Lionel Crawford did not go straight to the room where Dora was. He
turned into the coffee-room, and there stood a while pondering. Though
he was a visionary, a dreamer, a philosopher, he had, before he became
immersed in his present studies and pursuits, been, comparatively
speaking, a man of the world. For although he had never mingled much
in society, he had a tolerable knowledge of what people said and did.
What would people say of such conduct as Lavirotte's? They would call
it abominable. What would people say of Lavirotte? They would call him
a scoundrel. Here was a dilemma. If this strange, this unknown girl,
were not to marry Lavirotte but the other man, there seemed on the
face of it to be no reason why he might not still marry Dora. It was
quite certain his grand-daughter had no hint that Lavirotte's
affections had strayed from her. This liking for Miss Creagh might
have been only the errant fancy of an hour--of a day--of a week. It
might turn out that the landlord had exaggerated the position of Miss
Creagh in the matter, and that the encounter had been the result of
heated blood, arising from some other cause.
If things had only run on smoothly, without this wretched interruption
of the fight, how satisfactory all would be.
Here was Lavirotte, the owner of the tower, and he, the seeker for the
treasure, already bound together in a kind of business contract. And
here, then, as a second bond of union between the two, had come Dora.
His grand-daughter was to be the other's wife if things had not been
disturbed. If Lavirotte and he had shared the treasure equally between
them, and then these two young people were married, the whole of the
enormous fortune hidden under St. Prisca's Tower would, when he died,
be theirs.
It would be a thousand pities that such a match should be broken off.
The most ordinary prudence pointed at the absurdity of such a step. It
would be his duty to his grand-daughter, Lavirotte, and himself, to
take care that no such misfortune might befall.
The agreement which existed between him and Lavirotte had never been
reduced to writing. Neither of them had desired that it should. He
knew that such an agreement would not be binding in law. If the
finding and retaining of all the treasure was contrary to the law, no
instrument embodying the disposal of all the property between him and
Lavirotte would hold for one moment. It would be a cruel shame if,
after all his years of inquiry and anxiety, when he was working on the
mere traditional rumour that a great hoard was concealed somewhere in
the city, the labour of that time and the labour of his later years in
the tower should all go for nothing, or next to nothing.
Lavirotte had been sceptical as to the existence of the treasure; had
given him to understand he would not sink a penny in the speculation.
If any difficulty arose between him and the owner of the tower now,
that door might remain shut for a hundred years, until they were all
dead, until the clue to the secret had been destroyed for ever.
By some means or other this catastrophe must be avoided. It was too
hideous even to think of. He must prevent it at any cost. How was he
to prevent it?
It was plainly his first business to see Lavirotte and ascertain all
he could from him. No doubt the Frenchman would be more communicative
to him than to others in whom he had no interest whatever. Of course
Lavirotte would not recognise in him the grandfather of Dora, but they
had been acquainted some time and were partners in his secret, in his
great undertaking. No doubt by this time the girl was becoming
impatient for news of some kind. He would go to her first and reassure
her, and then seek an interview with Lavirotte.
When he entered the room where Dora was, she came to him eagerly and
caught his hand and said: "Have you seen him--is he better? What did
he say?"
"I have not seen Dominique yet," said the old man, using the other's
Christian name for the first time.
"Oh, you are good to call him Dominique. You have something to tell
me."
"I have nothing very new to tell you. It is quite true he is
progressing most favourably, and there is no cause for alarm. This
place is full of strangers, and the landlord thinks you will be most
comfortable if you remain in this room a little longer until I see
Dominique."
"You will not be long. I am so impatient to know all--to see him if I
may."
"I will make all the haste I can," and with these words the old man
left the room.
When Lionel Crawford entered the injured man's room the latter was
prepared to see him, as word had been sent up before that Crawford was
coming.
"It was exceedingly kind of you to come, Mr. Crawford," said the
wounded man; "but, in the name of all that is mysterious, how did you
find out I was hurt, or are you here merely by some extraordinary
coincidence?"
"Let us not waste time now," said the old man, "with idle matters. I
am in a hurry. By a mere accident, which I will explain to you later,
I found out you were ill. I lost no time in coming, as, for several
reasons, I was anxious to see you."
"I suppose," said Lavirotte, "you heard something of what has occurred
since you came to this place?"
"I will be candid with you," said Crawford, "and tell you all I
heard."
When he had finished, he said: "Is it true in substance?"
The prostrate man admitted it was true in substance, and went on to
explain:
"I will tell you a little more about it than you seem to have heard,
and what I am going to tell you will lessen me a good deal in your
regard, for it will show you that the wind is constant compared to me.
It is true I was engaged to someone in London. It is true that while I
was engaged I fell in love with Miss Creagh. She would not have me.
She accepted my dearest friend, Eugene O'Donnell, and in a moment of
absolute madness I tried to take his life. He has forgiven me. We are
friends again, and now I have only one great fear. It is that what has
occurred may come to the ears of the girl I am engaged to in London,
and so prejudice me in her opinion. For, you see, when I proposed to
her she had a fortune of five thousand pounds, and now she has lost
all that fortune in the terrible crash of Vernon and Son. If she heard
of all this, it might make her think--in fact, it would look like
it--that I made love to her when she had a fortune, and gave her up as
soon as I found it swept away."
"So that," said the other anxiously, "if you were up and about once
more, and were free to travel, you would go to London, and, if you
were in a position to do so, marry Miss Harrington."
"That," said Lavirotte eagerly, "is the only thing I could do which
would atone to her in any way for my vile fickleness. It would, at the
same time, prove to my dear friend, O'Donnell, that I had not only
abandoned all my pretensions to Miss Creagh, but that by marrying and
going to London I had put a final barrier between myself and her, and
gone into voluntary exile as a punishment for my crime. But, you see,
as to marrying at present, that is completely out of the question. I
was too poor before this affair, and now the whole town will turn
against me, and I shall be obliged to leave the place. There will be
no getting a crust for me here now."
"But," said the old man, enthusiastically, "we must be very near our
great fortune now. I work day and night, night and day. By day in the
pit, by night on the top of the tower. I cannot be far off now.
Another six months and I surely must reach the chests in which the
great treasure is hidden." His voice had fallen to a whisper, and the
intense excitement with which he contemplated his final triumph had
caused the sweat to break out upon his forehead. He grasped the
counterpane convulsively. He could scarcely breathe. This was the
first time for years he had spoken of the matter. It was the second
time in all his life. "You shall be rich," he said. "And I shall be
rich. I have tried over and over again to estimate what may be the
value of that hoard, and the more I think of it the greater, I am
persuaded, it must be. At first I thought two hundred thousand pounds
might be the outside limit. But the more I read the more it grew,
until at last I have come to the conclusion that it must be somewhere
between a million and a million and a half."
The excitement of the old man was intense. His eyes were fixed, his
attitude and manner that of one fascinated by some glorious vision.
The splendour of the image he had conjured up drew him wholly away
from the present time and his surroundings. He had forgotten
Lavirotte, his own long journey, Dora, everything but the one colossal
figure of wealth triumphant gleaming before his mental vision.
The wounded man shook his head sadly and slowly on his pillow.
"If I am to wait, Mr. Crawford," said he, dreamily, "until we reach
the goal at which you aim, I greatly fear I must starve. This illness
will exhaust all the money I have. Popular opinion will drive me from
this town. I see nothing before me but ruin."
The words seemed to recall the old man to the immediate circumstances
of his position, but he did not clearly recover all he had said to
Lavirotte before. "All my money is not yet gone. Does no means suggest
itself to you of putting a little capital to some advantage? I don't
think you can hope for much from your present occupation. Without any
danger to our great project I could, I think, find a few hundred
pounds if they would be of any permanent use to you."
"A little while ago," said Lavirotte, in a melancholy tone, "I thought
if I could get a few hundred pounds I should be able to put it to very
profitable use. I have a voice, if this accident has not taken it
away, and all my friends said that if I could devote a couple of years
exclusively to its cultivation, I might succeed as a singer."
"You are not yet too old," said the other, with interest. "Take the
money and try the experiment."
"But I can have no excuse for taking from you money which I may never
be able to repay."
"You want no excuse," said Lionel Crawford, catching the injured man's
hand. "Why should I not help the future husband of my grandchild?"
"Your grandchild!" cried Lavirotte, in astonishment. "Who is she?"
"Dora Harrington."