THE WIZARD'S MARSH
It was the following morning.
Nothing eventful had transpired since Laurence's return from Durley
Dene, save that in the night watches the young man had fancied he heard
occasional sounds from the garden of the adjoining mansion. What these
sounds were he could not say, and as it was too dark for him to perceive
anything outside when he rose and peered out of the window, he was
unable to discover whether or no anything unusual had taken place.
The Squire's condition continued to improve, but he made no mention to
his son of the little red note-book and the life story it contained;
nor, in fact, did he in any way refer to the matter foremost in point of
interest.
Laurence was breakfasting with Lena and Mrs. Knox, who, as usual, did
justice to the array of dishes judiciously placed within her reach by
the elderly butler. The three had been conversing upon every-day
subjects, when the door opened, and Kingsford came hurriedly in.
"Please, sir," he said, "there's a man outside wants to see you very
pertikler, at once, if you please."
Obtaining the ladies' permission for him to leave the table, Laurence
followed the butler outside into the front hall, where stood a little
man in a loud check suit and tight leggings. The man looked as though
usually his face was rubicund; now it was white as the traditional
sheet.
"Oh, my God, Mr. Laurence!" he almost shrieked on catching sight of
Carrington; "they're after him! They'll kill him! They'll tear him in
pieces! Quick, quick! What can be done, sir? Oh, they'll hang me for
murder!"
"Calm yourself, my dear Nichols," replied Laurence, "and tell me
distinctly what's the matter. Anything happened to the Marquis?"
"No, sir," replied Nichols, trembling with fear; "the Markiss's all
right, but it's your visitor!"
"What visitor?"
"Why, the gent with the black face and the dress!"
"Gent with black face and dress!" echoed Laurence. "Quick, what do you
mean? What has happened to him?"
"I was taking Tiger and Nap for exercise, sir, when suddenly, as though
they scented something unusual, they both jumped forward, knocking me
down. When I fell down I let loose of the leash, and they simply flew
away across the fields in this direction--me after them. I vaulted the
gate by the common in time to catch sight of a queer little gent with
black face and an old black coat, and some kind of dress on, tearing
down the road with the hounds after him. I tried to follow, but lost
sight of 'em in no time. Then I ran back as hard as I could for a horse,
and a lad at the gate told me he'd seen the black gent come out of your
gate. Let me have the mare, sir, quick."
"Yes, yes! Fetch her out at once. I will follow you on my bicycle." And
the two men rushed from the house.
Laurence knew in an instant what had happened.
The Marquis of Moorland's savage bloodhounds were in pursuit of the
Squire's enemy--the Thug!
Two minutes later Nichols (one of the Marquis's coachmen) was thundering
down the road on the bare-backed mare, while Laurence, pedalling as hard
as he could, followed close behind.
Villagers were scattered about along the lane. They shrieked out that
the hounds had passed a few minutes before.
On and on the riders sped, Nichols freely using the hunting crop he had
caught up on leaving the Manse stables. Still there was no sign of
either the hounds or their quarry.
There were trees at intervals along the narrow lane. Out of one of
these, as the riders passed, there protruded a head and a white startled
face. Laurence glanced up, though knowing well that it could not be that
of the Thug, since the bloodhounds were not visible.
To his astonishment he perceived that the man who had taken refuge in
the tree was Horncastle, the convict servant from Durley Dene!
Now they had left the village--straggling though it was--far behind
them. The road began to get steeper and steeper. They were ascending to
the great moor. The pace began to tell upon the mare, and Laurence,
being out of training, was beginning to feel pains in his calves; but
still they kept on, the cyclist now abreast with the horseman.
How was it possible that a man on foot could keep up such a pace?--such
was Nichols' thought. Laurence did not wonder. His father's
story--contained in the little red note-book--had opened his eyes to the
weird and wonderful accomplishments of the Thugs, and he had seen the
activity demonstrated by this particular individual in the barn.
The road now became more and more uneven. In places the grass grew upon
it. It had formerly been used by carriers' and other carts, but the
advent of the railway had thrown it into disuse. Now it was seldom, if
ever, that a cart passed along it.
Once the mare stumbled and nearly fell, but Nichols managed to retain
his seat. Then, with a din only equalled by the report of a gun, the
tyre of the front wheel of Laurence's bicycle punctured, terrifying the
already alarmed mare, who was cantering abreast of the cyclist. But
neither stopped. The work for both cyclist and horse was becoming
harder, the incline steeper, and the surface of the pathway less even.
But the pace did not suffer.
At last they were on the plateau. Now they could see for miles over the
flat scrubby moorland, on which hardly a tree appeared to break the
monotony of the scene. Yet, wonder of wonders, there was no sign either
of the hounds or their victim! And yet they could not have turned off in
any other direction. Here and there on the wet road impressions of dogs'
toe-pads had been visible even from the saddle. What had become of the
fleet-footed Thug, tracked to his doom by the fierce bloodhounds of the
Marquis of Moorland? Nichols pulled up his mount, drew a
powerful-looking whistle from his pocket, and blew a long, loud blast on
it. Why he had not done so before was a mystery.
But there came no response.
It was impossible that either the man or the hounds could have
disappeared out of sight, since, as has already been said, it was now
possible to see for many miles across the flat country.
Nichols was wiping his ashy face with a red handkerchief.
"Good Lord, sir, what shall we do?" he moaned. "Those dogs are worth two
hundred pounds, and--the gent, what's become of him?"
"Goodness only knows," replied Laurence. "They have all disappeared as
though the earth had swallowed them up!" Then, as he uttered the words,
an idea struck him.
Had the earth really swallowed them up?
"Come!" he shouted; "the Wizard's Marsh!" But on the rough, uneven
surface of the ground he could not proceed on his machine.
"Leave the mare where she is," he called to Nichols, as he jumped from
his bicycle and threw it down; "leave the mare, and let us run over to
the marsh. Perhaps this----" But his words were lost, save to the sharp
north wind, for he had rushed forward in the direction of a stone pillar
that rose some thousands of yards on.
That stone quaintly announced that to proceed any farther in a certain
direction would be fatal. The traveller would suddenly step from hard,
dry ground into a dark, fathomless depth of marsh, half a mile square--a
grim pitfall for the unwary, of Nature's design, known to the local
yarn-spinners as the "Wizard's Marsh," and to geologists as a queer and
interesting natural freak.
Fresher than his companion, the young coachman quickly overtook
Laurence, and the two coursed along in the direction of the venerable
moss-grown warning stone. In places there were dots of marsh, in which
the runners' feet sank to the ankle; but, heedless of anything in their
excitement, they did not pause until the stone was reached.
Then, treading with the utmost caution, they commenced to circle the
treacherous quagmire, seeking for some trace of the vanished man and his
savage canine pursuers. And they did not search in vain.
Suddenly Nichols stopped. Pointing to a mark on the ground, he
exclaimed--
"Someone has stepped here lately. A man in stockinged feet."
"That's right," cried Laurence; "the Indian does not wear boots."
"And never will," replied the coachman grimly. "His body and the hounds
have gone down, down into the marsh. See, here is the mark of one of
the hounds. They have all gone down together. Oh, Lord, how awful, and
all my fault!"
"No, not your fault, Nichols. You couldn't help the hounds escaping.
They scented the Indian, and for some reason or other started in
pursuit. But what's this?" He bent down, picked up something that lay on
the very brink of the bubbling marsh, and examined it.
It was a long, narrow strip of yellowish hairy cloth--the
harmless-looking weapon by means of which the Thug had attempted the
murder of Squire Carrington!
No possible shadow of doubt remained but that the terrible avenger from
over the sea had perished in the Wizard's Marsh.
The Squire's dread and danger were at an end. His merciless foe was no
more.