master Busy not to

breathe a word of the gruesome subject to the ladies, nor yet to the

serving-wench; 'twas not a matter fit for women's ears.

Sir Marmaduke then bade his butler push on as far as Acol, to glean

further information about the mysterious event.

That evening he collected all the clothes which had belonged to Lambert,

the smith, and wrapping up the leather wallet with them which contained

the securities, he carried this bundle to the lonely pavilion on the

outskirts of the park.

He was not yet ready to go abroad.

Master Busy returned from his visit to Acol full of what he had seen. He

had been allowed to view the body, and to swear before Squire Boatfield

that he recognized the clothes as being those usually worn by the

mysterious foreigner who used to haunt the woods and park of Acol all

last summer.

Hymn-of-Praise had his full meed of pleasure that evening, and the next

day, too, for Sir Marmaduke seemed never tired of hearing him recount

all the gossip which obtained at Acol and at St. Nicholas: the surmises

as to the motive of the horrible crime, the talk about the stranger and

his doings, the resentment caused by his weird demise, and the

conjectures as to what could have led a miscreant to do away with so

insignificant a personage.

All that day--the second since the crime--Sir Marmaduke still lingered

in Thanet. Prudence whispered urgent counsels that he should go, and yet

he stayed, watching the progress of events with that same morbid and

tenacious curiosity.

And now it was the thought of what folk would say when they heard that

Adam Lambert had disappeared, and was, of a truth, not returning home,

which kept Sir Marmaduke still lingering in England.

That and the inexplicable enigma which ever confronts the searcher of

human motives: the overwhelming desire of the murderer to look once

again upon his victim.

Master Busy had on that second morning brought home the news from Acol,

that Squire Boatfield had caused a rough deal coffin to be made by the

village carpenter at the expense of the county, and that mayhap the

stranger would be laid therein this very afternoon and conveyed down to

Minster, where he would be accorded Christian burial.

Then Sir Marmaduke realized that it would be impossible for him to leave

England until after he had gazed once more on the dead body of the

smith.

After that he would go. He would shake the sand of Thanet from his heels

forever.

When he had learned all that he wished to know he would be free from the

present feeling of terrible obsession which paralyzed his movements to

the extent of endangering his own safely.

He was bound to look upon his victim once again: an inexplicable and

titanic force compelled him to that. Mayhap, that same force would

enable him to keep his nerves under control when, presently, he should

be face to face with the dead.

Face to face? ... Good God! ...

Yet neither fear nor remorse haunted him. It was only curosity, and, at

one thought, a nameless horror! ... Not at the thought of murder ...

there he had no compunction, but at that of the terrible deed which from

instinct of self-protection had perforce to succeed the graver crime.

The weight of those chalk boulders seemed still to weigh against the

muscles of his back. He felt that Sisyphus-like he was forever rolling,

rolling a gigantic stone which, failing of its purpose--recoiled on him,

rolling back down a precipitous incline, and crushing him beneath its

weight ... only to release him again ... to leave him free to endure the

same torture over and over again ... and yet again ... forever the same

weight ... forever the self-same, intolerable agony....

CHAPTER XXXV

THE SMITH'S FORGE

Up to the hour of his departure from Acol Court, Sir Marmaduke had been

convinced that neither his sister-in-law nor Lady Sue had heard of the

news which had set the whole of Thanet in commotion. Acol Court lies

very isolated, well off the main Canterbury Road, and just for two days

and a half Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy had contrived to hold his tongue.

Most of the village gossips, too, met at the local public bars, and had

had up to now no time to wander as far as the Court, nor any reason to

do so, seeing that Master Busy was always to be found at Prospect Inn

and always ready to discuss the mystery in all its bearings, with anyone

who would share a pint of ale with him.

Sir Marmaduke had taken jealous care only to meet the ladies at

meal-time, and under penalty of immediate dismissal had forbidden

Hymn-of-Praise to speak to the serving-wench of the all-absorbing topic.

So far Master Busy had obeyed, but at the last moment, just before

starting for Acol village, Sir Marmaduke had caught sight of Mistress

Charity talking to the stableman in the yard. Something in the wench's

eyes told him--with absolute certainty that she had just heard of the

murder.

That morbid and tenacious curiosity once more got hold of him. He would

have given all he possessed at this moment--the entire fruits of his

crime perhaps--to know what that ignorant girl thought of it all, and it

caused him acute, almost physical pain, to refrain from questioning her.

There was enough of the sense of self-protection in him, however, to

check himself from betraying such extraordinary interest in the matter:

but he turned on his heel and went quickly back to the house. He wanted

to catch sight of Editha's face, if only for a moment; he wanted to see

for himself, then and there, if she had also heard the news.

As he entered the hall, she was coming down the stairs. She had on her

cloak and hood as if preparing to go out. Their eyes met and he saw that

she knew.

Knew what? He broke into a loud and fierce laugh as he met her wildly

questioning gaze. There was a look almost of madness in the hopeless

puzzlement of her expression.

Of course Editha must be hopelessly puzzled. The very thought of her

vague conjecturings had caused him to laugh as maniacs laugh at times.

The mysterious French prince had been found on the sands murdered and

mutilated.... But then ...

Still laughing, Sir Marmaduke once more turned, running away from the

house now and never pausing until his foot had touched the stirrup and

his fingers were entangled in the damp mane of the mare. Even whilst he

settled himself into the saddle as comfortably as he could, the grim

humor of Editha's bewilderment caused him to laugh, within himself.

The nag stepped slowly along in the mud at first, then broke into a

short trot. The two serving-men had started on ahead with their

lanterns; they would, of course, be walking all the way.

The icy rain mingled with tiny flakes of snow was insufferably cutting

and paralyzing: yet Sir Marmaduke scarcely heeded it, until the mare

became unpleasantly uncertain in her gait. Once she stumbled and nearly

pitched her rider forward into the mud: whereupon, lashing into her, he

paid more heed to her doings.

Once just past the crossroad toward St. Nicholas, he all but turned his

horse's head back towards Acol Court. It seemed as if he must find out

now at once whether Editha had spoken to Lady Sue and what the young

girl had done and said when she heard, in effect, that her husband had

been murdered.

Nothing but the fear of missing the last look at the body of Adam

Lambert ere the lid of the coffin was nailed down stopped him from

returning homewards.

Anon he came upon Busy and Toogood painfully trudging in the mire, and

singing lustily to keep themselves cheerful and warm.

Sir Marmaduke drew the mare in, so as to keep pace with his men. On the

whole, the road had been more lonely than he liked and he was glad of

company.

Outside the Lamberts' cottage a small crowd had collected. From the

crest of the hill the tiny bell of Acol church struck the hour of two.

Squire Boatfield had ridden over from Sarre, and Sir Marmaduke--as he

dismounted--caught sight of the heels and crupper of the squire's

well-known cob. The little crowd had gathered in the immediate

neighborhood of the forge, and de Chavasse, from where he now stood,

could not see the entrance of the lean-to, only the blank side wall of

the shed, and the front of the Lamberts' cottage, the doors and windows

of which were hermetically closed.

Up against the angle formed by the wall of the forge and that of the

cottage, the enterprising landlord of the local inn had erected a small

trestle table, from behind which he was dispensing spiced ale, and

bottled Spanish wines.

Squire Boatfield was standing beside that improvised bar, and at sight

of Sir Marmaduke he put down the pewter mug which he was in the act of

conveying to his lips, and came forward to greet his friend.

"What is the pother about this foreigner, eh, Boatfield?" queried de

Chavasse with gruff good-nature as he shook hands with the squire and

allowed himself to be led towards that tempting array of bottles and

mugs on the trestle table.

The yokels who were assembled at the entrance of the forge turned to

gaze with some curiosity at the squire of Acol. De Chavasse was not

often seen even in this village: he seldom went beyond the boundary of

his own park.

All the men touched their forelocks with deferential respect. Master

Jeremy Mounce humbly whispered a query as to what His Honor would

condescend to take.

Sir Marmaduke desired a mug of buttered ale or of lamb's wool, which

Master Mounce soon held ready for him. He emptied the mug at one

draught. The spiced liquor went coursing through his body, and he felt

better and more sure of himself. He desired a second mug.

"With more substance in it, Master Landlord," he said pleasantly. "Nay,

man! ye are not giving milk to children, but something warm to cheer a

man's inside."

"I have a half bottle of brandy here, good Sir Marmaduke," suggested

Master Mounce with some diffidence, for brandy was an over-expensive

commodity which not many Kentish squires cared to afford.

"Brandy, of course, good master!" quoth de Chavasse lustily, "brandy is

the nectar of the gods. Here!" he added, drawing a piece of gold from a

tiny pocket concealed in the lining of his doublet, "will this pay for

thy half-bottle of nectar."

"Over well, good Sir Marmaduke," said Master Mounce, as he stooped to

the ground. From underneath the table he now drew forth a glass and a

bottle: the latter he uncorked with slow and deliberate care, and then

filled the glass with its contents, whilst Sir Marmaduke watched him

with impatient eyes.

"Will you join me, squire?" asked de Chavasse, as he lifted the small

tumbler and gazed with marked appreciation at the glistening and

transparent liquid.

"Nay, thanks," replied Boatfield with a laugh, "I care naught for these

foreign decoctions. Another mug, or even two, of buttered ale, good

landlord," he added, turning to Master Mounce.

In the meanwhile petty constable Pyot had stood respectfully at

attention ready to relate for the hundredth time, mayhap, all that he

knew and all that he meant to know about the mysterious crime.

Sir Marmaduke would of a surety ask many questions, for it was passing

strange that he had taken but little outward interest in the matter up

to now.

"Well, Pyot," he now said, beckoning to the man to approach, "tell us

what you know. By Gad, 'tis not often we indulge in a genuine murder in

Thanet! Where was it done? Not on my land, I hope."

"The watches found the body on the beach, your Honor," replied Pyot,

"the head was mutilated past all recognition ... the heavy chalk

boulders, your Honor ... and a determined maniac methinks, sir, who

wanted revenge against a personal enemy.... Else how to account for such

a brutal act? ..."

"I suppose," quoth Sir Marmaduke lightly, as he sipped the brandy,

"that the identity of the man has been quite absolutely determined."

"Aye! aye! your Honor," rejoined Pyot gravely, "the opinion of all those

who have seen the body is that it is that of a foreigner ... Prince of

Orleans he called himself, who has been lodging these past months at

this place here!"

And the petty constable gave a quick nod in the direction of the

cottage.

"Ah! I know but little about him," now said Sir Marmaduke, turning to

speak to Squire Boatfield, "although he lived here, on what is my own

property, and haunted my park, too ... so I've been told. There was a

good deal of talk about him among the wenches in the village."

"Aye! I had heard all about that prince," said Squire Boatfield

meditatively, "lodging in this cottage ... 'twas passing strange."

"He was a curious sort of man, your Honor," here interposed Pyot. "We

got what information about him we could, seeing that the smith is from

home, and that Mistress Lambert, his aunt, I think, is hard of hearing,

and gave us many crooked answers. But she told us that the stranger paid

for his lodging regularly, and would arrive at the cottage unawares of

an evening and stay part of the night ... then he would go off again at

cock-crow, and depart she knew not whither."

The man paused in his narrative. Something apparently had caused Sir

Marmaduke to turn giddy.

He tugged at his neckbands and his hand fell heavily against the

trestle-table.

"Nay! 'tis nothing," he said with a harsh laugh as Master Mounce with an

ejaculation of deep concern ran round to him with a chair, whilst Squire

Boatfield quickly put out an arm as if he were afraid that his friend

would fall. "'Tis nothing," he repeated, "the tramp in the cold, then

this heady draught.... I am well I assure you."

He drank half a glass of brandy at a draught, and now the hand which

replaced the glass upon the table had not the slightest tremor in it.

"'Tis all vastly interesting," he remarked lightly. "Have you seen the

body, Boatfield?"

"Aye! aye!" quoth the squire, speaking with obvious reluctance, for he

hated this gruesome subject. "'Tis no pleasant sight. And were I in your

shoes, de Chavasse, I would not go in there," and he nodded

significantly towards the forge.

"Nay! 'tis my duty as a magistrate," said Sir Marmaduke airily.

He had to steady himself against the table again for a moment or two,

ere he turned his back on the hospitable board, and started to walk

round towards the forge: no doubt the shaking of his knees was

attributable to the strong liquor which he had consumed.