When, after every one had gone to bed, Mallow and Aldean visited

Trall, he was still sleeping, so they left him. But early next morning

Mallow was in his room. He was awake, and professed himself much

easier in his mind. Amid a profusion of thanks for all his kindness,

he told Mallow how he had escaped the common fate through Madame

having ordered him out of the house.

"I don't know how it all happened," he said. "There was a mine laid

under the cellar, I know, but I feel sure Madame didn't fire it. I

hope they won't think I did it. It was for fear of that I came down

here."

"You are safe enough here, Trall. Besides, that section, at least, of

the Brotherhood is done for."

"Oh, but they were not all there. There are others. Two of them have

gone after Carlo and Clara. I protested, but Madame would send them,

and she turned me out of the place."

"Where are Boldini and your niece now?"

"They have left Genoa for South America. One of the Brothers followed

them. He wired to Madame they had taken ship, but he did not say for

what port. But they're as good as dead," moaned Trall; "the Brothers

who were sent after them had instructions to kill them."

"Oh, let us hope they will escape," said Mallow, soothingly. "By the

way, that disguise of yours, Trall. Did you wear it to visit the P.

and O. Office before Carson arrived?"

"No, Mr. Mallow; I was never in the P. and O. Office in my life."

Mallow looked searchingly at the man, but saw by his simple denial,

and from his manner, that he was telling the truth. "Do you know any

one else who went there?" he asked, shifting his ground.

"No, I never heard of any one."

"Did Dr. Drabble?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Trall, plucking at the clothes. "He

never told me, if he did. But Drabble wore all kinds of disguises;

sometimes he wore a light wig, at others a black one. He was never

twice the same."

"I dare say it was he," said Mallow, thoughtfully; "he was the person

most interested in Carson's arrival. He is dead, I suppose?"

"Blown to pieces, Mr. Mallow. He was in the cellar when I left. Not

one of those present escaped alive. They are dead in their sins, Mr.

Mallow, and black--black indeed are those sins. If I had not spoken

for Clara, if Madame had not--well, I have sins of my own to repent

of. God saved me for repentance. I'm sure of that."

"Rouge was in the cellar, of course?"

"He came down the trapdoor as I went up. I liked Rouge; he hated the

Brotherhood, as I did. It might have been Rouge who caused the

explosion. He laid the mine; he knew how to fire it. Yes, I believe

Rouge killed them all."

"I am sure he did," said Mallow decisively. "Mrs. Arne had Nemesis at

her elbow, although she thought, no doubt, it was the devil. But how

did you know that I was alive, and here?"

"Rouge told me. He said that he intended to aid your escape, because

you had been kind to him. As he passed down the trapdoor, I heard him

say, 'Monsieur is safe.' I didn't know what he meant at the time, but

afterwards I recollected he was speaking of you. When I heard of the

explosion, I was nearly out of my mind. I thought the surviving

Brotherhood would surely suspect me. I went to your rooms to ask for

your protection. They told me there that you were at Casterwell, so I

came down. I walked the whole way. I begged, and slept out-of-doors.

Oh, the cold was bitter. I knew you would protect me, for you were

always kind, Mr. Mallow. Always, always," and Trall stretched out his

hand timidly.

"Well, now you are here, you shall stay," said Mallow, kindly. "They

won't look for you here. I dare say they think you perished with the

rest; and later on we'll see what had better be done."

Trall sat up eagerly.

"I know what to do; I have my plans," he whispered, with a glance

round, as was his habit. "Give me money, and I'll go out to South

America. Clara will look after me. Carlo has a lot of money; Drabble

said so. I'll warn them of their danger, and we'll hide in the

mountains. They'll never find us there. Clara is so clever; Clara

knows."

"Is she your only relative?"

"So far as I know. I have a brother--her father--my brother Michael;

but he may be dead. He left his wife and Clara many, many years ago.

His wife died. I looked after Clara. I had money then. But when I met

Drabble"--Trall burst into childish anger--"I hate Drabble; he made me

what I am. He was my curse. I'm glad he's dead; glad, oh, so glad. If

he'd only died before he ruined me. I was once--I am now--oh!" and the

man, weeping senile tears, dropped back exhausted on his pillow.

"Hush, hush!" said Mallow, smoothing the bed-clothes; "you are with

friends now; I will take care of you. But don't say a word as to who

you are or what you have been doing. That might be dangerous even

here."

"No, no--not a word; you won't let them get to me if they come?"

"They won't come, Trall. Believe me, they think you dead."

"Dead?" echoed Trall, his wits wandering. "Dead, dead, yes, these many

years. Drabble killed my soul. Dead--yes, the man is dead; the beast

lives on."

With tactful words and many promises, Mallow managed to calm him and

dispel his morbid mood. The man was not really so ill as worn with

fatigue, and stupefied with terror. Rest, and a belief in his safety,

were the medicines he needed, and these were now forthcoming. His

narrow escape seemed to have turned his thoughts towards religion, for

he requested the use of a Bible with childish eagerness. Mallow left

him grappling desperately with the Psalms, striving to extract hope

from the more comforting.

"I am glad the poor man is better," said Olive, when she heard

Mallow's report; "he seems a harmless creature."

"There is good in him, but circumstances and Drabble have done their

best to destroy it."

"Well, let him stay here and rest, Laurence. See, I have the letter

for Mr. Brock. We must call on him now. Talking about Dr. Drabble,"

added Olive, as they stepped out into the crisp air; "I think I ought

to call and see his wife, and tell her."

"Do you think that is wise?" asked Mallow, dubiously.

"Of course it is wise; suspense is worse than the truth. Besides, she

is without money and food. I had to send provisions to her yesterday.

The sooner she understands her position, and makes the best of it, the

better."

"How can she make the best of it?"

"I shall help her; and Lord Aldean has promised his assistance."

"Good fellow; you must let me do something too."

"My help is yours, Laurence," said Olive, softly.

A brisk walk soon brought them to Drabble's untidy home. In a room

more slatternly than ever, they found the unsuspecting widow. She was,

if possible, more worn and downcast than before.

"I'm sure I don't know what I should have done but for your kindness,"

she said to Olive. "But I expect the doctor will be back soon. It is

too bad his leaving me destitute like this. The tradesmen won't send

in food without money."

"Dear Mrs. Drabble," said Olive, touching her arm gently, "will you

take me to your room? I have something to tell you."

The significance of Olive's tone was not lost upon her. "I hope--hope

nothing is the matter with the doctor?" she said tremulously.

"I'll tell you in your own room," insisted Olive, leading her to the

door.

"Excuse us, won't you, Mr. Mallow?" called back the widow; "and if the

children should come in send them away. Danton is in bed with the

mumps, and Margery has been converted. Please talk her back to some

sense, Mr. Mallow, if you can. Dear, dear! my children are so

dreadful."

Mallow sat quietly amid all the litter, in no wise inclined to laugh

at these last words, albeit there was some humour in them. On all

sides there was the noise of children creeping, scuffling, and

whispering. At times a head would pop round the corner; its owner,

meeting Mallow's eye, would shriek and scuttle away, and then would be

swift scampering and a continuous patter as of hard little hoofs on a

frosty soil. Shortly the door swung open to its widest, and Margery

appeared, so astonishing a spectacle that Mallow could not but stare

at the child. She was draped in a sheet; her feet were bare, and she

carried a lighted candle.

"I'm doing penance!" announced Margery in solemn tones. "I should

stand at the church-door and proclaim my sins, but mother won't let

me."

"Your sins?" said Mallow, suppressing a strong desire to laugh; "have

you any?"

"Dozens! I have sinned deeply," sighed this guilty little person. "I

have been cross, I have stolen, I have perverted the truth. Would you

like to hear about any particular sin, Mr. Mallow?"

"I should be delighted, Margery. Only don't shock me too much."

Margery waved her taper. "This sin was done to Olive!" she chanted.

"Listen, oh people, to the sin done to Olive! I gave her a golden

ornament of fine gold with wrought-work. She asked where I obtained

it. I declared that I had taken it from the desk of my father. That

was a lie. That was a sin. I did steal it. Wicked woman that I am--but

I stole it from the study of Mr. Brock."

"Margery!" Mallow jumped with sudden interest. "Did you find that

wrist-button in Mr. Brock's study?"

Margery dropped her candle and became the child she was, even to the

length of bursting into tears.

"Yes," she sobbed, "I was wicked. I went to see Mr. Brock; he left me

to play in his study, and I found the button in the drawer of his

writing-table. I--I--I took it."

CHAPTER III.

"MR. BROCK AND THE LETTER."

Margery's conscience had now the upper hand of her. All her acting was

cast to the winds. "It was wrong to take it," she wept. "I can see

that now, Mr. Mallow, but I did not think. Father said that all

property should be shared in common, so I thought I would share with

Mr. Brock; he has very nice property," she added, naïvely.

"Was this wrist-button put away carefully?"

"No-o-o. It was lying loose in a drawer; I didn't think it was of much

value. I am very, very wicked."

Mallow drew the child towards him and consoled her. "Don't cry,

Margery," he said, wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. "A fault

confessed is half-redressed. Did you tell Mr. Brock that you were

sorry?"

"Yes; I told him that I was converted, and that I repented of my

wickedness. He said it did not matter; that I was not to trouble about

what I had done."

"Then don't trouble, dear. There, there, it's all right. So you have

given up the Anarchism?"

"I am a Christian now. I believe in----"

Before Margery could state her religious beliefs, Olive, looking

rather anxious, came into the room. "Laurence, would you mind calling

on Mr. Brock alone? Mrs. Drabble is not well enough to be left at

present."

"Oh, is mother ill?" cried Margery, scared.

"She is not very well, dear. Put on your stockings and shoes, child;

you will take cold. Laurence!"

"I'll go to Mr. Brock. Is that the letter, Olive? Thank you. How long

will you stop here?"

"Until Mrs. Drabble is better. When you return home, Laurence, please

ask Miss Slarge to come here. Margery!"

The child was shaking and white. "Please, please, what is the matter?"

she asked, catching Olive by the hand.

Olive looked at her in silence and with pity. If it had been a painful

task to inform Mrs. Drabble of the truth, it was a much more terrible

one to inform Margery. With a nod to Mallow, she led the child from

the room; and Laurence, feeling somewhat _de trop_ in this scene of

domestic grief, slipped away, not ill-pleased to have the opportunity.

It was vexing, in one way, that Olive could not come with him; but on

reflection he could not regret her absence.

At the corner of the Vicarage he was confronted by a she-Cerberus, in

the person of Mr. Brock's deaf housekeeper. This grim and lean

spinster might once have been a human flower, but the sap was now

gone out of her, and she had withered on the stalk in a state of

single-blessedness. Even Mallow's good looks and polite inquiries

failed to impress her. She was the sworn enemy of all male-kind. At

the outset she declined to admit Mallow; "indeed, he's much too ill,"

she said. But in the end she was so far prevailed upon as to consent

to convey a message. This resulted in prompt permission for the

visitor to enter the sick-room, whither the sour spinster led him with

obvious reluctance. She closed the door on him with a bang, and

returned to vent her ill-temper in the kitchen.

The vicar had transferred himself from his bedroom to the study. He

was lying on a sofa drawn close up to the window. His eyes were

unnaturally bright and sunken, and his skin was the colour of wax. The

few weeks of confinement to the house had aged him inconceivably. But

he appeared to be in good spirits, and received Mallow most cordially.

"You find me much afflicted, Mr. Mallow," said he, cheerfully, "but I

am not without hope of recovery. I contrive to keep up my spirits,

which is, I suppose, a greater preventive of inanition than the most

stringent of medicines."

"I am indeed glad to know you are better, Mr. Brock. Will conversation

tire you?"

"Not at all. It is a pleasure to converse intelligently. How is Mrs.

Carson?"

"Miss Bellairs is quite well," said Laurence, prepared for this

question. Brock turned an astonished look on his visitor. "But why do

you call Olive by her maiden name?"

"Because that is her name for the present. She is not Carson's wife."

"Not Carson's wife, man? I married them myself" said the vicar, with a

searching glance, not unmixed with uneasiness.

"True enough, Mr. Brock. But I am sorry to tell you that Carson has

proved a scamp and a bigamist. At the time he married Olive he was

already the husband of Clara Trall, the maid. They have left for

England, and Olive has returned here as Miss Bellairs. She is shortly

to be married to me."

"Angus already married?" gasped Brock, when he took in the full import

of it. "Angus, the son of an upright man, act so basely? Surely,

surely there must be some mistake."

"I--am--afraid--not. Lord Aldean followed the runaways to Florence,

and saw them together. They confessed their marriage."

"But why did Angus so deceive Olive?"

Mallow shrugged. "To get her money, no doubt," he said carelessly. "It

will come to you now, Mr. Brock, since the marriage has not taken

place."

"Alas! I fear I have done with all use for worldly goods, Mr. Mallow.

I am not so strong as I thought I was. My heart has been weakened by

my accident, and any sudden shock would probably be fatal to me. If

this money does come to me now, it will not remain with me long, for

my days are numbered."

"Nil desperandum," said Mallow, not very originally. "You have years

of clean living behind you, sir, and may mend sooner than you think.

After all, you are better off than Drabble; he has met with a violent

death in common with many others of his kidney."

"Drabble dead? Well, I am not surprised. I have been wondering if he

was in that Soho explosion of which we have read lately. As that was

his town address, it struck me that he might possibly have been. Ah!"

sighed Mr. Brock, "a terrible end to a mistaken life. But I thought

that Drabble was more of a Socialist than an Anarchist?"

"He was everything that's bad," said Laurence, shortly. "Olive is now

comforting Mrs. Drabble, poor soul! By the way, Mr. Brock, Margery

told me about that wrist-button."

"Dear, dear; the poor child must not worry about that. I forgave her

taking it; children will finger things, and Margery's mind was quite

perverted by her father's peculiar views.--Still," he added, with a

smile, "Margery really had more right to it than I. It originally

belonged to Drabble."

"What! did you get it from him, then?"

"As a gift--yes. I saw it lying on his desk one day, and took it up to

examine it. As it was of Indian workmanship, I asked him to give it to

me as a curiosity. I was a missionary in India once, you know."

"Yes, I know. Did Drabble give it to you willingly?"

"Certainly. I should not have taken it otherwise. It is a pretty

thing; Margery tells me that she gave it to Olive."

"Olive wears it as a brooch," replied Mallow, gloomily. He was

distinctly puzzled.

He noticed, too, that the vicar was half dozing, and felt that perhaps

he was overtaxing his strength.

"Well, I must be going now. Mr. Brock," said he, producing Dr.

Carson's letter, "my principal reason for coming was to hand you

this."

"What is it?" asked Brock, taking the blue envelope drowsily.

"A letter from your old friend, Dr. Carson."

Brock woke up with a start. He was clearly agitated. "From a dead man?

What does it mean?"

"A message of some import, no doubt," said Mallow. "Young Carson

brought it home with him, but forgot to deliver it."

"A voice from the grave!" muttered Brock, unheeding. His hands were

busy with two papers--a closely written letter, and a dozen long pages

of foolscap of aggressively official appearance. Mallow's fingers

itched to take them up, but he judiciously restrained himself; and

watched the vicar skim his eye over the letter. Its perusal seemed to

move him greatly.

"Wrong, wrong," he said, folding it up. "Better to let the dead past

bury its dead," and shuffling the papers into their envelope, he

slipped it under his pillow.

Mallow was struck by his remark. It tended to confirm his

long-entertained suspicions.

"Mr. Brock," he asked, after a moment, "was there a secret in the life

of the late Mr. Bellairs?"

"Why should you think so?" said the vicar, nervously.

"I have not forgotten about the sealed letter which forced Olive into

marrying Carson. She asked you what its hint of evil meant. You told

her to take no notice of it."

"That was her best course," said Mr. Brock, still agitated. "So long

as she married Angus, there was no need for her to trouble about the

letter."

"Then there is a secret?" insisted Mallow.

Mr. Brock shifted uneasily. "Whose life is free from sin?" he said, in

low tones. "Yes, there--is--a secret."

"Had it to do with Olive's marriage?"

"Yes; if she had refused Angus, there might have been trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Don't ask me," said the vicar, with a shiver.

"I must ask you. Olive guesses that there is a secret, and she wishes

to know it."

"She shall never know it from me," said the vicar, his face more

pallid than ever. "I say let the dead past bury its dead."

"You said that before when you read that letter. The secret is told in

that enclosed document?"

"Yes," said Brock, reluctantly.

"Then Olive must read it--I must read it. We must know the truth."

The vicar remained silent, and his brow wrinkled. "Who gains knowledge

gains sorrow," he said, aphoristically. "It will do neither you nor

Olive any good to learn the follies of a young man. However, I will

read the document, and--if I can legitimately do so--I will send it to

Olive."

"Is the secret so very terrible, then?"

"It is very terrible."

"Is her father----"

"Mr. Mallow," protested the vicar, wiping his wet forehead, "I have

said all I intend to say, until I read this letter. If I can send it

to Olive, it shall be sent. Please leave me. I--I have overtaxed my

strength. Touch the bell, please, as you go out."

Although Mallow would fain have stayed, there was nothing left for him

to do but to obey this peremptory request. He could not but

acknowledge that Mr. Brock was acting in an eminently reasonable way.

A secret of such moment as this appeared to be could not be

communicated hastily and without due consideration.

When next he saw Olive, Mallow told her what she might expect. With

characteristic firmness, she chose to abide by her decision.

"I must know the truth," she declared, "at whatever cost. So long as

you and I are together, Laurence, nothing can hurt us."

"You tempt the gods, my dearest," replied Laurence, and sighed.

The events of the last few months had shaken his nerve, and he was apt

at times to give way to despondency.

Mr. Brock did not seem in a hurry to come to his decision. One, two,

three days passed before word came to the Manor House. Having implicit

faith in the vicar's judgment, Mallow did not urge him at all. He did

not even go near the Vicarage, but curbed his impatience and that of

Olive as best he could. Virtue was rewarded--if reward it was--for on

the fourth day the document was delivered to Miss Bellairs, with a

letter from the vicar.

"I send you the history of your father in India," wrote Mr. Brock,

"though it is somewhat against my better judgment. I do so, however,

as I can guess that your curiosity will allow you no rest. I give you

the opportunity of appeasing it. Still, even at this eleventh hour, I

would most earnestly advise you to put the enclosed paper in the fire

unread. Its perusal can only give you pain, and remove from its

pedestal the idol of your youth."

All this, and much more, Mr. Brock wrote, and Mallow read. He was

alone with Olive in the library. He looked questioningly at her. She

was silent, and for answer placed the document in his hands.

"Am I to read it?" he asked. Olive bent her head. "As you think wise,

dear; or shall we burn it, as Mr. Brock advises, unread?"

Olive clasped her hands tightly together. The question was a weighty

one. She hesitated. Then she crossed the Rubicon.

"Read," she said, in low tones; "at whatever cost, read."

Mallow silently spread out the paper and began.

CHAPTER IV.

"THE TREASURES AT KIKAT."

"I, Alfred Carson, M.D., who relate to you this story, do most

solemnly swear to you by all a Christian gentleman holds most sacred,

that though stranger far than any fiction, it existed in fact, and

that the relation of it here set forth--to which my signature is duly

appended--is in each and every particular true. At the time these

events occurred, I occupied the post of physician to the Rao of Kikat,

which was an unconsidered kingdom in the Northern part of India. I say

'was' advisedly, for since the year of the Mutiny it has been absorbed

in our Asiatic Empire. But in 1859--the date of the facts herein

related--it was still an independent state, reigned over by Rao

Singhapetty, it is true, but free and wealthy nevertheless. Still the

Rao, in a small measure, was tributary to the H.E.I.C., and it was to

release himself from a nominal payment that he engaged to take part in

the great rising. To his folly in this respect this story is due.

"In those days, I was young, poor, rash, and ambitious, yet not

without, I think, good parts, mental and moral. If I failed to control

the one by the other, the blame for such must lie with Michael Trall.

He was one of those rascally adventurers who then infested India, in

the hope of becoming Nabobs; fertile in resource, of great courage,

and one of the most unscrupulous scoundrels who ever played the part

of Mephistopheles for the seduction of weaker spirits to ruin and

crime. Whence he came I know not. I conclude his past life was too

disreputable to be disclosed, but my knowledge of him dates from the

year 1857, when he appeared at the Rao's court, and used his impudent

arts to secure an ascendency over the mind of that weak potentate.

There he came into contact with me, and with Bellairs.

"Mark Bellairs, my dearest and oldest friend, had come out to India

with me. He was then in the army, but having quarrelled with his

father, his allowance was cut off, and he was forced to sell out. I

suggested that he should travel Eastward in my company, and turn his

military knowledge to some account at the court of some petty Rajah.

As there was nothing for him to do in England, he agreed to try his

luck in the East, and together we arrived in Bombay, with no money,

and great ambitions. Of our adventures I need not speak, as they have

nothing to do with this story; but we wandered here, there, and

everywhere, until Fortune brought us to Kikat. Here, as the Rao was in

need of a resident physician, he engaged me, and afterwards, finding

that Bellairs had been in the English Service, he placed him in

command of his small army. I swear that before the meeting Bellairs

and I were quite content with our positions. We had power, the

salaries were large, and the Rao was our very good friend. In a few

years we hoped to make our fortunes, and return wealthy, and honoured

to the Mother country. But for Trall, we might have continued in the

straight path, but, like the Belial he was, he drew us from it to earn

money and lasting shame.

"I must admit that Trall was a most fascinating man. Handsome, strong,

clever, full of conversation and tact, he had acquired complete power

over Singha. Then, finding that we had no little say in matters of

state, he set his clever wits to work for our conquest--not without

success. No doubt, it was weak of us to yield, but the man had a

tremendous strength of will, and a power of fascination which could

control--and did control--all who personally came in contact with him.

Remember, both Bellairs and myself believed him to be an honourable

gentleman; and it was not until we were well entangled in his nets

that he threw off the mask. Then it was too late.

"There is ever an exception to a rule, and an exception to the

well-nigh universal popularity of Trall was to be found in the person

of the Rev. Manners Brock, a missionary, who had engaged himself in

the hopeless task of converting the Kikat heathen. The pleasant

manners and simplicity of Brock made him a great favourite with us

all; even the Rao liked him, in spite of his Christianizing

propensities, and placed no barrier in his way with the people. Brock

was candid almost to the verge of folly. He told us how he stood alone

in the world, without parents or relatives; made us acquainted with

all the details of his early life as a sizar at Oxford, as a poor

London curate, and made a frank declaration of his 'call' to enlighten

the idolaters of India. I knew Brock's life as well as I did my own,

and felt great respect for his principles and zeal. Trall was

studiously affable to him, and tried his hardest to fascinate him into

obedience, but somehow Brock managed to avoid his snares. He kept out

of Trall's company, undermined his influence with the Rao--which was

exercised for no good, you may be sure--and altogether showed our

Belial plainly that he considered him a rascal. Naturally, Trall grew

to hate him, and would willingly have done him an injury, but as

Singha protected the missionary, open warfare was out of the question.

However, Trall watched his opportunity, and it came at last--the

Mutiny with it.

"When all India blazed with fanaticism from north to south, Rao kept

himself and his kingdom out of trouble, although he did not go so far

as to side with the English. He adopted a neutral attitude, and no

doubt would have maintained it to the end, but that Trall, ever at his

elbow, persuaded him to revolt. Singha did not declare open war

against the foreigners--he could scarcely have done so while an

Englishman headed his army--but he tampered with the mutinous princes,

corresponded with them, and declared that he wished to be rid of his

tributary necessity. With devilish ingenuity, Trall conducted the

whole intrigue, and kept urging Singha openly to declare himself.

Bellairs and I protested at first, but in some way, I can hardly say

how, Trall involved us in his schemes. What would have been the end of

it, had the Rao taken the field, I hardly know, but he hesitated, and

hung back until it was too late. The Mutiny was suppressed, and

puppets at Delhi were driven into exile, and with them, Trall's hopes

of becoming the Vizier of an Eastern king. For a while he raged

furiously over his disappointment; then, making the best of a bad job,

he began to look about him how best to turn the tide of affairs to his

own advantage. It is at this juncture that Bellairs and I come into

the story.

"The troubles at an end, Singha naturally wished to make his peace

with the victors. It is true that he had not declared himself an

enemy, but he had intrigued deeply; he had written compromising

letters; and what with the knowledge of myself, Bellairs, and Trall,

there was evidence ample to have him dethroned and exiled. He grew

afraid of what might happen to him, and implored us all to help him.

At this critical moment Trall showed himself in his true colours.

"I have mentioned the compromising letters, and treaties with mutinous

Rajahs. Well, Trall had kept copies of these, and also possessed some

of the originals. If these documents had been shown to the H.E.I.C. or

to Sir Henry Lawrence, there is no doubt that they would have ruined

the Rao beyond all hope of keeping his kingdom.

"Singha knew this, and so did Trall, so did Bellairs and I, for the

letters were shown to us. Trall proposed to blackmail the Rao; we

refused, and then it was he unmasked his batteries. The man--as we

then discovered--was a skilful forger, and had signed our names to

many of these letters, besides the actual signature of Singha. If he

was guilty, we were also, and in a worse degree, seeing that,

according to the forgeries, we were ready to massacre our own

countrymen. It is impossible to explain how deeply we were involved;

but Trall showed us clearly, that if we did not work with him, he

could, and would, ruin us. The choice lay between ruin and crime, for

in no way could we have proved our innocence. Trall had the letters

and treaties, with the Rao's real signature, and the false ones of

myself and Bellairs; he had provided himself with more than a dozen

witnesses to swear that we were renegades to the British cause; he had

entangled us in the political criminality of the Rao, and we saw very

plainly that our lives were ruined should the documents ever reach the

Governor-General. Bellairs and I took a night to choose between our

ruin and crime. Next morning--I blush to set down the fact--we chose

shame.

"Consider, I pray you, our position. Trall, as I have shown, had us

completely in his power. Guiltless, we should have appeared guilty,

and would have been punished and despised--perhaps shot by our own

countrymen. No declaration of innocence would have done away with the

forgeries. The evidence of our guilt as conspirators with the Rao

against the H.E.I.C. was down in black and white, and only our word

on oath contradicted it. We were--as the saying goes--in a cleft

stick--mere pawns shifted on Life's chess-board by an unscrupulous

intriguer. There was nothing for it but to obey Trall, if we wished to

save our names from the world's knowledge as those of traitors and

renegades. The devil and the deep-sea proverb applies to our position.

"Well, as I have said, we gave in, and Trall proceeded to round off

his plot. Money was what he wanted, and money he intended to have,

even though he were to share it with Bellairs and myself. He saw

Singha, and fixed his price for the inculpating documents. The price

was three diamonds--famous not only in Kikat, but throughout India.

Three stones of the purest water they were, a large gem and two small

ones, valued together at some forty thousand pounds, more or less.

Trall intended to keep the most valuable gem for himself, and to give

us the other two, 'and I should advise you both to clear out then,'

said he, 'for there may be trouble.'

"He was as cool in the midst of all this rascality as though he were

engaged, like Brock, in missionary enterprise. When he went to have it

out with Singha, we expected he would be killed there and then; but

Trall, knowing his risk, knew also how to circumvent it. Of course the

Rao was furious and amazed when Trall made his statement and demanded

his price; and, of course, being an Indian, his first instinct was to

kill the man who had deceived him. But Trall was ready with a counter

move. He told Singha that the incriminating papers were in the hands

of a third person, and that if he killed him these would be sent on to

the Government at Calcutta. As this meant ruin, Singha was not fool

enough to resort to violence, and seeing no way out of the snare, he

gave up the diamonds. They were called the treasures of Kikat, and

were guarded by the priests. Then the blackmailer promised that the

papers should be sent back to Singha. Two hours later he presented us

with our share, and slipped his own jewel into a chamois leather bag.

'Now,' said he, 'you had better skip. I'm off myself.'

"But before he could get away, the Rao made trouble. Afraid lest Trall

should not return the papers, he made a clean breast of the whole

thing to Brock. The missionary was fearfully angry, and without

trusting himself to Trall's mercies, started straight away for

Calcutta, there to lay the whole matter before the Government. He

promised to get Singha out of his trouble, and have Trall arrested for

his wickedness. There was no mention of Bellairs or myself, as the Rao

did not know how Trall had been plotting with us. Brock got away,

though Trall heard of his mission through his spies, and followed him,

determined to stop his visit to Calcutta at any cost should he prove

unreasonable. Bellairs and I remained with the Rao, and made up our

minds to get away at the first opportunity with our diamonds. We did

not know what might happen, and thought it best to be on the safe side

and save our skins, at all events. In time, Singha received the

papers, and, of course, saw our signatures. He applied to Bellairs for

an explanation. I was absent at the time, so Bellairs saw the Rao

alone. What took place at the interview I hardly knew, for Bellairs

was never very explicit. But it seemed that Singha accused Bellairs of

betraying him, and tried to stab him on the spot. The end of the

struggle was that Bellairs passed his sword through the Rao's heart,

and then came to tell me what he had done. As I saw that everything

might come out, I advised immediate flight. That same night we both

left Kikat.

"Shortly afterwards we learned how Singha's heir had found his

father's dead body and the treasonable papers. Fearing that these, if

exposed, might cost him his newly acquired throne, he wisely

determined to let sleeping dogs lie. Whether he knew that Bellairs

killed Singha or not I cannot say, but he probably guessed that we

were implicated, from our disappearance. His measures were prompt and

judicious. He burnt the papers, gave out that his father had died of

apoplexy, and took possession of the State. As there was nothing to

compromise, he made matters right with the Government, and when

Singha's corpse was burnt on a pile, in accordance with the Hindoo

custom, there was nobody to show the violence of the death. The new

Rao did not pursue in case we might get him into trouble. He simply

let the matter die out, and commenced his reign with the support of

the Government.

"I believe, if the truth were known, he was glad his father was dead.

What became of Trall I never heard; but Mr. Brock was not afterwards

molested by him. He was probably satisfied with his spoil. Mr. Brock

returned to England, and was presented by Bellairs with the living of

Casterwell; but before leaving he put the whole facts of the case

before those in power. But they, taking into consideration that Singha

was dead, and that Trall had decamped, and, moreover, having regard to

the then distracted state of the country, decided to let well alone.

Thus it was all made very easy for Singha's son. The priests, I

believe, made some fuss about the removal of the treasures of Kikat,

but the new Rao soon put an end to them. He judged it better to lose

the jewels than his throne. And so the trouble ended without in any

way inculpating either Bellairs or myself.

"I made up my mind that I must part from my friend--my friend no

longer, for I could not forgive the murder of Singha. Nor would I

touch the money which had been gained by the price of dishonour and of

blood. I gave my diamond to Bellairs, and, turning my back on him,

went to live like a hermit in a corner of the Himalayas. That my

nerves were shaken by my late troubles I do not deny. And I must also

state that Trall's treachery, Singha's death, and Bellairs' wickedness

disgusted me with the world. I felt the only life I could endure was

one of solitude. Bellairs returned to England, made his peace with his

father, and shortly after became the Squire of Casterwell, with Brock

as his rector. Trall had dropped out of sight with his ill-gotten

gains. He may be dead or alive, rich or poor, I know not; what is

more, I do not care. The man ruined my life, soiled my honour, and I

hate him.

"Years afterwards I grew weary of my solitude, and married a young

Eurasian lady. She died when my son Angus was born, and, alone once

more, I devoted myself to the education of the boy. As he grew up he

displayed such talents that I reflected seriously how best to advance

him in life. He was poor; I was old, and when I died Angus would be

penniless. Then it occurred to me how wrong I had been in giving up

the diamond. For my boy's sake I resolved to make peace with Bellairs,

the more so when I heard that he also was married and was the father

of an only daughter. With sudden resolution I wrote to Casterwell, and

proposed that my son should marry his daughter, and that the value of

the two diamonds should be given to them when they became man and

wife.

"To this Bellairs replied that the gems were not so valuable as we had

thought. He had sold both for thirty-eight thousand pounds, and this

money he had deposited in the bank to accumulate. His father had left

him well off, so he had himself made no use of the money. With the

interest that had accrued, he said that it amounted to some fifty

thousand pounds. He intended to invest this, and would share the

income arising therefrom with me; but he refused to let his daughter

marry my son. I replied that he was at liberty to retain the income to

himself. I told him that I would not touch the money; but that if he

did not consent to the marriage, and on the marriage-day give to my

son Angus the capital sum of fifty thousand pounds, I would write to

the Home Government, and divulge the murder by him of the Rao Singha.

On this Bellairs gave in, and consented to the marriage. I drew out

the clause relating to the money, which was to be incorporated in his

will, and sent it to him. Out of the fifty thousand pounds which Angus

would receive on his marriage with Olive Bellairs, he was to allow her

a yearly income of a thousand pounds. This I considered was fair, and

Bellairs thought so too, for he made his will as I directed.

"The present document I now send to Manners Brock by the hand of my

son Angus. I wish him to deal with it in this fashion: If the marriage

takes place it is to be destroyed. If Olive refuses, he is to show her

this statement, and threaten to publish it unless she consents to the

match. Bellairs is now dead, and it is possible he may have tricked me

in some way. But I am not to be tricked. Unless my wish is carried out

this story is to be laid before the authorities. They will then

confiscate the Rao's money, and publish to the world the wickedness of

Bellairs. It lies with Olive to save the money and protect the memory

of her father by marrying Angus. If she declines--well, she knows what

will happen. Brock, whom I admire and respect, will never let my son

lose the money that I wish him to have, and, by our old friendship, I

conjure him to obey me. Angus knows the story as it is here set forth,

and will respect, and aid towards the consummation of my wish. For the

rest, I maintain I am more than liberal in allowing my son to marry

the daughter of a murderer.

"(Signed), ALFRED CARSON, M.D."

CHAPTER V.

"LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS DEAD."

The insulting peroration of Dr. Carson's effusion was suppressed by

Mallow; for Olive was already suffering severely under the knowledge

of her father's misdeeds. He was a murderer, a blackmailer, a

thief--he, her dearly-loved father, whom from a child she had set up

as her idol. Who could cherish, nay, even respect, the memory of a man

guilty of what she now learned he had been guilty? Small wonder,

indeed, that he had implored her to conceal that guilt, even though it

cost her a life's happiness in the doing. She had a rigid sense of

right and wrong, and, despite herself, her idol crashed from off the

pedestal whereon she had so lovingly set it up just as Mr. Brock had

prophesied it would. And with it went all her dearest memories--all

the recollections which she had cherished for so long--which in the

cherishing had become a part of her self--perhaps, even the better

part. She wept bitterly at the ruin of her world. And Mallow let her

weep. He felt it was better so. And when she grew more composed he

left her, holding over the fire, as he rose from his seat, the leaves

that had brought such sorrow with them. She divined what he would do,

and sanctioned it with a slow bend of her head. And then the flames

destroyed for ever the tangible evidence of Mark Bellairs' sins.

When Mallow returned she was more herself. She had dried her eyes.

"Would you like to talk about this, Olive?"

"No, dear, no. Of what use! Nothing we can say can alter such truths

as these."

"Perhaps not; but we can at least hide them. No one save you and I

knows this story. No one must know it, Olive--for your father's sake."

"Mr. Brock knows it?"

"Mr. Brock, yes. But we can trust Mr. Brock. Indeed, he has done all a

man could do to spare you. I feel I am in no small degree myself to

blame for the knowledge of this having reached you at all. I urged him

to it."

"Oh, it is better I should know it, Laurence. At least, we know the

worst now. Nothing--oh, surely nothing could be worse than this. Poor

father is gone. But, Laurence dear, I have you, Laurence--I always

have you. Thank God for you, Laurence."

"But remember, Olive, if your father sinned, he repented--bitterly

repented."

"Yes, Laurence, I know. But he was willing I should be sacrificed to

hide his sin--I, who loved him so--that hurts me terribly, Laurence;

that is not easy to forgive."

"Is it not possible that he agreed to this man Carson's proposal to

save you from the truth--that you might never know?"

"Even so, it was for his own sake--for his memory's sake."

"May be, yes. But that was only natural, Olive. Would it not be

his great desire that you should think the best of him? And,

after all, dear, this act of your father's was the act of days long

bygone--thirty years or more ago--and from then to the time of his

death he led an upright, honest life. Think of him, not as Trall's

accomplice, dear, but as the father you knew. Try and do that,

Olive--will you?"

"If you wish it, Laurence--yes, I will try."

And so the fateful missive was destroyed, and they made up their minds

that they would put their knowledge behind them, and slip back again

into the old life as though it had never been. Their Hegira was before

them--from their marriage they would date it. And that was to be very

soon now. Yet there were details which must be settled before they

finally dismissed the past. And with these Olive prepared to busy

herself. Great as was her sorrow, she did not allow it to sadden her.

She determined it should permeate her every-day existence. She was

quietly cheerful, and ever amiable to her guests. She was kindly

sympathetic to Aldean and Tui, and listened with all patience to the

disquisitions of Miss Slarge, even unto the doings of Ala Mahozim, the

god of fortifications. Of Mrs. Purcell she saw little in these days.

That good lady was indefatigably scouring the county, renewing early

friendships, and conducting an orderly canvass in favour of Olive, and

to the denunciation of her bigamist husband. Maids and matrons lifted

up their hands in horror at Mrs. Purcell's revelations; men, old and

young, expressed violent desires to have Carson within boot-reach. So

vigorously did the clever old lady raise the countryside in Olive's

favour, that the tide of sympathy soon set strongly towards the

Manor House, and Miss Bellairs--Mrs. Carson no longer on friendly

tongues--was pitied, petted, called upon, and duly wept over.

As a _Dea ex machinâ_, Mrs. Purcell had been successful far beyond the

thanks of those whom she sought to serve.

Meanwhile Trall had picked up his health in no small degree, and with

it a courage long foreign to his timid nature. But, lest he should

revert to his old habits, Mallow feared to let him out of sight. He

kept him always within the grounds of the Manor. There he pottered

about, from day to day, and the servants understood that he was a

decayed gentleman pensioner of their mistress. Jeremiah, collecting

his rags of gentility, supported the character well enough. He never

alluded in any way to his stormy life of the past. His mind taking a

religious turn, he dismissed his former state as one of sin, and not

to be referred to; and he spent hours reading the Bible in preparation

for his summons to another existence. And, seemingly, that call was

not very far away. The man's once bulky frame had shrunk and dwindled

greatly, so that his clothes hung loosely upon him now.

After the burning of the document, Laurence called at the Vicarage to

tell Mr. Brock of what he had done. But this time the deaf spinster

was successful, and he obtained no admission to the Vicarage. Mr.

Brock sent out a message that he was much engaged, and could see no

one for a week at least. Surprised somewhat, Mallow took himself off,

and on the road up to the Manor met little Mr. Timson, the doctor,

pounding along on his broken-kneed mare. At Mallow's halloo, he reined

up--no easy task with his hard-mouthed veteran.

"The Vicar?" asked Mallow, gazing into Timson's red face--red with

pulling; "how is he getting along?"

Timson was a pessimist, with a high average of deaths amongst his

patients. He shook his flaxen locks dolefully. "Very bad, Mr. Mallow;

I don't suppose he'll see the winter through. His heart is weak--very

weak. Nasty murmur there--mitral valve wrong; any sudden shock--in

fact, emotion of any kind--and he's done for," said Timson, solemnly.

"But under normal conditions, doctor, he'll pull through, won't he?"

"Oh, may last for a time; but he's bound to go--bound to go. The leg

is obstinate, too. If he'd only rest, there might be a chance; but he

goes on writing, writing."

Laurence pricked up his ears.

"Writing! What is he writing?"

"Some sort of diary, I should think--pages and pages of it. To make

matters worse, he uses a cipher. Very bad for him that, you know--very

bad. By the way," added the little man, "I hear poor old Drabble is

taken."

"He is blown to bits, if that is what you mean by 'taken,'" said

Mallow, grimly; "he played with fire once too often."

Timson sighed. "I know that he held pernicious doctrines, Mr. Mallow,

and his medical methods were not such as I could endorse. I've taken

over a good many of his patients. They are in a sad state--a sad, sad

state!" and he shook his little head again. "Poor Drabble! Ah! well,

we must all come to it."

"But not necessarily in the same way, I trust. Well, good day, Mr.

Timson."

As the doctor's animal stumbled down the hill, Mallow, climbing

upward, felt somewhat uneasy at the news of Mr. Brock's industry. It

might be that there was yet more to tell of Bellairs' wickedness, and

Mallow fancied that the vicar might be setting it down in black and

white.

"Precious queer amusement for a clergyman on the point of death,

anyhow," he muttered to himself. "He has no relative that his

scribbling is likely to interest, that I know of."

That same evening, leaving Aldean and Tui at whist with the old

ladies, he led Olive into the library.

"I want to talk to you, Olive about this money. You were saying

something the other day about getting rid of it."

"Yes; I wouldn't use it for the world. Thirty thousand of it has gone

with Clara and Boldini to South America. I want to give the remaining

twenty back to the Indian Government."

"H'm; the Government will ask questions. We don't want that."

"Can't it be returned as conscience-money?"

"Even so, I fancy, some explanation would be necessary. It is a large

sum, you see. Besides, there is another point which you have

overlooked. The money--or, rather, what is left of it--is not yours."

"Not mine? Then whose is it?"

"You forget the will, Olive. In the event of your not marrying Carson,

the money was to go to Mr. Brock. Well, as a matter of fact, the

provisions of the will not being complied with, that is where it ought

to go."

"He can have it, with pleasure; but I feel sure he won't touch it

now."

"Perhaps not; but he said if he got it--that was before he read the

story--he would give it back to you."

"I don't want it. If he does, I shall only forward it to the proper

quarter. Strictly speaking, it should be given to the Rao of Kikat."

"There is no Rao now. Don't you remember how Dr. Carson said that the

kingdom was absorbed in the Empire? I think it will be best to ask Mr.

Brock's advice--and, not only ask it, but take it."

"Mr. Brock is an honourable man; he will agree with me that the money

should be restored. I am half sorry we recovered it now."

"I'm not," said Mallow, grimly. "At least, we have done Semberry out

of his haul. But I'll see Brock."

"Laurence, do you think Mr. Brock knew of my father's wickedness?"

"No; Carson explicitly says that Trall did not tell the Rao about

either him or your father. When Singha got the papers, Brock was

already on the road to Calcutta, and they were burnt before he

returned. No; Brock did not know until he read Carson's story."

"He would never have published it, as Dr. Carson wished."

"No; that I'm sure he would not," said Mallow, warmly. "Carson was

quite mistaken in his estimate of Brock's character. But, if Angus had

lived, and you had refused to marry him, he might have held it over

you as a threat."

"But the envelope was sealed?"

"Of course. Still, Angus knew the story as related there. Dr. Carson

said that he told it to him. But things are square now. Carson is

dead, with his story untold; the paper is burnt, and Mr. Brock will

keep his own counsel for our sakes."

"After we see Mr. Brock, dear, we will never talk of these things

again," said Olive. "But there are one or two questions I feel I must

ask him."

With a sudden recollection of the cipher diary and its possible

further revelations, Mallow withheld his approval. "Better let

sleeping dogs lie, dear."

"But I want to know more of my father's life at Kikat."

"Don't, Olive, don't. What you do know has brought you nothing but

unhappiness."

"That's just it, Laurence. Nothing can make me more unhappy. I may as

well know everything there is to know."

"Well, as you please. But you must let me see Mr. Brock first."

"Why; to warn him, I suppose?"

"No, n-o-o. I think I ought to tell him of Angus Carson's death."

"What good will that do?"

"None, most likely. Still, I think he ought to know. I've always

thought the motive for Carson's death was to be found in India."

"There was nothing in the story to lead one to think so."

"Nothing. But Mr. Brock may know something. At present he is under the

impression that Boldini is the genuine Carson; but, when I tell him of

the murder, and the whole conspiracy, it is possible he may recall

some incident likely to throw light on what is now absolutely

Cimmerian."

"I doubt it, Laurence. Are you still so bent on getting to the bottom

of this murder?"

"Why not? An undiscovered mystery is like an unfinished tune. You feel

a tantalizing desire for the closing cadence. All my life I shall

worry about that poor fellow's death, until I really know how he was

killed, and who killed him. Only one more try, Olive, I promise you.

If Mr. Brock fails to help me, I suppose I must give up the chase."

"Well, see Mr. Brock, and then tell him the story. But I fear you will

be disappointed."

"Who knows, dear. His knowledge of your father and Carson's life in

Kikat should be precise. For all we know, Michael Trall may have done

it."

"I can't think that, Laurence. Michael Trall has not been seen or

heard of for thirty years."

"True, true. His own brother doesn't know of his whereabouts. I dare

say the scamp is dead."

"And even if he were alive, I can't see where his motive could have

been."

"True, again. But I think I'll ask Mr. Brock, nevertheless."

CHAPTER VI.

"MR. BROCK'S ADDENDA."

In spite of herself Olive fretted. Her trouble had taken firm hold of

her mind, and bade fair now to make havoc of her body. She lost flesh

rapidly. In vain Mallow tried to combat this brooding over her

father's wrong-doing. He pointed out the futility of it; he urged

her--implored her--to make the effort to rouse herself. But without

result. Her father's sin became with her an ever-present enormity. She

was continually dwelling upon it. They tried to get her to work--to

use her hands, employ herself actively, anyhow--at anything--so long

as, for the time being, it was capable of absorbing her, and thus

releasing the terrible tension under which she laboured. At last

Mallow saw there was nothing for it but an entire change of scene and

surroundings.

"You must go, Olive dear--away from here, away from all that reminds

you of yourself. You shall go abroad at once, Mrs. Purcell shall go

with you, and later I will join you, and in six months' time you will

return, dear, a totally different woman--no longer Olive Bellairs,

even in name, for we will be married, and you will laugh at yourself

and these wretched phantoms of your own raising."

"You speak as though I were a child!" she cried petulantly. "Phantoms

indeed!--facts, you mean. My father was a--oh, don't speak of it, the

very thought drives me beside myself. And I have to keep it all to

myself--all, all!"

"Oh, Olive," said Mallow, reproachfully, "am I not some help to you?"

"A man never understands--he does not feel these things."

"Really, Olive, I think the sooner you get away from Casterwell the

better."

"I shall never be better--never, never!"

Mallow did not argue with her. He saw that it was quite useless.

Actions, not words, were necessary if Olive was to be restored to a

proper sense of what was due to herself and to others. Laurence

recognized this, and took an early opportunity of calling at the

Vicarage. Again Mr. Brock refused to see him; but next day Mallow

received a note requesting him to call. He obeyed promptly.

On his way through the village he met Jeremiah looking distressed and

lonely. "I want to see a clergyman," he whined peevishly; "I have so

many sins to confess. I can find no one to help me."

Mallow looked at him. It appeared that Trall, under stress of

religious emotion, might confess to a priest, much more than he would

be likely to confide to a layman. In such circumstances it was not at

all improbable that he might let drop much that would be useful.

"I will take you to see a clergyman, Trall--the best in this

parish. I am now on my way there. If you will call at the Vicarage

shortly--left-hand side of the church from the roadway--I will leave

you with him. Then you will be able to unbosom your mind quite

freely."

"Oh, thank you; thank you, Mr. Mallow. I have many sins to

confess--many, many. When shall I come?"

Mallow glanced at his watch. "In three-quarters of an hour. Say about

four o'clock. I would take you with me now, only I want first to see

Mr. Brock myself on private business."

Trall was more than satisfied with this arrangement, and hobbled off,

profuse in his expressions of gratitude. Mallow continued his way to

the Vicarage.

"Good-day, Mr. Brock," said he, as the deaf housekeeper showed him

into the study (now the sick-room); "I am glad to see you at last."

"Indeed, I must apologize for not receiving you before," replied the

vicar, wearily, "but I have been busy arranging my papers against my

death."

"Oh, come now, you are not going to die."

"I shall never leave this house alive, Mr. Mallow. My days are

numbered. You can guess now that the reading of Carson's statement

gave me a severe shock. All these years, I never suspected that it was

Bellairs who murdered Singha. Indeed, I did not even know that he was

murdered, for Rao Chunder, the heir, gave out that his father had died

of apoplexy."

"Did you never return to Kikat?"

"No; I failed altogether to induce the Governor-General to move in the

matter of the blackmailing, and, as the Rao's son was not very

friendly to me I judged it wiser to keep away. Besides, I heard that

Bellairs and Carson had left Kikat, and believed that their departure

was due to the enmity of the new Rao. God forgive me, I never guessed

the truth."

"Rao Singha never told you that Bellairs and Carson were inculpated in

the blackmailing?"

"No. Trall made it out to be his own conspiracy, entirely, and kept

their names out of his confession. Moreover, Singha had not received

the incriminating letters with the forged names. They were afterwards

burnt by the new Rao. He kept his own counsel. I never saw them; I

never suspected that Bellairs and Carson had fallen so low."

"Do you think the names were forged, or do you believe that your

friends were willing accomplices in the conspiracy?"

"I believe the names were forged," declared Brock decisively. "So far

as I knew, both Bellairs and Carson were thoroughly honourable men.

Trall entangled them by means of the forgeries, and, for their own

sakes, they were compelled to act as accomplices."

"Did Bellairs ever hint at the truth?"

"Mr. Mallow,"--the vicar sat up and flushed indignantly--"had I been

told the truth by Bellairs, do you think that I would have remained

Vicar of Casterwell? No! For Olive's sake, perhaps I might have held

my tongue but my first act would have been to vacate the living.

Bellairs was as silent as the grave about Kikat. He hardly ever

alluded to his life there, and then only casually."

"Guilty conscience, no doubt," suggested Mallow. "As a rule, a man

doesn't particularly care to reperuse the smudged pages of his

life-book. I suppose Bellairs never told you his reason for the

betrothal of Olive to Angus?"

"Never! never! I thought it was simply and solely the outcome of his

strong friendship for Carson. As to the will leaving me the money in

the event of the marriage not taking place, I did not know its

contents until Bellairs was dead."

"Well, the money is yours, now, Mr. Brock. Will you take it, knowing

how it was earned?"

"My dear friend, believe me, it is superfluous to discuss what I will

do with it. I am a dying man. By my will, I have restored the money to

Olive; she can deal with it as she pleases."

"In that case it is her intention to restore it to the Indian

Government."

"What good will that do?" said the vicar, with a sigh; "there is no

Rao of Kikat now--the name, the family, the very kingdom has died out.

Let Olive make restitution, if such be her wish, but the money will go

into the wrong pockets if she sends it there."

"I don't care whose pockets it enters, neither does she," said Mallow;

"the main point is to get rid of it--and there is twenty thousand

pounds."

Mr. Brock started. "Only that. I understood----"

"That there was fifty. True enough; but thirty has gone across the

seas with Boldini and his wife."

"Boldini! Who is he?"

"I forgot, you don't know the story. It is a long one, Mr. Brock, and

not a pretty one for a clergyman to hear."

"As a rule, we hear the worst stories. But you talk strangely, Mr.

Mallow. I do not understand. This Boldini! Who is he?

"Well, he is the man who masqueraded here as Angus Carson."

"As Angus Carson! Do you mean to tell me that it was not really Angus

Carson who----"

"I will tell you all about it, if," said Mallow, with some hesitation,

"you think you are quite strong enough to hear."

"Quite strong enough, and most anxious to hear" said Mr. Brock,

feverishly. "Come, Mr. Mallow, explain this mystery."

"You may well call it a mystery, Mr. Brock, and it seems likely to

remain one. I can begin the story and continue it to a certain point;

but you must finish it for yourself."

Then Mallow related to the astonished vicar all the intrigues of the

last few months. He was most minute in his recital, giving even the

reasons which had induced him to take various steps. Mrs. Arne,

Drabble, Boldini, Clara, he introduced all these people to Mr. Brock,

placing them before him in their different capacities as vividly as he

was able. But he refrained from expressing to the vicar his hope that

Jeremiah would shortly aid towards the solution of the mystery. He

could see that the old man was becoming exhausted as well as

bewildered by what he had heard.

"Terrible, terrible!" he murmured. "Poor Olive! poor Angus! Oh, why,

why did you not tell me all this before?"

"There was not much use in telling you," said Mallow, gloomily; "you

could not have helped us. We are no nearer finding out the truth than

we were before. Why was young Carson killed? that is what I want to

know. What was the motive?"

"I can't think," replied Mr. Brock, staring before him; "it is all so

dreadful. You don't think Drabble murdered the poor lad?"

"No; Drabble's interest was to keep him alive, unless he proved

stubborn. Then----whew!" Mallow drew a long breath. From his

experiences in the Soho house, he had little difficulty in guessing

what Mrs. Arne would have done had young Carson proved obdurate. "But

I don't think they killed him," he added; "no, I am sure they didn't."

"But who else could have a motive?" asked the vicar, wrinkling his

brows. "They left him well, you say, and returned to find him dead.

Some one, according to your theory, must have been in the house

meanwhile."

"Undoubtedly. And that some one is the murderer. But who is he?"

"It is impossible to say. Angus lived all his days in India; he knew

no one in England. Perhaps Major Semberry----"

"No." Mallow shook his head. "He denied it strenuously, and, so far as

I can see, he had as much interest as the Anarchists in keeping Carson

alive. Come, Mr. Brock, are you sure there was nothing that happened

at Kikat likely to lead to this?"

"After thirty years--nothing. Besides, Carson was not married then;

the boy was not born."

"I wonder," said Mallow, musingly, "if that bangle had anything to do

with it?"

"How could it?" asked Mr. Brock, amazed.

"Well, I understand it was taken from an idol."

"No." Brock shook his head. "That is not correct. Singha gave the

bangle to Carson--my friend--with the full permission of the priests.

He cured the Rao of a severe illness, and the priests approved of the

reward."

"Then Michael Trall must be the murderer."

"How do you make that out? Trall disappeared from Kikat thirty and

more years ago. He has never been heard of since. Probably he is

dead."

"Probably. But possibly he may be alive; and he may have killed young

Carson."

"On what grounds--for what reason," said Mr. Brock. "Killing Angus

would not give him the money, if that is what you are thinking of. No,

I am sure Trall is dead. He was too restless and ambitious a man to

remain quiet; and when he had exhausted his own share of the

blackmail, he would, in all probability, come here for the purpose of

blackmailing Bellairs."

"Perhaps he knew you were here, Mr. Brock."

"Perhaps. And, so far, I may have been a safeguard to Bellairs. But

knowing Trall well as I do, I think he would have run even the risk of

my denouncing him, had there been money to be gained."

"When did you see Trall last?"

"At Kikat. He followed me with the intention of frustrating my plans;

and he would have done so at the cost of murder, I make no doubt. But

I changed the route I had intended to take, and, I am thankful to say,

he missed me."

At that moment the voice of the housekeeper could be heard raised in

anger--evidently, from the deeper tones which followed, against some

man. Mr. Brock grew deadly pale, and his heart beat wildly with sheer

nervousness.

"See--see what it is, Mr. Mallow!" he gasped, "Oh, this will kill me!"

The young man ran to the door and threw it open. As though he had been

waiting outside, Jeremiah shambled into the room amid the shrill

expostulations of the sour spinster.

"I came as you told me," whimpered Trall, clutching Mallow. "Where is

the clergyman? I must see the clergyman."

"Trall, this is disgraceful. Mr. Brock----"

"Aha!" breathed the vicar, and both men turned at the strangled sound

to see him sitting up looking at the newcomer with vacantly staring

eyes. On his side, Jeremiah released his hold of Mallow, and, as

though drawn by a magnet, approached the sofa. The sick man and his

visitor gazed blankly at one another.

"Why," whispered Trall, still gazing, "it's

you--it's--it's--it's--why, it's Michael!"

"Michael?" repeated Mallow. "What Michael?"

"Michael Trall--my brother. Oh, Michael, I'm so glad to see you. I'm

Jerry."

The man on the bed stared and stared, but spoke not a word. His face

was blanched with fear, and he repeatedly put out his hands as though

to keep the other back. Then quietly, silently, without a sign of

recognition, he fell back dead.

CHAPTER VII.

"THE CIPHER DIARY."

Even in the first shock of this untimely death, though timely

discovery, Mallow kept his wits about him. That Brock was truly

Michael Trall he made no doubt. For, in truth, Jeremiah had neither

the capacity nor the reason to simulate relationship of the kind.

Moreover, nothing surely could be more conclusive than the fatal

effect which this unexpected meeting had had for Brock, beside whom

now the wretched man dropped into prayer and supplication. He called

upon him to recover, implored him for a sign--a look. He wept

bitterly. Mallow did not molest him. He was totally unfit for rational

conversation. Poor Brock--he may still be called so for the avoidance

of confusion--was quite dead. Mallow slipped his hand under his

clothes on to the heart to make quite sure. The sight of his brother,

and the knowledge of what would follow, had done their work and

snuffed him out of this life.

"Come now, Trall," said Mallow. "You must try and pull yourself

together, and, what's more, you must not say a word about this. No one

must know--understand, Trall, no one. As Mr. Brock he lived--as Mr.

Brock he died."

"But he is my own brother Michael."

"I believe you, Trall; but reticence, absolute silence on that point,

is necessary, if only for your own safety. Remember the Brotherhood!"

That was quite enough for Trall. He promised implicit obedience. "And

I'll sit in this corner as quiet as a mouse, Mr. Mallow," he

concluded, "if only you'll let me. Don't! oh, don't take me away."

"Well, you may remain there for the present. But, remember, not a word

to any one about this."

Mallow deemed it advisable to alarm the household. He rang the bell,

and the acidulated housekeeper duly appeared. She immediately lost all

control of herself. She cried out aloud, and gesticulated wildly. Her

fellow-servants followed suit, and in a very few moments the usually

tranquil Vicarage was a very pandemonium of weeping and wailing

Promptly Mallow sent a messenger for Mr. Timson, and another for Lord

Aldean, with strict injunctions not in any way to alarm the ladies at

the Manor House. He determined not to leave the place himself until he

had possession of the cipher-diary. Seeing now that without doubt this

was Michael Trall, he expected much in the way of revelation from the

diary. It is a passion with some of perverted instincts to set down

their deeds and misdeeds in black and white, and such documents are

invariably to be relied upon. They are usually perfectly unfettered in

their utterance--the tangible communion of such people with

themselves. Mallow anticipated difficulty only so far as the

unravelling of the cipher was concerned. This might prove obstinately

difficult, or it might not. But, he argued, there was no cipher

invented by man that man could not unravel--and unravel it he would,

even though he took years in the doing of it. It remained now to

secure the document itself. Within an hour Mr. Timson arrived, and

seemed in nowise astonished at the suddenness of Mr. Brock's death.

"Just what I expected," he chirped in his pessimistic way. "Cardiac

failure--pure and simple. He was excited in some way, I presume, Mr.

Mallow?

"Yes; he became very excited while I was talking with him," said

Laurence, evasively.

"Quite so--quite so. I warned him. I told him how it would be. Dear,

dear! Most regrettable, but natural all the same--quite natural." Mr.

Timson was moved not a hair's-breadth from his habitual complacency.

"Don't you think the body should be removed to the bedroom?" said

Mallow. He hardly liked to begin his search for the diary with the

dead man's body lying there.

"Certainly, certainly! More decent. Quite right."

So, superintended by the little man, Mr. Brock's remains were carried

out of the study. The progress to the bedroom drew forth further

lamentations from the female servants. Timson took himself off then.

As he went out of the hall Lord Aldean entered. He was full of

sympathy, and amazed.

"Poor old chap!" he said, as Mallow conducted him to the study. "Died

of heart failure, I suppose? I'm awfully sorry for the poor old

fellow. He was a good sort--Brock."

"Yes, I'm sorry, too," said Mallow, grimly, "but not quite for your

reasons. The dead man is Michael Trall--not Brock."

"Trall! What do you mean?" Aldean cast a glance at Jeremiah. "Is not

this Trall, then?"

"It is Michael--my poor brother," sighed the creature in the corner.

"Mr. Brock your brother! Well, I----"

"Wait a moment, Aldean, I'll tell you all about it directly." Then,

turning to Jeremiah, Mallow asked, "Was your brother a good man?"

"No--o--o," replied Trall. "He was clever, but he was not a good man.

He deserted his wife and poor little Clara. But I was fond of him; a

brother is always a brother."

"Oh!" Mallow paused. He did not wish to reflect in any way upon the

dead man, and he was afraid to trust Jeremiah out of his sight, lest

in his weakness he should reveal his connection with the late vicar.

"I wish to speak privately with Lord Aldean," he said at length. "Go

you, Trall, into the next room for half an hour. Stay there, and,

mind, not a word to any one about what has happened."

"Very well, Mr. Mallow," replied Jeremiah, submissively, creeping

towards the door.

Laurence followed him and made him comfortable in the dining-room. The

sour spinster--now a very Niobe--all tears--was informed that Mr.

Trall was suffering from shock at the unexpected death of the vicar,

and was not on any account to be disturbed. Having arranged thus for

Jeremiah's seclusion, Mallow returned to the study, where he found

Aldean in a state of intense expectancy. The situation and hints of

mystery puzzled him.

"What's all this business about?" he asked, when he saw his friend

lock the door.

"It's about Michael Trall, alias Brock, who, I truly believe, Jim, is

the murderer for whom we have searched so long."

"Mr. Brock the murderer of Carson! Impossible! You must be mistaken,

surely!"

"Well, perhaps; but I don't think so. I will give you my grounds for

saying so, and I think you will agree, Jim, that they are pretty

strong."

Rapidly, but tersely, Mallow related the story as set forth by Dr.

Carson. He concealed nothing, not even Bellairs' guilt. Finally he

expressed his conviction that in Mr. Brock's diary would be found the

key to the whole mystery. Jim was amazed; still, he could not agree

with his friend.

"Murderers don't write accounts of their crimes," he pronounced,

decisively; "not such fools as to make up their own brief for the

prosecution."

"That's just where you're wrong, Jim. There are not a few cases on

record," said Mallow. "I can recollect one, in particular, where a

clerk wrote in his diary: 'To-day, fine and hot; killed a little girl

in Croft's spinney.' That line hanged him."

"Glad it did," growled Jim, in disgust, "for being such a fool. I

confess I have no sympathy for a man who gives himself away like

that."

"Perhaps not, Jim; but there seems to be a peculiar fascination about

confession which some of these men can't resist. It may be that there

is great relief for them in unburdening their minds, even on paper. If

we can judge Michael Trall's character from Carson's story, he has

heaped up a goodly pile of wickedness these thirty and more years.

Moreover, if his diary were guileless reading, he would not resort to

cipher. No, Jim, I believe the man has sought to ease his conscience

by setting down his sins."

"May have, Mallow; but the cipher's a teaser."

"No doubt. I don't anticipate it will be child's play, by any means.

Still, it is a fact that there is no cipher invented by the ingenuity

of man which--given time and application--cannot be unravelled. This

diary may take days, even months, to straighten into Queen's English;

but, sooner or later, I shall master its contents, if only to learn

why Brock killed Carson."

"You speak confidently, Mallow. But Brock may be innocent, even yet."

"Possible; but, to my mind, improbable. If Brock be not guilty, I

don't know who is. However, it's no use theorizing when we have facts

before us. Brock's keys are under the pillow."

"Sure we have the right to search, Mallow?"

"I'll take the risk of that," said Laurence, with composure, and

forthwith went to work, assisted by Aldean.

Manifestly, the most promising hunting-ground was the escritoire

near the window, at which Michael Trall in clerical capacity had

been accustomed to compile his sermons. Mallow first explored the

pigeon-holes and their papers, scrutinizing the writing of each in

turn; but, so far, failed to find anything at all incriminating. He

unlocked the drawers, and went through them systematically from top to

bottom. In the right-hand corner of the lowest drawer they found the

diary carelessly thrown in without attempt at concealment. It was

contained in a stout volume, bound in red cloth, and on the back was

written, in ink, "No. 21."

"Oh!" said Mallow, examining the neat cipher writing. "The rogue

evidently posted his criminal ledgers with the utmost regularity.

Where are the other twenty?"

They were not in his desk, for by this time they had searched every

inch of it. Jim examined the bookcases filled to overflowing, and

occupying three walls of the room. Near the top of one of them he

found, shamelessly exposed, the remaining twenty volumes. The astute

Mr. Brock had evidently acted upon the conviction that in attempting

no concealment he aroused no curiosity. His readings had no doubt

included the stories of Edgar Allan Poe.

"Cheek of the beggar," grumbled Aldean, tumbling down these ledgers

promptly; "he had every faith in his cipher."

"And in his reputation as the Rev. Manners Brock," said Mallow,

receiving the books below, and arranging them on the table. "I expect

there is material enough for a dozen detective novels in this lot. Eh!

What's up now, Jim? Don't swear!"

Aldean, suppressing further imprecation, scrambled down the ladder.

"Look here, Mallow! Just look!"

"Watch, chain, studs, and the missing wrist-button," counted Laurence,

coolly; "it is no more than I expected. There can be no doubt after

this, Jim. Here is the dead man's jewellery. The lying brute--he said

that Drabble gave him the other wrist-button as a curiosity."

They surveyed the tarnished gold and the double pile of red books in

silence. Then said Aldean slowly--

"God! to think of that murderous scoundrel saying he was a parson.

Makes me sick to think of it. Might have lived to marry Tui and me. By

Gum!" Jim started as the discovery slowly evolved itself in his brain.

"Say, Mallow, all the marriages in this parish must be wrong 'uns.

What's to be done about them?"

"We must wait until we read the diary before considering matters of

such minor importance as that," said Mallow, tapping the books. "I

expect it won't be easy to straighten out Brock's crooked ways."

"Don't call him Brock. Makes me feel bad."

"Brock he must be called, Jim, for the present. None of the ladies

must know the truth until we get through these books. Manners Brock is

dead, not Michael Trall."

"I understand. But Jeremiah----"

"I'll manage him. Ha! there he is, I expect. Open the door, Jim."

Aldean did so, and Trall, looking white and agitated, crept into the

room. "I'm afraid to be alone," he whimpered. "Can't I stop here?"

"We must go home now, Trall," said Mallow, soothingly. "Can you read

this cipher?" and he opened out a book to Jeremiah in the faint hope

of receiving an affirmative answer.

To his surprise and delight it came.

"I can read it, Mr. Mallow. It's Michael's cipher. I taught it to him

when we were boys."

"Hurrah!" sang Aldean, slapping Trall's back. "You shall translate it,

then."

"Michael's diary!" said Jeremiah, quicker in understanding than might

have been expected. "I see. Ah, Michael was always clever with his

pen."

"Been a sight too clever this time," muttered Jim, assisting his

friend to tie up the books in neat bundles.

Here operations ceased for the moment, and Mallow and Aldean, with

Jeremiah in charge, returned home after a few directions to the deaf

housekeeper. Then came the difficult task of explaining certain

rumours which had already reached the Manor House. Jim discreetly held

his tongue and left things to his friend, who vouchsafed as little

information as was consistent with allaying the general alarm. Mr.

Brock had died suddenly from heart failure, he declared, refraining

carefully from all mention of the dead man's identity with the Michael

Trall of Carson's story, and from any reference to the cipher diary.

In the lamentations which ensued, further questions were spared him.

"The man must be buried as Mr. Brock," said Mallow to Aldean, a day or

two later. "There is no other course open, if the story is to be kept

quiet."

"Yes, I suppose so. It will save all trouble over those marriages.

Better let him have a decent name over his tombstone, though he

doesn't deserve it."

As the pseudo Brock had no relatives--for Mallow insisted that

Jeremiah should suppress the fact of his relationship--Olive, as the

Lady of the Manor, charged herself with the funeral. So the scoundrel

was buried in fine style, although it is only fair to state that he

had kept his false name clean enough, so far as concerned the parish.

They could not but feel his loss, and there was much weeping and

eulogy by the graveside as Michael Trall, of Kikat, was laid under the

turf of the churchyard in the odour of sanctity. Mallow thought this

was one of life's greater ironies.

"Good Lord!" was his aside to Jim, "how the rogue must chuckle at this

mummery if his spirit has eyes to see. He might be a canonized saint

for the fuss they make."

"Must have had some good in him," replied Aldean, meditatively; "as

Mr. Brock he was straight enough. That I know."

"A serpent in a bamboo cannot be otherwise than straight," said

Mallow. "Casterwell Vicarage was our friend's bamboo. But a triple

murderer! Faugh!"

"Triple! How triple?"

"He murdered Carson, I'm certain. Brock was despatched by him so that

he could assume the missionary's lambskin, and I shouldn't be

surprised to learn that he, and not Bellairs, made away with Rao

Singha. He was capable of it."

"But as Mr. Brock----"

"As Mr. Brock, Jim, there should be inscribed upon his tomb the

couplet of some Byronic imitator--

He settled with a little pious leaven

To give the fag-end of his life to Heaven."

Jeremiah did not attend the funeral. Mallow induced him to remain at

home, lest in his grief his tongue might get the better of him. So he

sat in his room and painfully translated the rascalities of Michael

into plain English--and he taught Laurence the cipher, and Laurence

toiled likewise. It was an affair of many weeks--indeed, it lasted

until Mrs. Purcell announced her determination to take Olive abroad.

At the same time Tui received a cablegram announcing that her

delighted parents were on their way to England.

Much of the diary has no bearing on this story, but in the last volume

or so there were notes which shed a flood of light upon much that was

before hopelessly obscure. One discovery in particular was of the

greatest satisfaction to Mallow. Indeed, it led him to communicate the

latter portion of the diary to Olive, Miss Slarge, and Mrs. Purcell.

Tui the matter did not concern.

It must not be supposed that Laurence gave this information in the

precise words of the diary, for this proved to be a hastily compiled

composition, thrown together at odd moments--Heaven knows what for,

unless for the sheer egotistical gratification of its author. He

shifted all extraneous matter, translated the notes of the earlier to

the later years, and in one way and another drew together the story of

the Carsons and the events at Kikat into a concise narrative. This he

wrote out carefully, and one evening, when Tui and Aldean were

love-making over the billiard-table, he read it out to an audience of

three. So it is that the following narrative must be regarded strictly

as Mallow's version--compiled by him from the materials supplied by

the twenty-one volumes of the diary, and told by him, in the first

person, from its author's point of view.

CHAPTER VIII.

"A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS."

"Bad luck, bad luck, bad luck--there's my life's history in one word.

The day I launched myself on the world misfortune established herself

at my elbow, and my most persistent endeavours have failed to oust her

from that position. Only so far as to allow me perfect health from

first to last has she relented. Yet even that has had its

disadvantages. It has whetted an appetite, already omnivorous, for the

luxuries of life--luxuries for the acquirement of which the means have

ever been withheld. How I have pursued them--how they have eluded me!

It is this quest for luxury, this craving to satisfy an appetite

abnormal and insatiable, that has brought upon me so much of trouble.

I have had the worst of luck. Ten thousand a year might have made an

honest man of me. But I defy St. Paul himself to have stood in my

place with my mind, my body, my soul, and not have done the things

that I have done. He would have been another Michael Trall. I do not

say I could ever have been like St. Paul. That is another matter. My

passion has been the cakes and ale of life--I have never had enough of

them; I could not have enough of them. But I was not gifted even with

the means for their procuration in a moderate degree. So I don't blame

myself. I cannot blame myself. No one can justly blame me. It is

nature that is responsible for what I am--for what I have done. Blame

her, or whosoever, or whatsoever inspires her to bestow upon a

luckless man passions strong and undeniable--passions overwhelming and

senses insatiable, while denying him the wherewithal to gratify them.

That is the most refined torture. I can conceive nothing more

ubiquitous, nothing more merciless.

"Well, that is what has ruined me.

"I was unlucky at the start. I was the second son of a Pharisee,

provincial but respectable. So I suffered from the amiable custom of

primogeniture. My brother Jerry, two years only my senior, received a

home and lands and a thousand pounds a year. He did not receive over

much in the way of brains. I, in this latter respect, received,

perhaps, more than my share, with senses to match. With such gifts,

and some five hundred pounds all told, I was pushed off to sink or

swim. I just kept afloat. First of all I lost all my money in a most

determined--and, I think, thoroughly well conceived--attempt to double

it on the card-table. It was pure misfortune that it proved inferior

in practice. I was obliged then to borrow from Jerry. He was a

stay-at-home ass. I did not approve of his way of life at all; but I

had no option but to borrow from him. Again misfortune dogged me, for

somehow or other--it passes my recollection now--I got into trouble

about somebody else's name on a cheque. I remember those concerned

made a great fuss about it, altogether out of proportion to the

circumstances; and I remember distinctly how disgusted I was at the

puritanical island upon which it was my lot to be cast, so I decided

to leave it. For some time after that I lived on the Continent--upon

my wits, which were duly sharpened in the process. It was hard that

this should prove to my disadvantage, but it did, for at Baden-Baden

my misfortune culminated in a row at the tables. I was utterly

disgusted, but it was wiser that I should leave so I dropped South

over the Equator and turned up at the Cape in a new character, and

with a brand new name. Those were prehistoric days, and the South

African millionaire had not yet invented himself. The Boers

disapproved of my more civilized ways with the ace, and, as I could

not repress my repugnance for their psalm-singing barbarisms, I could

not make myself at home there. It seemed as if a resting-place was

ever to be denied me. But I plucked up courage, and in a rackety ocean

tramp, carrying a cargo of rats and cockroaches, I sailed for Bombay.

I had a very few pounds, but no little experience. Arrived there, I

was obliged to make my living somehow. It was a hand-to-mouth

existence, and I saw no prospect before me. I had a certain amount of

luck with my dice, though on one or two occasions aspersions were cast

upon their equilibrium. 'Give a dog a bad name, and hang him!' seemed

to hold good even here. I was driven North. Then, Heaven knows why,

Fortune gave me her hand for once and led me to Kikat, the kingdom of

one Rao Singha.

"This petty prince was an up-to-date Hindoo, with an English army

leader and a European physician. Bellairs--he was the leader--proved

to be a fool, with no brains and some scruples. Dr. Carson, on the

contrary, possessed some brains, but was quite unfettered by scruples.

I saw that I should have to adapt myself to the idiosyncrasies of

each. I did so, and a sort of triune partnership for the making of our

several and joint fortunes was the result. Singha was sufficiently

acute, but I beat him on his own ground. He loved me like a

brother--indeed, I did all I could to civilize him. I taught him

cards, introduced him to billiards, and instructed him in the orderly

and methodical compilation of a betting-book. I don't say that, one

way and another, I did not profit by him; for I did. But the profits

were inconsiderable, and in no way sufficient to satisfy me. Besides,

I was conscious of certain ambitions then. I felt that this great

state treasure, not to speak of the command of some two million

heathen, would be much more rationally dealt with were they in my

hands. In a word, I coveted the viziership of Kikat But the priests

were one and all against me. Moreover, there was an English missionary

there, named Manners Brock, who seemed to be mistrustful of me. I

could make nothing of him. In his moral and religious convictions he

was absolutely rigid--a most unsympathetic soul, I thought him. It

soon became plain to me that nothing short of re-adjustment of the

existing political system would clear these obstacles from my path. My

chance came with the Mutiny. By carefully playing upon Singha's

ambition and feudal pride, I managed to get him mixed up in it. At my

instigation he made certain treaties with the Delhi princes, and wrote

certain letters professing hostility to the H.E.I.C. Then he watched

for a favourable opportunity of declaring himself. This opportunity

never came, for the Rao, over-persuaded by Brock, delayed action until

it was too late. The Mutiny smouldered out when Delhi was captured,

and I--unlucky once more--reverted to the post of idle companion and

powerless buffoon, with the priests and Brock ever on the alert to

ruin my credit with Singha. It became a choice between my downfall and

the Rao's; so, of course, I chose the Rao's.

"To strengthen my scheme I appended Carson's and Bellairs' names to

some of the letters, and thereby so implicated them in the Rao's

conspiracy that, for their own safety, they were compelled to join me.

Carson was willing enough to throw in his lot with me, but Bellairs

made some absurd objections, until I was obliged to show him how

completely his life and honour were at my discretion. When matters

were thus arranged I saw Singha. I told him plainly that I should have

no option but to send the letters to the Governor-General, unless he

gave me the three diamonds which were known as the treasures of Kikat.

He blustered a good deal, but in the end I gained my point. Singha

gave me the diamonds. The largest I kept to myself, the other two I

handed to Bellairs and Carson. All went smoothly until the Rao made

trouble by confessing his position to Brock. The missionary, with the

usual meddlesomeness of his class, made tracks for Calcutta, declaring

his intention to inform the Government of my plot and protect Singha.

He was afraid of me, I fancy, for he slipped off without my knowledge.

I saw that his denunciation meant unpleasantness, so I followed close

on his heels, met him, and argued the question with him. I did my best

to persuade him to my way of thinking, to show him how utterly foolish

and misguided he was, but all to no purpose. He was hopelessly

unreasonable, so I killed him. There was nothing else for it.

"I returned to Kikat, but with the utmost caution. This was necessary

because the Rao, being now in possession of the papers which I had

directed were to be sent to him, might be plotting vengeance. I then

discovered he was dead. On noticing the names of Bellairs and Carson

appended to the papers, he had become unruly, so Carson had poisoned

him, and with Bellairs had fled. I managed to come across the

fugitives, and together we waited events.

"As it happened, the new king was afraid lest his father's conspiracy

should cost him his throne, so he hushed up the matter, and gave out

that Singha had died of apoplexy. As the danger from this quarter was

over, we three could now enjoy the fruits of our success. I told

Bellairs and Carson that I had killed Brock, so there was nothing to

be feared from the Government through him. Bellairs returned to

England, taking with him both his own diamond and Carson's. The latter

had found a rag of a conscience somewhere, since he had murdered the

Rao, and talked of the diamond as the 'price of blood.' He refused to

take it, and let Bellairs carry it off, although I should have liked

it for myself. However, I was quite satisfied with my share, for I

sold the diamond for thirty thousand pounds. With this money I went

back to Europe, where I married, became the father of a daughter, and

altogether had a glorious time. Carson, in a fit of repentance,

retired to some Himalayan hermitage, haunted, I suppose, by what is

called a guilty conscience. Fool! My shooting of Brock troubled me not

in the least.

"But what did trouble me was another run of bad luck. I lost

everything. I returned to London, and placed my wife and child in the

care of Jerry, who was a bachelor, and could better afford to keep

them than I. Then I determined to look up Bellairs, who was now Squire

of Casterwell, and horribly prosperous. On making inquiries, I learned

that the vicar of the parish was dead, and that the living was in

Bellairs' gift. I was terribly weary of wandering, and it occurred to

me that such a position would suit me very well; at all events, for a

while. It was quite a simple matter for me to impersonate Manners

Brock. I had all his papers, and I was well up in the details of his

early life, as well as his life in India. The creature had been a

confirmed babbler, and had told me everything about himself. I had

some trouble with Bellairs at first, but he soon saw it was no good.

He was desperately jealous of what he called his good name. He had

everything to lose; I nothing. So he did the wisest thing he could do,

and gave in. I became the Reverend Manners Brock. I had no difficulty

in deceiving the old Bishop of the diocese. I had all the papers, and

was well up in all the necessary details. The living of itself was a

poor one, but of course Bellairs had to alter that. He told me, when I

approached this part of the subject, that he had sold the two diamonds

for some thirty-eight thousand pounds. Then he, too, indulged in some

silly nonsense about the 'price of blood' and so on, which he said had

prevented his touching the money. For the last ten years it had been

lying in the bank at compound interest, and had now reached something

like fifty thousand pounds. I soon settled that. I made him invest the

money securely, yet profitably, and pay me the interest. I felt now

that I could settle down in comfort to my hardly-earned repose. I had

an assured position, a good name, and a most comfortable income. There

were times, of course, when I grew weary of so much respectability;

but then, all I had to do was to assume some disguise and run up to

London for a few days and enjoy myself. But I never went near Jerry.

My wife was dead, and he looked after my daughter. So, as the Reverend

Manners Brock, my life, if quiet, was pleasant enough. For years all

went well, until one day there came a letter from Carson regretting

that he had surrendered his diamond, and suggesting that his son--he

had married in the mean time--should marry Olive Bellairs, and that

the proceeds of the diamond should be given to the young people on

their wedding-day. At first Bellairs refused; but Carson replied

threatening exposure--more than that, he plainly gave Bellairs to

understand that he would accuse him of Rao Singha's murder. For the

sake of his jealously-guarded name, Bellairs was forced to yield. But

he wrote to Carson telling him how, in the person of the Rev. Manners

Brock, I had become vicar of Casterwell, and how he had been obliged

to pay me the interest on the money. I did not wish to be selfish, but

naturally I refused to give up my income, so in the end I compromised

the matter. It was arranged that I should have the interest until the

marriage took place, when I was to surrender it. As this could not be

for twenty years I agreed to the arrangement, provided that if it did

not take place the money should revert to me. Bellairs made a will to

this effect. Carson insisted that the fifty thousand should be settled

on his son, with a discretionary clause that he should pay one

thousand a year to his wife. I did not know at the time--though I

learned it later--that Bellairs had left a letter for his daughter

imploring her to marry Angus, as he feared, did she not, that Dr.

Carson would make known the truth, and thus tarnish his memory. So-the

matter was arranged.

"The years slipped by, and Bellairs died. Then Carson wrote to me that

he had told his son the story, keeping back, however, his own guilt of

Singha's murder. He had also put the story on paper, though in doing

so he had carefully refrained from connecting me, as Brock, with

Michael Trall. This account, he intimated, he was sending by his son

to me, so that I might, if necessary, use it to force Olive into the

marriage. I refused so to further his desires. Angus, his son, was to

denounce me, and to accuse me of the murder of Brock. Needless to say,

I was greatly alarmed at the existence of this document, and by the

knowledge that young Carson had it in his power to ruin me. Even when

Dr. Carson died I was not reassured, as I still knew that Angus was in

possession of the document and the story. The first could not ruin me,

since my identity with the Brock of Casterwell was not shown; but if

Angus proved difficult to deal with, it might be very awkward for me.

To make myself more comfortable I resolved to see Angus before he

arrived at Casterwell. I should then know, at all events, how he was

disposed towards me. Mrs. Purcell's letter, which had been shown to me

by Miss Slarge, plainly hinted that Angus was a religious prig, and I

foresaw that he might not prove so easy to manage as his father had

been. From the letter I also learned the name of the steamer in which

Angus was coming to England. Shortly before the _Pharaoh_ arrived I

repaired to London in disguise, and inquired at the office when the

liner was expected at the docks. On obtaining this information I went

down to wait for her. I wore shabby clothes and a false black beard.

"Of course, I was not aware that Major Semberry was in any way

connected with Drabble, although, from Mrs. Purcell's letter, I knew

that he acted as bear-leader to Angus. When the steamer arrived I

mixed with the crowd on deck, and managed to have Carson pointed out

to me. I recognized him easily from his resemblance to his father.

When he left the boat with Semberry I followed them, still disguised,

to Athelstane Place. I determined to take the first opportunity of

speaking to Angus. I waited for some time, but they did not come

out. I realized that it might be some considerable time--perhaps

days--before I found the opportunity I wished for. See him I would,

and that alone. While hanging round the house I saw a man--it must

have been Drabble disguised as Hain--but at the moment I failed to

recognize him. I saw also the housekeeper. She was a stranger to me.

These two were always about the place, although Semberry had left, and

I was beginning to despair of ever seeing Angus alone. At last one

evening they both left the house together, and I, having seen them

well out of the way, walked up to the door and rang the bell. Angus

answered it himself, and when I said I was Mr. Brock of Casterwell

(for I had put my false beard in my pocket) he at once asked me to

walk upstairs. In the drawing-room I had an interview with him, and a

stormy one it proved. He was a stern, religious young man, and he

declared that he intended to tell Olive the truth, to pay back the

money to the Indian Government, and to denounce me as Brock's

murderer. He also informed me that he had the document securely

concealed, as his father, having repented of writing it, had tried to

regain possession of it. To prevent his doing so, Angus had placed

it in the secret drawer of his chest. I implored him not to ruin

me--indeed, I offered to give up all claim to the money. I even went

on my knees to him, but all in vain. He was adamant, and insisted that

I should be exposed as an impostor and a murderer. Then, in my turn, I

threatened him. I told him that if he denounced me I would reveal his

father's sin. He did not know the truth, and asked me what I meant.

When he heard that his father had murdered Singha he fainted, as he

generally did when violently excited, by reason of his weak heart.

This I knew from Mrs. Purcell's letter. I was quite determined that,

as I had him at my mercy, he should not live to ruin me. I looked

about for a weapon to kill him, and saw the wool-work left by Mrs. Arne

with the knitting-needles in it. I opened his shirt as he lay

insensible on the sofa, and pierced him to the heart with one of the

needles. He died very quietly and, I think, without pain. Then I took

his studs, wrist-buttons, watch, chain, and money, so that the murder

might look like the work of a robber. In the next room I hunted for

the portmanteau, and turned it out to see if I could find the

document. It was not to be found, nor the sandal-wood chest, so I

stole away from the house, leaving Carson dead, and, later on,

returned to Casterwell.

"I read in the newspapers how futile had been the search for the

assassin. But I could not quite comprehend what they said about the

severed hand. I guessed that it had been cut off in order to remove

the bangle, because I myself had been unable to remove it owing to the

swollen condition of the hand. But I could not understand their motive

for taking away the bangle. It was not until I met Boldini, as Carson,

in the churchyard that this became quite clear to me. Then, of course,

I guessed at once that it was necessary for his impersonation. I

almost fainted at the sight of him. He was so like the young man whom

I had been obliged to kill. I explained my emotion to Mallow by saying

that the son had reminded me so forcibly of his father--my dear old

friend. Moreover, I made no doubt that a conspiracy was in progress

for obtaining the money. Of course, I could have denounced the

imposture there and then, but that might have led to my own undoing;

so I decided to let sleeping dogs lie. The money would be lost to me

by the marriage, as, on reading her father's letter, which she showed

to me, Miss Bellairs was bent on carrying out his wish. Still, now

that Angus was dead, no one could identify me with Michael Trall. I

was safe, if poor.

"The marriage ceremony I myself performed. So I lost the money by my

own act. I was surprised to learn that my daughter Clara had engaged

herself as maid to Olive; but, as Mr. Brock, I dared not interfere. I

regret now that I did not, for through her I might have found out all

about Boldini's scheme. When Mr. and Mrs. Carson (so-called) departed,

I discovered that one of the dead man's wrist-buttons had been

taken out of my desk. This alarmed me greatly, and I forthwith hid the

rest of the jewellery in my bookcase. Afterwards, Margery Drabble

confessed to me that she was the culprit; so when her father was

killed I told Mallow that he had given it to me. There was no one else

to contradict the statement. I was most anxious to find the document

in the sandal-wood chest, and thought it might be with Major Semberry.

Having gone up to see him I unfortunately met Mallow, but I explained

my visit on the plea that I wished the Major to bring about a

reconciliation between the young couple. I did not see Semberry, nor

did I enter his lodgings. As I was coming away, a cab knocked me down

and broke my leg. Then one day, a few weeks later, to my great

surprise, Mr. Mallow himself brought me the document. It had been

discovered by Lord Aldean in the secret hiding-place of the

sandal-wood chest, where Carson had concealed it from his father.

Olive, as Mallow informed me, wished to read it. She thought, perhaps,

it might throw some light on the sealed letter left by her father. On

consideration I promised to show it to her, if, after reading it, I

judged it fit for her to read. I found I could do so with safety.

Carson had made no mention of Brock's death, and had accused Bellairs

of the murder of the Rao Singha, which he himself had committed. True,

he spoke in no measured terms of Michael Trall--in fact, he abused him

roundly; but since that adventurer was dead, and Brock was alive in

his person, such blame of him and praise of me served only to

strengthen my position. I resolved, therefore, that Olive should read

of her father's guilt, hoping that thereupon she would refuse to touch

the money--granting it was recovered from Boldini--in which case it

might come to me.

"So the matter stands. All who may know of my identity with Trall are

dead. The existing document strengthens my position, and in no way can

the death of Carson be traced to me. I shall die in the odour of

sanctity, after all; and, indeed, if what the doctor says is true,

this cursed accident is going to bring about that event very shortly.

Well, if I die, I die; my life has been a hard one, and if I have

sinned, I repeat, Nature is to blame, not myself. I have directed by

my will that the twenty-one volumes of my cipher diary are to be

burnt, since it is only for my own gratification that I have written

them. I have no wish to be maligned after my death. Even if the diary

is not destroyed I feel safe, seeing that no one can read it save

Jerry, and I dare say that he is dead by this time; he must be dead,

or Clara would not have gone out to service. I wish, now, I had asked

her about him.

"Mr. Mallow is about to marry Olive Bellairs. I wish them joy. I have

no ill-feeling against either of them. If I live, I may, of course,

get back this money. I don't suppose for one moment that Olive will

touch it. If I die--well, there is an end of Michael Trall and his bad

luck. But no one will ever know that the revered and beloved Vicar of

Casterwell killed Angus Carson. I die a respected member of society,

and on my tombstone shall be written words of praise. Many a stone has

lied about him who sleeps beneath it, so why not mine? I murdered

Brock, I murdered Carson, but their ghosts have never haunted me. I

have baffled the world, and I have kept my secret in the face of every

danger. Mallow is coming to see me again. Well, let him come, I say. I

do not fear him now. The bad days are over for me. Michael Trall has

gone into limbo, and Manners Brock, the worthy vicar, has beaten

Fortune after all."

EPILOGUE

Letter from Miss Slarge, of Casterwell, to Mrs. Purcell, at San

Remo:--

"The first of January, 189--.

"MY DEAR SISTER,

"I hasten to thank you for your kind invitation to join you at San

Remo. I regret to say that it is not possible for me to accept it.

Although my book is now rapidly approaching completion, there still

remains much to be done in the way of verifying sundry minor details.

For example, I am desirous of expanding the statement of Diodorous

Siculous, in which he identifies Osiris with the god Bacchus; and that

means that I have still many works to read. The impossibility of

taking my library with me, alone precludes me from leaving here until

my manuscript is finished. I have decided to call my work 'The New

Babylon; or, the Migration of Chaldean Idolatry to the Seven-hilled

City of the Revelations, according to St. John the Divine,' a title

which, I think, sufficiently well explains its meaning. May its

publication tend to keep our island free from the superstitions of

Semiramis and Peter.

"You will be glad to hear that Olive and Mr. Mallow are now

comfortably established at the Manor House. Their serene happiness is

pleasant to contemplate. A year has elapsed since the death of Mr.

Brock--as I may still call him--and with him is buried the sad story

of the past. His brother, Jeremiah, as you know, died six months ago.

He lies beside him in the same churchyard. In life they were divided:

in death they lie side by side. What a moral your favourite Dr.

Johnson would have deduced from this. Mr. Mallow, I think now, was

right when he decided not to reveal the truth about our late Vicar.

The confusion which would have arisen in our village had he done so,

would have been terrible to contemplate. 'What the eye does not see

the heart does not grieve at'--that is a wise proverb, my dear

Priscilla, and peculiarly applicable in the present instance.

"Lord and Lady Aldean have returned to Kingsholme from their

honeymoon--if possible, more in love with one another than ever. I am

bound to say that Tui conducts herself with great dignity in her new

position; and that, seemingly, Lord Aldean is not without a due sense

of his social and marital responsibilities. At the next drawing-room

both brides are to be presented to their Sovereign; and I am glad to

know that you will be with us for that ceremony. Olive and her husband

express themselves very gratefully to you for the judicious manner in

which you anticipated any scandal which might have arisen through the

chain of incidents connected with the impostor Boldini. As it is, they

have been received with open arms by the county, and, of course, no

reference is ever made to poor Olive's untoward entanglement. Socially

she occupies her proper position, and, as Mrs. Mallow, she is, if

anything, more popular than before.

"Mr. Mallow is engaged upon a new novel, which bids fair to secure for

him a high position in the world of letters. Olive, I know, would like

him to enter the Commons; but, so far, he has shown no inclination in

that direction. Lord Aldean has taken his seat in the House of Lords,

and, urged by Tui--who has more ambition than I gave her credit

for--intends taking an active part in the politics of his country. Mr.

and Mrs. Ostergaard have returned to New Zealand well satisfied with

the elevation of their daughter to the rank of a peeress. They were

delighted with Lord Aldean, and parted from him with great regret. He

hopes soon to return their visit, and talks of buying a yacht for the

purpose; but this scheme is as yet quite in embryo.

"Of course, you know that Mr. Mallow, with his wife's approval, paid

over the twenty thousand pounds to the Indian Government. I believe he

told the whole story to the Secretary of the India Office. Indeed,

there was no reason why he should not, seeing that every one who was

implicated in the death of the Rao Singha has now passed away. The

story of Kikat must now be relegated to the domain of legend. For my

own part, I never wish to hear of it again. Poor Olive! she was so

much relieved to know that her dear father was not guilty of

bloodshed. She has put everything else behind her, and feels able to

cherish his memory as she loves to do. That is as it should be. I

always thought highly of Olive's moral principles.

"Between them, Lord Aldean and Mr. Mallow have arranged Mrs. Drabble's

affairs. That is to say, that, as the doctor died absolutely

penniless, they allow her a small income. The children have been put

to school, and I am glad to say that the discipline is already

exercising a most salutary effect upon Margery--pruning, as I may say,

the exuberance of her temperament. She is much less flighty, and

altogether improved; and I feel confident she will at length emerge

into a clever and notable woman. Her tastes lie chiefly in the

direction of poetry, and, when she comes here for her holidays, I

endeavour myself to assist her as much as I can. As a widow, Mrs.

Drabble is infinitely happier than she was as a wife. This is

reflected in her home, which now presents something like an orderly

appearance. She is full of praises of her benefactors, which, indeed,

is just and right.

"I received a short time back some news from India, which, I think,

will interest you. It appears that Major Semberry, through financial

difficulties, has been obliged to resign his commission. Reports say

he has gone to Chili, with the intention of there entering the service

of the Republic. It is to be hoped, whether he does this or no that he

will take his lesson to heart, and endeavour to mend his ways even at

this somewhat tardy stage in his career. You, Priscilla, with your

usual acuteness, were perfectly correct in your reading of his

character. He is a thoroughly bad man; and he never did a worse thing

than when he conspired to ruin the life of our poor, dear Olive. It

just shows how far beneath the standard of honour and moral rectitude

it is possible for a gentleman to fall.

"There is still one other, and a most extraordinary circumstance, in

connection with the conspiracy, that I must tell you. A week ago, Mr.

Mallow received a visit from Clara Boldini. She told him that her

husband had gambled away every penny of the money with which they

decamped. Is it not terrible to think of such depravity? Imagine a

young man like that squandering thirty thousand pounds in twelve

months in gambling. And not only did the wretched fellow lose his

money, but his life. It appears that, directed by the terrible

creature whom they call Madame Death-in-Life, two of her followers

tracked Boldini to Lima, in Peru, and shot him one night in a gambling

den. Their efforts to obtain the tangible fruits of his wickedness

were frustrated, of course, through his having squandered them. In

their fury at thus being baulked of their spoil, they determined to

kill this unhappy Clara. She, however, managed to receive timely

warning, and escaped to England. She looks old, and worn, and poor;

and seems possessed with the idea that she must ultimately be killed

by these ruffians. Mr. Mallow and Olive tried all they could to induce

her to remain safe at Casterwell; but she would not, because she said

she could not bring more trouble upon them. That was good of the girl,

I think. She visited her uncle's grave, and wept bitterly over it. Mr.

Mallow did not tell her that her father, too, was buried close by, and

I think he was right. It is best that this sad story should pass into

oblivion. Clara remained only one night here. She then returned to

London. But, before she left, she gave to Olive the famous Indian

bangle, which she had removed from the dead body of her husband when

he met his death in Lima. Olive keeps it as a curiosity; though she

does not need anything to remind her of the troublous times with which

it is connected. Where Clara is now we none of us know. We can only

hope she will be spared any such violent death as she fears, and that,

indeed, some amount of peace may be vouchsafed to her after the stormy

life which she has led. How truly thankful should we be, my dear

Priscilla, that Providence has cast our lot in pastures so peaceful

and so far removed from the strife and turmoil of the world!

"There is really no more news to give you, save that I am well and

happy. Neither Olive nor her husband would hear of my leaving the

Manor House; so I am still here in my old position. I have great

comfort in the thought that Olive is now so well protected by an

honourable and upright husband; besides which, the presence of a

literary man in the house is a source of unmixed pleasure to me. The

friendship between Mr. Mallow and Lord Aldean still stands as firm as

ever, cemented only by the fact that their wives are as sisters to one

another. We are, indeed, a happy family down here; and it needs only

your presence, my dear sister, to compete our joy. We all of us look

forward to seeing you in London this season. Perhaps then we may

persuade you to take a house in Casterwell, so that you may spend at

least some part of the years that are to come amongst us who love and

esteem you. We are blessed, indeed, for we have health, wealth, and

happiness; and, so far as our finite intelligence can perceive, our

troubles all are at an end, and the future before us is tranquil. This

letter leaves me, I may confidently say, the happiest woman in the

three kingdoms.

"Write to me, my dear Priscilla, and tell me when you propose to

arrive in London, as my book will be published this year, and it will

be a great joy to me to feel that I am to have your valuable aid in

correcting the proofs.

"Now let me conclude with a verse from the Book of Books, to show how

thankful I am for the great mercies of the Almighty: 'I cried unto God

with my voice, even unto God with my voice, and He gave ear unto me.'

"How truly that has been fulfilled, my dear Priscilla, you know.

"Believe me, my dear sister, ever your loving

"RUBINA.

"P.S.--Will you enter some Roman Catholic place of worship, and

see if any image of the Virgin Mary is decked with a turreted crown?

The Diana of Ephesus wore such a one and I connect her with the

Virgin. The crown itself is probably a reminiscence of the Tower of

Babel.--R."

THE END.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,

STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.